This was a cue. A door at the side of the stage opened.
The sultan afforded a single, bland look toward the open door. A few soldiers stood beyond, unseen by the press. Strong hands held fast a quaking, blindfolded figure.
Omay's rheumy eyes were dead. "To America I say this-there is no discussion. There will be no brokered deal. There will be total capitulation or there will be death."
The soldiers offstage reacted as they were meant to. Off came the blindfold. With a shove the man they'd been holding was propelled out onto the raised platform.
It was Helena Eckert's aide.
The man who'd awakened America's chief diplomat on that last flight to Akkadad blinked away stabs of pain caused by the unaccustomed light. Between the blindfold and his pitchblack cell, he'd seen little light since being taken captive.
Flashbulbs popped at his appearance. Reporters remained in their seats, eyes riveted to the stage. The young diplomat staggered to within a few feet of the Eblan ruler. Close enough for Omay's purposes.
A small semiautomatic handgun had been left on the shelf beneath the upper angled platform of the podium, the safety off.
When the young man had stumbled close enough that there was no chance for error, Sultan Omay sin-Khalam calmly removed the weapon and pointed. Bang!
The crackle of the gun over the microphone jolted the assembled press.
A hole erupted in the neck of the Great Peacemaker's victim. Choking blood, the diplomat grabbed his throat.
Bang!
The chest this time.
The man didn't fall. He seemed dumbfounded at what was going on. He blinked hard over and over, blind to his own murder. Tears of pain and fear streamed with rivers of blood.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Over and over again Omay shot, eyes growing more and more wild with each concussive blast. Blood splattered the first three rows of reporters. A few clutched stomachs and mouths, turning their faces away from the carnage. The rest stared, wide-eyed, at the grisly sight. In shock.
Bang! Click-click-click
The hammer struck hollowly against the empty clip. Omay didn't notice.
As the sultan continued to pull uselessly against the trigger, the diplomat's eyes finally found focus. And as soon as they did, they rolled back into the young man's head.
The body dropped, bleeding, to the stage. Feet kicked feebly as the last electrical impulses from the brain fired before death. Crimson bubbles popped as blood gurgled from wounds in neck and chest, soaking the carpeted surface of the podium.
Only when the body fell did Omay seem to break out of his trance. Looking down on the dead man, the sultan smiled.
Blood had exploded back, flecking his disease-ravaged face with spots of glistening red. The liquid was like an energizing elixir.
Gun in hand he turned, beaming, to the gathered world press.
"Any questions?" Sultan Omay asked.
Chapter 16
Face a stone mask of disgust, Dr. Harold Smith watched the murder as it was broadcast live to the entire world.
He watched the body stand impossibly upright for far, far too long. Watched the young man, barely out of his twenties, stagger and turn away from the hail of bullets. Watched as the secretary of state's aide felt numbly at his own wounds, eyes blind from the sudden stab of bright light.
The aide made a valiant effort to stand, but in the end he could only go the way that all men eventually must. His legs simply buckled beneath him and he fell. Seemingly in slow motion. He landed almost gently.
On the screen Omay licked his dry lips delightedly as he cast his eyes across the bloodied corpse. He then turned back to face the gathered press. When he asked for questions, murmurs of confusion rippled across the room. It was as if to Omay the dead man at his feet were no more than a prop to make a point.
As Smith watched the televised conference unfold, he was astonished to hear an actual question.
The speaker was a reporter from Independent Television News.
"Sultan Omay, does this action on your part place the rest of the hostages in any further danger?"
It was obscene. It was stupid. It was ghoulish. To the reporter it was also news. And decency and compassion had no place in journalism.
"That will be up to America," Omay replied crisply. Blood still speckled his wan face.
The ITN reporter had cracked the ice. More questions followed, though admittedly not many. The queries were about Eblan troops massed at the Israeli border, Israel's own defensive deployments and Sultan Omay's ultimate plans for the Middle East.
Omay answered each question calmly and rationally.
The body stayed there the entire time. None of the soldiers present made any effort to remove it. Watching from his Spartan Folcroft office, Smith shook his head in utter disgust. It was without a doubt the most surreal, horrific moment in the history of the medium.
Fortunately for Smith the blue contact phone jangled atop his desk. He reached for it, relieved for the distraction.
"Smitty, you've got to send me to Ebla," Remo's voice announced without preamble. There was a hard edge to it.
"No," Smith said flatly.
"Didn't you see it?" Remo snapped.
"I am watching the news conference right now."
"News conference?" Remo asked, incredulous. "That was goddamn cold-blooded murder."
"If you are looking for disagreement from me, you are not going to get it," Smith said evenly.
"So send me in," Remo pleaded.
"I cannot," Smith replied tightly.
"Why the hell not?"
Smith closed his eyes. The news conference continued to play out on the computer screen buried beneath the surface of his wide, high-tech desk.
"For one thing there is still the matter of al Khobar's Hollywood trap," the CURE director said.
"Maybe the soldiers here are the trap," Remo offered. "Maybe there isn't anything else. Did you think of that?"
"That was not the impression Omay gave the President. He has informed me that the sultan seemed confident that there was more for us to contend with than a band of Eblan soldiers loose in California."
"Such as?" Remo asked leadingly.
"Unknown at present," Smith admitted wearily. "Remo, did you see anything there that the sultan might believe to be his trump card?"
"Gee whiz, you mean other than the marauding, looting army he's landed on U.S. soil? Uh, no, Smitty, I'm coming up empty on that one."
Smith ignored the sarcasm. "Most of his forces have been there for quite some time," he explained. "Given what I have since learned from the Taurus manifests, it is clear Omay could have set the bulk of his army loose weeks ago."
"So he's big into delayed gratification," Remo said, exasperated. "So what?"
"It might be significant," Smith argued. "Do you know, Remo, what was in those storage containers you saw at the harbor in Long Beach?"
"No," Remo said slowly. "I left my X-ray specs back home." His sarcastic tone was somewhat dulled with mention of the harbor. He was still thinking that this was partially his fault for not noticing anything wrong in his search for Assola al Khobar.
"I have checked the shipping records," Smith said. "Something clearly does not add up. Satellite and ground-intelligence sources have located almost to the last jeep the equipment Omay has on the ground throughout Los Angeles County. The shipments for the past several weeks account for the tanks, jeeps and all other heavy equipment detected so far. Presumably many if not all of the men were sent in aboard the cargo ships, as well."
"Not exactly luxury berths," Remo commented.
"In a jihad comfort is the last order of business," Smith explained. He continued. "Those last two ships-the ones you saw being off-loaded-were packed with cargo containers. You are certain of that, correct?"
"I saw them with my own eyes," Remo said.
Smith nodded grimly. "Remo, I have not been able to account for the cargo aboard one of those two ships."
&
nbsp; Remo blinked. "Smitty," he began slowly, "there were hundreds of containers on that ship."
"Yes," Smith said gravely. "Holding unknown cargo."
Remo exhaled loudly. "So you think the old bastard really does have something hidden up his turban?"
"Until we learn what was aboard that ship, we need to work under the assumption that he does. I will attempt to uncover his ultimate scheme from this end."
"You know there is an easier way," Remo said. "I could wring the information out of Assola." He sounded as if he'd enjoy the prospect.
Smith's response was decisive. "Under no circumstances are you to do anything provocative," the CURE director commanded. "At this point to attack al Khobar could have unknown repercussions. Perhaps the man himself is some sort of triggering mechanism. A subordinate might have been assigned to signal Ebla if he is compromised."
"The only subordinate I've seen near him is the guy who schlepps his dry-cleaning," Remo said, remembering the Eblan soldier with the plastic laundry bag.
"What?" Smith asked.
"Nothing," Remo said with a sigh. "I just-I just wish there was something we could do, Smitty."
"I share your frustration," Smith said, "but at present we are all hostages."
Smith turned his attention back to his computer and the bizarre news conference taking place in Ebla. It was winding down. As Smith watched, Omay left the dais, walking so uncertainly it seemed a question if he would make it off the stage alive. He shuffled past the body of the fallen State Department official and was gone. Back through the doors at which he had first appeared. They closed as if by magic behind his shrunken frame.
"There is a possibility of action on our part," the CURE director said, no hint of emotion in his voice. "But it would have to be synchronized precisely. I do not think it is feasible. It is more a doomsday scenario. The President indicated to me as recently as an hour ago that he hopes for a peaceful diplomatic resolution."
The sound from Remo's hotel TV bled over the line. He was still watching the action in Ebla. "That's shot to hell after this," Remo replied. As the reporters began to file from the hall, Eblan soldiers strode onto the dais near the bullet-riddled body.
"The situation will have to be too grim to resolve any other conceivable way," Smith said. "My alternate plan will only be used as a last resort."
A world away the limp body was dragged indelicately from the stage. On separate coasts of the United States, each man watched the grisly scene, face straining to control revulsion.
"We're way beyond that already, Smitty," Remo said. And his hollow voice was as cold as the grave.
Chapter 17
For Assola al Khobar, becoming the most reviled terrorist in the waning days of the twentieth century had been the ultimate act of late-found teenage rebellion.
"Look at you, Assola," his father, a Saudi Arabian billionaire, had said three months after his son returned from college in the West.
Assola had been watching The Graduate on the big-screen TV in the main living room of his family's estate in Riddah on the Red Sea. He had to crane his neck to see around his wealthy father.
"You have not moved off your backside since returning home," the elder al Khobar continued. "Is this the way you wish to spend your life?"
"You are in the way," Assola said blandly.
A spark of fiery rage erupted in his father's eyes. The older man marched over to the VCR. Grabbing it in his powerful hands, he wrenched the machine from its resting place in the entertainment center. The last Assola saw of it, the VCR and the precious movie it contained were sailing out the window in the direction of the Red Sea.
"I was watching that," Assola complained unhappily.
His father threw up his hands. "What am I to do with you, Assola?" he implored the heavens. "I have offered you employment a hundred times."
"I do not like construction work," Assola sniffed. He had always made it clear what he thought of the business through which his father had made his billions.
"It is no wonder," the senior al Khobar scoffed. "You are too weak to even lift a hammer. If not a laborer, you could be an office worker, yet you show no aptitude for finance or sales. I would make you a janitor, but you are too lazy even for that. You are no good at anything."
The words did not sting. In truth Assola could not disagree. He had never shown interest or aptitude for anything in life.
He finally struck a deal with his father. It was too great a shame for him to stay at home. The old man would give him his inheritance early if Assola agreed to leave Saudi Arabia and never come back. For Assola al Khobar, the agreement was worth every penny of the 250 million dollars he received.
Rich and feckless, Assola wandered the Arab world for several years searching for anything that might spark some life in his terminal case of ennui. It was fate coupled with boredom that led him to Afghanistan during the height of that nation's guerilla war with the old Soviet Union.
Assola was enjoying a forbidden drink in a ratty bar in Faizabad when the explosions started.
The dirt floor of the bar rocked from the impacts outside. Bottles crashed from collapsing shelves. Men yelled and raced for the exits. In fear for his life, Assola bolted after them, hoping they would lead him to safety.
They led him directly into the mouth of the attack. The five Russians MiL helicopters had flown in from a base in Tajikistan to the north. They swept down on Faizabad like Apocalyptic horsemen. The very air shrieked in pain.
Missiles exploded flaming trails of orange from wing rocket pods. The four-barreled machine guns mounted in the noses rattled deafeningly, spitting death-dealing lead at the scattering hordes. All around, people screamed.
But they were not screams of fear. These men of Faizabad reacted like trained soldiers.
As the Russian helicopters swept around for another pass at the city, weapons were brought from a wood-and-grass hovel. Cowering in the street at the rear of a rusted Rambler, Assola got his first up-close view of both the famous American Stinger missiles and the infamous mujahideen.
The swarm of MiLs had spun around. The lead helicopter was nearly upon them when a scraggly-faced old man swept a Stinger to his shoulder. With a casualness that could not but impress Assola al Khobar, the man aimed and fired.
The missile flew a steady course into the under-carriage of the nearest MiL. The helicopter dutifully exploded.
It dropped from the sky like a wounded beast. Behind it a cloud of acrid smoke filled the air.
To Assola's horror the remaining four helicopters burst through the shroud of black smoke, weapons blazing. Three more were taken out as easily as the first. Assola was relieved when only the fifth remained. His relief lasted up until he realized that there were no fighters near him and that the helicopter was heading his way.
Terrified, Assola began crawling rapidly away. Beside the Rambler his shaking hand struck something soft and wet.
The mujahideen fighter, on whose bleeding chest Assola al Khobar had dropped his hand, groaned. An unused rocket launcher lay in the frozen dirt beside the dying man.
Assola grabbed the fighter by his shirtfront. "Get up! Get up!" he pleaded.
The man shook his head. "I am shot," he wheezed.
Assola's eyes were wild. The ground shook. All other sounds were muted by the ferocity of the MiL's pounding rotors. The helicopter was nearly upon them.
"But you must shoot it down!" Assola yelled.
"I am dying," the man gasped. Pinkish froth bubbled from between his parted lips. "You must do it."
Assola's eyes went wide. It was the first thing anyone had asked him to do since he'd failed to take out the garbage for his mother back in Saudi Arabia. "What do I do?" Assola asked, panicked.
They were spotted cowering in the dirt. The nose machine guns of the MiL roared to life. With every inch the gunner drew a more accurate bead.
"Point it and fire!" the man screamed in what would be his final words.
As the mujahideen figh
ter breathed his last, Assola wheeled, missile in hand. Before he even knew it, he had depressed the fire button. The Stinger shrieked to life.
The missile roared off Assola's bucking shoulder. As if suddenly possessed with a mind of its own, the rocket soared into the smoke-streaked Afghan sky. It made a beeline straight into the belly of the approaching MiL.
Like the others before it, the helicopter erupted in a flash of blinding white. Streaking acrid smoke, it plummeted to earth, crashing in an explosion of splintering wood into the very bar at which Assola had been imbibing.
Assola al Khobar gasped. His breath made hot puffs of excited steam in the frigid air.
"Did you see what I did?" he exclaimed to the dead man at his feet. He stared at the burning bar, eyes alight with a fresh fire. A fire of purpose.
And in the ensuing flames that burned the building to ashes, Assola al Khobar was reborn.
The mujahideen accepted their new member joyfully. Even though Assola shied away from direct confrontation with Soviet forces over the ensuing few years of the rebel war, his pockets were deep. That made him a friend.
For his part Assola reveled in his game of war. He had discovered late in life that his destiny did not lie in driving nails or welding beams, as was his father's wish. Assola al Khobar realized that the thing in life he liked most was dealing death. Preferably from a great distance, so as to ensure the safety of Assola al Khobar.
When the timetable for Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan was signed in Geneva in 1988, Assola's contacts around the world were already firmly in place. His segue into global terrorism was as graceful as a dance step from one of the old Fred Astaire musicals he used to watch from the air-conditioned comfort of his father's sofa.
He proclaimed the wholesale murder he dealt in as holy, wrapped himself in the banners of jihad. And as time wore on, he actually began to believe the religiousness of purpose he continually spouted.
But the truth was, if the infidel world were suddenly, miraculously wiped off the face of the planet, Assola al Khobar would simply turn his attention on his fellow Muslims. For the renegade Saudi millionaire, killing was a lot like potato chips. It was just too good to stop at one.
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