The Fanatics of Al Asad Page 8

  Release and grab. Release and grab. Over and over again, time without end. Inch by inch. Grasp by grasp. The world was a black void in which I dangled precariously with only the burning sensation in my palms to remind me of what I was doing, of what I had to keep on doing no matter how intense the punishment.

  And then — long after I had ceased to think consciously, long after my back muscles and shoulder muscles and arm muscles had blended into one solid agony of intense, sharp achingness, I reached out my hand for one more grip only to find nothing. Frantically, I clawed at the brick of the coping corner with my right hand, caught my grip and drew a long breath of relief.

  I had reached the far corner of the building I wanted to get to.

  And still there was one more physical effort I had to make. Slowly, ignoring each new protest of my muscles, I drew my chest and torso up over the coping. For a moment, I balanced there, then I rolled my legs onto the edge of the roof and lay without moving, the sudden ending of the strain coming almost too fast. I drew another deep breath, wondering if I had been spotted as I came onto the roof.

  Turning my head, I looked for the guards. They were still where they'd been when I began my dangerous journey. They still were unaware of my presence.

  I moved down off the edge to the flat of the roof corner, protected now by the darkness and by the half a dozen projections rising from the roof in odd positions that lay between us.

  Easing out my handkerchief, I wiped the palms of my hands dry. Now, the salt of my perspiration began to sting painfully where I'd rubbed the skin of my hands raw. I flexed my fingers again and again, driving the ache out of them. I massaged the muscles of each arm and shoulder in turn, bringing back a surging, needle-pricking flow of blood. Alternately, I stretched and relaxed my back muscles.

  For a full ten minutes I lay there, knowing I could not afford the luxury of impatience, breathing deeply, inhaling as much air as I could into my lungs, knowing that in the next few moments — depending upon how fast and how efficiently I could move — I would either live or die.

  I didn't dwell too long on the thought. I had other things to think about. Like how I was going to take out the guards, one at a time.

  Christ! If only I could use Wilhelmina, it would be so easy! Two shots would do it!

  But without a silencer on the end of the pistol, those two shots would alert the rest of the Al Asad terrorists in the loft directly below us, and that would blow my mission!

  It wasn't enough for me to kill the guards.

  It wouldn't be enough for me to get down into the loft.

  I had to do the whole job silently and fast. Fast enough to get to the Speaker of the House before one of the fanatics who'd kidnapped him had a chance to slit his throat!

  Chapter Eight

  Friday. 1:35 a.m. Rooftop on East 56th Street.

  The guards were well-trained. They walked the roof in random patterns, always so that one protected the other's back. They stayed away from the edge. They kept in the cleared area, away from the ventilators and the elevator shaft machinery shed behind which I was hiding. There seemed to be no way that I could get at them simultaneously.

  But there had to be a way. Otherwise, all I had done was to trap myself.

  I looked at my wristwatch. The damn second hand looked like it was whipping around the dial at five times its normal speed. Determinedly, I pushed all thoughts of time out of my head, concentrating on finding some way to eliminate both guards at the same time.

  My mind told me that there had to be a way that would be fast enough to immobilize both of them in the same instant; fast enough to keep them from giving out a warning shout or firing a shot. All I had to do was to discover it.

  I lay crouched in the dark shadows of the corner of the roof, concealed by the ventilator and the small cluster of pipes and the shed-like structure that housed the lift machinery of the freight elevator, while a hundred ideas flashed through my mind. One at a time, I rejected each of them. Idly, I glanced at the pattern of telephone wires strung to each building from poles in the center of the backyard area. The heavier black lines were the thicker wires of the power lines feeding each of the buildings.

  At first, they meant nothing to me, but my eyes kept coming back to them again and again. I don't know how long it took before the idea finally came to me. Not all at once, just a bit at a time. I worked it out once, and then I reviewed it in detail, planning it step by careful step because if it weren't done in the right order and in the right way, I'd kill myself instead of the two Al Asad terrorist guards.

  I checked out the idea until I was satisfied with it. Still without moving, I surveyed the roof area one more time, but now I was searching for specific items. I saw the first. And then I made out the second. Both were within easy reach of me.

  There was one more thing to look for. If I found it, my scheme stood a damn good chance of working.

  I found it.

  All three were within ten feet of where I lay within easy crawling distance so that I wouldn't have to expose myself to the guards.

  The first was the wire supporting the metal T-frame of what once had been one end of a clothes line frame. I inched my way over to the base of the frame. Two separate wires were twisted around eyebolts fastened to the roof and then looped up to the back of the frame and down again to a second set of eyebolts. Carefully, I began to untwist them, ignoring the sting in my raw fingertips as I bent each wire straight and pushed it free of the eyebolts. Both fines came loose in my hands. I pulled them from the T-frame, crawled over a foot or so and untwisted the other end of the wires from the eye-bolts they were fastened to.

  I now had two lengths of bare, braided wire, each about twenty feet long, that I coiled in separate, loose loops.

  The second thing was an old television antenna — bent, rusted and long out of commission, it would still work perfectly for my purposes.

  I carry a flat screwdriver head in my keycase. It's come in handy on more than one occasion in the past. Taking whatever time was necessary, I loosened the clamp screws that held the rod of the antenna to the metal bands encircling the chimney. Gently, slowly, I lowered it to the roof.

  On my back, leaning against the wall, I fastened one end of a wire to the antenna.

  I inched myself over to the power line terminal block. I didn't touch it. Two hundred and twenty volts is something you don't play with — you treat it with a lot of respect or it will kill you. The dim red glow from my miniature flashlight gave me more than enough light to examine it carefully, tracing the wires without the light being seen by either of the guards.

  The power for the building came in from a pole in the central court of the backyard area to the terminal block I was looking at. From there, one line snaked back over the roof edge. A second line went up about five feet along a wooden standard and looped over to the adjacent building to provide power for that building. It was the second line I needed. I didn't want to blow the fuses in the building I was on.

  The third item was an ordinary water tap. At one time or another, someone had extended the cold water line from inside the building through the roof, either to provide a water supply to hose down the rooftop or to water a roof garden or for some other purpose. It didn't really matter why they'd done it. The fact that it was there made my whole plan operable.

  Now came the delicate part of what I had to do. Carefully keeping the coils of wire apart, I took one end of one wire and fastened it to the iron water pipe, wrapping it around and around the pipe to be sure I had a good contact. Crawling back to the terminal block, I tied the other end of the wire into the middle wire of the three-wire system. The middle wire in a three-wire, 220 volt system is the common-ground line. As long as I avoided contact with either of the other two wires, the circuit wouldn't be complete and I would be as safe as if I were handling ordinary baling wire.

  When I completed that chore, I took the second braided wire loop and fastened one end of it to the antenna. I put the antenna on
top of the elevator machinery shed. Now, with the utmost care, I slithered back to the terminal block, paying out the wire slowly as I crawled along the roof, keeping the wire taut so it ran in a straight line from shed to terminal block without sagging.

  I tied-in the end of that wire to both of the hot lines. I wanted the full 220 volt current. I estimated the amperage for the building at somewhere between three hundred to four hundred amps because of the heavy load of the freight elevator. That kind of amperage would be more than enough to do the job. It's the amperage that kills, not the voltage.

  Now the antenna became an extension of the hot 220-volt line; dangerous, but safe enough to handle with my bare hands unless I accidentally touched a ground. In which case, I'd electrocute myself.

  I took time out to check over the jury-rigged system I'd created. Everything seemed to be all right.

  There was still one final step that had to be completed before I could spring my trap. The faucet of the water tap was only a foot above the level of the roof, but if I turned it on, the guards would be sure to hear the splashing of water falling from the tap to the surface of the roof. I had to prevent that.

  Hugo slid into my hand easily. I used the sharp blade of the knife to cut off the left sleeve of my jacket. I returned Hugo to his sheath and tied one end of the severed sleeve to the faucet, letting the other end he flat on the roof surface.

  With infinite slowness, I turned the handle. Not very much, just enough to let a gentle flow of water seep down the cloth of the sleeve and onto the roof. I watched it for a moment, then turned the tap open slightly more until it was adjusted to my satisfaction.

  I made my way back to the shadows of the elevator machinery shed, easing myself onto its wooden roof, keeping my body down to prevent being silhouetted against the sky. I lay flat on the shed roof, the antenna beside me.

  The preparations were over. Now I had to wait until the moment was right to spring the trap.

  * * *

  Friday. 2:10 a.m. Rooftop at East 56th Street.

  Forty-five minutes had gone by from the time I started putting together the elements of my surprise package for the two terrorists. It was almost too long a time. Yet, despite the pressure of each passing second, I still had to remain patient for a while longer. I had to wait for the water to spread out and cover the surface of the roof with a film of moisture deep enough to wet through the shoe soles of the guards. Beside me was the antenna, the wire from it stretching back to the terminal block in a tight, straight line. If it touched the roof surface it would short out.

  Five minutes went by, and then ten. Mentally, I pictured the slight slope of the roof. In my mind's eyes, I could see the slow, steady flow of water spreading out in a gentle, growing puddle that silently covered a greater and greater surface with each passing moment.

  Twenty minutes went by before I cautiously lifted my head. From the oblique angle I was at, I could make out the shine of light reflections on the film of water that, by now, covered most of the roof.

  The guards were still slowly walking back and forth, oblivious of the water that was under their feet.

  Still I waited. I would have only one chance at them. Before I acted, I had to be sure.

  And then, finally, I heard one of the guards utter an exclamation in Arabic. The water had finally wet through his shoe soles. He stopped his pacing, swore again, and bent down to look at the roof surface. The second guard spun around as he heard his companion swear.

  That's when I stood up and heaved the antenna into the shallow puddle of water.

  There was no explosion. There was just a sudden, bright, intense flare of pure, blue-white light shot through with flashes of red and huge sparks that burnt themselves into my eyeballs! It was like looking into a giant stroboscopic flash. The light froze the bodies of the two men in a grotesque, antic position at the moment they died.

  And then the braided wire lines to the terminal block burnt out, the surge of current too much for them to carry.

  The light ceased almost as quickly as it had sprung up. The charred bodies of the two al Asad terrorists collapsed — black, burnt masses of scorched flesh — on the tar surface of the roof.

  The whole thing took no more than an instant — but the job was done. The guards were dead. The way to the loft below lay open to me.

  * * *

  Friday. 2:53 a.m. East 56th Street.

  I left the bodies of the two terrorist guards where they lay. For a moment, I was tempted to pick up one of the automatic rifles, but even as the thought entered my mind, I dismissed it. There was just no way in the world I could shoot my way into the loft floor, find out where the Speaker of the House was being held prisoner, and free him before someone would shove a knife into him or blow his brains out with a burst of rifle fire.

  I climbed down off the shed roof. Even though I knew that the puddle of water was no longer dangerous because the lead wires had burnt themselves out, I carefully skirted the water, walking along the perimeter of the roof to get to the doorway that led downstairs.

  Not a hint of warning preceeded the attack, not even the rush of footsteps. Only at the last fraction of a second was there a sudden, atavistic, subconscious awareness of danger. It was like walking down a dark city street late at night and you suddenly realize that someone is behind you. The realization comes not through your mind but through the fine hairs on the back of your neck and the pricklings of your skin. When you turn, even though the shock of someone being within a foot or two of you pounds at your heart, there isn't any surprise. You knew before you turned that you'd see someone. Their bodies have come too close; they've violated your private, personal, do-not-invade territory.

  Even though no threat has been made, let alone an actual, overt attack, your physical system screams out danger] Seconds before you see them, your adrenalin glands have been activated. Instantaneously, your muscles tense, ready to ward off a blow, to fight tooth and nail, and with any other weapon you can lay your hands on, for your life.

  Only years of being indoctrinated with non-violent response, of being taught to restrain your animal instincts, to substitute talk for physical reaction, stops you from leaping at whoever it is who's invaded your "territory" past the danger point with the full intent of killing him before he can harm you.

  In my years with AXE, those civilized reactions have been trained out of me. That's why I carry the designation of Killmaster N3.

  Automatically, I react to the immediate sensing of danger by acting to protect myself first and then leaping in to kill. Sometimes simultaneously, because attack is still the best defense.

  That's what happened this time. The sensing of danger was time measured in milliseconds. My reaction was immediate. I dove to one side, curling my body in midair, striking the roof in a rolling dive that carried me ten feet away.

  Even at that, I wasn't quite fast enough. The edge of a knife caught me as I started to move, laying open my jacket and slicing through skin and flesh in a long, burning cut that ran from my left shoulder down to the base of my spine.

  Catlike, I came to my feet, Hugo leaping into my right hand from his sheath on my forearm. For a second, I made out a slender, shadowy figure half a foot shorter than I am. Then he was on me in a rush, his knife hand held low, the blade whipping in at my guts.

  I sucked in my stomach muscles. He missed by less than an inch. I tried to counter his blow with a thrust of my own. He blocked my arm with his elbow. Sliding away, crouching, he circled around to my left.

  There was a glimpse of white teeth in a dark face, a half crescent of a smile like that of a man whose pleasure in his work is so great it's almost sexual in its intensity. Crooning sounds came out of his throat.

  "Come closer, my little one," he said in Arabic. "I will send you to Paradise with my blade. Allah is waiting to take you!"

  I saved my breath.

  He came at me again. This time, his knife ripped the cloth of my left sleeve. I tried to step into him, lunging with the l
ong blade of the stiletto. He let out a quiet laugh, stepping away easily and danced around me again, always to my left, to my far side.

  He was good. He was one of the fastest and deadliest men I'd ever faced. He didn't waste a single motion. There was a smooth rhythm to the way he moved as if he danced to a deadly Touareg desert war song, his feet keeping quick time with the quick beat of the drums and his hand whip-whipping to the punctuation of the tambourines.

  Even in the dark, he was surefooted, constantly aware of his surroundings and of obstacles I knew damn well he couldn't see.

  He feinted at my groin, and when I instinctively cringed in a protective movement, he slashed up at my face. The edge of my left hand barely deflected the blow, catching him glancingly on his wrist. If it hurt, he gave no sign of it.

  Most of all, he had an air of complete and utter confidence and assurance. It was as if there was absolutely no question in his mind that he was going to kill me. It was just a matter of a few minutes one way or another before he got me.

  That kind of attitude is what makes a killer. The singleminded certainty, the fixed knowledge that he is better than anyone else. He can't even conceive of defeat. It just never enters his mind.

  I have it, too.

  Again came a thrust and a feint and, so fast that it was part of the same motion, came another lunge at me. Again he missed, but only because of the darkness in which we fought our duel.

  Khatib! Yousef Khatib!

  It could be no one else but him. I'd never met a man as good as he was.

  I remembered what Poganov and Selyutin had told me about him. They hadn't lied or exaggerated. If anything, Khatib was better than they had said he was.

  I was just damned lucky to have escaped his first attack. My shoulder hurt. It was like a long, narrow, deep burn had been branded all along my back from shoulder to hip. I could feel the blood flowing stickily from the open wound.