by C. G. Cooper
It wasn’t an easy lie to swallow, but he had to stay alert and attentive, not wallowing in self-hate. He silenced the voice of conscience.
He had heard the shooting from below. Before the attackers had reached the top of the ramp, he had gone to the wall and leaned out so that he could see the parking lot.
Serena was gone. She had tried to escape, and they had shot her.
She was not the love of his life. He knew that. And yet... it was telling. His opponent would show no mercy, once he had been separated from any witnesses.
He bit the inside of his cheek. George Marno.
He knew of the man, but he didn’t know him. In Morocco, he had written several movies that had been directed by a friend of his, the name wasn’t occurring to him now, but they had been well-received. He was not having similar success in Hollywood, of course. Hollywood did not, could not venerate anything that did not appeal to the masses of Americans and Chinese who consumed their products. Hollywood had leapt upon a tiger’s back, and while it cried “art” it lived only in service to the tiger.
Marno...
Mansour shook his head. The last two men were outside, keeping watch on him. He would have to stay alert to his surroundings, not to his theories.
But it was difficult.
He was struck by the realization that he was being moved from square to square on a chessboard, first by one set of hands, then another—as if both sides were able to control him, swaying him this way, then that.
Did he wish to be a tool of the CIA? Hardly. But he also had no desire to be manipulated by nationalists who could only see goals that would draw power to them.
Power was precarious. It could be won or lost in a heartbeat. It was a game, always a game.
He wanted something better, both for himself and for his people. His people. There was a phrase. He hardly knew how to define them. But the idea loosened something inside him, the horrified, visceral feeling of having just shot a man who, in his own mind, thought he was trying to help him.
A shadow moved outside the front entrance to the castle, very faint. Mansour aimed toward where the man must be, if he crossed from one side to the other, or tried to charge him, while creeping back around the half wall to the other side, so that he was covered from behind.
Respect.
That was what he wanted.
He wanted to world to have to think twice about interfering with his business. Both the world outside his family, and the world within.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Andy heard the shots echoing from above. Man
sour and the others were being attacked from the top of the castle. He had to get out of the old town and up the ramp.
But something was off. For one thing, he couldn’t find Ashburn’s body. For another, one of his followers was proving harder to throw off than he liked. It was like being followed by a ghost—only moving when he moved, making progress in unexpected directions.
He decided to focus his energy on picking off the easiest of the three men after him. It was simple enough; he circled around the guy while making sure that the more ghostly pursuer wasn’t too close to him. He kept having to look over his shoulder. It almost sounded like the pursuer had managed to get above him, and was aiming at him from one of the rooftops, a crazy thought when he considered how fragile they must be.
Two shots and the second man was down.
The other man, the one who was moving so stealthily, seemed to have gotten farther away. He was moving more rapidly now, taking less care to stay silent.
Running away?
That might be the first smart thing he’d heard from any of them that night.
He dismissed the guy for the moment and took down the third man, still standing out on the road in the open like he had backup who’d be watching to see if he fell. He didn’t.
The parking lot looked abandoned, but Andy didn’t rely on that. If nothing else, the backups had brought several SUVs with them, which they had parked in a cluster on the far side of the parking lot, behind the one that had arrived with the guy who had added another twist into Andy’s already convoluted adventure.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Al-Salakhi heard the gunshots overhead and knew that he was listening to the deaths of the men that he had sent up the ramp to capture--but not kill, he had warned them multiple times--the prince. He heard the shots from below. He had the walkie-talkie clipped to the back of his sleeve, where he would see it if the red light went off, but Nima didn’t try to contact him.
Things were going smoothly, from a certain perspective.
He ascended the ramp, passed the broken helicopter on the slope, and considered the lightening sky.
He slipped up the slope, reached the courtyard, and saw one of his men lingering outside the door of the castle. A body lay outside the door, face down on the stone.
Interesting. Mansour had seen the situation for what it was: a trap. Not that it had been delicately crafted; nevertheless, most men would have been caught up within labyrinths of ethics, trying desperately to find their way to a solution in which killing one’s own kind was not an answer. Most men would have trapped themselves.
The man at the wall spotted Al-Salakhi and held out a hand for him to stop, then gestured in a circular motion. Go around. An excellent suggestion.
Al-Salakhi circled the courtyard to the back of the castle, where he spotted another of his men, and another body, which accounted for all four of them.
He shot the wounded from behind, then began circling back around to the front.
Mansour heard rather than saw someone slithering around the outer courtyard. At first he thought it was more reinforcements from below. Then he heard the shot and the sound of the body falling.
From the other end of the castle, the man waiting outside the door cursed in Arabic, calling them all filthy American dogs and calling for Al-Salakhi.
The hair all over Mansour’s body stood on end.
Al-Salakhi... Al-Salakhi!
The idea of the Shia thug having gotten so close to him was disturbing, to say the least.
He’d used Marno to get to him...
A second shot echoed across the courtyard, and the cursing from outside the doorway stopped.
Now there were no witnesses.
He had to get out of here. The Americans would have to take care of themselves. He moved to the boulder that covered the entrance to the secret tunnel when it opened.
Serena Ashburn had opened it from within.
“I guess I’ve come to rescue you,” she said.
She immediately went to check the seal over Caine’s punctured lung. Andy had instructed her that if Caine’s chest started to look lopsided, she was supposed to unseal the plastic and bandage covering the wound to let the excess air out. Or Chris could die. It still held, thank God.
Meanwhile, Jack Cooper had managed to make it up the slope and back to relative safety within the castle. He panted for a moment, then embraced Serena like a long-lost daughter.
She pulled away from the hug. The sentiment was nice, but they needed to get out of here. They needed an ambulance. They needed this madness to be over.
“All right there, kiddo?” Jack asked.
“Terrific,” she said. “Like swimming in a shark tank with a bloody foot.”
“No need to panic,” Jack said. “Keep calm and stay in the moment.”
“Thanks, Buddha, I’ll try to remember that.”
“I’m serious.” He’d just stopped panting.
“You ok, Jack?” she asked sincerely.
He smiled. “You’re not gonna believe this, but I feel better than I’ve felt in years.”
She couldn’t help but laugh.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Halfway up the ramp, Andy heard the first of the two shots. He heard the second when he was almost at the top. Al-Salakhi had just shot one of his own men. Right in the back.
Clearing out witnesses, he thought. You two-bit coward.
Andy stayed down, waited until the guy was perfectly lined up with nowhere to go, and said, “Stop.”
The young radical froze in place. His rifle was lowered. Andy saw it twitch in the man’s hands.
“Don’t do it. I will shoot.”
“The soldier,” Al-Salakhi said. “The American Hero.”
In the distance, the sound of a helicopter approaching. Faintly. Finally.
Al-Salakhi took a deep breath, then exhaled. “It is checkmate then, is it? You have captured the opposing team’s king?”
Andy didn’t answer. A few more minutes and it would be over. Just keep the guy immobile until the cavalry showed up.
His arm ached. He made sure to stay in the darkness so Al-Salakhi couldn’t see his muzzle twitch.
The sound of the helicopter grew louder. The young radical said, “I surrender.” Releasing the rifle onto its strap, he raised both hands. Andy didn’t move, didn’t answer.
It was too easy.
The man folded his hands against the back of his head. Too late, Andy noticed the walkie-talkie clipped to the sleeve of his jacket. The man muttered something in Arabic. Andy didn’t know what it was, but it couldn’t be good.
“Stop talking,” he said, walking toward the kneeling man. “Pull the walkie-talkie off your sleeve and throw it on the ground.”
The thug was smirking again. He slowly put his hands in front of him, then pulled the walkie-talkie off his sleeve. “Do you want it?”
“Drop it on the ground.”
Al-Salakhi threw it at Andy’s arm, toward the bloodstain on his shirt. It hit the wound and made Andy flinch.
With the agility of a rabbit, Al-Salakhi threw himself over the side of the castle wall. Andy followed him to the edge. The man had somehow picked the side that wasn’t a sheer cliff and was tumbling and scrambling down the slope.
Down in the parking lot, someone had climbed out of one of the SUVs and was standing with feet braced, placing something over his shoulder.
Some sort of shoulder-fired launcher.
Andy was out of choices. He followed Al-Salakhi over the side.
Chapter Fifty-Five
It was Andy, the terrorist known as Al-Salakhi, and a guy with a rocket launcher.
“Easy does it, pal,” said Andy.
Al-Salakhi rose, dusted off his tunic, and smiled. “How cowed you become in the face of defeat.”
“Defeat? How do you figure?”
Al-Salakhi shrugged. “My friend Nima here is pointing a launcher at the castle. The round is thermobaric and will level the structure and kill everyone inside. Your friends are in that castle. Do we have a misunderstanding as to the meaning of the word ‘defeat’?”
“I’m going to ask you to put down that weapon.”
Al-Salakhi exploded in a mocking laugh. “Ask him, then. Go on. How about I ask him for you. Nima, my friend, the American would like for you not to demolish the castle of full of unbelievers.”
“You’d be destroying a 1400-year-old relic.”
“A crumbling edifice named for an unbeliever,” Al-Salakhi clarified.
“This is all about Mansour. This isn’t about believer versus unbeliever. It’s about power. And it’s about you doing whatever it takes to get it.”
“I’ve had enough of you, ”Al-Salakhi said, and waved his hand dismissively. “Stand down, pig.”
Andy looked around. Then he started to laugh.
Al-Salakhi smiled. “Tell me what amuses you so.”
“There’s no damn cameras! I’m standing here like a schmuck, thinking, ‘Why the hell doesn’t he just shoot over my head?’ And then it just struck me, just now: You want to film it. You would have had a record of the prince’s death anyway, with Thompson’s film. You would have waited for the prince to visit, then shot him while Thompson filmed it. You got word that the prince was on the helicopter and so you changed your plans.” He laughed some more. “That must have really pissed you off, pal.” He stopped laughing and stiffened himself. “Your cameraman’s running late, I guess?”
Al-Salakhi paused, a smile on his face. “Nima,” he said.
Gunfire from above.
Al-Salakhi flew back as the impact of a dozen bullets struck him at once, from several directions.
On the wall overhead, Prince Mansour, Serena Ashburn, and Jack Cooper stood, rifles trained on the spot where the terrorist had just stood.
Andy stared in amazement, then turned back to the man with the thermobaric death rocket. “Your boss is dead. Your work is done.”
“Nima!” said Prince Mansour.
Nima stared up at him, the rocket launcher poised.
Mansour put down his rifle and came down around the wall, yelling, “Hold your fire!”
All eyes were trained on Mansour as he stumbled out into the open and positioned himself in front of Andy.
“No,” the prince said under his breath, “it can’t be.”
“What is it?” said Andy.
“Nima...” Mansour said. He took a step forward. “Nima, don’t you remember me?” He was speaking in Arabic now.
“Stay back,” cried Nima, his stern resoluteness coming apart at the seams.
“You know each other?” asked Andy.
“We were friends.”
“Stop,” said Nima. “Stop your lies!”
“Yes, long ago,” said Mansour, ignoring his old friend’s last comment. “Your eyes, they tell the truth. They are the eyes of my old friend.”
Mansour took a step toward Nima.
“Your Highness,” said Andy, “don’t move.”
“Nima,” said Mansour, ignoring, “your name means ‘blessing.’ You’ve been named by the will of Allah. Is this, with this weapon in our arms, is this act what He considers befitting by a man with such a name?”
“Mansour...” the man said, his face tight, “those who disbelieve—”
“What? Who disbelieve what? I do not disbelieve, Nima. I merely disagree with men on who is to lead our people spiritually. But the truths revealed in the Quran are separate from that.”
“Blasphemy!” cried the man, trembling.
Mansour took a step closer. “According to whom? To men who disagreed with me on the same point.”
“Wrong!”
“No, I am right.”
“You are not of the true faith!”
“I am a human being, and so I am.”
“No!”
“Yes, Nima,” the prince said calmly. “The guiding principles of our faith deal in peace. Not war. Allah does not judge us by man’s law. And therefore, we shall not judge man by His.”
Nima’s face, red, tightened to the point of splitting. “No!”
“Nima,” Mansour said, inching closer, “remember our days playing The Hunter.”
Nima’s breath was audible.
“Remember when we helped each other win.”
“That was not me. I was born without a soul.”
Mansour inched closer. “You were most definitely not.”
“Stay back!”
“We swam together.”
“Nonsense!”
“Dreamed together.”
“Stop it!”
“Prayed together.”
“That was before—”
“Before what? Before you were tricked by a man who used your questioning nature against you?”
Nima shook his head, the tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Look at me...” the prince said so only his old friend could hear.
“No!”
Mansour stretched out his arms. “Look at my face, Nima. This is what our differences have done. Remember me, Nima? I was your friend.”
Mansour stopped. Nima stood, the rocket launcher drooping in his hands. His head fell to his chest and he shook with uncontrolled sobs.
Andy walked up to him and calmly removed
the weapon from his grasp.
Nima collapsed to the ground in a heap of unrelenting sadness and guilt.
Epilogue
Andy was awake, up, and pacing by the time Coles arrived. They’d been airlifted to Landstuhl in Germany. Andy had been patched up and was now being held for observation and debriefing. After Coles had looked over Caine and Cooper, he’d talked to Ashburn. Andy learned where he stood on the pecking order: somewhere between junior officer and Hollywood casting director. Terrific.
Then it was Prince Mansour’s turn. Mansour hadn’t needed to hang around, but he had. Andy had gotten a sense that something had changed in the prince. A new perspective maybe? War tends to do that to a man.
Ashburn stepped out of Cooper’s room to say that he was waking up, and Andy followed her back in.
“Andy,” Cooper said as he came in. “Good to see you.”
“Now that you’re awake, I’m sure Coles’ll be here post-haste to pick your brains,” Andy said. “As will the CIA.”
But when Coles came into the room, it was to pull Andy aside and start pulling the information out of him in an empty staff lounge supplied with decent coffee. He drank cup after cup, regurgitating things he hadn’t exactly known that he knew.
“How does it feel to be getting a proper debriefing out of a guy who’s still half stunned by things that had happened a day ago?”
“You have any questions?” said Coles.
“Just one. How the hell did this happen?”
“A known local agitator called Amad Al-Khayyat was paid by an anonymous source to help kidnap Prince Mansour, but the job was really an assassination attempt—a radio jam of the onboard computer that cut the power to the tail rotor on the helicopter. When that failed, Al-Salakhi summoned forces to clean up the mess.”
“Anonymous source,” said Andy. “I’ll bet he goes by the name George Marno.”
“You think?”
“I have a hunch. Follow the money. I’m willing to bet you can trace it back to a Turkish bank account. Anyway, this guy, Marno, if that’s his real name, was at the party. I think he’s the one who killed Mansour’s uncle.”