All The Queen's Men cs-2

by Linda Howard

  "I've traveled a bit since I left home," he drawled.

  She clapped her hands twice in mocking applause. "That was very well done. A homey piece of phrasing, the accent a little heavier."

  "But you don't buy it."

  "I bet you're very good with a lot of accents."

  Amused, he said, "Okay, you aren't going to believe me. That's fine. I don't have any way of proving who I am. But believe me in this: My priorities are getting that building blown and all of us safely home."

  "How can you get us home? We're splitting up, remember?"

  "By doing all my preliminary work right, by anticipating as many problems as I can and taking steps to counteract them."

  "You can't anticipate everything, though."

  "I try. That's why my hair is going gray, I sit up nights worrying."

  His hair was as dark as her own, without a silver thread showing. His sense of humor was wry, tending toward the ironic; she wished he hadn't shown it to her, wished he had maintained the silence between them. Why hadn't he? Why now, of all times, had he suddenly breached the armed truce?

  "We're in."

  She whirled to the radio set as the whispered words came plainly through the speaker. Incredulously she checked the time; thirty minutes had passed since she had last looked. She had been so focused on her confrontation with Tucker that she had forgotten to fret.

  Like a flash, she knew: That was why he had done it. He had distracted her, using the one subject he knew she wouldn't be able to ignore.

  Tucker was already at the radio, slipping on a Motorola headset. "Any problems?"

  "Negative."

  That was all, just three whispered words, but they were in her husband's voice and Niema knew that for now, at least, he was all right. She leaned back and focused on her breathing, in, out, keeping the rhythm regular.

  There was nothing Tucker could do now to distract her, short of physical violence, so he left her alone. She checked the radio settings, though she knew they were right. She wished she had checked the radio detonator one more time, just to be certain. No-she knew it was working perfectly. And Dallas knew what he was doing.

  "Has Dallas ever told you about his training?"

  She flicked an impatient glance at Tucker. "I don't need distracting. Thanks for doing it before, but not now, please."

  A faint quirk of his brows betrayed his surprise. "So you figured it out," he said easily, and she immediately wondered if distracting her had indeed been his intention. Tucker was so damn elusive that even when you thought you had him read, it was possible you were reading only what he intended you to read. "But this is more in the way of reassurance. Do you know about his training?"

  "That he took BUD/S? Yes." BUD/S was Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training: extensive, and so grueling only a tiny percentage of men who tried actually completed the course.

  "But has he told you what that training entailed?"

  "No, not in detail."

  "Then take my word for it, Dallas can do things no ordinary man would ever dream of doing."

  "I know. And-thanks. But he's still human, and plans can go wrong-"

  "He knows that. They all do. They're prepared."

  "Why didn't he want you to go in?"

  There was an infinitesimal pause, so brief she wasn't certain she had heard it. "Despite what he said, Dallas doesn't think I'm as good as he is," Tucker said with wry humor.

  She didn't believe him. For one thing, Dallas respected him too much. For another, that tiny pause before he spoke told her he had been weighing his response, and his answer wasn't one that had required any weighing.

  Whoever he was, whatever he was hiding, Niema accepted that she wasn't going to get any straight answers from him. He was probably one of those paranoid spooks everyone read about, who saw spies and enemies everywhere, and, if you asked him if it was supposed to rain the next day, would wonder what you were planning that required bad weather.

  Sayyed's voice whispered over the radio. "Trouble. Activity in the warehouse. Looks like they're getting ready to make a shipment."

  Tucker swore, his attention immediately focused on the situation. It was imperative the warehoused store of bacteria be completely destroyed before a shipment was made. The warehouse was usually deserted at night, with guards posted outside, but now there was activity that prevented Sayyed from planting his charges.

  "How many?" Tucker asked.

  "I make it. . . eight. . . no, nine. I took cover behind some barrels, but I can't move around any."

  They couldn't let that shipment leave the warehouse.

  "Dallas." Tucker spoke the name quietly into his headset.

  "I'm on the way, Boss. My charges are set."

  Niema's nails dug into her palms. Dallas was going to Sayyed's aid, but they would still be badly outnumbered, and by moving, Dallas was risking exposure. She reached for the second headset; she didn't know what she was going to say to her husband, but she didn't have the chance. Tucker's hand shot out; he jerked the plug out of the radio set and tossed the headset aside, his dark gaze cool and hard as he met her stunned look.

  She found herself on her feet, her shoulders braced, hands knotted into fists. "He's my husband," she said fiercely.

  Tucker put his hand over the tiny microphone. "And he doesn't need the distraction of hearing you now." He added deliberately, "If you try anything, I'll tie and gag you."

  She wasn't without some training herself, and Dallas, once he realized he couldn't convince her to play it safe and sit home like a good little wife, had been teaching her how to fight in ways her self-defense class had never covered. Still, her level of expertise in no way matched his, or Tucker's. The only way she could take him, she thought, was to catch him totally by surprise, from behind.

  But he was right. Damn it, he was right. She didn't dare say anything that could break Dallas's concentration.

  She held up her hands in a brief gesture of surrender and moved three steps away. The hut was so small she couldn't go much farther anyway. She sat down on a pack of provisions and tried to beat down the suffocating waves of anxiety.

  The minutes crawled by. She knew Dallas was creeping toward the warehouse section, using every bit of cover available to him, trying not to take chances. She also knew that every passing second put the terrorists that much closer to leaving with the shipment of bacteria. Dallas would be balancing caution with expediency.

  Tucker spoke into the headset. "Sayyed. Report."

  "I can't budge an inch. The truck is almost loaded."

  "Two minutes," Dallas said.

  Two minutes. Niema closed her eyes. Cold sweat trickled down her back. Please, she found herself praying. Please. She couldn't form any words other than that.

  Two minutes could be a lifetime. Time itself could be strangely elastic, stretching until every second was ponderous, until the second hand on her watch seemed almost motionless.

  "I'm in position."

  The words almost broke her control. She bit her lip until the taste of blood filled her mouth.

  "How does it look?"

  "Sayyed's got his ass in a crack, all right. Hey, buddy, how many charges did you get set?"

  "One."

  "Shit."

  One wasn't enough. Niema had listened to them, knew how many charges Dallas estimated it would take to completely destroy the facility.

  "Hadi?"

  "In position. Can't help you much."

  "Start pulling back." Dallas's voice was even. "Sayyed, arm all the charges."

  There was another silence, then Sayyed's, "Done."

  "Get ready. Throw the pack under the truck, then run tike hell. I'll lay down covering fire. I'm gonna give us Jive seconds to get outta here before I hit the button."

  "Damn. Maybe you should make it six," Sayyed said.

  "Ready." Dallas was still utterly calm. "Go!"

  Chapter Two

  The staccato thunder of gunfire blasted from the radio speaker. Niema
jerked as if some of the bullets had hit her, her hands pressed hard to her mouth to hold back the scream that clogged her throat. Tucker swung around to face her, as if he didn't trust her to keep silent. He needn't have worried; she was frozen in place. There was an animal-like sound, cut short. "Son of a bitch! Sayyed bought it." "Pull out," Tucker said, but there was a renewed burst of gunfire that drowned out his words.

  And from the tinny speaker came a sound that made the hair on Niema's neck stand on end, a kind of hollowed-out grunt, underlaid by gunfire and a thudding sound.

  "Ah . . . shit." The words were strained, thin; she could barely recognize Dallas's voice.

  "Hadi!" Tucker barked. "Dallas is down. Get him-"

  "No." The word came on an exhalation, long and deep.

  "Hang on, buddy, I can be there-" Urgency was plain in Hadi's voice.

  "Save yourself. . . the trouble. I'm gut shot."

  The world went gray around her. Niema fought back the shock, fought back the sensation of her entire body falling apart as the bottom dropped out of her stomach and her lungs seized, unable to pump. Gut shot. Even if he had been in the States, with a trauma unit nearby, the injury was critical. Here in these cold, isolated mountains, with safety and cutting-edge medical help days away, it was a death sentence. She knew this; her mind knew it. But she rejected it anyway, recoiling from the knowledge.

  There were more shots, very close. Dallas was still shooting, still holding them off.

  "Boss ..." The whisper floated around the hut.

  "I'm here." Tucker was still facing Niema, his gaze locked on her.

  "Is . . . Can Niema hear?"

  Dallas had to be going into shock, or he would never have asked, would have realized she could hear everything. She had wired the switch open.

  Tucker's gaze never wavered from her. "No," he said.

  More shots. The sound of Dallas's breathing, shallow and quick. "Good. I. . . I've still got the detonator. Can't let them leave with . . . that shit."

  "No," Tucker said again. "You can't." His voice was almost gentle.

  "Take . . . take care of her."

  Tucker's face was a mask, his gaze locked on her face. "I will." He paused, and said, "Do it."

  The explosion shook the hut, sending dirt cascading down from the cracks in the ceiling, rattling the door on its frame. The blast wave hadn't passed before Tucker was moving, ripping the headset from his ears and tossing it down. He picked up a hammer and began methodically destroying the radio; even though it was old and obsolete, it was functional, and their plan was to leave nothing that could be used. Reducing the radio to rubble took half a minute.

  That done, he pulled Niema away from the packs of provisions and swiftly began repacking them, redistributing what they would carry. She stood numbly in the middle of the hut, unable to move, her brain frozen with shock. She was aware of pain; there was a great, clawing pain in her chest, as if her heart were exploding, and even that was somehow felt as if from a distance.

  Tucker thrust a heavy coat at her. Niema stared at it, unable to comprehend what he wanted her to do with it. Silently he bundled her into it, putting her arms into the sleeves as if she were a toddler, zipping it up, tucking her hair under the collar as an extra buffer for her neck. He tugged gloves on her hands, and put a warm fur hat on her head.

  He pulled a heavy sweater on over his head, then shrugged into his own coat. As he was pulling on his gloves, a low whistle sounded outside the hut, and he extinguished the light. Hadi slid in the door, and Tucker turned the light on again.

  Even in the weakness of the single light, Hadi's face was drawn and white. He looked immediately at Niema. "God-" he began, only to be silenced by a quick motion from Tucker.

  "Not now. We have to move." He shoved one of the consolidated packs into Hadi's arms, and slung the other two onto his own shoulders. He picked up a rifle, took Niema's arm, and led her into the night.

  Their transportation, an old Renault, had died on them the first night, and all of Tucker's mechanical expertise could not repair a broken axle. Hadi glanced worriedly at Niema. She hadn't faltered during the two days they had been moving; she was like a robot, keeping pace with them no matter how hard Tucker pushed them. She spoke when they asked her a direct question; she ate when Tucker gave her food, drank when he gave her water. What she hadn't done was sleep. She would lie down when he told her to, but she hadn't slept, and her eyes were swollen with fatigue. Both men knew she couldn't go on much longer.

  "What are you going to do?" Hadi asked Tucker, keeping his voice low. "Do we split up as originally planned, or stay together? You may need help getting her out."

  "We split up," Tucker said. "It's safer that way. A woman traveling with two men would attract more attention than a man and his wife."

  They were traveling northwest, through Iran's most populated area, but that was the only way to get to Turkey, and safety. Iraq was due west, Afghanistan and Pakistan were to the east, the splinter nations left by the breakup of the Soviet Union to the northeast, the Caspian Sea to the north and the Persian Gulf to the south, through very inhospitable desert. Turkey was their only feasible destination. From here on out, Niema would have to wear the traditional Muslim chador.

  They had traveled at night at first, the better to avoid detection if there was any pursuit, though it was possible Sayyed and Dallas were thought to be the only saboteurs. It was even possible, Tucker thought, that no word of intruders had gotten out. The facility had been remote, with only one phone line going in. Dallas could well have pushed the button before anyone got to the phone, assuming any of the workers thought to make a call anyway.

  The building was charred rubble. Tucker himself had reconnoitered, leaving Niema under Hadi's worried and watchful eye. As always, Dallas had been thorough; what the plastique hadn't destroyed, the fire had.

  That was the one time Niema had spoken without first being asked something. When Tucker returned she stared at him, her dark eyes fathomless, haunted, somehow hopeful. "Did you find him?" she asked.

  Startled, keeping it hidden, he said, "No."

  "But-his body . . ."

  She wasn't clinging to an irrational hope that Dallas was still alive. She wanted his body for burial.

  "Niema . . . there's nothing left." He said it as gently as he could, knowing there was nothing he could do to cushion the blow but trying anyway. She had been a trooper all through the job, but now she looked so damn fragile.

  Nothing left. He saw the words hit her, saw her reel with the shock. She hadn't asked anything since, not even for water. His own stamina was so great he could go for long periods before he was aware of thirst, so he couldn't rely on his own needs to remind him of hers. He set a time limit: Every two hours, he made her drink. Every four, he made her eat. Not that there was any making to it; she accepted whatever he gave her, without protest.

  Now it was time for them to split up, as planned, but instead of Niema going with Dallas she would now be staying with him, while Hadi made his own way out of the country.

  Tomorrow they would be in Tehran, where they would blend in with the population. Tucker would then make secure contact and, if there was no trouble, acquire transportation. Another day after that, and they would be just across the border from Turkey. He would abandon the vehicle and they would walk across during the night, in a remote location he had already scouted. Hadi would cross over at another point.

  Hadi scratched his beard. Neither of them had shaved for two weeks, so they were decidedly scruffy. "Maybe I could scrounge around tomorrow when we get to Tehran, find a pharmacy, buy some sleeping pills or something. She's got to sleep."

  They had stopped for a brief rest, sheltered by the lone remaining wall of a small mud house that had long since been abandoned. Niema sat a little way off to the side, alone in a way that went far beyond the slight distance between her and them. She didn't fidget. She just sat. Maybe if she cried, Tucker thought. Maybe if she let some of it out, exhausted hers
elf, she would be able to sleep. But she hadn't cried; the shock had gone too deep, and she hadn't yet recovered from that enough for tears. The time for crying would come later.

  He considered Hadi's suggestion, but didn't like the idea of drugging her, in case they had to move fast. Still.. . "Maybe," he said, and left it at that.

  They had rested long enough. Tucker stood, signaling that the break was over. Niema stood too, and Hadi moved forward to help her over some loose, unbaked mud bricks. She didn't need the help, but Hadi had become as protective of her as a mother hen.

  He stepped on a loose board. It tilted up and dislodged some of the bricks just as Niema stepped on them, shifting them out from under her feet. She staggered off balance, slipped, and landed on her right shoulder in the rubble.

  She didn't cry out, her training not to make any unnecessary noise still holding. Hadi swore softly, apologizing as he helped her to her feet. "Damn, I'm sorry! Are you all right?"

  She nodded, brushing at her clothes, her shoulder. Tucker saw the slight frown knit her brows as she brushed her shoulder again, and even that much expression was so alien to her face these past two days that he knew immediately something was wrong.

  "You're hurt." He was beside her before he stopped speaking, pulling her away from the rubble.

  "Did you jam your shoulder?" Hadi asked, frowning with concern.

  "No." She sounded puzzled, no more, but she twisted her neck to look at the back of her shoulder. Tucker turned her around. There was a small tear in her shirt, and blood was welling from it.

  "You must have fallen on something sharp," he said, and thought maybe the damage had been done by a shard of brick, but then he saw the rusty nail protruding about an inch out of a rotten board.

  "It was a nail. Good thing you had a tetanus booster." He efficiently unbuttoned her shirt as he spoke. She wasn't wearing a bra, so he only undid the first few buttons, then pulled the shirt off the injured shoulder.

  The puncture wound was purplish and already swelling, sullenly oozing blood. The nail had gone in high and right of her shoulder blade, in the fleshy part just beside her arm. He pressed on it to make the blood run more freely. Hadi had already opened their meager first-aid kit and extracted some gauze pads, which he used to mop up the blood as it ran down.