The Fanatics of Al Asad Read online

  Shakily, he got to his feet. He pushed his chair violently away from the table.

  "Wait!"

  Hamal stopped.

  "Pay the bill," I commanded.

  Hamal was too shaken to think clearly. He pulled his wallet from his hip pocket and started to reach into it. Then he stopped. His eyes glared at me furiously. If he had had a knife he would have tried to plunge it into me. Instead, he spat on the floor in helpless rage and ran out of the restaurant.

  Shelley was rubbing her cheek where Hamal had slapped her.

  "What the hell's going on? That's a three hundred dollar date you just blew for me!"

  I pulled out my own wallet, counting out five, crackling, crisp new one-hundred dollar bills. Shelley's eyes were on the money. I folded the bills in half, pushing them across the table to her.

  "That take care of it?"

  I guess so.

  I added another fifty.

  "That's to take care of the bill."

  Shelley was left sitting by herself as the waiter came up with the first of our dinner orders. As I left the restaurant, she was shaking her head in complete incomprehension at what had happened.

  Chapter Seven

  Friday. 12:28 a.m. East 61st Street.

  There's a little coffee shop that's open all night on the corner of 61st Street and First Avenue. Just as you come in the door, there's a public telephone. It was from there that Tamar had called me at the hotel where I'd gone after Hakemi had run out of the restaurant in such haste. The Georgian is only four blocks away at the other end of 61st Street at Park Avenue, so it took me less than ten minutes to get to her. Tamar was sitting in the second booth on the right, dawdling over a cup of coffee.

  I slid into the booth across from her, scowling angrily.

  "What took you so long?" I demanded impatiently. "It's been more than an hour and a half since you left the restaurant. Did you follow Hakemi?"

  Tamar nodded. "Yes. He was really upset when he left. He walked for three or four blocks before he caught a cab. I was lucky. I got one right behind him. Hakemi had the driver take him all around town. He wasn't hard to follow. The driver I had was better than his."

  "Did he catch on that you were tailing him?"

  "I don't think so. We went up to Yorkville and then across Central Park to the West Side, and then back down and across the 65th Street transverse to Second Avenue. Hakemi dropped off the cab at 58th Street. He walked the rest of the way."

  "Where is he now?"

  "With the others, I think. He walked back up Second Avenue to 60th, cut over to First Avenue and then down to 56th. There's a three story building a couple of doors from the corner. On the ground floor is a store, and some kind of offices are on the second floor. The third floor is a photographer's studio. It takes up the entire floor. That's where they are." She paused and added, "I think the place is pretty well guarded."

  "What did you see?"

  Tamar shrugged. "There were two men in a car near the front of the building. They were just sitting there and smoking. I think they're lookouts."

  Her report was good enough for me. Tamar was a trained Shin Beth agent. "I want you to go back to the hotel and wait for me there," I said. "You've done your job."

  She shook her head, her black hair flipping easily and gracefully across her face. "No. I'm seeing it through with you."

  I started to object. Tamar cut me off. "You'll need me," she said.

  I thought about it for a moment. It would have been easy to call Taylor at FBI headquarters. Within twenty minutes, the place would be surrounded by FBI agents and New York City police — and that would be like signing a death warrant for the Speaker of the House. The men of Al Asad would execute him at the first indication that they were in a trap with no hope of escape. They were fanatics prepared to die so long as they could carry out their mission.

  No, the only way to save him was a quick hit-and-run raid by one man who could get to him before they could cut his throat. And I knew that that one man would have to be me.

  But Tamar was right. I could use help. I didn't know how many of them there were in that loft. I wouldn't know when one of them might come popping up at me out of nowhere. I could use a trained agent to protect my rear — or at least to give me some kind of warning that unexpected danger was threatening me. Even though I hated to jeopardize her life, I knew — and, damn it! so did she — that she was necessary to me right then.

  Tamar smiled assuringly at me.

  "I'm armed," she said. "I have a gun with me."

  "Have you ever used it?"

  "You mean, have I ever killed with it?"

  That's exactly what I meant. I waited for her answer.

  There are a lot of people who know how to fire a handgun. Many of them are fine shots. They'll hit the bull's-eye nine times out of ten when they're shooting at a paper target. But there's something about aiming a gun in cold blood at a man's head and pulling the trigger with the full conscious realization that you mean to kill him, and that the bullet that hits him will be ripping through skin and shattering bone into fragmented, splintered shards and that a thick gout of bright red blood will come erupting out of the hole you've just punched into him.

  Most people can't do it.

  There's only one way to find out if you're cold-blooded enough to kill without qualms of hesitation. And that's to do it. To kill.

  Tamar said, "Yes."

  It was answer enough.

  * * *

  Friday. 12:45 a.m. East 56th Street.

  There was no moon. The sky was overcast with a heavy, solid layer of cloud. The night was as dark as any Manhattan night can get. Even the fights on the street cast only narrow pools of illumination around their bases, and the darkness that stretched from one to the next was ominously threatening. Both sides of the street were lined with parked cars. Two men were in the sedan directly in front of the building that Tamar had described to me. Cigarette smoke drifted out of a partially open side window.

  We walked by, arm in arm, on the opposite side of the street. I left Tamar at the end of the block and circled three-quarters of the way around the back to the First Avenue corner. I lounged in front of the bar for a few moments, taking time out to figure how I'd get onto the roof of the building that housed the photographer's loft.

  I knew I couldn't just walk in the front door of the building. I also knew I couldn't go in the back door, either. The loft was on the top floor. The only logical access was the roof, and getting onto the roof meant that I would first have to get onto the roof of an adjoining building to cross over.

  Most of these old New York blocks on the East Side between Lexington and York Avenues, especially the converted tenement buildings between Second and First Avenues, are usually built in a square. You'd see it best from a helicopter or low-flying small plane going over the city. The tenement entrances are on the numbered streets, the stores front on the avenues and the backs of the buildings face a rectangle that's divided by fences into back yards.

  Getting into the enclosed rear area is usually the hardest part. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you can find a service alley or lane. If not, then you have to get in through one of the buildings themselves.

  I was lucky. I found a service alleyway behind the bar on the corner. It saved me a lot of time, because the alleyway ran the full width of the store and led into the rear area of the buildings on that block.

  At the end of the alley, I came to a stop. Standing in the dark, in the deeper, blacker shadows of packing crates piled randomly one on another, I examined the layout carefully. Lights were on in some of the windows on all sides of the backyard area. Most of them were dark that late at night. The building walls were zigzagged with the black framework of metal fire escapes. I could have taken any one of them to get to the roof-tops of the buildings I wanted. I didn't. I was sure that if Al Asad had lookouts on the street, they would also have guards posted on the rooftop of the building they were in. Anyone climbing a fire escape at a
lmost one o'clock in the morning would be certain to attract their attention. And that's what I had to avoid at all costs.

  Before I moved out of the protective blackness of the alley, I checked my equipment. Hugo slid easily in and out of the chamois sheath that held the deadly stiletto strapped to my forearm. Pierre, that small, innocuous gas bomb, was tucked away in my groin. I took Wilhelmina out of the shoulder holster and snapped out the clip of the 9 mm Luger. The action was smooth and slick; the solidness of the gun in my hand felt good to me. I put the clip back into the butt, hearing the faint snik-tik of the snap-lock catching the metal of the magazine.

  From the breast pocket of my jacket, I took out a pencil flashlight. It's just an ordinary, slim tube with two AA batteries that you can buy in almost any drugstore or five and dime, but I had painted the tiny bulb with a red nail polish so that not even a faint gleam of white light came through its tip. It's amazing how much light it gives off, once your eyes get accustomed to the darkness. Best of all, it doesn't destroy your night vision. Nor does it attract attention from anyone who isn't looking directly at the area you're shining it on.

  Using the light, I checked to see that there were no obstacles that would trip me up as I made my way to the first cellar door. I shone the light over it.

  Someone had installed a heavy, sheet metal plate over the door and had put in flush locks. I could have picked it open but it would have been taking too much of a chance. If they'd gone to the trouble of putting in a door like that, chances were damned good that they'd also installed an electronic alarm system. I didn't want to waste the time necessary to find and disconnect the alarms.

  Keeping close to the walls, I moved on to the second building, crossing the broken fence that separated the two properties. The beam of the flashlight splayed over the doorframe — old, wooden, warped and not too securely bolted.

  I knew that getting in would be no problem, but with a door like that, the hinges would be rusted and it would squeal like hell if I pushed it open. Sound carries at night, especially the higher frequencies. The screech of metal from those rusted hinges would be guaranteed to attract the attention of the guards on the roof of the next building.

  Once again, I reached into my pocket. This time the implement I took out was a slender, metal, plunger-type syringe. Watchmakers and camera repairmen use them. It holds just three or four milliliters of fine oil. The tip of the needle is small enough to probe into all but the tiniest of openings. The one I carry doesn't hold oil. It's a special liquid compounded for me by the AXE technical group. I guess you could call it either a liquid plastique or a very stable form of nitroglycerine. Take your choice. Whatever you call it, it's a highly concentrated, extremely potent explosive. It doesn't take much to do the job.

  Carefully, in the dim red glow of the pencil flashlight, I inserted the tip of the syringe into the gaps of the worn hinge pins that held the door to its frame. Three small squirts of liquid into each hinge was enough. I put away the container and took out an ordinary matchbook. Ironically, this one was from the restaurant where I'd met Hakemi earlier.

  I tore off four paper matches. I inserted three of them into the hinges by the torn ends. I tested them. They'd stay. Although I knew it couldn't be seen by anyone overhead, I still shielded the flare of the flame with my cupped hands as I lit the fourth match and touched it in turn to each of the phosphorus heads of the other three matches.

  I spun away from the doorway and slammed my back flat against the side of the building. The three, separate, muffled crumps sounded off in about six seconds as the match heads burnt down to their bases and touched off the liquid explosive. The sound wasn't loud nor was it sharp. Even from fifty feet away you couldn't have told from what direction it came from, but as I moved back to the entrance, I knew that the door would be askew, hanging on only by the bolt catch.

  Carefully, I moved the door just far enough to slither through in a twisting motion.

  The basement was grimy and dirty, filled with trash of every kind. I made my way around old barrels, a broken refrigerator and three rusted, old cast iron radiators that had been there for so long they were covered with layers of dust.

  At the far end of the basement, there was another door. This one was partially open. It lead me to the corridor of the ground floor. There was no one there. I turned the corner and started up the stairs, placing my feet on each step as close to the wall as possible to avoid any noise. I met no one on the way up.

  There was a last flight of stairs that led to the roof door. Getting out onto the roof would be easy because the door was locked from the inside to keep out would-be prowlers. I didn't open it. Not just yet.

  The building I wanted to get to was next door. I felt sure that guards would be on the roof and that the moment I opened the door the sudden spill of light would be like a beacon at sea on a pitch-black night. It would be certain to attract their attention.

  I went back down the flight of stairs to the landing below. Wrapping my handkerchief around my fingers, I reached up and unscrewed the naked bulb from its socket. The hallway went dark. I went up to the roof landing again. The bulb in the ceiling there was just as easy to unscrew.

  Now, in pitch darkness, I eased open the door inch by inch, hating to take up precious moments to do it, but knowing that in this case haste could mean more than waste. It could mean my death.

  When the door was ajar enough for me to move out, I lay down and squirmed my body out onto the rooftop. Even when it's too dark to make out objects, movement will attract attention. If I were spotted by a guard, he'd open fire. By training, a man will shoot at your midsection or torso first, since it's the largest part of your body and the easier to hit. If anything went wrong and there was shooting, I wanted the fire to go over my head.

  There was no sound of alarm. I came out onto the roof in an infantryman's crawl, made it halfway across to a large, cylindrical, galvanized-iron ventilator that jutted up from the tarred roof surface and hunkered down on my haunches for a long minute. Slowly, blending in with its silhouette, I came fully erect.

  Now I could see onto the roof of the building next door — and what I saw didn't make me too happy. There was not just one, but two guards walking the roof.

  Each of them was armed with an automatic rifle.

  * * *

  Friday. 1:04 a.m. East 56th Street

  Wilhelmina would do me no good. Not against automatic rifles. Pierre needed a confined space to contain his lethal vapor. Only Hugo's deadly, sharp and silent steel could be of help to me now, but even then I first had to get close enough for the stiletto to be effective. Close meant thirty feet for throwing; body reach for stabbing.

  But first I had to get onto the roof next door without being seen by either of the two watchful Palestinian terrorist guards.

  There was no way for me to make a direct approach. A frontal attack would be sheer suicide. I needed to catch them off-guard.

  As carefully as I could in the darkness, I examined the layout of the roofs. Both were flat-topped and were approximately on the same level. A brick ledge ran along the front and back of each roof. The two roofs were separated by a waist-high, concrete block partition. If I tried to go over that, I'd be spotted immediately.

  I looked at the ledges again. They ran in an even line along the edges of both buildings.

  Regretfully, I came to the conclusion that, risky as it was, I had no choice. I lay down prone again, squirming my way across the black tar of the roof, moving as slowly as I could, keeping close to the concrete block partition to hide my movements. It took a full five minutes to get to the far corner of the rooftop.

  Slowly, I raised my torso only to the height of the brick coping and rolled over onto it. I twisted my body over the edge of the roof, and — hanging on only by my hands — I let my body hang free on the far side of the wall. Below me was a sheer, three story drop onto the broken concrete paving of the backyard. If I slipped, it would be the end of me.

  Moving one ha
nd and then the other, first my right and then my left, I inched my way along the edge of the roof toward the building next door. In what seemed to be seconds, the strain on my arms and wrists became acutely unbearable. The rough texture of the bricks began to rub at the skin of my hands. There was more than thirty feet of roof to cover, and there was no way in which I could do it faster or easier — not unless I wanted to be seen by the guards. I tried to close my mind to the growing pain in my hands and the aching muscles of my forearms that had begun to scream out their protest at being misused so painfully.

  I shut off my mind to the soreness, the pain and the time it was taking. Again and again, almost like a robot, I moved each hand sideways in spastic grasps, hanging on by only one arm for that brief second it took to release the grip of one hand, move it six inches to the side and grab the brick coping again.

  I didn't dare rest. I knew that if I paused even for a moment, I could never bring myself to start again.

  My torso and legs dangled in space, bumping occasionally against the side of the building, threatening to tear loose the precarious grip I had on the building edge.

  Time slowed to a crawl and then slowed even more, finally coming to a complete rest — but my hands kept moving. Release and grab. Release and grab. Again and again. The world was nothing but sheer, torturous pain — and still my hands kept moving as if they had an independent stubborn will of their own. My grip became slippery. I knew it wasn't just the perspiration of my palms. It was too sticky a feeling for that. The skin of my fingers and palms had finally been worn raw enough for blood to ooze out.