by Tom Hron
Muhammad ran to the gate with his driver and two bodyguards just in time to see the Mercedes disappear down the road. In an absolute rage, he immediately shot the driver in the head. Next, he decided that the camp couldn’t be saved and took off on a dead run away from there. Even at a half-mile, Harry could see Muhammad’s mind working … the Mercedes had gone west, so there must be more infidels in that direction. He couldn’t go north because of the fire. And there must be infidels east of the camp as well. Head south, Abu, head for the higher ground. It was what any good commander would do.
Harry dove behind what he supposed was a dirt mound left by some animal and waited for the three terrorists who were coming after him to get in range. The next step was to start a running gunfight with them and head back toward the raging fire, giving Joe and the dogs as much opportunity as possible to capture Muhammad without being seen. Nothing would work better than keeping everyone looking in the opposite direction.
He waited. The three separated and started circling him. Bursting out from behind the mound, he shot at the two nearest him and raced back toward the oil well he’d blown up, hearing their return volleys buzzing past him like invisible bumblebees. He ran from bush to bush, through the taller weeds, anything to throw off their aim. At last, he was behind the fire. He glanced in Joe’s direction just in time to see Muhammad’s two bodyguards go down, then Muhammad throw up his hands. Joe and the dogs had him, and now all they had to do was rendezvous with Shawki.
Ducking into the black smoke spewing from the fire, he waited for the terrorists to catch up with him. He crept closer to the camp, where they would least expect him to go, then jumped out and knocked one down in a flash of gunfire. Back into the smoke he went. Then back uphill. Now the other two would be getting really nervous. He peeked clear of the smoke and searched for them. That was the last thing he knew.
CHAPTER 18
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
The town house sat in a long row and the long row looked like a gray fortress. Catherine Sharp drove into her garage and watched the door close. She got out of her car and walked to the washer and dryer along the front wall and started a load of whites that she’d let soak during the day, then went into the kitchen. It had white walls, two pass-throughs, and glass cabinet doors. She opened the patio door on one side for fresh air and then stepped down two steps into the living room. It had an open staircase, vaulted ceilings, and a rooftop skylight that kept the interior bright and open. Her new home gave her constant pleasure, and it was her chrysalis and little piece of America. She went upstairs and changed into a T-shirt and shorts.
When she came back down, she read the USA Today and the Washington Times, catching up on the day’s events from their different political perspectives. Liberal and conservative, when you worked in the Hart Senate Office Building you needed to know what both sides were saying. At supper time, she would listen to a recording of Rush Limbaugh and learn what the “ditto-heads” were thinking as well. Senator Robert Jefferies, although she now called him Bob in personal settings, seemed appreciative and even somewhat dependent on her analysis of all the country’s red-hot issues. The latest news was the true force in Washington, D.C.
The telephone rang and she saw on caller ID that it was the senator himself calling, as if he’d somehow sensed her mood. Lifting her fingertips to her temples, she rubbed them, revealing the headache and anxiety she felt. She had wanted to spend the night alone. Nevertheless, since he knew that she was at home, she picked up the phone and said hello.
“Can I come over?” asked Jefferies in a gentle voice. “I know you’re very upset.”
“No, I really need to be alone, and I wouldn’t be good company, anyway.”
“I would have said no if I’d known this thing with Harry was going to make you so unhappy, and now you’ve made me feel that it was a big mistake to give him the camp’s location.”
“It’s not that, and he would have just gone anyway. It’s about how I feel. I’m angry at myself for getting so emotionally involved. I had thought that I’d gotten over him and decided to let him go. Let him fly off and do his thing. Who cares?” After a sigh, she plowed her hair back with her fingers. “I’m sorry, I’m rattling on and don’t mean to. It’s just that I could never find the courage to let him live his life, and I always wanted him to stay home with me.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come over?” asked Jefferies again after a short silence. “We could just talk.”
“No, please, we can talk tomorrow. I’ve forgotten some clothes in the washer and want to dry them. Give me a couple of days, okay?”
There was another brief silence. “All right, see you tomorrow.” There was a click as he hung up.
For a moment she just sat there. Life hadn’t quite worked out with Harry, and now life wasn’t working out without him either. His letter, aside from its bombshell effect, had brought home how artificial she had become, all simply to hide her overwhelming fragility. Courage, she didn’t even have enough to endure someone else’s peril. Ever since she could remember she had been a coward, and her guilt and concealment had ruined a perfectly good marriage. Now it looked like she was ruining another relationship, although with Jefferies instead.
Getting up from the sofa, she walked into the kitchen, and because it was now getting dark, turned on the lights and locked the patio door. She walked into the garage and switched on the lights, then gaped in horror at the man standing in front of her. “You … I know you,” she murmured, sensing that her words would be her last. She started to scream.
The man hit her flush on the side of the head and knocked her unconscious with the precision of an assassin. Next, he scooped her up, carried her through the kitchen and up to her bedroom, and dropped her on the floor. He began killing her, kicking and beating her as viciously as he could. Splattering blood. Dragging her onto the bed and off. When there was no longer a pulse, he stopped. Then he left the same way he’d come in, through the patio door, and no one saw him leave.
CHAPTER 19
ABADAN, IRAN
At first, Harry lay on the ground blinking himself back into consciousness. The explosion had flattened him and evidently everyone else in the vicinity because there was moaning all around him. Someone had mixed the detonators and Russian plastic and then gotten too near the fire. Rolling onto his hands and knees, he crawled clear of the smoke covering the hillside and looked around. Some of the terrorists were still alive but were in no condition to chase him. Moreover, if his face looked like the rest of his body, there wasn’t an easy way to recognize him. His hands and forearms were blackened, his clothing was ripped and grass stained, and he looked almost camouflaged from all the debris that had hit him. He staggered to his feet and started running. Though the explosion had nearly killed him, it had also given him perfect cover to escape, and perfect cover for Joe and Shawki as well. Muhammad was surely theirs, he thought to himself.
He ran as fast as he could past the oil well they’d first hidden behind, then back along the pipeline. However, after a couple of miles his strength started giving out, although his head felt better. He had lost his backpack, the water, and his Uzi. Hide yourself, his mind screamed, hide yourself, and for God’s sake don’t stay out in the open, stumbling around like a drunken fool in broad daylight, no less. Unfortunately, however, he realized that if he holed up, he’d get so stiff and sore, let alone thirsty, that he’d never make the river in time. Don’t wait for me, he had instructed Joe and Shawki, no matter what, don’t wait for me. It’s twenty-five million bucks, so don’t get stupid. Besides, if the Iranians ever catch you, they will kill you, probably by letting Muhammad do it for them, just so fun can be had by all. Get the hell out and don’t look back, but now his words had come back to haunt him.
The pipeline ran through a wild celery patch taller than he was, and he crawled into it and lay down. The ground stunk of moles and worms and was so strong it smelled fishlike. Water, he thought, if he could drink some ice-cold
water, then things wouldn’t seem quite so bad. He wiped his face with back of his hand and saw it was streaked with blood. The blast had given him a bloody nose. Then he heard voices. He inched deeper into the celery and pulled some over him. A call for help must have gone out and now the Iranian military was hot after him. Joe and Shawki might not have gotten away after all … He didn’t even dare blink, and a million bugs drove him wild while he listened to the soldiers searching for him.
After what seemed like a thousand years, the voices faded away and he relaxed a little. If he could only hold out until dark, then he could work his way back toward Abadan and find water, maybe hop a tanker when no one was looking. He watched the sunlight fade little by little and the surroundings turn black. Finally, he crept out of his hiding place half bent over, though more from being banged up than for stealth. Gradually, he moved away from the pipeline, where he sensed the Iranians would wait in ambush for him. Fix the North Star and head south, he told himself, and pray you don’t step on a snake. One viper bite and it’s all over, Shawki had warned him. After a couple of miles, he rested. Almost at once, though, he heard something trailing him and his heart nearly jumped from his chest. He froze and peered into the pitch-black.
Jackal, hyena, leopard—what kind of animal would hunt him? There was no use in running, since that would only trigger an attack. He watched something blacker than black sneak out of the weeds four or five feet away from him and stop. His heart stopped as well. How could he defend himself?
Eeeooouuu, the silhouette moaned. Afterward, a second silhouette joined the first. Eeeooouuu, once again. All at once tears came to his eyes. The two silhouettes were Cochise and Geronimo and they had found him. Better yet, wherever the dogs were, Joe was sure to be close behind them. Eeeooouu, sounded a third time. Finally, it dawned on him that they wanted him to follow them. Feeling a bit foolish, he staggered after them, staying close.
For what seemed like an eternity, he followed the dogs through the dark, which seemed timeless with a half moon rising among the stars. Where am I, he wondered. The trail zigzagged and his clothing seemed to roar every time he brushed against the underbrush and weeds. They crossed a flat stretch, some rolling hills, and then a flat stretch again. At last the dogs stopped, nearly tripping him. Was it Joe or someone else they were waiting for? he wondered. He stood absolutely still.
“Can you hear me?” a voice whispered.
“Joe, is that you?” he asked.
“Hey, keep it down. This place is crawling with soldiers.”
“Where’s Shawki, and did you guys get Muhammad?”
“Yeah, Shawki’s got him down by the river.”
“Do you have any water? I’m dying of thirst.”
“Godalmighty, you sure seem to have a problem with water, that and trying to kill yourself.” There were noiseless footsteps and then an indistinct shadow stood only an arm’s length away. “Here, but don’t drink too much because we got to get out of here.”
“How far is it to the river?”
“Four or five miles, so do you think you can make it?”
“If we can go a little slow. I got banged up in the explosion.”
“Jesus, I can imagine. I wasn’t so sure you were still alive, since it looked like all hell had broken loose when that place went up.”
“I thought I had told Shawki and you not to wait for me.”
Joe paused for a moment. “Yeah … well, what can I say? You would have done the same thing.”
They set off in single file a few feet apart with Cochise and Geronimo scouting ahead. Stealing along, stopping, cocking his head as if he were listening to something, Joe was as stealthy as his two dogs. The antithesis of his grandfathers, thought Harry. The water and the plurality of being with all three made him feel better, and his strength started coming back. Phantomlike, he crept along while watching Abadan’s nightlights grow brighter and brighter. Then they were back beside the river.
“Wait here,” Joe whispered, “and I’ll go get Shawki.”
“What did you do with Muhammad?”
“Tied him up with duct tape, so he ain’t going no place. All you can see is his nose.”
The answer struck Harry as funny and he almost laughed, which would have been a bad idea since they were so exposed. Once more, he hid himself and waited, although this time with a big smile on his face. They weren’t safe yet, but they were getting very close. Then a water bird cried out, ssstttick, ssstttick. He realized it was Joe, and he waded into the river toward the approaching shadows floating on the water.
“Harry, where are you?” whispered Shawki.
“Over here.” Then he saw the dogs and a motionless shape lying in just one raft. “Where’s the other raft?” he asked.
“We left it where the Iranians can find it, and it might make them think we’re still back there,” whispered Shawki again. “We will swim over to the Iraqi side, and with their military patrolling the shoreline for insurgents, it will be safer over there.”
“They’ll still shoot us if they see us,” said Joe in a hoarse whisper, “and ain’t there crocodiles in this river?”
“Not big ones, actually.” Shawki laughed under his breath. “Now help me cover this raft with weeds so we will look like marsh grass if someone gets a light on us. I will radio my men when we get downriver a little.”
The swim was a test in itself, all of them kicking crazily to dodge an oil tanker that came boring down on them, next having to ride out its bow wake, which almost flipped the raft. Smacking face first against the inside of the pontoons, Muhammad groaned as he banged back and forth, and even the dogs were knocked off balance. Finally, they made it through the rough water and drifted downriver toward the Persian Gulf in the shadow of the Iraqi shoreline.
Shawki radioed his crewmen waiting offshore with the dhow, and afterward they swam downstream as fast as they could. The closer they got to the Gulf, the better off they would be, since no one would pay much attention to a boom dhow off the Shatt-al-Arab in the early morning hours, and it would give them enough time to sail back to Kuwait before anyone caught on to their escape. They relaxed and began talking. Harry asked Shawki what he’d done with Muhammad’s limo, and how he’d gotten back to Joe so fast.
“I ditched it a couple of miles down the road and ran back,” said Shawki, “and I got there just in time to see the explosion. I didn’t know until I’d caught up with him that you were still back there. You must have seen your life flash before your eyes, completely.”
Well, actually, he hadn’t, Harry explained, although he’d certainly seen a big flash. They laughed, because now some of the stress of their dangerous adventure had been broken.
“You should have seen Cochise and Geronimo,” added Shawki. “Joe gave a whistle and they were on Muhammad before he knew what had hit him, and then they ran him over the hill and down the pipeline like he was a madman. You told me they would be as good as three men, but they are much better, I think.” The following silence told Harry how proud Joe was of his dogs. They were magical. All three searched for the dhow’s signal, two shorts and a long flash of light, and Shawki extrapolated again. “Joe and the dogs were like devils, and you should have seen Muhammad’s face when he saw Joe’s war paint. It scared him to death, almost.”
The words flew out of Harry. “You painted your face?—”
There was another silence. “Well … I guess I’m a born-again savage. Besides, you don’t want me to meet my Maker without my sacred paint on, do you?”
“I suppose not,” laughed Harry, wishing that he’d been there to see Joe in all his living color. A Bahraini buccaneer and a recalcitrant Apache warrior. Who would ever understand the human condition?
It was almost five in the morning before they saw the signal light from Shawki’s dhow, and then they swam for it as fast as they could push the raft loaded with Muhammad and the dogs. They didn’t have much time left, and in a little over an hour it would start getting light. When they reached the
dhow’s side, Shawki’s two crewmen quickly hauled them aboard and came about, and Shawki ordered them to run at full throttle. “What should we do with our prisoner?” he asked. “I don’t think anyone can catch us now.”
Abu Muhammad lay on deck bound from head to foot in gray duct tape, which had left him looking almost mummy-like. Staring at him, Harry asked, “What—you were worried that he’d get away or something? The poor man can hardly breathe.”
“We didn’t want to take any chance of him making too much noise,” Shawki answered in a spirited voice. “He’s your ticket home, okay? Your super payoff and home run.”
Harry wondered. Maybe it was a feeling of buyer’s remorse, or maybe he’d finally come to the realization that he was up against the president’s Security Council, and no matter what he did David Skeleter would never roll over and play dead.
“Shawki, you mentioned the Fifth Fleet a couple of days ago,” he said. “There’s an aircraft carrier and a battle group of warships and support craft somewhere in the Gulf, standing by in case there’s trouble in the Middle East. Do you think you can find them?”
Shawki shifted his attention away from Muhammad and glanced at Harry. “I think so…”
“Well, let’s get going then.” Harry smiled.
“Beautiful, Harry, beautiful, and now I see your mind.” Shawki’s eyes focused on him. “The U.S. Navy would feel very grateful if it looked like they helped capture Muhammad. They are still most angry about losing so many sailors in the Cole explosion in Yemen many years ago, and I’m sure they have always believed Muhammad and al-Qaida were behind the whole thing.” Shawki’s eyes shifted back to Muhammad.
“It will be a little like life insurance,” said Harry.
