Getting into the parking lot had been easy. Getting out of the maze of cars and trucks was proving a far different matter, driving blind and being chased by men with loaded assault rifles. Thomson spun the wheel left and right, maneuvering around the cars and trucks that materialized out of the thick haze in front of him. With a succession of bone-jarring crunches, he bounced the small car off a fender here and a bumper there, as if he were the last survivor in a demolition derby. Each time he did, he would gun the engine, back away, and send up another billowing cloud of dust. Occasionally, he caught a quick glimpse of soldiers running through the haze; but luckily, they could not see much of him, either. Without specific orders, perhaps they would hesitate and not shoot.
That pleasant delusion was shattered by the dim outline of a man in army fatigues who suddenly appeared ahead of him through the dust, not twenty feet in front of the car. Thomson wanted to spin the steering wheel or tromp his foot on the brake, but it was too late for any of that. He had no time to stop, little traction, and no place to hide as the soldier dropped into a crouch and leveled his automatic rifle at the windshield of the car. It happened so fast that Thomson never even got a clear view of the man. The image that burned itself into the back of his skull was a blur of brown and green, a pair of large jet-black eyes, and the ugly hole at the shooting end of a gun spitting bullets at him. Instead of hitting the brakes, Thomson pushed the accelerator to the floor and dove sideways across the seat, raising his forearm to protect his eyes as he prayed fervently to the dashboard. The last thing he saw of the Egyptian soldier was an open mouth, those jet-black eyes turning white, and an orange tongue of flame leaping from the rifle barrel.
The wild spray of bullets shattered the windshield and blew chunks of broken glass into the passenger compartment. They missed, but punched a neat line of holes across the seat cushion where Thomson had been sitting only a second before. The soldier disappeared too, as fast as he had appeared, and Thomson heard the unmistakable crunch of a steel bumper colliding with muscle and bone. The bullets may have missed their target; but the chunks of razor-sharp glass did not. They hit Thomson’s arm and chest like a swarm of angry bees. He screamed and cursed as he sat up and tried to regain control of the car, as the Fiat careened into the side of a truck. The impact threw him forward, and the bridge of his nose smacked the dash with a loud Snap! The small car bounced off the truck and its engine died.
Sitting in the front seat, stunned, Thomson tried to block the rush of pain from the impact and dozens of cuts. He knew his nose was broken and tried to wipe the blood out of his eyes. That did not help, he thought, as he blinked and tried to clear the fog and glittering array of stars flashing inside his head. Until his vision cleared, he busied himself picking pieces of glass out of his arm. That was when he realized he was not seeing stars after all. It was the bright desert sun refracted through the shattered glass of the windshield into a thousand twinkling rays of light.
The sun — somehow, he had bashed his way through the maze of cars and trucks in the parking lot and was staring up at the sun, a blue sky, an open desert, and the blockhouse. It sat on a low ridge, not more than two hundred yards away. All he had to do now was get the car started and drive the rest of the way there. Get the car started, he laughed to himself — that, and of course, get inside. Oh, what the hell; after everything he had gone through, nothing seemed impossible.
Thomson wiped his shirtsleeve across his face and felt the sticky wetness. He looked down. The sleeve and front of his shirt were drenched with fresh blood from the hailstorm of broken glass. He heard more gunshots and felt the Fiat shudder from the impact of the bullets. He turned the ignition key and swore as the starter offered little more than a sickening groan. It groaned again and sputtered; but after the third try, the engine finally kicked over. He threw the little car into gear, pointed its broken hood ornament at the door of the blockhouse, and tromped down on the pedal.
He had nothing left to prove, but he had made a promise. They would have to kill him before he failed to keep it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Saleh stood with his back to the hot desert wind, shielding his eyes. He had walked through the choking cloud of dust — stumbled would be a more accurate description — as the Egyptian infantry ran past through the maze of parked cars without noticing him. Dizzy and light-headed, he tottered back and forth and fought with all his strength to remain upright. The hissing of the blowing sand finally died away, and he opened his eyes. He found himself standing alone in the bright sunlight less than twenty paces from the front corner of the reviewing stand, facing the crowd. He blinked and wiped the coarse sand from his eyes. Straining to see, he searched the faces of the men sitting there. His eyesight remained blurred from the sharp blow he had received to his head the night before, and the sand storm had only made it worse. However, if he had told Thomson about the double vision, the American would never have let him go on alone, so Saleh had said nothing. He blinked and, for a brief moment, his eyes cleared enough for him to recognize a face or two before the scene shimmered and the rows of faces become featureless circles again.
They had not noticed him yet. Most of the crowd had been looking the other way, their eyes following that maniac American as he crashed his way through the rows of cars and trucks behind them, causing the choking cloud of dust that was now rolling over the reviewing stand. One by one, they turned back around, waving angry fists in the air, coughing, and swearing at the rapidly disappearing car. The guards were not much more attentive. They had not noticed Saleh arrive either. He simply materialized out of the dust cloud and stood before them, motionless, like some dusty marble statue that had been uncovered by the blowing sands.
Finally, Saleh took a few short, halting steps to his right toward the center of the reviewing stand. Without his cane, he dragged his bad leg behind him through the coarse sand, like Boris Karloff in The Mummy. Perhaps it was that awkward, halting movement that caught their attention, but one by one they turned and noticed the small dark man with the torn clothes, white bandage wrapped around his head, and angry, blackened eyes. As they did, their expressions changed from surprise to shock. No doubt, most of the men in the crowd immediately recognized Saleh. Many had been old comrades, and they knew his record of fierce courage and devotion to one man. Elbows quickly nudged each other and fingers began to point, as the coughing and cursing gave way to an uneasy silence.
Looking around at the faces, Saleh paused and raised his head, forcing his battered body to stand upright as his eyes searched the tightly packed rows for one particular face in the crowd. The troops guarding the stands saw him, too. He heard their panicked cries and saw them spin about, as their officers began shouting contradictory orders at them. Some of the troops placed themselves between him and the reviewing stand, knowing they should do something but unsure of what.
Finally, an officer pointed at him, and three troopers dashed forward. Saleh did not flinch as the first man lashed out at him with his heavy rifle butt and struck him in the shoulder. He fell to the ground in a daze as the dark blur of a steel-toed army boot came at him from another quarter. He raised his forearm, but there was little he could do to block the vicious kick. The boot glanced off his wrist and struck him in the ribs, its force unabated. The air rushed from his chest, and he curled up on the sand too weak and too dazed to offer further resistance. As he lay in the dust, seeing little more than the circle of heavy boots and rifles pointed down at him, he had no doubt that they would have shot him that very moment, had it not been for the loud voice that called down to them from the reviewing stand. “Laa, laa! No, no!” it commanded. “Release that man!”
The soldiers immediately stopped. That voice had the unmistakable ring of authority. Dimly, through the pain, Saleh realized it had saved his life. He looked up and watched the guards’ eyes as they exchanged quick, confused glances. Their heads turned toward their officers, then up at the voice in the stands behind them, still unsure. However, when they
saw the face of the man who had just given that order, they began to back away from the prostrate form lying in front of them, because the face and voice belonged to Gamal Abdel Nasser, their President.
The crowd turned and stared in stunned silence. This was not the show they expected to see this morning. Every eye in the stands was now riveted on Saleh and the ring of soldiers around him. It was obvious the show had gone badly off script, and they were now confused and suddenly afraid. Some of the dignitaries continued to stare at Saleh and the guards, while others turned toward the man who had stopped them. This had suddenly become the dangerous new act in the center ring. Without their uniforms and the ribbons, these were simple men. They might be high-ranking bureaucrats and career soldiers now; but for the most part, they had come from small villages and back streets to rise through the ranks by quietly following orders and worshiping regularity. Theirs was not a system that rewarded originality or deep thought, and they hated the dangerous little surprises that occasionally attacked their safe, dull routines. This morning’s demonstration was to be an opportunity to see and be seen, until the sound of gunfire behind the reviewing stand suddenly loomed as a terrifying threat to their comfortable world. They had no use for speeding cars, ghostly apparitions that appeared out of sandstorms, or bullets.
Saleh saw the fear in their eyes as they stared down at the battered figure lying in the center of the ring of soldiers. They grew restless and pointed him out to each other, whispering, as their faces grew more animated. Slowly and painfully, he rolled onto his side and propped himself up on an elbow. He felt like a drowning man — exhausted, numb, and unable to breathe, treading water with frozen legs as he felt himself sinking lower and lower. With each desperate second, he longed to be done with it. Give in, he told himself. Give in and let go. From the depths of his soul, however, a tiny voice began to scream at him, “No, no! You cannot let them do that to you! No, you must fight back!”
The sweat rolled down his face and neck, turning the caked sand into muddy brown rivulets. He blinked and raised his eyes, searching the crowd of worried faces once more, determined to find Gamal. Finally, a smile crossed his bloody lips and grew wider as he recognized him. It was Gamal! He stood in the front row looking down at him as wide-eyed as the others. In that instant, as their eyes met, Saleh felt all the pain melt away.
“Get up!” his brain screamed at him. He forced himself to his knees and managed to prop his good leg beneath him for support. He placed his fingers on the burning sand and tried to push himself up, but the beatings and vicious kicks had taken their toll and he lacked the strength. His left arm failed him, and he tipped forward awkwardly onto his elbow. He tried again, but his body would no longer respond. He cursed it as he slumped onto his side, and the faces and the reviewing stand blurred into an indistinct haze again. He shook his head and could no longer remember why he had even come here today.
“Help that man up!” the loud, commanding voice in the stands rang out again. It was that voice again. It drifted in and out of his head like a distant radio station on a stormy night, but he began to remember the face with it and the reason he came. The soldiers reached out to him again, but this time their hands were not cruel or threatening. They were unusually gentle, as if he were a rare porcelain figurine they had dropped and broken in an antique shop and feared they would be blamed for its demise. They stood him upright and quickly backed away, leaving him standing there, alone.
Hassan Saleh wobbled back and forth on rubbery legs as he looked up at the reviewing stands, smiling numbly, no doubt looking like the village idiot. Slowly, the fog in his head cleared, and he began to understand. Of course, the guards were worried; but that should come as no surprise. Even as groggy as Saleh felt, he recognized Gamal in the front row of the reviewing stand. Saleh stared up at him and forced his weak, mutinous body forward. With one painful step at a time, he shuffled toward the reviewing stand, toward Gamal; and his brain began to clear. He remembered the soldiers around him, the rifle butts, and the boots. He remembered the tanks, the hospital, the American, and the rockets. He also remembered the treachery of Ali Rashid.
Nasser also took a step forward and leaned over the railing that ran along the front of the reviewing stand. His face was grim, and his eyes had turned hard and angry. He turned and looked back over his shoulder at the crowd. He stared at the sea of faces one at a time, until he came to the shocked faces of General al-Baquri and Colonel Ali Rashid, standing at his side. He glared at Rashid and studied his expression as he had never studied it before. The man’s friendly smile had now vanished, and all Nasser could see there now was hatred. Their eyes met as strangers — no, as enemies — as if he had never even known the man, much less understood him.
The crowd fell silent, and every ear strained to listen as Nasser said to him, “Is this not wonderful, Ali?” His voice was calm, almost sad. “It appears you were wrong. Our dear brother Hassan was able to join us here after all, was he not? Perhaps you have some explanation for his sudden recovery from his automobile accident?”
With his fists clenched tightly at his sides, Ali Rashid’s face twisted with rage as he stared down at the battered figure standing on the sand in front of them. His head whipped around, and he looked directly into Nasser’s eyes, meeting the challenge. “It must be the will of Allah.” His voice cracked as he raised his arm and looked at his wristwatch. “The hour has arrived, however. It is noon, and the test must proceed.”
“No!” Saleh called out, but his voice had shrunk to little more than a hollow whisper. The reviewing stand was dancing before his eyes, and he struggled to stay on his feet. “No,” he shouted again with all his strength. “Ali Rashid, you are under arrest.”
“Under arrest?” Rashid looked down at him and laughed. “Is this some kind of joke, Hassan? Under arrest? Me? For what?”
“For the murder of Mahmoud Yussuf.”
“Mahmoud Yussuf? A petty thief and a spy.”
“Yes, and a citizen of Cairo, whose life you had no right to take,” Saleh answered as he dropped back to his knees, barely able to focus his eyes.
“I am the Chief of State Security. You have no authority over me,” Rashid answered indignantly.
“And I am the Metropolitan Police. We shall see.”
Nasser cocked his head to one side, watching Rashid’s eyes intently. With the word “murder,” Nasser saw the first cracks appear in Rashid’s thin façade, releasing years of pent-up anger and frustration. Nasser shuddered and shook his head. “No, Ali, I think we shall delay these tests for the time being. First, we must attend to our dear friend Hassan Saleh. You do agree with that, do you not, Colonel?”
However, Ali Rashid was not listening. He stared down at Saleh as the anger inside him reached the flash point and exploded. He leaned forward and shook his fist at him. “Murder? You dare call me a murderer?” he shouted at Saleh and then at Nasser himself. “For eliminating vermin like that?”
In one lightning-quick motion, Rashid stepped behind Nasser, threw an arm around his neck, and pulled the President’s pistol from its holster. He jammed the gun barrel against the side of Nasser’s neck and spun him around until they both stood facing the reviewing stand. Pressing back against the railing, Rashid used Nasser’s thick torso as a shield. He need not have worried, however. No one else was armed, except the troops loyal to him. Nasser’s own bodyguards could only watch helplessly from the far end of the reviewing stand, where they suddenly found themselves surrounded by al-Baquri’s men from the Third Infantry.
“Quickly,” he turned and shouted triumphantly to the General. “Have your men clear this rabble away. Do it now!” However, like the rest of the crowd, al-Baquri could only stare, dumb and speechless. By nature, he was a cautious man. Brave speeches and boasts in the Officer’s Mess or private offices were one thing, but this affair was now moving far too quickly for him. His eyes darted back and forth between Rashid and Nasser, and al-Baquri knew he was in way over his head.
&nb
sp; “Now, I said!” Rashid shouted at him again. “Or would you rather I have you shot with the rest of them?” Al-Baquri appeared to be in a trance, however, and unable to move. Rashid turned back to Nasser and jabbed the revolver deeper into his neck. “Delay these tests, my President?” he laughed sarcastically. “Never! They shall proceed as planned; and you shall have the pleasure of standing here and watching, because they are the one thing you should have done a long time ago. Signal the blockhouse,” he shouted at one of the junior officers. “You see, my dear Gamal. This is no test, and those are not dummy warheads on those rockets.” Rashid twisted his head around so he could stare down at Saleh, his eyes radiating the power and madness of the twisted mind inside. “And you dare call me a traitor! You never could understand, could you, Hassan? You never could understand my revolution. Did you think I fought and bled simply to throw the British out and replace them with toads like these?” He glared up at the stunned faces in the crowd.
“Perhaps that was enough for you, but it could never be enough for me. It could never be enough for the Brotherhood or for our army of true believers. No, in the end, all you wanted to do was to exchange one arrogant, godless tyrant for another; and that makes his sin and yours a mortal one.”
Saleh could say nothing. He knelt on the burning desert sand, slumped forward, his head bowed as the rush of Rashid’s words crashed down on him like an avalanche.
“For six years, we waited in vain, praying he would act, praying he would rid us of the corruption and incompetence, and lead his people back to the word of Allah. He did nothing. We waited for him to declare a Holy War, but he did not do that, either. Now, his people shall wait no longer!”
Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers Page 101