The Fanatics of Al Asad Page 9

  Khatib came at me again and again, first at my gut and then at my throat, my face, my eyes — and then down to my gut and groin again.

  My own reactions were slowed by the tiredness of my muscles after the exertion of the hand over hand crawling along more than thirty feet of rooftop ledge. My shoulder muscles still ached. And I couldn't hold the stiletto too well in my fingers because the skin had been rubbed so raw. I'd lost the fine feel that told me where Hugo's deadly point was. I gripped the blade with the palm of my hand and ignored the stinging pain. But it made me slow.

  It gave Khatib the edge he needed to kill me. Again and again, I was barely able to parry his thrusts. The darkness didn't help, either. Only the occasional glint of light on the honed edge of his knife blade showed me where it was as it danced a deadly, intricate pattern in the air — like a firefly whose least touch meant instant death!

  I knew my slowness would mean my death. Somehow, I needed to speed up my reaction time, even by a fraction of a second. Because that's all it takes with a knife fighter like Khatib. Whichever of us gained — or lost — a fractional, split second of time would make us the winner — or loser — in this merciless pas de deux of hard, cutting steel and soft, helpless flesh!

  There was only one way to do it.

  I stopped thinking and let my neural system take over control of my body.

  Years of drill and training, and hour after hour in the gym with the best teachers in the world, had taught me every trick in knife fighting. We had gone through the motions of every attack and defense move — slowly at first and then more rapidly and, finally, so fast that our response and reaction, our parry and thrust, were so fast no human eye could distinguish the individual moves.

  But it takes time for the brain to recognize a movement, realize its meaning, evaluate its danger, recall the appropriate defense move and then send a message to the body. And it takes more time for the body to respond to the message it just received from the brain along the spinal cord and through the nervous system.

  There's a way to shorten the time. You let your eyes see, but you let your neural system respond directly. In effect, you've by-passed your brain and the delay of having to think about what's happening.

  It's only a fraction of a second, but that fraction of a second can save your life.

  Over and over, Khatib danced around me, lunging in for a feint, followed by the killing move in a series that flowed one into the next. Each time I parried and riposted, he was either not there, or his hand or knife knocked mine away.

  But I was moving faster now. Khatib had stopped his low singing. The smile had vanished from his face. He was beginning to grunt.

  "Dung eater!" I swore at him. "Eater of camel turds! How many dogs have used you to fornicate with?"

  Khatib began to lose the smoothness of his rhythm. His arm moved jerkily. He stumbled once, swearing in anger.

  And that's when I got him!

  Hugo's point caught the inside of his forearm at the elbow. Viciously, I twisted my wrist, driving the blade in further. As he tried to pull away, I hooked the stiletto back toward me.

  It was like gutting a fish. The blade moved point first into his knife arm, into the soft skin and thin tissue of the inside of his elbow. It severed one of the tendons before moving down toward his wrist, skin and flesh parting before the razor edge of my knife blade in the same way you lay open the soft underbelly of a fish before you fillet it.

  The blade hit bone at the base of his palm and came out, but by then his entire right arm was a useless helpless limb.

  Involuntarily, the knife dropped out of Khatib's hand.

  He could still have gotten away. Quick as he could move, he could have escaped me, even though his arm was so badly gashed.

  If he hadn't so totally believed that he couldn't be defeated, he would have lived. For a moment, unmoving, he stood there staring down at his badly wounded arm and at the knife that lay at his feet. The discovery of learning that he was not the best, that there was someone better than he, came as more of a shock than the ghastly wound itself.

  In that moment, when Khatib's mind froze, when his body came to a complete, unmoving standstill, I drove Hugo deep into his gut, at the juncture of his rib cage. My hand angled the blade upward with all the power of my right forearm, biceps, shoulder muscles and back.

  The blow literally lifted Khatib off his feet, impaled on the long blade of the stiletto that was now buried deeply within him under his rib cage, through a lung and into his heart.

  I let him slide off my knife to strike the roof surface in an inert mass.

  For a long time, I didn't move. I stood in silence on that rooftop with three dead men around me while I breathed in deep, hurtful gasps, breathing as much air as I could, thinking only that Khatib had almost achieved what so many other men had tried to do — kill me.

  I was shaken at the knowledge that Khatib had been a better natural knife fighter than I was. By every rule in the book, he should have killed me in that first, lunging attack. The only thing that had saved me was the years of stripping away my veneer of civilized behavior to get down to the primitive, animal man that lies deep within everyone of us.

  Silently, I thanked every one of my instructors and training partners for the tricks they'd taught me, for their patience and for their unrelenting insistence that I spend so many hours practicing each move until it became completely and totally an automatic response and reaction.

  The cut on my back hurt. Yet what shook me even more was the sudden loss of my own self-confidence. It came back almost immediately, but I realized my own vulnerability. Khatib had come so close to killing me that — and I couldn't deny the dispiriting truth — it was really just a trick of fate that Khatib now lay dead instead of me.

  Without complete confidence in myself and in my abilities, I would be useless. There would be no sense in my going on with the mission — and I had to go on! There was no one else! Even if there was time to bring in another agent, there would be no time to brief him. No time to convey to him what I'd learned and how to use the contacts I'd set up. No time to put him on that rooftop on East 56th Street in my place.

  It was more than just myself and my ego and my shattered confidence that was at stake.

  It was the life of the Speaker of the — no, damn it! I'd better stop thinking of him that way. He was now the President of the United States!

  That fact, and the knowledge that it was only I who could prevent his death — was all that sustained me.

  And, once again, even though the pressure of time permeated every thought, I took the time to clear my mind and to put myself into a state of mental calmness. I had to convince myself that I was capable of carrying out the mission in spite of the odds, in spite of the dangers.

  Fact: Khatib had been the best.

  Fact: Khatib was dead. He lay at my feet.

  Fact: I had beaten him.

  Conclusion: I was better!

  I drummed that thought into my mind relentlessly, pushing aside every other emotion.

  In the dirtiest, toughest knife fight I'd ever been in, against a man who was faster than I and more totally a killer than I — damn it, it was he who was dead and not me!

  Slowly, the intellectual, logical reasoning process began to change into a gut feeling, and my confidence began to flow back into me.

  I began to accept fully the idea that whatever came up, I was more than capable of coping with it.

  No matter what the terrorists attempted, I was more than a match for them.

  I was going to get through every obstacle, every guard, everything and anything that stood in my way to rescue the President of the United States!

  Chapter Nine

  Friday. 3:07. a.m. Rooftop on East 56th Street.

  As I turned toward the doorway and the stairs that led down to the loft, the door opened, spilling a dim light onto the roof.

  A voice called out. "Khatib?"

  Khatib lay at my feet. I didn't dare
answer for him.

  "Fawzi?"

  I began moving quietly toward the doorway, Hugo's lethal steel blade in my hand reversed for throwing.

  "Abdullah?"

  I didn't see the low, metal cap of the vent pipe. It caught the toe of my right shoe and I went crashing face down on the tar of the roof.

  A flashlight splayed out its beam, catching me on my knees as I started to rise. The light moved. Now it illuminated the three bodies. It hesitated there as if its holder couldn't believe what he was seeing. In that moment, I made a break for the low dividing wall that separated the building from the next.

  I knew that if the Al Asad guards had carried automatic rifles, the chances were that this one, too, was armed. I was right. Even as I made a leap over the wall, there was the chatter of a rifle burst exploding the air with its sharp, staccato crack-crack-crack. As I dropped below the wall ledge, the bricks behind me took the impact of the bullets meant for me.

  A second burst of fire came hard on the heels of the first as" he swept the length of the parapet with lead.

  The sound of muffled shouts came from below. The Arab on the roof fired another burst of bullets that whistled inches over the low wall. I moved in closer for protection.

  Now there were other, excited, shouting voices on the roof, all demanding to know what was happening. The relief guard tried to explain. Cursing, one of them interrupted him. "You are a fool! What you saw was most likely only a prowler! Did you have to shoot at him? Now the police will come to investigate! Your imbecilic actions mean we shall have to leave here!"

  "Ya aini!" the first one cried out protestingly in Arabic. "Upon my eyes! I saw the man! He was no prowler. He is still somewhere on that roof."

  Excitedly, he ranted on. "If I am a fool, then I am blessed by Allah! Look at Fawzi and Abdullah! Look at Khatib! Fool that I am, I'm still alive!"

  There was a pause, then: "My pardon, Fuad. You are right! Keep watch! Kill him if you can!"

  I heard footsteps racing down the stairs to the loft. Slowly, I crawled along behind the protection of the brick parapet to the far wall of the roof of the second building. It overlooked East 56th Street, three stories below. Rising to my knees, I peered over the edge.

  Within minutes, I saw three men run out of the entrance toward the sedan that had been parked in front of the building. Simultaneously, the rear doors of the car were flung open. Two of the men scrambled into the back of the sedan. The other jumped in beside the driver.

  Only seconds later, two more terrorists came out of the front door. Between them, staggering, blindfolded, hardly able to move of his own volition, was the man I'd been trying to rescue — the President of the United States.

  Two Al Asad Palestinian terrorists supported him by his armpits, one on each side of him. He sagged limply between them, barely moving his legs. Even from this height, and in the dark, I could see by his jerky, uncontrolled movements that he'd been drugged. The thought flashed through my mind that he was probably still unaware that he was now the head of the government of the United States.

  Roughly, they threw him head first into the back of the sedan, slamming the door shut just as the car pulled away from the curb. The two of them ran to a second car, parked directly behind where the sedan had been. One scrambled into the driver's seat. The other flung open the near side rear door just as four more of the Al Asad terrorists raced out of the building. Hastily, they flung themselves into the second sedan. I watched them pull away, helpless to act as the car roared off down the dark street, hard on the heels of the first vehicle. I watched until the cars reached the corner and turned out of sight.

  I was sick.

  I had been so close. Now it was all in vain. The Al Asad killers had escaped, together with their kidnap victim.

  I was now no better off than I had been twenty-four hours earlier. Perhaps even worse off, because the terrorists were alerted to the fact that we knew that they were hiding out in Manhattan and that we had almost closed in on them.

  If only that relief guard had been delayed by just a few minutes!

  If only Khatib had not been on the roof, lurking unseen and unmoving in the shadows as back-up for the guards!

  If only…

  Determinedly, I made myself stop thinking about what might have been and began to concentrate on what I had to do next.

  I needed to know where they were headed for. It was obvious that they must have a second hide-out prepared in case anything threatened the security of their first choice.

  Where was it? How could I find it?

  Even as the questions leaped into my mind, I realized that the man they'd left behind on the roof would know. They expected him to join them, didn't they?

  All I had to do was to get that information from him.

  The problem was that he had an automatic rifle, and he'd blast me with it if he even so much as caught a glimpse of me! Once again, I was hampered by the fact that I couldn't kill. I had to take him alive.

  And quickly.

  I was sure he wasn't going to hang around much longer — not with police sirens screaming their urgent cry in the distance and closing in on us.

  Sliding Hugo back into his sheath on my forearm, I reached under my jacket. My fingers curled around the butt of the 9mm Luger almost caressingly as I drew out the pistol.

  Now the advantages were more to my favor. I was hidden by the shadows and by the night, while the terrorist was still carelessly outlined by the light streaming out of the doorway behind him. He made a perfect target for me.

  I wasn't going to shoot to kill. I needed him alive. But I didn't give a damn how badly I was going to cripple him so long as he was in a condition to talk. I wanted the address of the fallback hideout — and come hell or high water, no matter what I had to do to him, I was going to get it!

  Carefully, I took a bead on his right shoulder. It was almost like being on a pistol range and shooting "slow fire." I had the time to take deliberate aim. The fight behind him made him a perfect silhouette. The distance was shorter than on the range. I couldn't miss.

  My grip tightened on the gun, my forefinger squeezing the trigger gently, my mind tensing expectantly for the sound of the shot.

  And then — at the last second, barely in time for me to relax my grip and hold my fire — he sagged to the roof. I held my aim, waiting, wondering what the hell had happened.

  Tamar came into view, instantly recognizable in the fight spilling out of the stairwell.

  "Nick?" she called out. "Are you all right? Answer me if you're out there!"

  I stood up.

  "I'm here," I replied.

  Hurdling the low wall, I came running to where Tamar was standing.

  In the dark, her eyes were luminous, fit by the wild fight of excitement and danger.

  "I've been hiding in the hall of a building near the corner," she explained breathlessly. "I practically went out of my mind waiting for something to happen! And then I heard that shooting! I thought they'd gotten you! And then I saw them all come running out of the building! I was sure they'd killed you. I thought…"

  She broke off, her eyes glistening with the wetness of tears she refused to shed. Suddenly, her arms were around me, and she was kissing me fervently. She whispered into my chest, "I can't tell you how I felt, except that I wanted to kill every one of them!"

  Still without looking up at me, she went on. "I almost ran into the building. It's completely empty, even the loft floor. Then I saw the stairs to the roof, and I saw him standing out here with a rifle in his hands. At first, I was going to shoot him. I don't know why I didn't, but I took the chance of trying to capture him alive. He didn't hear me come up the stairs, he was so intent on trying to locate you. I hit him with my gun."

  "I'm glad you didn't kill him," I told her. "I need him."

  "To find out where they've gone?" Tamar stepped away from me, all business once more.

  "Exactly."

  Tamar didn't have to ask any more. She knew the dril
l. She was aware of what I was going to have to do to extract the information from the terrorist who lay unconscious at our feet. The knowledge didn't faze her in the least. No wonder the Israelis considered her one of their top agents.

  "How do we get him out of here?"

  I bent to pick him up. Despite the sudden, fiery pain along the length of my back from Khatib's stab wound, I slung the man over my shoulder in a fireman's carry.

  "Downstairs," I said. "You lead the way."

  We passed the loft. The door was wide open. I could see the lights all burning brightly. The place was in a mess. We walked down the second flight of stairs, and then to the ground floor.

  As Tamar opened the door for me, the sound of police sirens filled the night with ear punishing wails. Squad cars came racing in from both ends of the street.

  One came to a tire squealing stop directly in front of us, the doors bursting open, cops tumbling into the street with guns in their hands.

  A voice shouted, "Drop that man! Get your hands in the air!"

  I just stood still, Tamar at my side.

  A police captain came running up, followed by two uniformed officers, their service revolvers aimed at me.

  "Put him down easily," he said, his voice taut with restrained emotion that showed how keyed up he was. "Don't make any sudden moves!"

  "I'm Nick Carter," I told him. "You've been informed about me."

  I couldn't make out the captain's face too well because of the glare in my eyes, but I could see the gold on his cap and the insignia on his uniform. "Are you in charge?"

  "Yes. I'm Captain Martinson," he said brusquely, suspicion in every word he said.

  "Look in my hip pocket," I directed. "There's an ID case to prove who I am."

  Hawk had had the card issued for me to carry. Normally, no AXE agent carries anything that will even indicate the existence of our organization or the fact that he's an agent, at all. AXE is so supersecret that only a very few of the most influential people know about us.

  This card carried three countersignatures: the scrawls of the heads of the FBI, CIA and NSA. It directed all law enforcement officers not only to cooperate with me, but to obey any commands that I might issue.