The Fanatics of Al Asad Page 14

  Sharif crashed to the floor.

  Scimitar still in hand, I twisted toward him, lashing out in a desperate thrust to strike him anywhere that I could. There was a reddish film over my vision. Blindly, I struck in a lunge as hard as I could. I felt the blade strike, and suddenly there was a violent, furious thrashing on the end of my sword.

  Boiling away, I let go of the blade, grasping sightlessly for the automatic rifle, finding it, rolling away with the rifle in my hands, my thumb seeking the lever, flicking it to "auto" fire, and then — on my knees, the rifle aimed in Sallal's direction, I waited.

  There was no sound in the room except for the deep, rasping inhalations of my own tortured lungs and the throbbing pound of my pulse beating frantically in my head.

  I kept waiting for him to move, to make a sound. There was nothing.

  Slowly, the red haze cleared from my eyes.

  Sharif al Sallal lay on the floor, his arms thrown wide, the sword of Allah still clutched in his right fist.

  But the scimitar he had given me was now in him. By the sheerest fluke, its point had gone straight into his mouth, opened wide in a dervish chant of death at the very moment I struck!

  The blade had gone out the back of his neck, severing his spinal cord, killing him instantly. He lay inert, his head twisted to one side, the sword extending from his mouth, his lips around the steel in an obscene kiss of death.

  With the automatic rifle still in my hands, I made my way down the corridor to the bedroom where the President lay captive.

  I came to the door and kicked it open, the rifle held at the ready, my finger curled around the trigger, ready to blast anyone who stood in my way.

  In the fraction of a second as the door crashed wide open, the thought flung itself into my mind that perhaps I was already too late. I had been unconscious for God knows how long. Certainly long enough for Sallal to have had him killed.

  And then the door was open to its full width. I could see into the room. There was only one person in it.

  The figure that lay on the bed was bound hand and foot. His mouth had been stuffed with a gag. His head was propped up by a pillow. The hair was silver, the eyes blue and penetrating and unafraid.

  We looked at each other for a long minute. I put the rifle down and went back into the living room. Tiredly, I bent and pried the sword of Allah out of Sharif al Sallal's hand.

  When I cut the ropes away, I was as careful as I could be.

  After all, the man was the President — even if he hadn't yet been sworn in.

  * * *

  Friday. 12:00 noon. The Ambassador Hotel. Park Avenue.

  The magistrate occupied a bench in one of the lowliest of the New York court systems. He was ill at ease as he read the prescribed words of the Oath of Office. Magistrates usually never get a chance to swear in a President of the United States.

  On the other hand, the voice of the man who recited the oath after him was strong and clear.

  "…to protect and defend the Constitution of these United States of America. So help me God!"

  Hawk caught my eye. His head nodded slowly in a gesture of complete approval. It was as much as he'd ever say about what I'd accomplished.

  But it was enough to make me feel pretty damn good!

  Chapter Thirteen

  "We'll never find out who it was who helped them," Hawk said to me. We were back in the AXE offices in Dupont Circle in Washington. "You know that, don't you."

  "I know it, sir," I answered. "It's a damn shame, though."

  Hawk fit up one of his cheap cigars. The strong aroma filled the office. He ignored my wrinkled nose. He blew out the match and puffed a cloud of smoke at me.

  "It's only in stories that all the loose ends get tied up neatly," he said. "Never in real life."

  "Yes, sir," I said and waited.

  Hawk looked quizzically at me.

  "I suppose you're waiting to find out how much time I'll let you have in which to rest up?" he asked.

  "That's the idea, sir," I said. "I was hoping for at least a month."

  "Will you settle for three weeks?"

  I pretended to think about it. Three weeks was the most I'd expected from him. But then, you always ask for more than you expect to get.

  "Three weeks will be fine."

  Hawk got to his feet.

  "I've taken the liberty of sending airline tickets to your suite at the hotel," Hawk said as he walked me to the door.

  I stopped.

  "You care to tell me where you're sending me?" I asked.

  "You'll find out when you get back to the hotel," said Hawk cryptically.

  There was an iced bottle of Dom Perignon champagne sitting on a table in the living room. A single lamp provided the only illumination.

  Tamar came out of the bedroom as I closed the foyer door behind me. She was wearing a long, black, filmy pegnoir. Her hair fell in a smooth sweep on each side of her face. As she stepped in front of the lamp to come to me, her body was outlined so that I could see she wore nothing beneath the pegnoir.

  She came up to me, putting both arms around my neck.

  I cocked my head and looked at her.

  "Hawk said…" I began. She put a finger to my lips.

  "I have the tickets, darling," she said. "I also have three weeks leave — a gift to us from our Ambassador."

  She kissed me gently.

  As she took her lips away, I asked, "Where are we going?"

  Tamar smiled a secret smile that fit up her eyes mischievously.

  "Not until we're ready to board the plane," she said, like a little girl with a secret. "You'll never know until then."

  She leaned back, her arms still around my neck, gazing intently and provocatively into my eyes. The tip of her tongue came out and wet her lips moistly.

  Her voice dropped to a husky whisper as she said, "In the meantime, since the plane doesn't leave until tomorrow afternoon, could you take me as far as the bedroom, right now?"