The Paris Option - Страница 39

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 farmhouse 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.