That was a comforting thought to Ishaq. If this were to be his last dawn at least he would die satisfied and closer to God. In fact, as he looked back over his life he had just one regret: that he might have to die here and now. He had wanted to be with his comrades when they returned to their homeland. But they had intentionally selected for their armory a cave that had no other direct line of sight nearby. It would have been difficult for anyone to spot the small outpost or to watch them while they were here.

Ishaq had stayed up all night preparing. Then he had watched the sun rise as he ate breakfast. He had not wanted to sleep. There would be time enough for that. Now, as he sat in the dark in the back of the cave, Ishaq heard scraping noises outside.

Sharab was right. They had been tracked here.

The Indians had been quiet at first. Now they were no longer taking pains to conceal their approach. They were probably wearing cram pons and they sounded like mice outside a wall, scratching their way in. The sounds grew from a few scrapes along the rear and sides of the cave to constant noise and motion. From the shifting location of the sounds he could tell that the Indians were already within range of the mouth of the cave. They would probably lob tear gas before charging in. If the cell had been here there would have been no escape.

Ishaq decided that this would be a good time to put on his gas mask. He slipped the Iranian-made unit on, tightened the straps over his head, and snapped the mouthpiece in place.

His breath was coming in little bursts. He was anxious, but not because of what was going to happen. He was worried because he hoped he had done everything right. The Pakistani looked at the wooden crates lined with plastic. He had gathered them nearby, like wives in a harem, ready for a final embrace. It had been a simple process to attach detonators to individual explosives, leave them on the top of the crates, and make sure the receivers were facing him. But he had not been able to examine all of the explosives. They had been stored up here for nearly two years. Though it was dry and cold and dampness should not be a problem, dynamite was temperamental. The sticks they had used in Srinagar had been showing signs of caking. Moisture had gotten inside.

Still, everything should be all right. Ishaq had rigged seven bundles of dynamite with C-4 and remote triggers. All he needed was for one of the bundles to blow. He pulled off his heavy gloves and took the detonator in his right hand.

He leaned back against the stone wall.