Jon could hear Klein’s voice in his ear: Tell them nothing. He said, “Let’s just say I’ll catch up with you in Brussels, after I’ve been to NATO headquarters.”
“Right. Sure.” But Randi smiled. “Okay, after we do what we have to, we’ll meet in Brussels, Jon. I know the proprietor of the Café Egmont in Old Town. Drop a message there when you’re ready. That goes for both of you.”
They said “good luck” all around. Randi ran lightly toward the building’s rooftop exit door, a stunning figure in her tight black working clothes and pale blond hair. The men watched her, then Peter jogged toward the fire escape, his lean, lined face inscrutable. Left alone, Jon walked to the parapet and stared down. The antiterrorist units, with their heavier weapons and flak jackets, were spreading out. There were no alarms, no shooting, no activity of any kind beyond their methodical dispersal. As for the terrorists, they appeared to have vanished.
Jon ran across the rooftops to the farthest building he could reach and took the interior stairs down. At each door, he paused to listen. On the third floor he found what he wanted: Inside, a television was on. He heard the volume decrease, a window creak open, and a man’s voice shout down to the street, “¿Que paso, Antonio?”
A voice called up in Spanish, “Didn’t you hear all the shooting, Cela? There was a terrorist battle. The police are all over the area.”
“Después de todo lo ocurrido, eso nada más me faltaba. ¡Adios!”
Jon heard the window close and waited for the man to speak to anyone else in the apartment. But the only sound was of the television, the volume again raised.
Jon knocked sharply and announced in peremptory Spanish, “Polícia. We need to speak with you.”
He heard swearing. Soon the door was flung open, and a heavy man in a dressing gown glowered at him. “I been home here all—”
Jon pressed the muzzle of his Sig Sauer into the man’s stomach. “Sorry. Inside, por favor.”
Five minutes later, dressed in a pair of pants and a sports jacket from the man’s closet, a white shirt with the collar open, and the dressing gown over everything—all far too big in the waist—Jon tied and gagged the Spaniard and left. He sauntered down the stairs to the street, where he joined a group of alarmed residents who were watching the police unit as it stopped before the apartment building. In their dark combat gear, the officers rushed in, leaving two behind to interrogate the onlookers. After a few questions, the pair sent one resident after another back into their buildings.
When the officers finally reached Jon, he told them he had seen nothing and no one, and lived in the previous building, which they had already searched. The police officer ordered him back to his “own” building, and moved on to the next interview. When Jon was sure the officer’s back was turned, he crossed the street into the shadows of the far sidewalk, rounded the corner, and discarded the dressing gown.
At the San Bernardo metro station, he took the next train, where he picked up a discarded copy of El País, one of Madrid’s daily newspapers, from one of the seats, and buried his face in it, using his peripheral vision to watch for tails. Soon he transferred to line eight, and from there he rode out to Aeropuerto de Barajas. Just before entering the terminal, he found a large waste bin. He checked quickly to make certain he had still not been detected. Then he dropped his Sig Sauer into the soiled paper cups and wrappers and, with a pang of regret, watched it sink. He tossed the newspaper on top.
With nothing but his stolen clothes, wallet, passport, and cell phone, he bought a ticket for the next Brussels flight. After he phoned Fred Klein using the new number that was thankfully up and running and arranged to have a change of clothes, a uniform, and a weapon delivered to him in Brussels, he sat down in the waiting room, where he read his detective novel.
The Brussels flight was departing from the next gate, but he saw no sign of Randi. About ten minutes before his plane was to board, a tall Muslim woman wearing the traditional black head covering and long black robes—a pushi and abaya, not the chador, which covered the eyes as well as the head and body—sat down across the aisle from him. He watched her unobtrusively. She sat immobile, her hands hardly visible, looking at no one. Her face was modestly lowered.
Then he heard that same strange, soft sound that seemed almost a part of the wind. It gave him a start. Obviously there was no wind inside this modern, bustling airlines terminal, at least none that was natural. He looked sharply at the woman who was swathed in black, instantly regretting that he no longer had his Sig Sauer.
She seemed to sense his interest. She looked up, gazed boldly into his eyes, and winked. And humbly bowed her head. Jon repressed a smile. Peter had fooled him. The faint strains of a whistled tune reached his ears—“Rule Britannia.” The old SAS trooper loved his little jokes and amusements.
When his flight was finally called, Jon was still scanning all around for Randi, his stomach tight with worry. She had been first to leave. She should have arrived here by now.
After leaving Peter and Jon, Randi had run down the central staircase, stopping to knock on doors until she found an apartment on the first floor where there was no response. She picked the lock, hurried inside, and discovered a closet filled with flamboyant women’s clothes. She chose a tight skirt that flared wide below the hips and looked as if it had been designed for the swirl of a flamenco dancer. Quickly she put it on as well as a peasant blouse and high-heeled black pumps. She shook out her hair so it was loose and fluffy around her head, and then she hung her MP5K submachine gun under the skirt from her waist.
The apartment building was quiet, and she was just beginning to relax, when she reached the front entry hall with its fake palms and expensive oriental carpeting. But through the glass panel on the front door she could see five masked men running toward her, glancing warily back over their shoulders as if they were being chased. She felt a burst of fear. The terrorists.
She retrieved her weapon, wheeled around, yanked open a door beneath the stairs, and dashed down into a dark basement. Breathing hard, she listened intently. As the basement door opened above again, she sprinted away from the light, batting aside spiderwebs. Feet clattered down. The door closed, and sooty darkness spread. Men grumbled in Arabic, and she realized from their conversation that they had not noticed her. The five were here because they were hiding, too.
Out on the street, some kind of heavy vehicle screeched to a stop, booted feet pounded the pavement, and orders were given in Spanish. The Guardia Civil shock troops had arrived, and they were spreading out to hunt for the terrorists.
Inside the basement, the men’s voices were angry now, continuing low in Arabic:
“Who are you, Abu Auda, to tell us to die for Allah? You’ve never even seen Mecca or Medina. You may speak our language, but not a single drop of the blood of the prophets runs in your veins. You’re a Fulani, a mongrel.”
A deep voice, hard and tight, sneered, “You’re a coward who doesn’t deserve the name of Ibrahim. If you believe in the Prophet, how can you be so afraid to die a martyr’s death?”
“Afraid to die? No, black one. That’s not it at all. We were beaten today. But that’s just today. There’ll be better times. To die senselessly is an affront to Islam.”
A third voice said contemptuously, “You tremble like a timid woman, Ibrahim.”
And a fourth: “I stand with Ibrahim. He’s proved himself over more years than you’ve lived. We’re warriors, not fanatics. Let the mullahs and imams prattle of jihad and martyrdom. I speak of victory, and a Spanish prison has many doors for those who’ll fight on for Allah.”
The deep voice asked quietly, “You’ll surrender, then? You, too, Ibrahim? And Ali as well?”
“It’s wise,” the first voice, Ibrahim, announced with a tremor of fear. “M. Mauritania will find some way to free us quickly, because he needs all his fighters to strike his great blows against our enemies.”
The contemptuous voice was impatient. “You know there’s no time to free
any of us. We’ve got to fight our way out now like men, or die for Allah.”
More angry arguments from the trio who favored surrender were abruptly cut off by three low, sharp sounds. Silenced gunfire. Probably from the same weapon. Randi listened as the silence stretched for what seemed minutes but was probably only seconds. She kept her MP5K aimed into the impenetrable darkness toward the sounds of the shots. Her stomach tightened into a knot.
At last the voice that had spoken third, the man who claimed to be ready to die, asked softly, “So you’ll kill me, too, Abu Auda? I was the only one who dared to stand with you against the other three.”
“It’s unfortunate. But you look too much like an Arab, and you don’t speak Spanish. All men can be made to reveal what they know under the right circumstances. You’re a risk. However, a single black man such as myself who does speak Spanish can perhaps escape.”
Randi could almost hear the other man nod. “I’ll greet Allah in your name, Abu Auda. Praise Allah!”
The final silenced shot made Randi jump. She wanted to see the face of the man whom they had called the Fulani, the black one, who could kill a friend as easily as an enemy. Abu Auda.
She backed away as his footsteps approached. Chills shot along her spine. She followed the sounds with her weapon trained and heard an exhalation of breath, almost a sigh of relief, as a door opened into the night about ten feet to her right. Moonlight shone in, and she stared at the terrorist who had opened it—a giant black man who was dressed like an ordinary Spanish worker. He stepped outside and lifted his face toward the heavens as if saying a silent prayer of gratitude for his freedom. When he turned to grasp the door handle, light from a window caught in his eyes, and they flashed an odd brown-green.
Before the door had closed, she remembered where she had seen him: He was the white-robed bedouin who had led the attack against her at the farm house outside Toledo. Now she had a name for him, too: Abu Auda. She ached to open fire, but dared not. In any case, she had better uses for him.
She turned abruptly. Light had appeared on the other side of the basement again. The door above the stairs had been opened, and booted feet were pounding down into the cellar—the Guardia Civil.
She forced herself to count to ten, then she pulled open the outside cellar door, glanced quickly around, stepped out into a courtyard, and closed the door. Somewhere a dog barked, while out on the street a car cruised past. She dismissed the sounds of normalcy.
It was only a matter of time until the Guardia Civil found the door and tried it. She ran toward a gate. It was the courtyard’s only exit, and she hoped to find the terrorist beyond it. Just as she rushed through and into an alley, she heard the cellar door open behind her. She put on a burst of speed, disgusted with the clumsiness of the high heels. She tightened her ankles and raced determinedly onward to the street, waiting for the sounds of shouts and pounding feet behind her.
But they never came. She must have been sufficiently fast that they had not seen her. Breathing deeply, she looked around. There was no sign of Abu Auda. She slowed, hooked her MP5K up under her flared skirt again, and stepped out onto the street. For a moment, excitement coursed through her as she saw Abu Auda again. He was approaching the corner…but police stationed there stopped him. Aching to capture and interrogate him herself, she watched as one of the officers examined his papers. But the inspection was only cursory: After all, a black man with Spanish papers could not be an Arab terrorist.
Randi rushed through the street’s yellow pools of lamplight, but they were already letting him pass. The police turned to stare at her, their faces grim. She was next. She did not mind their questions, because she had good fake ID. What concerned her was the delay of having to deal with them.
As she watched Abu Auda turn the corner and disappear, she thought quickly. And began to swing her hips. She swayed toward them in her best imitation of the fiery Carmen, heels clicking on the street rhythmically.
As she approached, their expressions grew interested. She smiled widely, spun on her toes, and flipped the back of her skirt at them just enough for a flash of panties but not enough to show the weapon that dangled in front. They grinned and whistled in salute, and she passed by, holding her breath, heart thudding against her ribs, until one demanded her phone number. With snapping eyes, she gave him a phony one.
As the others pounded him on the back in congratulations, she sauntered off and around the same corner that Abu Auda had taken. And stopped, gazing all around, searching the lamplight and shadows of the street for him. But he was nowhere in sight. She had gone through the checkpoint faster than he had, but not fast enough. Disappointed, she moved on, looking everywhere, until finally she reached the next intersection and was forced to believe she had been too slow, or—more likely—he was already gone.
She hailed a taxi and told the driver to take her to the airport. Sitting back in the dim interior, she considered what she had learned: First, the black Crescent Shield leader from the Fulani tribe was named Abu Auda and he spoke Spanish and Arabic. Second, whatever the Crescent Shield planned to do were to be massive blows. Third—and most worrisome—was that it would happen soon. Very soon.
Chapter Nineteen
Paris, France Thursday, May 8
In the ultramodern Pompidou Hospital, Marty Zellerbach had been moved to a private room, where Legionnaires now guarded his door. Peter Howell pulled up a chair to Marty’s bed and said cheerfully, “Well, old friend, this is a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into. Can’t leave you on your own for long, can I? That’s right…Howell here. Peter Howell, who taught you all that you know about firearms. Oh, don’t try to deny it or claim weapons are vulgar and stupid. I know better.” Smiling to himself, he paused, remembering….
It had been night, black night, in a large state park outside Syracuse, New York. He and Marty were trapped in his RV at the edge of the woods, surrounded by hired thugs whose gunfire had shot out all the windows. He threw Marty an assault rifle. “When I say point, just pull the trigger, my boy. Imagine the weapon’s simply a joystick.”
He could see Marty’s expression of distaste as he examined the rifle and grumbled to himself, “There are some things I never wanted to learn.” He gave a pained sigh. “Naturally, I understand this primitive machine. Child’s play.”
Marty was as good as his word. When Peter told him to fire, Marty nodded and squeezed the trigger. The weapon bucked hard, and Marty fought to keep his balance and to keep his eyes open. His barrage shredded leaves and pine needles, ripped bark, sawed through branches, and created so much havoc that their attackers had been momentarily stopped. Which was just what Peter had needed to slip away and go for help.
Peter liked to think of himself as a peaceful man, but the truth was, he enjoyed action. To his way of thinking, he was just an old English bulldog, who relished getting his fangs into something worthwhile. He leaned over the bed’s railing and told Marty, “Took to bloody combat like a duck to water, you did.” It was far from true, but it was the sort of annoying statement that always got a rise out of Marty.
Peter waited, hoping Marty’s eyes would snap open and he would say something insulting. When nothing happened, he turned to look back at Dr. Dubost, who was standing at the end of the bed, entering information into Marty’s computer chart. Peter raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“It’s a small relapse,” the doctor explained in French. “They’re to be expected.”
“They’ll diminish with time?”
“Oui. All the signs are there. Now I’m off, monsieur, to see other patients. Please continue your conversation with Dr. Zellerbach, by all means. Your ebullience is charming, and it can’t but help.”
Peter scowled. “Ebullience” did not strike him as an accurate description, but then the French were known to be slightly off kilter in their understanding of a lot of things. He said a polite adieu and turned back to Marty. “Alone at last,” he muttered, suddenly feeling tired and very worried.
&nb
sp; He had dozed on the jet ride from Madrid, giving him more consecutive hours of sleep than he had on many assignments, but it was the worry itself that nagged him. He had been thinking about the Crescent Shield, that it appeared to be pan-Islamic. There was no shortage of countries in the Third World that hated the United States and, to a lesser extent, Britain, claiming great damage from their driving capitalism, that their brand of globalization ignored local customs and businesses and destroyed the environment, and that their cultural arrogance crushed sensible protest. He was reminded of that old dyed-in-the-wool Tory, Winston Churchill, who had explained blithely—and accurately—that His Majesty’s government did not base its practices and policies on the whims of locals. Whether the Crescent Shield were fundamentalists or not religious at all seemed less worrisome to him than the poverty that gave rise to so much terrorism.
The voice that brought him out of his uneasy reverie was not Marty’s: “You couldn’t wait for me?”
Automatically, Peter grabbed for his gun and turned. And relaxed. It was Randi Russell, marching into the private room, the credentials she had shown the guard at the door still in her hand.
“To where, may I ask,” Peter admonished, “did you disappear?”
Randi put away her ID, and Peter met her in the middle of the room. She related what she had seen and done since they separated in Madrid. The sexy flamenco outfit she described was gone, and now she was dressed in serviceable twill slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a tailored black jacket. Her blond hair was pulled back into a stubby ponytail, and her brown eyes were worried as she told him, “I got to Barajas about ten minutes after the two of you had flown out.”
“You had Jon’s wind up a bit. The poor sod was anxious about you.”
At that, she grinned. “Was he now?”
“Save it for Jon, my girl,” Peter declared. “For me, I never doubted. You say Abu Auda was leading them?” He looked grim. “Possibly some Nigerian warlord is helping the Crescent Shield. It gets murkier with every new detail.”
The Paris Option Page 21