arms.
'Get me some water,' he said. The guard brought a cup. Park put it to the woman's scarred lips. He poured a few drops into her mouth and she was able to swallow it. Park checked her pulse and the reaction from her eyes. They flickered, but took little in. Park dropped her to the ground, stood up and walked out.
'You idiot,' he shouted at Li. 'These women are dying. Do you think a test with them would give us an accurate result?'
Li lowered his head and scraped his shoes on the damp rock. Park continued: 'Americans and Europeans have the best health care in the world. Their immune systems are first rate. How can you match that with these sick, pathetic animals. In these cells, I want to see six healthy human beings. Only then, doctor, will I give you permission to begin your tests.'
Behind his thick spectacles, Li was both delighted and crestfallen. Park's predecessor would never have allowed such an audacious experiment. He cleared his throat. 'General, then with your permission, we will have to use Caucasian subjects.'
Park appeared to sink into deep thought. 'Of course,' he muttered. 'Of course you will.'
'Negroes, too?'
'Not necessary,' said Park, holding up his hand. 'The repressed American blacks will be on our side. But, a vaccine. There is no good having the weapon without an antidote.'
'And these?' Li asked, indicating towards the women.
'Get rid of them,' snapped Park.
Back in the guardroom, the phone was ringing. Li answered it and passed it to Park. The call was on a secure military line from Pyongyang. 'General,' said Park's aide-de-camp. 'Professor Memed escaped the Philippines. He is due in Pyongyang tomorrow morning.'
On the other side of the glass, porters lifted the women on to stretchers and took them away for execution.
****
Delhi, India*
'They're still not answering,' said the Chief of Defence Staff, Deepak Suri. 'The hotlines are ringing. No one is picking up.'
Mehta leaned forward in his chair, rubbed his eyes and pressed the intercom on his desk. 'Ashish, have you sent the flower?' He had instructed that a pressed flower be sent to the Khans in Pakistan. The flower had been grown in the garden of Mehta's family home in Bombay from seed taken from the garden of the Karachi home they had left behind at Partition.
'About to, sir,' replied his private secretary.
'Make sure it's from family to family, that means from myself, Meenakshi, Romila and, of course, Geeta.'
'It'll be done,' said Uddin.
Mehta drew his finger down the edge of the telephone. He had asked to attend the funeral but the message back from Pakistan was to stay away. He had tried asking again through the hotlines, but no one was answering. It ran in the face of his conversation with Jim West in Washington a few minutes earlier.
'West believes it is under control and has asked us to do nothing to raise tension,' he said to Suri. 'I just pray to God he is right.'
'He's not,' said Suri. 'There's a power vacuum. And even when there isn't, Pakistan isn't stable.'
'But is it a hostile or a friendly vacuum, Deepak? That is the question.'
If the hotlines had been working, Vice-President Javed Bashir Zafar should have been on the other end. Zafar was a professor of Islamic studies, who had been named in several corruption scandals over the past decade. After Khan's overwhelming election victory, he recreated the post of vice-president and appointed Zafar as an olive branch to the fundamentalist movement. Mehta was determined to deal with Pakistan's constitutional leader, even though Zafar would probably serve only a short time.
Suri stepped forward, moved a newspaper from the corner of Mehta's desk, perched on the edge of it and handed Mehta a sheet of paper torn off from a printer. It bore the hallmark of a highly classified document from India's foreign intelligence service, the Research and Analysis Wing. 'Shortly after the assassination of President Khan, there was a shoot-out at the military airfield in Multan,'
'Get me some water,' he said. The guard brought a cup. Park put it to the woman's scarred lips. He poured a few drops into her mouth and she was able to swallow it. Park checked her pulse and the reaction from her eyes. They flickered, but took little in. Park dropped her to the ground, stood up and walked out.
'You idiot,' he shouted at Li. 'These women are dying. Do you think a test with them would give us an accurate result?'
Li lowered his head and scraped his shoes on the damp rock. Park continued: 'Americans and Europeans have the best health care in the world. Their immune systems are first rate. How can you match that with these sick, pathetic animals. In these cells, I want to see six healthy human beings. Only then, doctor, will I give you permission to begin your tests.'
Behind his thick spectacles, Li was both delighted and crestfallen. Park's predecessor would never have allowed such an audacious experiment. He cleared his throat. 'General, then with your permission, we will have to use Caucasian subjects.'
Park appeared to sink into deep thought. 'Of course,' he muttered. 'Of course you will.'
'Negroes, too?'
'Not necessary,' said Park, holding up his hand. 'The repressed American blacks will be on our side. But, a vaccine. There is no good having the weapon without an antidote.'
'And these?' Li asked, indicating towards the women.
'Get rid of them,' snapped Park.
Back in the guardroom, the phone was ringing. Li answered it and passed it to Park. The call was on a secure military line from Pyongyang. 'General,' said Park's aide-de-camp. 'Professor Memed escaped the Philippines. He is due in Pyongyang tomorrow morning.'
On the other side of the glass, porters lifted the women on to stretchers and took them away for execution.
****
Delhi, India*
'They're still not answering,' said the Chief of Defence Staff, Deepak Suri. 'The hotlines are ringing. No one is picking up.'
Mehta leaned forward in his chair, rubbed his eyes and pressed the intercom on his desk. 'Ashish, have you sent the flower?' He had instructed that a pressed flower be sent to the Khans in Pakistan. The flower had been grown in the garden of Mehta's family home in Bombay from seed taken from the garden of the Karachi home they had left behind at Partition.
'About to, sir,' replied his private secretary.
'Make sure it's from family to family, that means from myself, Meenakshi, Romila and, of course, Geeta.'
'It'll be done,' said Uddin.
Mehta drew his finger down the edge of the telephone. He had asked to attend the funeral but the message back from Pakistan was to stay away. He had tried asking again through the hotlines, but no one was answering. It ran in the face of his conversation with Jim West in Washington a few minutes earlier.
'West believes it is under control and has asked us to do nothing to raise tension,' he said to Suri. 'I just pray to God he is right.'
'He's not,' said Suri. 'There's a power vacuum. And even when there isn't, Pakistan isn't stable.'
'But is it a hostile or a friendly vacuum, Deepak? That is the question.'
If the hotlines had been working, Vice-President Javed Bashir Zafar should have been on the other end. Zafar was a professor of Islamic studies, who had been named in several corruption scandals over the past decade. After Khan's overwhelming election victory, he recreated the post of vice-president and appointed Zafar as an olive branch to the fundamentalist movement. Mehta was determined to deal with Pakistan's constitutional leader, even though Zafar would probably serve only a short time.
Suri stepped forward, moved a newspaper from the corner of Mehta's desk, perched on the edge of it and handed Mehta a sheet of paper torn off from a printer. It bore the hallmark of a highly classified document from India's foreign intelligence service, the Research and Analysis Wing. 'Shortly after the assassination of President Khan, there was a shoot-out at the military airfield in Multan,'
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