The Fanatics of Al Asad Read online

"He told you where to find them?"

  "Not willingly."

  "Why didn't you bring him to the hospital, Nick? It wouldn't have been so messy — or taken you so long."

  Damn Hawk! He didn't need to be shown pictures to know that I'd had to torture the terrorist to get the information out of him.

  "Is this line clean?" I asked abruptly.

  "There's no one here listening to our conversation, if that's what you mean," Hawk answered. "Who is it that you don't trust?"

  "I don't know, yet," I replied. "Anyhow, that's why I didn't bring the man to the hospital. I can't prove it, but I have a damned strong feeling that Al Asad was expecting me!"

  "Say that again?" Hawk said in surprise.

  "They were waiting for me," I said bluntly. "That setup on the roof of the building they were in — it was a trap for me! I got to thinking about it later on. With two armed guards patrolling the roof, why would this Khatib character be lying back in hiding — except to set up an ambush? You don't do that unless you know someone's going to come along. The guards were only bait, sir; and it almost worked. Khatib came pretty damn close to knocking me off!"

  "Are you implying that someone here tipped them about you?"

  I was angry enough not to pull any punches. "I'm not implying it, sir; I'm making a flat statement! Someone told them to expect me!"

  "Who?"

  "I don't know."

  "You think there's a traitor among us?"

  "Figure it out for yourself, sir. How'd they know far enough in advance that the President and the Vice-President would be meeting the press in the Rose Garden at that exact time? They had to be able to open fire at the precise moment the President and the Vice-President were there talking to the reporters. They could have driven that route a hundred times or more, firing off mortar shells every damn time they came to the intersection — and still not have hit anybody because most of the time no one's there to be hit! Someone had to give them a signal!"

  There was a long pause. Then, Hawk said calmly, "Go on, Nick."

  "How'd they know exactly how to time their activities to be able to kidnap the Speaker of the House simultaneously? Who told them where he'd be? I'll buy one coincidence, sir. Not two! And definitely not three!"

  "Three?"

  "The trap on the roof. They sent a knife fighter after me. Not a gunman. They'd been told enough about me to know that, if possible, I can't help taking on a man with the same kind of weapon he uses to come after me. I know it's a bad habit, but I have it. I could have shot the son-of-a-bitch, you know. Wilhelmina packs enough of a wallop to blow a man apart with one bullet in the head. Sure, it would have alerted the others, but I wouldn't have been risking my life the way I did. That Khatib was good with a knife, sir! One of the best! They were told about me — and my habits!"

  "You have any ideas on the subject?"

  "Try the State Department," I said. "There are still a few, die-hard pro-Arabists tucked away in there. And there's still a hell of a lot of oil money around with a lot of influence in Washington that doesn't give a damn about what happens just as long as their profits keep rolling in. Arabian oil is more important to them than anything else — including our country!"

  "That's a serious accusation, Nick."

  "If you don't like the State Department, try the Pentagon, sir. Too many of those generals and admirals are not exactly gung-ho about supporting the Israelis. They may admire them for the kind of efficient army they have, but that's as far as they'll go. They'd rather train and support the other side."

  Grudgingly, Hawk conceded the point. "All right, Nick. How deep do you think the leaks go?"

  "I think that word of everything I do is reported to the terrorists, sir, starting from the time we got the information from that boy in the hospital."

  "Is that why you didn't take him there?"

  "Yessir! If I'd taken that Al Asad guard to the hospital, I might have gotten the information out of him with serum a lot sooner than it took, but I'm damn sure the other side would have learned about it in no time at all! And they'd be off and running!"

  "All right," said Hawk. "What do you want to do?"

  "Go after them," I said simply.

  "Alone?"

  "That's the only way to get him out alive!" I was angry. Not at Hawk, but at the whole situation. At the kind of organizational thinking that believes if one man is good, then two are better and ten is best. Committee thinking and group action. Chain of command, flow chart, divided responsibilities, reports in quadruplicate initialed as having been read and approved before being passed up the line! "If they send an army of cops and Federal agents, they'll get the man killed!"

  Without too much reluctance, Hawk agreed with me.

  "Well," he said, "I've already told you that you're in charge until their men get there. What can I do to help you right now?"

  "I need some special equipment just as soon as you can get it to me."

  As briefly as I could, I told Hawk what it was I wanted. When I was through talking, he said, "You'll have it. I'll need an hour for the AXE lab men to assemble it. Figure another hour to get it to Andrews Air Force Base and then to New York by military jet. Where do you want to meet the courier plane?"

  "LaGuardia."

  "Be there in an hour and a half. Let's say, seven o'clock. Well deliver."

  "I appreciate it," I said. Hawk knew I meant his support.

  He hesitated. Then he said, "I think it's a damn clever scheme, Nick."

  "If it works," I pointed out. "As you said, nothing counts but results." I hung up before I heard his reply.

  * * *

  Friday. 5:45 a.m. The Georgian Hotel.

  If Big Sal was unhappy the first time I awoke him a few hours earlier, he was livid with rage when I made my second phone call to him. He calmed down only when I told him how important it was to me, and that I'd leave him alone after this.

  "A van? Painted white with a sign on it? At this time of morning?"

  "You've got three hours," I told him. "That should give you enough time to pick one up and to have it painted."

  "You don't care it's goin' to be hot?" he ventured cautiously.

  "I don't care if you steal it from the Police Department! Just get it for me!"

  "Anything else?" he asked sarcastically.

  "Yes. I want a white coverall uniform. With the same kind of lettering stitched on it that you put on the van."

  Big Sal let out a roar.

  "For Christ's sake, Carter! Maybe I can get you a van, maybe not. It all depends on my boys. But the coveralls? The embroidered letters? I don't have no tailors workin' for me!"

  "Pick it up from a laundry, Sal. They start early in the morning. One of the girls will do the sewing."

  "That's all you want, huh? You sure, now?"

  "For the time being," I said. "Have the van and the uniform on the 61st Street side of the Regency in three hours. Near the garage entrance."

  Big Sal let loose a few swear words in Italian, so I reminded him that I spoke the language. He hung up irritably.

  * * *

  Friday. 66:02 a.m. The Georgian Hotel.

  Duane was even harder to get on the telephone at that hour than Big Sal, I let the phone ring until I finally heard his sleepy voice in my ear.

  "Hey, man," he said, not too happily, when he identified my voice, "how come you gettin' this cat out of his nice warm bed this time a' day?"

  "I need your help, Duane."

  "Oh, wow, man! Like I almost had Wesley try to cut me bad 'cause I turned you onto him. What're you tryin' to do to me?"

  "Nothing like that, Duane. This one should be easy."

  I told him about the apartment house in the mid-eighties. "I need a floor plan of that building, Duane. I need to know the layout of apartment twelve-H. You have any customers in that building?"

  Duane came wide awake. Warily, he said, "Man says somethin' to you just one time — I got me a big mouth an' you got a long memory! Gonna keep it shut f
rom now on. Yeah, I got a client lives in that buildin'. How come you askin' that?"

  "I want to know where the service entrances are located. Can I get in through the garage entrance? Where are the service elevators? Most of all, I have to know the layout of the apartment. I need your help, Duane."

  "You askin' me to take you there?"

  "That's right."

  "Sheet, man," he muttered, "now I know I gonna keep my mouth shut from now on!"

  "You know the layout of the H-line apartments?" I asked.

  "Hell, you know I know the layout," Duane answered, still with a touch of surliness in his voice. "Them H-line apartments all the same. Mah man lives in one of them. Ten-H. Hows about I just draw you some pictures?"

  "I'll pick you up around eight o'clock," I said, ignoring his request and hanging up.

  I called Big Sal back. Without giving him a chance to explode, I said, "Sal, make that two uniforms," and pushed down on the disconnect bar of the phone, cutting off his angry protests.

  * * *

  Friday. 7:06 a.m. LaGuardia Airport.

  Tamar drove the unmarked police car that Captain Martinson had left for us. During the twenty-minute drive to LaGuardia I forced myself to relax. I had had less than four hours sleep in the last two and a half days. My fingertips were still raw from the hand over hand climb along the bridge escarpment that ran from one building to the next. My shoulders and arms were knotted tight with the dull ache of overstrained muscles, and all down the length of my back, the knife wound burned in spite of the local anesthetic the doctor had applied before he stitched it up and taped on a dressing.

  I wasn't just tired. I was burned out. Yet, I still had to face almost five more hours of tension and danger. After that, it wouldn't matter. The President would either be alive and safe — or he'd have been executed by the Al Asad terrorists.

  Twelve o'clock. That was the deadline hour. Whatever I had to do had to be done by that time — or it wouldn't matter at all.

  Slumping down in the front seat of the car beside Tamar, I forced my mind into an Alpha-state to clear it of the myriad of problems chasing themselves around in my brain. And then, with my mind cleared, I sank into a brief, but intensely restful sleep induced by auto-hypnosis.

  When we pulled up in front of the terminal building, I left Tamar in the sedan while I headed for a bank of telephones.

  I called Hawk again.

  "Where are you?" was his first question.

  "LaGuardia. Is the equipment on its way?"

  "It should be there by now. The courier jet took off more than half an hour ago. Have you checked the Butler Aviation ramp?"

  "Not yet. I'm calling to give you the address I'm headed for. But, before I do, I'd like your assurance that you won't pass it along to the FBI or National Security until I've had a crack at them."

  "You think something might happen to you?"

  "It's a possibility," I admitted.

  "What are the chances of that happening?" Hawk asked dispassionately.

  "Damned good," I said. "The odds are all in their favor. There are at least eight of them — maybe more-holed up there. They've been alerted to me. They know that I'm right on their heels. And they've had time to set up a defense against me."

  I didn't add that I was completely exhausted, both physically and mentally. Or that I was wounded. I didn't want Hawk to pull me off the assignment. He was the only one with authority to do so. Not only did he have the authority, but he also had the knowledge of how I planned to get into the terrorists' stronghold. He could easily substitute another AXE agent to carry out my plan.

  Almost anxiously, I waited for him to make up his mind.

  "How tired are you, Nick?" he asked quietly.

  Damn Hawk! It was as if he had a sixth sense that could read my mind.

  "I've been more tired than this, sir," I said, avoiding a direct answer.

  "Hurt?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "How badly?"

  He was forcing me to make an objective evaluation of myself. I didn't want to do that. I knew that if I did, in all honesty I would have to ask for a replacement.

  "I've been hurt worse before, sir." Again, I avoided answering his question.

  He threw the big one at me.

  "Do you want a replacement?"

  At least he trusted my judgment enough to let me make the decision.

  "No, sir," I said, in complete honesty.

  Hawk had phrased the question so that I could give him that answer. He could have asked me if I thought another AXE agent could do the job more efficiently. In all honesty, at this point, I'd have had to answer yes. Mentally, I went through a list of at least four other AXE agents, all of whom were good enough to be trusted with the assignment now that I'd set it up. None of them needed sleep as desperately as I did. None of them were tired and wounded.

  My answer to Hawk was truthful. I didn't want a replacement!

  I said again, "No, sir, I don't want a replacement. I think I can do the job."

  "That's good enough for me," Hawk said.

  We dropped the subject. I gave him the location and apartment number of the new Al Asad hideout. If Hawk didn't hear from me by eleven o'clock, federal agents would be swarming all over the building. Not that it would do the kidnap victim any good. No frontal assault could rescue him alive. All that would happen is that the terrorists wouldn't escape. They were fanatical enough to kill him and take their chances with their own fives.

  Our single and only objective was to save the life of the new President of the United States — the man who'd been Speaker of the House until two days ago.

  When we finished talking, Hawk said only one word: "Luck."

  We both knew that I'd need it. Good as my scheme was, it still boiled down to one man invading a stronghold defended by armed and desperate men who would shoot to kill on the slightest suspicion. And right now, after my last attempt, they were trigger-happy!

  Soberly, I hung up the telephone and went back to the sedan.

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday. 7:21 a.m. LaGuardia Airport.

  The pilot of the military jet was an AXE agent. Hawk had taken no chances that the other services would try to take over my assignment. Actions speak a hell of a lot louder than words do. This was his reassurance that he'd keep his promise to me until the last possible minute.

  I didn't know the pilot's name, but I'd met him in Hawk's office a few times when Hawk had me brief the man for a mission.

  No identification was necessary, and he made no attempt to introduce himself. Shoving the heavy, black fabric suitcase at me, he said, "It's all in there. Everything you asked for." Then, grinning, he commented, "It's a hell of an idea. Frankly, I'd never have thought of it myself."

  I made no answer. I was too busy unzipping the fid of the suitcase to check its contents. It seemed to be all there, but whether it was in working condition I wouldn't know until the time came to use it. I'd have to trust implicitly in the AXE lab men, because if it didn't work — it meant my life!

  Zipping up the lid, I hefted the suitcase, said "Thanks," and brought the bag back to the waiting sedan. Tamar had remained inside, and had kept the motor running. I tossed the suitcase onto the back seat. As I climbed in beside her, she spun the car around and headed for the West Side.

  * * *

  Friday. 7:43 a.m. Manhattan.

  Duane was waiting inside the vestibule, looking out the glass door panels of the old brownstone building where he lived. Tamar pulled the car in toward the curb. I pushed the door open. Duane recognized me and came trotting down the long flight of outside steps. The two blacks and the Puerto Ricans weren't in sight. Maybe it was too early in the morning for them. Duane bent his lanky body, climbing into the back seat beside the fabric suitcase. He didn't look especially happy to see me. He made no pretense of trying to smile.

  * * *

  Friday. 8:02 a.m. 61st Street at Park Avenue.

  We turned off Park Avenue onto 61st St
reet and came to a stop just in front of the white van, double parked beside the garage entrance to the Georgian Hotel. Tamar blew the horn twice. I waved my arm out the open window for the van to follow us.

  Tamar made another right turn onto Madison Avenue, the van right behind us. We went on up Madison Avenue, past 72nd Street, past the Whitney Museum on 75th Street and P. S.6 at 82nd Street. A few blocks further on, I directed Tamar to make another right turn. We came to a stop on a quiet street.

  I climbed out of the sedan and walked back to the van which had come to a stop directly behind us. Big Sal opened the door and got out, blinking in the sunlight.

  I looked the van over. It was a standard Econoline van, exactly like tens of thousands of others like it. The only difference was the paint job. This one was painted white, and on the sides and along the back were the letters that spelled out EXTERMINATING SERVICE.

  There was even a company name and address, which was more than I'd asked for.

  It was a perfect job. Much better than I'd hoped for. I turned to tell that to Big Sal. He was holding out two pair of white coveralls. The same lettering — EXTERMINATING SERVICE-was stitched on the back of each coverall, and over each breast pocket was a first name, embroidered in script with red thread.

  "You didn't have time to paint that lettering," I commented.

  "I didn't steal it, either," said Big Sal. Like Duane, he wasn't in a happy mood this morning. His voice was unfriendly and sour. "A couple of my boys went over to the place and talked nicely to the manager." Big Sal smiled at me without humor. I could see why most people didn't like him to smile at them. It would scare the hell out of the average guy. "He said there wasn't no rush about bringin' it back. He even threw in the coveralls for free."

  "Your boys are pretty good talkers," I said sarcastically.

  Big Sal stared right back at me. "Naw, they don't talk much, but they get the idea across real fast, you know what I mean?" back. Unstrapping the piece of equipment, he handed it to me. I slung the heavy, cylindrical container over my shoulder by its canvas strap.

  Duane came out onto the sidewalk. He stood beside me, shaking his head.