Srinagar, India Wednesday, 4:55 p. m.

Sharab was sitting forward in the passenger's seat of the old flatbed truck. To her left the driver sat with his hands tightly clutching the steering wheel. He was perspiring as he guided them north along Route 1A, the same road that had brought the bus to the bazaar. Between them sat Nanda, her right ankle cuffed to an iron spring under the seat. Two other men were seated in the open deck of the truck, leaning against the bulkhead amid bags of wool. They were huddled under a tarp to protect them from the increasingly heavy rain.

The windshield wipers were batting furiously in front of Sharab's dark eyes and the air vent howled. The young woman was also howling. First she had been screaming orders at her team. Get the truck away from the market and stick to the plan, at least until they had additional information.

Now she was screaming questions into her cell phone.

The young woman was not screaming to be heard over the noise. She was screaming from frustration.

"Ishaq, did you already place the call?" Sharab demanded.

"Of course I placed the call, just as we always do," the man on the other end informed her.

Sharab punched the padded dashboard with the heel of her left hand. The suddenness of the strike caused Nanda to jump. Sharab struck it again but she did not say a word, did not swear. Blaspheming was a sin.

"Is there a problem?" Ishaq asked.

Sharab did not answer.

"You were very specific about it," Ishaq went on.

"You wanted me to call at exactly forty minutes past four. I always do what you say."

"I know," the woman said in a low monotone.

"Something is wrong," the man on the telephone said.

"I know that tone of voice. What is it?"

"We'll talk later," the woman replied.

"I need to think."

Sharab sat back.

"Should I turn on the radio?" the driver asked sheepishly.

"Maybe there is news, an explanation." "No," Sharab told him.

"I don't need the radio. I know what the explanation is."

The driver fell silent. Sharab shut her eyes. She was wheezing slightly.

The truck's vents had pulled in slightly acrid, smoky air from the bazaar blast. The woman could not tell whether it was the air or the screaming that had made her throat raw. Probably both. She shook her head. The urge to scream was still there, at the top of her throat. She wanted to vent her frustration.