by Paul Kenyon
She released the wrists and drove two sharp elbows into the soft bellies to free herself for the moments she needed. She was on her feet like a cat, crouching just in back of the overturned chair. She swung it up by the back. It was solid oak, weighing at least forty pounds. The legs caught him in the chest and pushed him into the open desk. He flailed, trying to regain his balance.
She whirled on the balls of her feet, just in time to catch Omar in the side of the neck with a karate chop. Back to the leader! She got the edge of the desk top in her hands and rolled it down over his head and upper torso. Thank God that it had been oiled! Yassin would be going for his machine gun about now. She sensed rather than guessed his position as she kicked backward, like a ballet dancer, leaning with her hands on the desk. Her heel caught him on the chin. He staggered backward.
The gun went off. A shower of plaster came from the ceiling. She grabbed the barrel. He wouldn't let go. She could hear a hollow-sounding shout coming from inside the closed desk. She snatched a pen out of its holder on the desk top and stabbed him in the back of the hand with it. He let go of the gun. She stepped back with it very quickly as he pulled himself out of the desk.
A line of machine gun bullets stitched the floor in front of her.
She was still holding the pistol by the barrel. She dropped it instantly and stood very still.
The computer in her brain had calculated all the odds in about a tenth of a second and told her that was the only way to stay alive for a moment longer.
She didn't risk a look upward until whoever it was had had a chance to relax. When she did look, it was as she'd guessed. A head and bare torso were visible through the hatch, now open, and there was a wicked-looking 7.62 NATO Light Automatic rifle pointing at her.
It stayed pointed at her while the man she'd jammed into the desk picked up a submachine gun, his hand bloody from the pen point. Yassin, looking a little dazed, picked up the other machine gun. They both stayed well away from her.
Omar was dead. His neck was broken.
A ladder dropped from the overhead hatch, and two Arabs in shorts climbed down, carrying their weapons. They'd been asleep up there. The shot had awakened them.
"This one is dangerous," Yassin said, rubbing his jaw. "She fights like a man."
More men in shorts were climbing down the ladder. It was a damned dormitory up there.
"We'd better radio headquarters," the PAFF leader said. "She has friends. There was a big man with a camera with her this afternoon."
One of the men in shorts seated himself at the transmitter and began fiddling with dials. "What frequency are we transmitting on today?" he said.
The door to the loft opened, and a man in a white shirt came in. "What's happening?" he said.
Yassin spoke up. "We're radioing the base in el-Ayra about the spy," he said. "Shut up," the leader said.
More information. Penelope could hardly believe her ears. El-Ayra. That was Iraq. So the Iraqis were sheltering PAFF! She hoped Paul had made it.
"It doesn't matter," Yassin said rebelliously.
He was right, Penelope thought. By the time they killed her, though, she'd know everything.
"Have you got them?" the leader said to the radio operator.
"Not yet. Wait a minute, something's coming through now."
"Tell them we've caught a spy. There may be others. Tell them to check any new men, particularly non-Palestinians."
More men came in through the door. It was a regular PAFF convention. There were at least twenty of them in the room. She looked the newcomers over. A face flushed guiltily and turned away.
"Hello, Qasim," she said.
One of the other men laughed. "Your friend, Qasim," he said.
Penelope gave him a steady look. "So you were the one who ran to them with stories about me, Qasim. You must have stayed up late if you saw Dr. Funke sneak into my hotel room."
Qasim muttered something, his face red.
"It must be exciting, mingling with real live guerrillas instead of shooting your mouth off in cafes," Penelope said smoothly. "Are they going to make you their mascot?"
One of the guerrillas clapped Qasim on the back. "You're a good boy, Qasim," he said. "You were right about her."
"What are you going to do to her?" Qasim said unwillingly.
There was much hilarity. One of the men in shorts said, "We're going to question the spy, Qasim. You can stay and watch."
"I… I think I'll go," Qasim said. He made a tentative movement toward the door.
"Come back, boy!" the leader shouted. "You're staying with us till tomorrow. I don't want you blabbing until we're out of the country."
Reluctantly, Qasim returned. "You'll let her go then?" he said hopefully.
There was a chorus of coarse laughter. "You can clean up afterward, Qasim," one of them said. "Bring a mop and a pail and a lot of little plastic bags to carry her out in."
Qasim blinked. He attempted to smile, as if he'd heard a joke.
Another terrorist patted him on the shoulder. "It will be very instructive, Qasim. Jemail knows the Berber method of torture."
They all laughed heartily. Qasim had gone pale.
Penelope gave him a caustic look. "I hope you have a strong stomach, Qasim," she said.
There was a movement behind her. She whirled around too late. The butt of a rifle caught her behind the ear. There was a blinding pain and then nothing.
* * *
There was a chatter of automatic weapons fire to his left. He could see the flashes from the muzzle. One of the assault teams out in the marshes on nighttime target practice.
Paul ducked down behind the reeds. His feet were mired in the soggy ground, and the mosquitoes were a torment. Nobody had seen him so far. He was supposed to be at the supply depot, packaging more of the shaped plastic explosive charges that had impressed the PAFF recruiters in Lebanon so much.
He didn't know why the hell they needed plastic explosives. They had an atomic bomb. They weren't going to have to settle for merely damaging the Iranian naval base at Bandar Abbas, as they'd originally planned. They were going to wipe it off the face of the map. And a good portion of the Persian Gulf with it.
He slogged through the marsh, slapping at mosquitoes. The gunfire fell further behind him. Around him the night was alive with the sound of frogs.
There was a splash ahead of him, and he stiffened. He peered through the darkness, and after a while was able to make out the tall, curving prow of a canoe. He saw the silhouette of a man pushing through the tall reeds — one of the local marsh Arabs out for some night fishing. He waited, motionless, until the canoe had gone by, through the swishing reeds.
The presence of more than a thousand PAFF guerrillas had put a serious strain on the local economy. The swamp Arabs, primitive men who knew nothing of the outside world, had impoverished themselves in an effort to provide the hospitality that custom demanded. They'd thrown open their reed huts to the armed strangers, slaughtered half their chickens and sheep. But the PAFF guerrillas had stayed on and on, practicing their mysterious maneuvers.
They were here with the connivance of the Iraqi government. It was a move in the covert struggle between Iraq and Iran for control of the Persian Gulf and its rich oil resources.
The Iraqis were supported by the Soviet Union. Iran got most of its military aid from the United States. Iraq encouraged subversion in the oil-rich kingdoms lining the Persian Gulf. Iraq had appointed itself policeman for the area. Skirmishes between Iraqi and Iranian border patrols were common.
The Shah had beefed up the big navy and air force base at Bandar Abbas. It overlooked the narrow part of the Persian Gulf. Iraq, with its narrow shoreline at the head of the Gulf, didn't like Iran controlling passage through the waters. But they didn't want to risk an open clash. The PAFF guerrillas would do it for them.
PAFF had tripled in size since the infusion of cash they'd received from blackmailing the airlines. They'd recruited over a thousand new men in Lebanon a
nd Syria. Paul had been one of the recruits. He was one of a half-dozen black militants from America. He had convincing credentials as a homegrown terrorist, a Muslim and an explosive expert.
They'd shown him the stolen atom bomb. The Honest John rocket that carried it wouldn't work, he gathered. They were going to have to plant the bomb inside the naval base.
But how the hell did they expect to penetrate a major military installation, protected by jets and warships, with their thousand-man assault force?
There were tantalizing hints. It had something to do with a plan code-named "Deathshine." The key to Deathshine was contained in a fishing boat they had anchored under heavy guard in the river channel.
He had to get back to the Baroness with the information. But first he had to get a look at that fishing boat.
He moved like a black shadow through the giant reeds. They were close to twelve feet tall here, near the banks of the waterway. He waded, thigh-deep, and worried about schistosomiasis. Most of the swamp Arabs hereabouts had it. It was a dreadful parasitic disease caused by an organism that lived in the water, passing through snails as an intermediate host. He shivered, thinking about it. He'd rather have risked the guns of the guards.
There was something ahead. He saw its black bulk against the sky, blotting out stars. He crept closer. It was a dhow. Its masts were down and its sails were furled. There was the outline of some kind of contrivance mounted on the poop.
There was a low murmur of voices. Guards.
Paul strained to make sense of the shape on the poop. One of the guards lit a cigarette and helped him. In the flare of the match, he saw something that looked like a searchlight. It was big, like the searchlights mounted in anti-aircraft batteries. Much too big for a dhow.
He'd seen bulky, square shapes around it. Auxilliary equipment of some sort. And an angular framing. Evidently, the whole apparatus was going to be concealed by rush matting.
Could he get any closer? He waded forward a few steps, careful not to splash.
A light shone in his face, blinding him. There was a click of a safety being released on a carbine.
Paul put up a hand to shield his face.
"Comrade Paul!" a voice said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
"Who's that?" Paul said.
The light left his face. "It's me, Nazzim."
He could see him now, a pudgy man with fat hips and narrow shoulders, festooned with leather cartridge belts and carrying a light automatic rifle. Paul had had lots of conversations with him over the campfire, filling his head with stories about life in America.
"Oh, Nazzim," he said casually. "Izzai elach wahl? I was trying to get back to camp. I guess I went the wrong way."
He took a step closer. The flashlight was still on. The area must be crawling with guards. The light would attract them.
"Why are you in the water?" Nazzim said accusingly. "Don't you know it's not healthy around here?"
"Oh, yeah," Paul said. "I remember the hygiene lectures." He took another step forward. The mud dragged at his feet.
"But you have not answered my question. There is strict security in this area."
"I know. But not for us brothers, right?"
He edged forward another foot. Nazzim was almost within reach. The rifle was pointing negligently away from him.
"What's this?" another voice said.
Paul cursed under his breath.
"It's comrade Paul," Nazzim said. "We were just talking."
The new man was broad and muscular. Paul recognized him vaguely as one of the team leaders. His name was something like Karim.
"We've just had a radio message from our Tangier cell," Karim said, "telling us to be on the watch for spies."
"Me? A spy?" Paul said. "Come off it!"
"I think you better come back to the camp with us," Karim said. "El-Ouwahl will want to talk to you."
"Okay, man," Paul grumbled. He extended a hand. "Help me up onto the bank, will you?"
Nazzim grasped his hand unthinkingly. Karim hissed a warning, but it was too late. Paul yanked Nazzim's hand hard, and pulled him into the water. The flashlight went flying. Paul grabbed the automatic rifle as Nazzim flew by.
There was a huge splash behind him. Paul swung the rifle like a club, by the barrel. The stock caught Karim in the side of the neck before he could bring his own weapon to bear.
Amazingly, Karim was still on his feet. He was a stocky, powerful man, and he must have had a neck made of iron. Paul found his footing, and got his hands around the man's throat. He pressed his thumbs into the larynx. Karim struggled, kicking at him, grabbing his wrists. They both went over into the mud. Paul squeezed as hard as he could. There was a small, sickening crunch under his thumbs, as Karim's windpipe caved in.
There was splashing and sputtering in the water. Nazzim was sitting up, yelling, "This way, this way!"
There were shouts and the sound of trampling feet nearby. Flashlights stabbed through the reeds, searching.
Paul waded back into the channel. He grabbed Nazzim by the shirt collar and dragged him under the water.
The pudgy man struggled and managed to surface for a moment. "Please, comrade Paul, the water is not healthy!"
"Damned right it isn't," Paul said. He pushed Nazzim under again and held him there until the bubbles stopped.
The thrashing sounds in the reeds were coming closer. A voice shouted, "Spread out!"
Paul got through them without being seen in the forest of reeds. The area would be alive with guerrillas before long. He pushed through the reeds in the direction of one of the nearby settlements of swamp Arabs. It was a low mud island, with a score of arched barrows made of reeds. The dogs started barking before he'd gone more than a few yards toward it, but he found a canoe tied up to a clump of cane. He climbed into the canoe and pushed off before the villagers could get out to him. Their social structure was well-adapted to deal with thieves in the night. An ancient muzzle-loader went off with a huge blast, aimed at random. The shot went nowhere close to him. There was no pursuit.
He kept going for an hour before he felt safe. Behind him he could see flares and hear faint shouting voices that were carried over the water. But the guerrillas had no aircraft, and there was no way they'd ever find him in these impenetrable reeds, waving twelve feet high. By daylight he'd be miles away, with no tracks to give him away.
He poled the stolen craft southward, heading for the confluence of the Tigris and the Euphrates. If he could get into the Persian Gulf, he had an outside chance of reaching Kuwait without drowning. It was the only chance he had. He knew the words that would get him into the American Embassy as a CIA agent, not to be questioned. He could con them out of a suit of clothes, a passport and an airplane ticket to Tangier. The Baroness had to know about the planned assault on the Bandar Abbas naval base, and the conspiracy called Deathshine. She'd be able to figure out how it all fit together:
The reeds sighed. Paul sighed, too. He had a long way to go.
9
Her head hurt. Behind her ear, throbbing exquisitely, was a round spot that she knew would feel pulpy and tender and matted with dried blood if she had been able to touch it. If she had been able to move her hands.
She opened her eyes and there was a blinding flash of pain. She waited till it died down. The room swam slowly into focus.
She was sitting naked in a chair, surrounded by thirty armed men. They murmured approvingly when they saw that she'd regained consciousness. Her wrists were wired to the arms of the heavy oak office chair. Her ankles were wired together.
A plastic sheet was spread on the floor underneath the chair. It was the final horrible detail. They weren't going to leave a mess for the person who'd so kindly loaned them his office and warehouse while they were operating in Tangier.
She turned her head. It felt as if it were a bowl, sloshing liquid. Being clubbed with a rifle butt was almost as bad as having a hangover.
Her caftan and bikini had been thrown carelessly o
n the floor near the desk. She could see the broken bikini strap where they'd become impatient and ripped it off her. The contents of the straw handbag were spread over the desk blotter. They'd found her little gold-plated automatic. So much for her protestations of innocence.
Habit made her check off the position of every object in the room. In training, they'd told her that you never knew when something might come in handy. Of course, the assumption was that you weren't going to be tied up.
There were her sunglasses on the desk. She could break a lens and saw through her ropes, if she were tied with ropes. Unfortunately they'd tied her with heavy wire. She could see the stiff ends of the wire, twisted around and around without any give whatsoever, sticking out at her wrists and ankles.
They'd left her sandals on her. There were razor blades embedded in the soles, equally useless now.
There were several submachine guns leaning against the walls, out of reach. And duffel bags that no doubt contained other guerrilla paraphernalia like plastic explosives and detonators. And the shortwave radio in the corner. And the filing cabinets and other office furniture, and the cots they'd been using.
None of it was a damned bit of good to her at the moment. She strained at the wires tying her wrists to the arms of the chair. They bit into her flesh nastily, tight and unbreakable.
A tall man with a seamed, bearded face leaned over her. He patted her cheek almost affectionately. This must be Jemail, the torture virtuoso.
"You don't die till I say you're ready," he said with craftsman's pride. "I get ten, twenty pounds of meat off you without making you bleed to death."
The other men murmured appreciatively. Evidently Jemail was a minor celebrity in their circles.
The PAFF leader stepped forward. "Your last chance. You tell us who you work for, what they know about Don Alejandro."
She looked up into the eager eyes and knew that none of them gave a damn anymore about getting information out of her. They were hungry to see what Jemail would do. They were pretending to themselves that it was some sort of useful interrogation; it was a matter of self-respect. But no matter what answers she gave, of course, they wouldn't be satisfied until there were ten or twenty pounds of her lying on that plastic sheet.