Midnight.
Surely he could last that long.
Each moment that Arrani and his henchmen spent outside put Bolan that much closer to his goal. It might come down to moments, seconds, in the end, as he began to lose control. Strategic leaks along the way could buy more time, with the interrogators forced to verify and question every word before they could accept his statements as the truth. A major drawback in the use of torture was that victims might confess to anything, and they would make things up, if necessary, to alleviate the pain. All humanitarian concerns aside, enlightened nations had finally abandoned torture, on the whole, because it was notoriously inefficient as a means of gathering reliable intelligence.
The trick, then, was to time the break — if such a thing was possible — and make it count. With footsteps in the corridor betraying the return of his interrogators, Bolan wondered if he would be equal to the challenge.
Two more hours.
If he could last until midnight, he would have it made.
* * *
There were two of them, and Sarah cursed beneath her breath. She had been hoping for a solitary guard, someone who would make it simple. Two was more than twice as difficult. It could be fatal, and she had no wish to die just yet.
"What shall we do?" Michelle sounded breathless, and her hands were trembling visibly.
"Stay here." It was a snap decision, made on instinct. "Watch us and be ready to come running if we need you. Man, come with me."
"My luck."
"Just do what we agreed."
Their targets were approaching from the east, their rifles carried casually, but Sarah knew they could respond to any threat within a heartbeat's time. The trick would lie in mentally disarming them before she made her move, and now that it was time, she wondered whether she could pull it off.
No time for doubts or second thoughts. She had been turning in Academy Award performances for seven months, and this time she would not be called upon to follow through. She merely had to let the jackals think she was available and eager for their touch. A hint of pleasure yet to come, and let their imagination do the rest.
With Mari at her side, she moved along the tunnel on an interception course. The gunners saw them coming, instantly dismissed them as they might a piece of furniture. At Alamut, a woman's place was in the bedroom, or the garden, preferably on her back. Aside from sex, a dance or the occasional performance of domestic tasks, the female of the species had no role in an Assassin's life. Ismaili soldiers did not marry, did not procreate. Their love, if such it could be called, was finally reserved for Allah and their "holy cause."
But they were men, of flesh and blood, and they could be distracted on occasion. Possibly, on this occasion. Sarah's hopes this night, their chance for survival, were riding on the weakness of the flesh.
They had rehearsed their parts while searching for their prey. A giggle, that from Mari, quickly hushed by Sarah as they came in earshot of the guards. A glance from Mari toward the younger of the riflemen promised heaven in the offing if her chosen man could only spare the time. Impatiently Sarah took her companion by the arm, attempted to prevent her from embarrassing them both, but Mari pulled away. The younger guard was hesitating, staring at her, his gruff companion aping Sarah's role, the voice of reason.
Mari bowed her head, eyes huge above the veil that custom and a curious propriety demanded as a part of feminine attire. Their vest might be designed for maximum display of cleavage, and their harem pants might be nearly transparent, but their faces must be covered at all times, except when they had been ordered up for duty in the garden of delights.
It was unheard of for a woman to speak first in such encounters, but her passion had attained such heights that Mari could restrain herself no longer. Sarah was surprised and gratified to see the gunman blushing, his companion startled, glancing furtively in her direction. They were on a mission for the master of the palace, true, but it appeared to be of no great urgency. There might be time…
Astounded by his rare good fortune, Mari's chosen target steered his «conquest» toward the nearest door. It opened on a storeroom filled with crates of canned goods, some of the emergency supplies Sheikh al-Jebal had gathered as a form of siege insurance, building up his stores against the day when Alamut might be cut off from sources of provisions in the valley. Once inside, the younger rifleman laid his rifle on a stack of crates, his hands all over Mari as he steered her toward a shadowed corner.
Sarah met the eyes of his companion, answering his silent question by moving toward him with her most seductive walk. His mind was elsewhere, and he did not notice as her right hand slipped behind her back, slim fingers fastening on the handle of the knife she had tucked inside her waistband.
They were touching close now, and the sentry brought up his free hand to cup her breast, rough fingers kneading through the fabric of her vest. She smiled, aware that he would never see it through her veil, would never know that death had smiled upon him in the final moments of his life.
A thud was immediately followed by a breathless gasp, as Mari drove her knee into the younger sentry's groin. Without a backward glance to see if it had been effective, Sarah brought her knife around and drove it home with all her strength beneath the gunner's sternum. He went rigid, wheezing as the six-inch blade sheared through his diaphragm and found the pumping muscle of his heart. A wrenching twist, and Sarah felt the hot blood spill across her wrist, her forearm, heard it spattering the stony floor around her feet. The man became deadweight, sagging in her grip, and Sarah let him go, the knife blade glistening as she withdrew it from its fleshy scabbard.
She pivoted and found the younger sentry on his knees, hands clutching wounded genitals, head down, eyes closed against the pain. Before him, Mari wore a dazed expression of her own, but she was thinking, searching for a weapon, reaching for his rifle even as Sarah stepped forward.
"Stop! No shooting yet!"
Without a second thought, she tangled fingers in the sentry's hair and wrenched his head back, laying bare his unprotected throat. Her blade sliced right to left, behind his larynx, and she put her weight behind it, sawing outward, grimacing and bearing down until the butcher's work was done. A little cry escaped from Mari as the crimson river lapped around her slippers, then she skipped aside as Sarah let the body fall.
"His rifle, quickly! And the ammunition magazines!"
Securing the dead man's AK-47 posed no problem, but the shapely Syrian proved squeamish when it came to stripping off his ammunition belt. Impatiently Sarah rolled the body over, retrieving the belt and passing it to Mari, moving swiftly toward the first man she had killed.
This one had worn a bandolier, and Sarah worked it off over his head. She slipped it across her own shoulder, repressing a shudder as canvas steeped in blood made clammy contact with her flesh. She pried dead fingers from his automatic rifle and tucked it under her arm. She was rising when she saw the pistol in his belt, with extra magazines in leather pouches. Michelle would need a weapon, and Sarah took the extra time required to strip the side arm from her kill.
"Come on! We have to hurry."
Michelle was waiting for them in the corridor outside, pacing nervously. She grimaced at the sight of so much blood on Sarah's hands and clothing, but she took the pistol belt when it was held out to her, adjusting it to fit her slender waist. The pistol looked big in Michelle's hand, and Sarah spent a moment briefing her on its mechanism, chambering a live round and working the safety, showing her how to insert a fresh magazine. In spite of mounting agitation, fear that they would be surprised by other sentries, Sarah took the extra time to instruct Mari in the workings of the Kalashnikov, as well.
"How do you know all this?" Michelle inquired, when she was finished.
"I had brothers in the army."
It was the truth, and Sarah had neither the time nor patience for a longer, more precise description of her training in the military arts.
"What happens if we meet more guards?"
&nbs
p; "We kill them and keep moving. To the cellars."
"I'm afraid."
"That only proves you're not insane."
"Are you?"
"Insane?"
"Afraid."
"Of course. It makes no difference. We must still go on, or die."
They went on.
* * *
Hafez Kasm felt as though he'd been roaming through the tunnels for hours, though he realized it had not been that long. On two occasions voices had alerted him to the approach of hunting parties, and he hid in empty rooms until they passed. Thus far, the search appeared to be restricted to a sweep of corridors, without a thorough search of each room along the way.
He had been lucky, but the longer he relied on luck, the less he had to spare. As he approached the cellars, homing on the staircase that would lead him into the bowels of the mountain, he was bound to stumble over sentries he could not evade. If they were startled by his heavy armament, alerted by his poor disguise, he would be forced to kill them on the spot, and any small advantage he might still retain would vanish with the first report of gunfire.
It had been about an hour since the American had been taken prisoner. The torturers might know his secrets by this time, but while a chance of helping him remained, Kasm would not turn his back. And if he came too late to keep Arrani from discovering their mission, he could still release his friend from pain, prevent the torture from continuing.
No stranger to the ways of death, Hafez Kasm still had doubts about his own ability to frame Belasko in his sights and pull the trigger of his captured weapon. In the last analysis he knew that he could do it as an act of mercy and a token of the friendship he had developed for the tall American. And, with the help of Allah, he would also wreak a bloody vengeance on the jackals who had made it necessary.
He stepped around a corner, saw the group of sentries bearing down upon him and momentarily froze. He recovered immediately, proceeding with a stride that was meant to be casual and making a hasty head count of the opposition. There were four, two armed with submachine guns, and two with automatic rifles. They were muttering among themselves, although he had not heard their voices this time. He was watching them as the point man looked up and saw him.
For an instant there was something close to recognition in the sentry's eyes, and then it soured, turned into doubt. A double take took in the stranger's armament, the cartridge belt encumbered with grenades, and the sentry was frowning, hesitating, turning toward his comrades with some comment on his lips.
Kasm could not afford to let him speak, aware that the four men certainly outgunned him. He snapped his rifle up and squeezed the trigger, knocking down the point man with a ragged burst of automatic fire. A second rifleman was wounded by the bullets ripping through his comrade, the impact spinning him around and painting blood tracks on the granite wall.
The Syrian dropped into a combat crouch before the others could react effectively. He cut their legs from under them and hosed them with rifle fire as they fell, their bodies twitching as he pumped lead into them.
The sole survivor, gravely wounded, had his bloody cheek pressed against the wall. He might have fallen otherwise, yet he was not prepared to yield, his spastic fingers groping for the pistol he carried on his belt. Unmindful of the racket now, Kasm held down the trigger of his weapon and emptied the magazine, his target dancing, sprawling in the awkward attitude of death.
They would be after him in moments, and he had no time to lose. Reloading as he rose, Kasm sidestepped the fallen bodies, holding to his course. The staircase to the cellars lay ahead of him, no more than twenty yards away.
With Allah's help he might survive to see it, and if not, so be it.
Hafez Kasm closed his mind to thoughts of death and went to meet his destiny.
18
"I can assure you, Mr. Harrigan," Arrani said mockingly, "in time you will be pleased to tell me everything you know."
"I will be pleased to tell you squat."
"The rack can be a most persuasive instrument." He half turned toward Amal, who stood beside the lever that controlled the wheel. "Begin."
The rack gave off a groaning sound, which might have testified to age or long disuse. The first sensation Bolan felt was a distinctive tightness in his shoulders, hips and knees, the major points responding to a sudden tension. It was something short of pain, but he could see the rack's potential, and he closed his eyes, prepared to bear the coming agony in silence.
At a signal from Arrani, the cogwheel slipped another notch. And there was pain this time, as Bolan's spine was tightened, lifted off the rough bed of the rack. He clenched his teeth, refusing to surrender. It was early yet, and if he started to spill his guts now, he might not buy the time Grimaldi needed for his strike.
"The name of your employer." Arrani's voice was soft, seductive, in his ear.
"Forget it."
The wheel creaked another notch, and Bolan was acutely conscious of the perspiration beading on his forehead, glistening on his chest and shoulders. Angry fire was kindled in his joints and muscles, spreading rapidly. He realized that in a few more moments, in a few more turns of the infernal wheel it would be difficult for him to breathe.
"Your mission?"
"Kiss my aaagghhh!"
The cry was wrenched from Bolan's lips as two more notches on the cogwheel made their grim rotation. Now his spine and limbs were bowstring taut, his only contact with the rack maintained at wrists and ankles, where he was securely bound. His vertebrae were straining, and he wondered how much tension was required to snap the fragile spinal cord. Would death be instantaneous, or would his torturers defeat their own sadistic purpose by accidentally deadening his pain, paralyzing him with a twist of the wheel?
It was a notion that amused him, and he smiled, unconsciously, despite the pain.
"What is it that you find so entertaining?" his interrogator barked.
"Your mother."
"Once again!"
The rack gave off another groan… or was it Bolan? Suddenly aware of cataclysmic roaring in his skull, he was not certain whether he had made the sound or not. It didn't matter in the long run. He was nearly ready to begin the game now.
"Your assignment?"
"Search and destroy," Bolan gasped. There was no need to simulate pain.
"Search for what? Destroy whom?"
"Are you really that stupid? You must know the answer to that one."
"Again."
It became more difficult, each time, for the wheel to turn. Bolan's body was resisting, halting its progress, retarding its motion. With part of his mind standing outside the pain, Bolan wondered how long he could hold it before wood and steel got the better of flesh and bone.
"Search for what? Destroy whom?"
"Search for you. Destroy you."
"You are arrogant. How can one man hope to vanquish an army?"
"You cut me loose, pal, and I'll give you a demo."
Arrani let that one go by, his face close to Bolan's, smiling with animal pleasure. His breath was a draft from a crypt. "Your employers?"
Too soon.
"What's the difference?"
"Again."
Bolan shuddered as his joints were tested, at the breaking point. How many pounds per square inch would it take to separate a shoulder? Wrench a hip out of its socket? Snap a spine?
"Who sent you?"
"The Israelis."
It was close enough, and if his hazy element of passing time was even partly accurate, Arrani and his ghouls would have no chance to act upon the false intelligence in any case.
"But you are not Israeli."
It was not a question, and he saw no point in bluffing. "Free lance," Bolan hissed between clenched teeth. "They pay, I play."
"A mercenary?"
"Hey, you sound surprised."
"And your companion?"
"Just a contact. Prearranged. I never saw the guy before."
"A Syrian?"
"I didn
't ask."
Arrani was about to signal for another notch, but then he smiled, appeared to reconsider. "And where is he now, this friend you never met before?"
A gleam of hope. "You didn't get him?"
"He would be here if we had," Arrani said, scowling. "Where is he?"
"How the hell should I know? I was picked up first, remember?"
Arrani raised his hand, prepared to signal for the turn that would inevitably, separate the soldier's hips or shoulders, possibly his knees, but then hesitated.
"A professional," he sneered, "would prearrange his contact points, escape routes. You are a professional, I think."
"We never got that far." The pain was making Bolan dizzy, and he kept his wits about him with an effort. "He was new to me. I didn't know him from Adam. The way he talked, I figured he was on a kamikaze mission. Thought it might be rude to tamper with his karma."
"You were willing for your friend to die?"
"My contact. I'm a little short on friends these days. Besides, I thought he'd make a nice diversion."
"You have no honor."
"It's a luxury I can't afford."
"How did you find this place?"
"Your people brought me here."
"Again."
The pain was all-encompassing, apocalyptic. Bolan knew that it could not get any worse.
"Again."
Instantly it did.
"How did you learn of Bryan Harrigan's appointment with the sheikh? How did you find this place?"
"They had your operation spotted out of Tel Aviv. You'll have to ask my contact the particulars of how and when. The thing with Harrigan was pure, dumb luck. Our paths crossed, and I recognized him. Just put two and two together. Why else would he be here?"
"You insist on clinging to this flimsy lie?"
"It may be flimsy, but it's not…"
"Again!"
Bolan couldn't contain the scream that spilled from his lips. The pain had moved beyond his threshold. Before Arrani's henchmen could finish the job, he was interrupted by the unexpected entry of a guard.
Cold Judgment Page 17