by Dick Stivers
Lyons braced his silent Colt on the top stair. Thumbing the fire-selector down one click to semiautomatic, he sighted on the head of the Iranian farthest from him and squeezed the trigger.
The Iranian moved. As he raised his rifle to his shoulder, the .45-caliber hollowpoint slammed into his left cheek at three hundred meters per second, the upward trajectory of the impact-flattened slug tearing away his eyes and half his face. The force spun him back several steps; he was still alive, blood and fluids spraying from his opened skull.
A second slug caught the other Iranian low in the back of the head, killing him instantly as the expanding hollowpoint liberated a devastating shock force of kinetic energy to explode his skull.
Motioning Blancanales and Powell up, Lyons ran through the corridor. He continued past the door to the lobby of the office building. Rusting steel grills covered the long-ago-shattered plate-glass windows. Moldy papers, rifled files and charred furniture littered the lobby. Vandals had spray painted Arabic slogans on the gray marble walls. Everything not burned had been smashed. Only twisted metal and broken glass remained of what had been an abstract sculpture of colored glass rising from the lobby to the mezzanine.
Nothing moved on the mezzanine level. Lyons saw no one on the stairs. He heard nothing in the building.
Lyons turned at the sound of footsteps. Blancanales and Powell stood on each side of the bullet-splintered door. Shia militiamen ran past the door. With the universal hand signals learned by fighting alongside soldiers of many languages, Lyons pointed to where he stood, indicating the interior of the high lobby in a wide sweep of his arm. The Shias nodded. One man squatted against the walls and watched the lobby, his AK rifle ready. The other Shia ran down the stairs to the garage.
Lyons returned to the door. Powell glanced at the two dead Iranians, then at the splintered door.
"Who's in there?" Powell asked in a whisper.
Lyons shrugged.
"Mademoiselle!" Powell shouted in his most nasal Texas accent. "Is that you shooting in there? What is going on?"
"Who is it? Is that you, American? Tell me your name!" a female voice demanded, the voice cracking. "Tell me, identify who you are!"
"This is you-know-who come to rescue you. Mr. Nothing."
"Captain Powell!" the woman shouted. They heard sheet metal squeaking. A weight shifted, then crashed. The door opened and Anne Desmarais looked out. Her face bore the marks and blood of a beating. She held a Kalashnikov. When she saw them, she tried to open the door completely. It banged against metal. She struggled with the door and sobbed. "Oh, finally. Thank you, oh my God I prayed..."
Blancanales spoke slowly, soothingly. "Do you have the door blocked, miss? Do you need us to push the door open? Set that rifle's safety so we don't have an accident. Do you know how to set the safety? That lever on the right side, push it all the way up. That one, good. Step back, we'll push the door open."
The combined force of the three Americans forced a filing cabinet back. Holding the Kalashnikov in one hand, her coat closed with the other, the young French woman sat on a desk top, crying. She wore nothing under the long coat. Her knife-cut sweater and jeans lay in the trash on the office floor. Blancanales went to her immediately, easing the autorifle out of her hands.
"They raped you?" he asked gently.
Desmarais nodded.
As Blancanales soothed the woman, the others checked the dead and wounded. A dead Iranian lay face down on the floor, his fatigue pants around his knees. A moaning man sprawled against a wall clutching a massive wound. Unlike the Revolutionary Guards, he wore the tailored suit and stark white shirt of a diplomat. He sat in a pool of blood, moaning, his eyes watching the Americans.
Powell laughed. "That's First Secretary Baesho, of the Socialist People's Libyan Arab Jamahiriya, also known as the Land of Khaddafi Duck. How are you doing, first secretary?"
"I am a diplomat!" the man responded tersely. "I expect the respect due a man of my position. You will take me to a medical facility immediately!"
Squatting in front of Baesho, Powell grinned into the suffering man's face. "I won't do nothing to you. Unless you cooperate. Then maybe we'll help you out, you miserable bag of pig shit. You had Clayton killed. You tried to get me. Why?"
"You are violating international law..." Baesho began.
Jerking back the diplomat's head by his greasy hair, Powell pulled him to his feet. The diplomat screamed and struggled, his bloody hands clutching at Powell.
Pink intestines bulged from the gut wound.
"See that man over there, First Secretary Pig Shit?" Powell pointed to Blancanales. "That man's a medic. That man can save your life. Talk or I let you die."
Baesho vomited blood. Powell dropped him and the diplomat fell on his face. Blood spread around his head as he vomited and choked. He stopped breathing. Shudders racked his body.
Powell jerked his head up and screamed into his face. "Don't die! Don't... Ah, shit! He's dead. And I wanted to kill him. Here's one for the road, first secretary."
Drawing back his booted foot, Powell released the shuddering man's head and drop-kicked him in the face with enough force to flop him backward. Against the wall, Baesho took a long last gasping breath, his eyes fluttering and rolling. His eyes fixed on Powell. Powell drew back his boot for another kick.
"Quit it, Powell," Lyons told him. "It's pointless."
Powell ignored Lyons and kicked the diplomat again, snapping the dead man's neck.
"One more thing..." Flipping off the safety on his Galil, Powell fired a burst into the dead man's face, spraying brains and bone. He fired again and again until he destroyed the man's head.
Lyons jerked the Marine captain back. "Quit it!" he shouted.
Powell changed the autorifle's magazine. "Hey, specialist. This is my business. That Libyan was in on the barracks bombing. Until you spend a week or so looking for pieces of friends — men that had wives and kids and babies they never got to see and futures they never got to live — until you do that, you can't tell me to quit. I could kill that creature a thousand times and it wouldn't be payback! You understand?"
"I understand we lost the chance to question him. Now we've got nothing but corpses."
"He wouldn't have lived long enough to question."
Akbar came into the ruined office. "We found the ambush. We killed them all."
The woman spoke quietly. "His briefcase. There, over there. Inside the briefcase..."
Lyons snapped open the gold-trimmed leather attache case. Inside, he found passports, stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills still in bank wrappers, and folders. The folders contained airline tickets and complete sets of identification — worker cards, university-student-union identification, and miscellaneous photos of families and places.
Lyons turned to Akbar. "You killed the Iranians outside? All of them? Not one escaped?"
"A wipeout," the Shia militiaman told him. "Totally."
"The tickets are for flights to Mexico," the young woman explained. "All these..." she paused to think of an obscenity, then spat out the word, "Iranians! That one would have sent them to Mexico. There was a Nicaraguan here. They did not know I spoke Spanish. They talked and laughed at what the Iranians did and then the Nicaraguan left. They were raping me, they thought I was unconscious. I tricked them. That one, the Libyan, he went out with the Nicaraguan, and the Iranians went out. Then that one came in to rape me again and he did not see me take a rifle..."
His voice soothing, slow, Blancanales asked, "Can you tell us what they discussed? What do they intend to do in Mexico?"
"No!" Desmarais looked around at the men. "I know but I will not tell you unless you take me to Mexico with you. This is my story."
"Miss, you're all beat up," Blancanales told her. "You need rest and a doctor's care. I don't think it will be possible..."
"No! I need no doctor. I can go. And only if I accompany you, will you learn the information you need."
* * *
In the fr
ont room of Akbar's family home, surrounded by stereo and video systems, the Americans enjoyed a traditional meal as they studied the contents of the first secretary's attache case. Akbar urged food on his American guests. Gadgets, who had finally received a radio call to give up the rooftop wait, drank hot tea.
"It was cold up there!"
Blancanales laughed. "I don't think you would have liked where we were, either."
"Far-out system you have." Gadgets pointed at the shelves of entertainment electronics. "But why five color televisions and all the VCR decks. Looks like Cape Kennedy in here."
Akbar only smiled. "My family is in the business," he said noncommittally.
"I eat with my hands?" Lyons interrupted.
"Right hand for eating," Akbar instructed. "Here you can use your left hand for picking up the bottles and dishes. In other countries they're more strict about the left hand. The best idea is to watch what they're doing and do that. That is a chili! Oh, man..."
Too late, a handful of rice and lamb spiced with green chili seared Lyons's mouth. He grabbed a bottle of orange pop from the table with his sticky right hand. The bottle shot from his hand, but he grabbed it in midfall with his left and he gulped pop. "Hot! Hot... hot..." he said breathlessly.
"When I was in L.A.," Akbar said to the Americans, "everyone thought they could burn me out with Mexican food. Not me, man. I ate it all."
Lyons sucked down breath after breath, then drank more orange pop. "Not you. I understand. They grow super-jalapefios in Lebanon?"
"Looks like we'll be going to Mexico," Powell told them.
"Is that the final destination?" Blancanales asked. "Or one more stop in the zigzag?"
"That's where all the tickets go. And this..." Powell pointed to a series of tickets. "There's a sequence of arrivals. There's no sequence in Amsterdam or Paris. The Iranians were to get off in Mexico City and call this contact. One man at a time. If Mexico was only a stop, they'd get off the plane, then go to the bus station, zip on to the next place."
"Makes sense," Lyons admitted. "But so what? Maybe it's a zigzag, maybe it isn't. But that's where their contact is. We take him, he takes us to the next stop."
"There goes the Ironman," Gadgets added. "Cutting through all the machinations and mystery. Don't talk about zigzags to him. All he sees is straight lines."
"You want to spend three weeks analyzing this data?" Lyons demanded. "Maybe wait for a Congressional Resolution? We're leaving for Mexico, immediately."
"And how does our dear Mademoiselle Desmarais figure in your plans?" Powell asked.
"She doesn't. She wants a story. Chances are she didn't hear anything. She just wants to stay in the game."
"Like you say, maybe and maybe not," Powell responded. "I know she's got information. Now that I'm a good guy, maybe she'll tell. I'll have hours and hours on the plane to talk."
"If she can travel," Blancanales cautioned. "She could be hurt in ways she doesn't even realize. I hope she has the intelligence to listen to the doctor if he wants to hospitalize her."
"I know her type," Powell said, laughing. "She won't listen to anyone. Akbar, look at this one. Think you could pass?" Powell flipped a passport to his Shia friend.
Akbar wiped off his hands and studied the passport's photograph. "Am I that ugly?"
"It's that joker's beard. You'll have to say you shaved, but the forehead and eyes match."
"You're sending him to Mexico City?" Blancanales asked. "If the contact's gotten word of the killings..."
Lyons nodded. "Yeah, they'll try to hit him. Either way, you make the connection."
"I don't like that idea!" Akbar protested.
"We'll be there," Lyons told him. "We'll back you up."
Akbar's elderly manservant ushered in Anne Desmarais. She had put on makeup to cover her bruises. Though she walked stiffly, painfully, she carried a suitcase. "When do we leave?"
Powell looked to the others. "Any minute now, if..."
"We'll make our own plans," Lyons interrupted. He looked to his partners.
They nodded their agreement.
11
Via satellite-relayed long-distance telephone, Blancanales talked with Captain Soto of the army of Mexico. In the months since Able Team — aided by then-Lieutenant Soto — attacked the forces of the Fascist International, politics had played a central role in the life of Soto. The officer mentioned arrest and imprisonment followed by reinstatement and promotion to captain. But he held no bitterness for the North Americans. He laughed at the difficulties caused by Able Team's previous visit to Mexico.
"I am now famous. A hero," Soto declared. "I will tell you many stories when you visit."
"And we will tell you a story. Perhaps you will have a role to play."
"Oh? You come on business?"
"Important business. Can you meet us at the airport?"
"Certainly! Of course. It will be my pleasure to..."
"Can you meet us beforewe go through Customs?"
"Oh, I understand... I will think of something. Leave the plane last. Do not follow the crowd into the terminal."
"We will see you. If there is a delay or if we must change flights, we'll call again."
"Good. I look forward to your visit."
After breaking the connection, Blancanales paid the desk clerk in dollars. He received his change in Greek currency. He did not bother to count the change. Able Team would be on Cyprus only another hour.
Gadgets and Lyons waited outside the tourist hotel in a limousine. Blancanales hurried through the freezing rain and joined his partners in the warmth of the idling Mercedes.
"You talked to him?" Lyons asked.
"He said he can help us..."
"Great." Lyons signaled the driver to continue to the airport.
"But you know," Blancanales continued. "He's had serious problems since we were there."
"He still in the service?" Gadgets asked.
"He was in prison. Now he's back in the service. With a promotion to captain."
Lyons laughed. "After this, maybe he'll hit major."
12
Knives flashed in the firelight. Choking on their own blood, the Syrian soldiers kicked and struggled in the grip of the Iranians. Rouhani watched the Syrians die, then motioned his Revolutionary Guards on to the next sentry position. Two of his men stayed in the sheet-metal shack to dispose of the bodies and stand watch.
The others ran through the gray pall of falling snow. The mercury-arc floodlights spaced along the perimeter guided the Iranians to the next entry shack. They approached slowly, listening to the Syrians inside talking around the fire. Rouhani signaled two of his Guards to go inside. He and the others waited outside, like shadows in the swirling snow, their knives ready.
Greeting the Syrians like friends, the two Revolutionary Guards stepped up to the fire and warmed their hands. One Guard took American cigarettes from his coat. He offered the cigarettes to the Syrians and the soldiers each took one. As the two sentries leaned down to the fire to light the cigarettes, the other Iranians rushed in with their knives.
Again, the Syrians died quickly.
Rouhani left his Guards at the post. Alone with his thoughts, he walked into the gray swirl of blowing snow to the village. His heart hammered with exultation. Tonight he finally took command of the strike against the satanic Americans. No longer would the Syrians control the rockets.
He had never believed the Syrians would actually kill the American President. They hid behind diplomacy and foreign relations and negotiations. Cowards! How can a believernegotiate with Satan?
Had not the Syrians waited at their nation's frontiers for years, facing the Jews but never attacking? Did not the Syrians tolerate for years the Americans in Lebanon? Did not the Syrians possess the Soviet missile systems, only for the missiles to stand unused, never launched against the Jew enemy or the Americans or the other enemies of the Faith?
Now the Syrians made rockets to attack America. But would they ever launch the
rockets?
Rouhani would not wait for the answer. Tonight, under the cover of this storm sent by Allah, while the Syrian officers and technicians holidayed in Damascus, he took the weapons of doom from the Syrians.
On the streets of the village, his Guards saluted him from doorways. His men held the offices and workshops. Rouhani did not know what holiday took the Syrians back to their capital. He did not care. He honored only the holidays ordained by the Prophet or declared by the Ayatollah. Let the Syrians celebrate their orgies of alcohol and sensuality — the thought sickened him. The video machines of pornography, the American and European films in the theaters, the imported luxuries, the Syrian women in tight pants and shimmering fashions, their bodies scented with exotic perfumes, their faces painted, their lips red and pouting, like a promise of paradise...
No! He refused to think of the venereal filth, the corruption on earth. He must direct his thoughts only to destruction, to the rain of doom on the creatures of Satan.
The Americans would be there when the rockets fell, the scented women in their revealing gowns, their breasts hot, rising and falling with every trembling breath as they watched their foul President of America taking his oath of depravity and dominion over the people of the earth.
Destroy them! With explosives, with white phosphorus, with the nerve gases! Rain down the fire of death on them, rip their flesh and let their polluted blood drain into the polluted earth of satanic America. Cleanse the earth of their sin and evil!
Hallucinations of sex and death flashing against the swirling snow, Rouhani ran down the long ramp to the underground factory. Inside, he stared around, his eyes still focused on the erotic visions generated within his mind as his men crowded up to him.
"Leader! The trucks are ready..." one shouted.
"Have you cleared the sentries from the gates?" Rouhani asked.
"Leader... are you wounded?"
Rouhani shoved away the Guards attempting to help him. He brought his thoughts back to the immediate moment. Striding past his men, he surveyed the workshop.
