20

AT A FEW minutes to nine that night Keven was on a hillside rock a short distance from the Auberge des Noves.

She had returned to Avignon because she felt it would be easier for her to do her waiting there. Not that any place could really reduce her aloneness or her fear for Hazard, but at least there she had a residual of recent happiness with him that she could draw on.

Now that it was almost the hour they’d set for their nightly communion, she wondered what his message would be. Maybe he’d send her a romantic thought, like the one he’d sent from the plane, which she, out of hurt and pique, had denied receiving. Happiness was born a twin. She’d liked that. Or maybe he might send something erotic, which wouldn’t be at all bad.

It was time. She took a deep breath. The Provençal air offered the fragrance of wild-growing spices. Her mind began its usual race, all sorts of thoughts in rapid succession. She’d come to think of this phase as a sweeping away—a stirring up of old impressions like particles of dust in her mental atmosphere. Suddenly there was the clearing, the opening of the inner envelope to disclose a white whiter than any other white.

She got the message.

Realizing its tone of urgency, she hurried to the Auberge and when it was 9:15 exactly she was in the suite with pen and paper ready to record whatever came to her.

It didn’t come with absolute precision, not as though she were a human teletype. It came in various ways and with different degrees of difficulty. Some parts of it graphically, in the form of pictures. Other parts letter for letter, spelling out. And some words came whole.

Altogether it was something like a rebus that she had to interpret. She wasn’t sure of a couple of things but used common sense to fill in and construct a continuity.

ALERT ISRAELI INTELLIGENCE

PINCHON ARAB EXTREMISTS PLAN

VX–10 ATTACK GAS NOW CAIRO

TRANSPORT SOMEWHERE SUNDAY

ISRAEL TARGETS UNKNOWN

She printed it out neatly on a sheet of Auberge stationery, folded it once and took it downstairs. She found Monsieur Feldman alone at the reception desk. She said nothing as she handed the piece of paper to him. He read it without reaction.

“Should this mean something to me?” he asked politely.

Keven remembered Hazard’s opinion about Monsieur Feldman’s affiliation with Mosad. She had to depend on that now. “Doesn’t it?” she said.

He asked where she’d gotten this strange piece of information.

“From a travel agency in Cairo,” she said, surprised at how she sounded, very much like a regular spy. “I assume you can make the necessary arrangements.”

Monsieur Feldman scanned the message again. After a thoughtful moment he looked up and told her yes.

Keven went back to her suite. For a while she sat there in the dark gazing out, her thoughts prayerlike, asking for her man’s safety. Then, deciding she possibly hadn’t done all she could, she placed a trans-Atlantic call to Kersh.

As soon as he finished talking with Keven, Kersh called DIA district headquarters. A secretary told him that Mr. Rich-land wasn’t in and wasn’t expected until next week.

Was there any way of reaching Mr. Richland?

No.

It was very important.

Mr. Richland’s orders were he was not to be disturbed except in case of extreme emergency. Was this an emergency?

Yes, but never mind, Kersh told her.

He called Washington, the Pentagon.

After several misconnections and long waits he finally got through to Mumford.

Mumford listened for only a few moments before interrupting. “I’m in an important conference,” he said. “If what you need is more than a yes or no you’ll have to call back.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“This can’t wait. It’s vital that-”

“Call back,” Mumford said.

“Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

“I think not.”

“I’m coming down,” Kersh told him.

It was then almost five o’clock. Washington would be gone for the day by the time he got there. He took the shuttle at seven the next morning. He was at the Pentagon at nine. He got in to see Mumford at ten.

Mumford had a different office now, slightly larger than the previous one but no less sterile. Same cheap gold-fringed Stars and Stripes, same framed photographic line-up of Chiefs on a wall, except for Nixon, a new one of Nixon. Mumford himself had changed. He’d had his suits taken in and then gained back all the pounds he’d lost, so that now he couldn’t even button up. He didn’t stand for a handshake when Kersh entered because he had his trousers undone at the waist.

Kersh got right to the point by showing Mumford a typed out copy of Hazard’s message. Mumford mumbled the words aloud as he read them. “Where’d you get this?”

Kersh told him.

“You put a man in there?”

“He’s there,” Kersh said.

“Who? What’s his name?”

“Hazard.”

Mumford cleared his throat. “One of your telepathy spooks, I suppose.”

Kersh resented that.

Mumford explained that spooks was the normal term for agents. He asked Kersh, “Is that how he got the message out, using telepathy?”

“Yes.”

Mumford seemed a bit relieved. A secretary came then with a cup of coffee, a heavy white G.I. cup. Asked if he wanted some, Kersh impatiently declined. Mumford took a swallow and placed the cup down on the message.

“You don’t believe it,” said Kersh.

“Anything’s possible. You know, of course, you were out of line sending someone in without first getting an okay. Way out of line.”

“I didn’t come down here to be chided like a schoolboy.”

“Just so you know.”

“What I want to know is what you’re going to do about that.” Kersh indicated the message.

“Our Plans Section will get right on it. They handle this sort of thing.”

That sounded much too routine for Kersh. “What will they do?”

“Well, seeing it’s Middle East, chances are this won’t be news to them. For obvious reasons we’re tight in on that picture. Anyway, leave it to me.”

“I’m concerned about Hazard.”

“Naturally. He’s in over his head. But don’t worry, we’ll handle it.”

As a final show of reassurance Mumford took a pair of rubber stamps from his middle desk drawer. He inked and slammed them on the paper above the message. One was ROUTE TO PLANS SECTION. The other was PRIORITY ATTENTION.

Kersh thanked him.

After Kersh’s departure, Mumford initialed a thick sheaf of intra-agency memos that his secretary brought in. Then he picked up the Hazard message and went over it again. He reminded himself that just the week before a white directive had come from the Chief regarding Information Overkill. Too much information was being collected by the various intelligence agencies, most of it was redundant and/or trivial. With all the new surveillance gadgets at work, such as the Project 674 Satellite and high-spying SR–71 jets, the intelligence community was being inundated with perishable, unsifted information. The Chief wanted less raw stuff and more analysis.

Mumford considered routing the Hazard message to the Information Sifting Unit for routine evaluation, but then …

… well, for one thing, vx–10. That had to be an error. There was just no way anyone could get vx–10.

Also, there was this telepathy angle. What a crock.

Mumford decided it wasn’t even worth feeding into the Possibility Computer. He crumpled the message and dropped it into his wastebasket.

The morning of that same Friday Hazard was up early.

He made out a list of the things he’d need. Then he went down to the lobby. At the desk he changed fifty British pounds into five hundred twenty-six Egyptian pounds and arranged for a car with an English-speaking driver.

A half hour later he was in downtown-Cairo traffic—a crush of nervous taxis, impudent, overloaded buses, and pedestrians daring to dodge across for their lives.

At Ezbekyia Garden near the Opera House the driver pulled over. He gave directions to Hazard and said he would wait there, effendi.

Up a lane too narrow for cars, then right and left brought Hazard to a section of old Cairo known as El Muski. All along there were stalls and small shops, some no more than yard-wide slits between buildings. Barrow and cart vendors by the hundreds, selling all sorts of second-hand things. Motors, plumbing fixtures, electric fans, odd wheels, cooking pots, shoes, batteries. Hazard thought that even the food being sold there smelled second hand. By no means was it a fashionable bazaar, nor could it be called quaint or colorful. It was dirty, teeming and stinky.

In Shari’ el Khiyamiya, Hazard came onto a stall that looked promising. It displayed a great variety of junk, all of it used, most of it stolen. The moment Hazard paused the fat stall-keeper came scurrying over. What had caught Hazard’s interest was a strip of metal hanging high up. The stallkeeper got it down, handling it as though it were precious.

Hazard recognized it immediately as a piece of magnesium alloy—an extrusion about five feet long, six inches wide, with slightly raised edges like a shallow trough. It weighed only a few ounces. Despite its thin gauge it was stronger than steel, had no give to at all. Hazard noticed Russian lettering stamped into the metal at one corner and guessed that the piece was intended for the fuselage of a jet fighter or bomber.

It would do perfectly, Hazard decided. He asked the stall-keeper how much.

The stallkeeper told him, “Etnen guineh.”

Hazard didn’t understand. The stallkeeper showed him with two fingers. Two Egyptian pounds. Hazard agreed. The stall-keeper glanced upward to Allah and shook his head in disdain of anyone who didn’t care enough to bargain. He would have settled for half that, even less.

Now Hazard held up his fingers. He wanted six of these magnesium extrusions.

The stallkeeper understood and was momentarily at a loss. He had only this one. But he knew where he could get others. He rushed off and in a few minutes came back with five more of the same. Not precisely the same. Three were about a half inch less in width.

All the better, Hazard thought.

The stallkeeper bound the extrusions together with cheap string, and Hazard found his way back to the car.

Next stop was Hannoux, the large department store on Shari El-Tahrir, where Hazard bought:

a long black caftan robe

a black shirt

a pair of tennis sneakers

6 ordinary hot-water bottles

4 crystal vases packed safely in polystyrene

a ladies’ compact containing black mascara

From there he was taken to a hardware store in the Bulaq district for:

2 empty gallon cans

100 feet of quarter-inch nylon line

15 bolts and nuts

an electric drill

a set of metal-working bits

a galvanized-tin funnel

several jig-saw blades

a can of flat black paint

a paint brush

a screwdriver

a pair of pliers

a toilet plunger

They then went to a used-car lot on the road to Alexandria, where Hazard bought a 1956 British-made Willys enclosed Jeep with four-wheel drive and special traction tires for desert travel. Hazard took it for a short test drive, and, although considerable black smoke came from its exhaust which meant it was an oil eater—it ran pretty well for a seventeen-year-old. Anyway, it should still be good for a sprint.

He paid the dealer six hundred dollars, drove the Jeep away and followed the hired car back to Mena House.

A hotel boy came out and carried Hazard’s purchases up to the suite. All except the empty cans. Hazard took those to a gasoline station about a half mile down Shari Al Haram. He had the Jeep lubed, gassed, and its oil changed. He also filled the pair of gallon cans with gasoline.

When he got back to the hotel he took the cans up with him. The moment he entered the suite he noticed something new. In his absence the hotel had installed a television set. There was a note begging pardon for the inconvenience Hazard had presumably suffered until now without a TV.

It was quarter after five. He had a lot of work to do and was anxious to get at it. However his stomach was empty and complaining. He’d eaten nothing all day. Instead of ordering from room service he went down to the hotel restaurant for a thick steak and a double order of scrambled eggs. Steak and eggs, the traditional fare of boxers before big fights.

After the meal he stopped in at the gift shop off the lobby to buy a map of Egypt and a Zippo-type cigarette lighter that had the face of the Sphinx crudely painted on it. The woman behind the counter fueled the lighter for him.

Back up to the suite.

Before starting he got organized, laid everything out on the floor. He selected the proper-sized bit and locked it into the electric drill. Using the arms of a chair for support, he measured, marked, and drilled three holes, left, right, and center, a half inch from both ends of each of the six magnesium extrusions. He inserted the bolts to make sure they fit.

Next, he unpacked the vases. Placing them to one side, he removed the polystyrene from the cartons and took the chunks of that white, light stuff into the bathroom. Also the funnel, the hot-water bottles, the gasoline, and the toilet plunger. He kneeled down beside the bathtub and closed the drain.

First the polystyrene. He tore it into tiny shreds that he tossed into the tub. It covered the bottom of the tub with a four-inch layer. Then he poured in the gasoline. He used the toilet plunger to mash and stir until the mixture was a sticky viscous substance. Over the tub as he was, the fumes got to him, made him a little dizzy. He had to leave the bathroom for a short breather.

Getting back to it, he inserted the funnel into the neck of one of the hot-water bottles. With a hotel water glass he transferred some of the substance from the tub to the bottle. When the bottle was plumped out full he screwed its cap in good and tight. They were common red-rubber hot-water bottles with a little loop at the bottom for hanging up. He filled all six of the bottles and still had some of the substance left over. He drained the tub and rinsed it, as well as the plunger and the funnel and the glass. An oily film stayed on everything, but he hadn’t made too much of a mess.

Bathtub napalm.

He thanked his memory for the formula that he’d seen in one of those CBW articles.

It was now ten to eight.

Plenty of time.

He placed each of the magnesium extrusions diagonally upright against the bathroom wall. He painted their bottom surfaces and outer edges black. He also painted the sneakers. It was a fast-drying paint—dull, flat black. Keeping things neat he put the lid on the paint can and discarded it and the brush in the wastebasket.

It was getting dusky outside. He switched on the bed lamp and took a look at the map. He saw that the entire area west and northwest of the Pyramids was, as he’d thought, nothing but desert—the Sahara. His eyes drew a line directly northwest to the Mediterranean and hit on the coastal village of Sidi Abdel Rahman. Most of the coast along there was uninhabited. Hazard mentally x’d a spot ten miles east of Rahman. The next nearest place, he noticed, was El Alamein, the famous World War II battle site.

At nine o’clock he sent to Keven. Telling her once more to stand by for messages on the quarter hour. Again he sent only four words at a time. He kept the total message to twelve words so it required only three transmissions.

TELL ISRAELIS IMPERATIVE RENDEZVOUS

TOMORROW DAWN MEDITERRANEAN COAST

TEN MILES EAST RAHMAN

That was just in case, a way out for him if his luck held. For sure there’d be a lot of pissed-off Arabs on the lookout for him at the airport and all other usual departure points.

Which was also the reason he’d bought the Jeep. Now, he decided, it was time to attend to it. He went out to the parking area where he’d left it. At the end of the hotel drive he took a right and drove up to the plateau of the Pyramids. No one there now. He parked the Jeep out of sight on the west side of the Grand Pyramid between two of the many large humps of dirt that were the old tombs. He realized then how bright the night was with the moon flooding a silvery light, defining things even at a distance. It wouldn’t help.

Returning to the suite he had some time to spare. He ordered up a couple of beers. The hotel offered Schlitz and Pabst but he decided to try an Egyptian brand called Stella. It was quite strong and had a strange licorice flavor. Swigging straight from the bottle, he turned on the television. The show in progress was “Peyton Place,” and he got a laugh watching all those small-town mixed-up American characters emoting in Arabic. When that was over, in place of a commerical a woman commentator came on to extoll the benefits of intrauterine devices. With diagrams. After her came an old “Bonanza.”

At eleven-thirty he got ready.

He put on the black shirt and the painted black sneakers. Then he cut several short lengths of nylon line and knotted them together to create a harness that went over both shoulders and around his chest and back. He tied the six hot-water bottles to it, so that he had one on each side, three behind, and one right front. That left room for the Llama and its holster.

He checked the Llama. It had a full clip. He took it off safety.

Six pockets: His jeans had four and the shirt two. Into them he put the bolts and nuts, jig-saw blades, pliers, screwdriver, mascara compact, Zippo lighter, his passports, money and the key to the Jeep. He reserved the right front pocket for his special knife.

He tied the magnesium extrusions together and wrapped them in some of the store paper from his shopping. What remained of the nylon line, about eighty feet, he gathered into a neat series of loops and hung from his belt. He rechecked to make sure the hot-water bottles were secure. Then he put on the black caftan robe. It was floor length and plenty loose all around. He felt bulgy but didn’t look it.

He switched off the television, paused to guzzle the last of the beer, picked up the package of extrusions and went out.

He felt conspicuous going through the lobby but no one paid him any special notice. As far as they were concerned he was just another tourist gone native. As he left the hotel it occurred to him that he was beating them for the tab.

Down the road a short way, he crossed over to the golf course. No need to hurry, except to escape that part of himself telling him it was foolish to risk everything on little more than a hunch. He countered that with there are no sure things and other times when he’d gone against the form and won. Like that afternoon two years ago at Belmont when he’d bet it all on a maiden filly just because he’d liked the way she held her head, and she’d gotten out in front and gone wire to wire for him. He also thought maybe he wouldn’t be doing this if he’d had some action lately. None for two weeks. Hell, how long can a boozer go without a drink?

He passed between two cypresses and there was the house, less than a hundred feet away. As shown on Gabil’s plans it was large and enclosed all around by a fifteen foot wall. The wall was two feet thick. Set six inches above its top surface was an infrared alarm system with small relay units spaced at regular intervals. Anyone trying to climb over would unknowingly break the invisible beam and activate the alarm, a wowing siren. There were also floodlights along the top of the wall, directed in and down. The house was situated well within the perimeter like an island within an island.

One thing at a time, Hazard told himself. He paced off forty yards along the west side and looked up. There was where he’d try to go over. He took off the robe.

Then he got out the mascara compact. His mouth was so dry he had to tongue his palate and gums to work up saliva. He spat on his fingers, rubbed them on the little black cake and then on his face, repeating that until his face, neck, ears and hands were covered.

Kneeling, he unwrapped, untied and separated the extrusions according to width. He connected one of each size with the bolts and nuts, using the screwdriver and pliers to tighten as much as possible. Alternately adding a narrow and a wide, he soon had them all joined. He picked up the thirty-foot length they now created. It was light, but unwieldy.

He leaned it against the wall, so that one end hit about two thirds of the way up. Gauging from that, he lifted slowly until that end was where he wanted it, precisely on the upper outer edge of the wall. For a test he reached up where he could along the length of extrusions and hung all his weight from it. It was rigid. The lower end dug in and held in the sandy soil.

What he had was a ramp six inches wide going up at about a thirty-degree angle.

It turned out to be more difficult than he’d thought. He went up slowly, hesitating after each step to make sure he had balance before taking the next. He couldn’t have done it in regular shoes, but the sneakers really grabbed.

As he climbed, more and more of the house came into view beyond the wall and then the compound around the house, brightly lighted. At the rear corner of the house, about seventy feet to his left, he saw an armed guard. A clutch inside cost him concentration. He wavered but managed to regain his balance.

A few more steps and he’d reached the top of the wall. He placed one foot on its outer edge, then the other foot. The advantage he had was knowing the infrared beam was there, knowing exactly where it was. It gave him a clearance of six inches below to work with and nearly twelve inches on each side. He told himself to imagine the beam was a visible high-voltage wire, and stepped high over it to gain the inside surface of the top. Keeping in place, he turned to face out.

The next part was going to be tough. He couldn’t squat because of the beam. He had to bend from the waist to reach the end of his makeshift ramp. Using both hands, he got a good grip on it and pulled it to him and up, more and more of it, hand over hand until he had enough to bring it up horizontally over his head. He executed another slow turn in place, to again be facing the house.

Gabil’s plans had indicated a distance of at least forty feet all around from the wall to the house. Except here where the servant’s quarters winged out some and were built lower, about equal in height with the wall. It was, according to Gabil’s plans, twenty-five feet from the wall to the flat roof of the servant’s quarters.

Hazard fed out the length of extrusions, black side down, until it reached. Carefully he allowed the far end to rest on the roof. Then he placed his end on the inner top surface of the wall, between his feet.

In addition to the man on guard at the rear corner of the house there were two others at the front corner. All had automatic rifles slung to their shoulders. They were leaning, slouched, restless, smoking, apparently feeling secure—at least they weren’t very alert. The compound was bright as day from all the lights along the wall. That, as Hazard had hoped, was in his favor. The lights mostly eclipsed anything above their downward glare. Hazard’s painting the underside of the extrusions black and making himself as obscure as possible were extra precautions. The house, Hazard saw, was three tall stories with various levels and balconies, about thirty rooms.

He placed a sneakered foot on the narrow ramp and took the first step. Then another. He told himself to take it slow and sure, just keep going, but when he was half way across he was pounding so hard inside he wanted to stop. He tried not to think about the consequences of falling; bullets from their automatic rifles chopping and burning into him. What was happening to his legs? He felt as though he didn’t have legs, numb from the hips down. Still, his feet kept moving, short step after short step until he reached the roof.

He let out a long, quiet exhale. Had he held his breath all that time?

He decided there was less danger in leaving the ramp where it was. For his return trip. Stepping lightly, he went across the roof and over a railing to be on a wide exterior balcony. From that balcony he went up to another level and from there climbed onto the main roof. It was also flat.

Again from Gabil’s plans, Hazard knew all he had to do was cross over and go down one level to reach Mutsafa’s room. Mustafa might be sleeping. With a window open. It would be easy. One silenced shot and it would be all over.

The notion tempted Hazard but he pushed it out of mind and went to the far rear edge to look down.

About six feet below was a spacious horizontal roof of glass, countless individual panes framed by wood. In most other parts of the world the frames would have been metal and the panes sealed tightly in; however, here where rain was a miracle there was no need for that.

Considerable dust had gathered and caked on the panes but Hazard could make out the lighted room beneath. No one there. It was, as Gabil had said, a swimming-pool area, all blue-and-white mosaic tiles. No water in the pool, instead thick planks forming a platform.

Resting on the platform … the canisters.

Hazard swung his legs over and got a foothold on a small architectural outcropping. He gently lowered himself onto the glass roof, not sure it would take his weight. He felt it give a little, but staying on the edge where it was likely to be stronger he made his way to the corner. Just around the corner, he noticed, was an upright balcony column that might serve his purpose.

He took out the screwdriver, squatted and got to work. The putty around the panes was sun baked and old and under the blade of the screwdriver it came off in chunks. When he had removed all the putty from around the first frame he inserted the blade of the screwdriver between the glass and its frame and pried the glass up so his fingers could lift it out completely. He repeated that process until the six corner panes were removed.

He used a saw blade to cut through the frames. They were soft enough wood and the saw didn’t make much noise, but it was tedious work. Hazard’s impatience made him want to just break the frames out. However, he kept sawing and he’d soon created a large-enough opening. He removed the nylon line from his belt. A helpful idea occurred to him at that moment. He let the line go free and then regathered it in layers of equal-sized reverse loops. He inserted the end of the line through the loops and as he pulled it through and out it automatically formed knots every three feet. He’d learned that one night in a Lackawanna boxcar from a black ex-sailor whom he now thanked.

He tied the line securely around the balcony column before dropping it down through the opening.

Knot by knot he went down the line, about thirty feet to the tiled floor. He saw there was only one entrance to the room—large double doors that connected to the rest of the house. The doors were closed now. Gabil had told him two guards were constantly posted outside the room. He had to be quiet. No mistakes.

The atomizing pods were off to one side. The canisters lay no more than a yard apart on the platform, their business ends pointed toward the shallow part of the pool nearest the door. Noiselessly, Hazard stepped onto the platform. He saw the serial numbers on the canisters, and hoped he was right. He took a quick look at the unlocking valves the Arabs had made. They were threaded into place. A simple lever on the valve would release the contents of the canisters. The thought of it gave Hazard a chill.

He untied one of the hot-water bottles, unscrewed its cap, and poured napalm over one of the canisters. The substance was thicker, more gluey now. It ran slowly down and around and under the cylindrical shape, adhering to the metal. He distributed the rest of his supply of napalm equally over the two canisters.

Anthrax bacteria cannot survive under conditions of extreme heat. That was what Hazard was counting on. That thought he’d had about inadequately cooked meat and anthrax had given him the idea.

The napalm would heat the canisters and their contents to a high degree. Because the canisters were made of metal they would be very conductive. The anthrax bacteria would be dead in minutes. Pinchon and his Arabs would have nothing. If the canisters contained anthrax. Heat would not affect vx–10.

He lit the Zippo, held it at arm’s length.

The napalm burst into flame, immediately producing a heat so intense that Hazard had to back off. That canister ignited the other and then both were aflame along their entire lengths, underneath and all around. The flames went up, six, eight, ten feet. Black smoke spiraled.

A few minutes and the flames subsided, but Hazard could still see the heat simmering and swirling the air above the canisters.

A tinkling sound.

And another, louder.

Hazard looked up and realized what was happening. The extreme heat was causing the glass above to crack. Sections of the panes were falling and shattering on the tiles. More and more glass came raining down.

The Arab guards had to hear it.

Hazard was in the shallow end of the pool. He’d never get up and out of the room in time. He crouched down close to the side of the pool, out of sight.

The double doors opened.

The two Arab guards saw the smoldering canisters. What was it, an accident? They took a couple of steps forward, their automatic rifles leveled and ready. Actually, they doubted anyone was there. They were more afraid of the canisters.

Hazard’s first thought was to go for his Llama. The two Arabs were only a dozen feet from him. If he suddenly stood up he might get one. Might.

He glanced up at the canisters. Their valves were just out of reach. It was, he decided, a chance. At least it was a more useful way to go.

In a single swift motion he reached up with both hands; left and right he pulled down the levers on the valves.

Hiiiss …

The two Arabs knew what vx–10 could do. The sure agonizing death of it. They quickly retreated from the room, slamming the door shut behind them.

Hazard stood up. He was right in the stream of the expelling canisters. Their invisible pressurized contents struck and flowed around him.

He’d know in a minute if he’d been right or wrong, won or lost.

Be there, baby.

It was the longest minute of his life. He waited for the symptoms. His hands were trembling. He noticed the air smelled sour, stale.

More than a minute went by.

He felt all right. He felt fine, great to be alive.

The canisters were still harmlessly hissing away when he went hand over hand up the line and out onto the roof.

Below in the lighted compound there was now plenty of activity. Arabs running about, shouting. One voice stood out from the rest, issuing crisp, angry orders. Mustafa.

Hazard climbed up to the main roof. He went across and looked over the edge. They’d discovered his ramp, were pulling it down, eliminating his only means of escape. They had him trapped, stranded on an island within an island.

He drew his Llama and went around the perimeter of the roof, looking down for any possible way. He saw the front gate to the compound, a formidable iron gate. It would be locked until dawn, as Gabil had said. Parked off to the right, well away from the wall, was a large vanlike truck. No doubt the one they’d intended to use to transport the pods. Two cars were parked directly in front of the house.

A muffled sound from the opposite edge. Hazard turned and immediately went stomach down on the roof. Two of them were climbing up the side from the balcony just below. They were about thirty feet from him, easily distinguishable in their light khaki clothes, outlined against the darker sky. Hazard, less visible, had the advantage. He aimed and squeezed. A heart shot to the one on the left. The other one managed to spray off some wild shots before Hazard put two into him.

All the lights went out.

Apparently it wasn’t strategy by the Arabs because there was confusion below and guttural cursing. Hazard also heard the truck being started and put into gear. Its headlights went on as it moved swiftly across the front compound. When Hazard saw it deliberately bear down on two Arabs and send them sprawling he knew it had to be Gabil behind the steering wheel.

Full speed, the truck went around the corner of the house and down its longer side, hitting anyone who got in its way.

In the dark, Hazard crossed over the roof and swung down to the balcony. That offered access to another lower roof and another balcony, and finally he was on the roof of the servants’ quarters. From there he saw Gabil jam the truck into the corner of the compound. There was the screaming of metal against concrete as he wedged the truck close up to the wall. The impact smashed out the headlights.

Hazard jumped and began running. He had about a hundred feet to go.

The Arabs were shooting in the direction of the truck. Hazard could hear their bullets plunking into its metal and ricocheting off the wall. He expected to be hit, but he reached the truck, climbed up on its hood, to its cab, to the top of its van. He pulled himself up to the top of the wall, bellied over and dropped to the outside ground.

Gabil came down hard beside him.

On the run Hazard told Gabil about the Jeep, and they headed for it. They were by no means in the clear. The Arabs were after them, coming over the wall and out the front.

Gabil led the way through the cypresses to the sandstone depression below the sheer ledge of the pyramidal plateau. A traversing path got them to that higher ground. Running full out over sandy rubble they reached the Grand Pyramid, the east base. The Jeep was stashed on the side opposite. They had to go around.

When they were part way along the north base, two cars pulled up sharply at the northwest corner. Gabil and Hazard reversed their direction, but by then the Arabs on foot were at the northeast corner.

Only one way for Gabil and Hazard to go.

Climbing the pyramid, Hazard discovered, was not nearly as easy as it looked, not a matter of merely stepping up from one level to the next. The stones were about waist high and he had to negotiate them childlike, alternately kneeing up and standing. By the time he’d clambered up twenty of the courses his shins were bruised and his knees skinned. Gabil, taller, had a somewhat easier time of it. On the twenty-fifth course he waited for Hazard to catch up.

“How many?” Hazard asked, meaning the men still after them.

“Eight, maybe nine.” Gabil had his revolver in hand.

They agreed to separate to improve their chances, go up another thirty or so courses, and then try to work their way around and down to the Jeep.

A bullet chinged off a rock a ways below. Another above. And only seconds after Hazard and Gabil resumed climbing, a barrage of bullets struck and sparked on the granite around the spot they’d just vacated. At least it meant the Arabs knew only approximately where they were, couldn’t be certain because the moon was now to the south and down some and the north face of the pyramid was completely shadowed.

On the twenty-ninth course Hazard slipped, scraped his ankle at the bone so painfully it made his eyes water. Stopping a moment to rub away the hurt, he noticed movement off to his left a few courses down. One of them, but how far away? A hundred feet? Possibly double that. With the dark and only the pyramid’s massive dimensions for comparison it was difficult to estimate.

He glanced to his right.

Another one. They were coming up on both sides. Out of range for the Llama. If they spotted him they could pick him off easily with their automatic rifles.

He slid up onto the next course and lay still, listening. The scuffing of their shoes on the rocks, climbing sounds. Suddenly, nothing. They’d stopped, were waiting, watching for him to make a move.

A volley of shots further up the face and then two more different cracking ones followed by a short gasping cry and a tumbling sound. Had they hit Gabil? Hazard decided no, it hadn’t been the kind of sound that would come from Gabil. Anyway, now it seemed no direction offered an advantage, and there was certainly no place to hide on this organized pile of rocks.

That thought caused Hazard to visualize more objectively where he was. On the north face, close to the original entrance, he decided. Was the entrance to his left or right?

Left was his hunch. But he figured luck had already been too good to him that night. Don’t press it, he advised himself, and chose right. He squirmed along, not even lifting his head, feeling his way until he came to an edge, an abrupt drop-off.

He’d found the entranceway, located about fifteen feet in from the sloped face. Long ago, in removing the outer stones, a kind of topless landing had been formed, which served as an approach to the entrance. It was about a dozen feet wide, with walls on each side created by the ascending courses.

Hazard changed his mind, decided not to use that indentation for cover. It was too vulnerable, especially from above. No matter that it was dark and concealing; once he’d committed himself to it he would be trapped. They could just spray it with bullets. Besides, hiding there was too obvious an idea. They would surely think of it.

He would make sure they did.

Slowly he went up two more courses and over a short distance. Now he was directly above the entranceway. He still had the pair of pliers in his back pocket. He took them out, held them over the edge and let them drop. They hit sharply on the stones of the entrance landing twenty-five feet below. Then he took out the Zippo lighter and waited.

He saw the two Arabs approaching, moving toward the entrance. They reached it and took positions left and right of the landing. Crouched there, they listened for another sound.

Hazard accommodated them, tossed the Zippo over the edge. Its loud clank on the stones below was like a cue for the Arabs to begin their performance. Simultaneously they stood and fired their automatic rifles from the hip in sweeping bursts, the bullets ricocheting within the hard confines of the dark entranceway.

The brief compressed sound of the silencer on the Llama was lost in all the noise. The range was only about twenty-five feet. Again Hazard went for the heart. First, the Arab on the left, then the one on the right, who was too caught up in his firing to notice the other man’s death or prevent his own.

No time to count blessings. Hazard continued quickly up the north face, less cautious now. When he reached the forty-eighth course he was startled to see someone no more than ten feet from him, sitting in a slouch with legs over the edge. Just sitting there in the shadow as though relaxed, enjoying the view. Hazard thought it might be Gabil, because whoever it was had had an easy chance at him and not taken it.

“Gabil?”

No reply. The figure remained motionless. Hazard moved closer, was relieved to see it was one of the Arabs. Dead from a bullet that had gone in at the corner of the right eye.

A few courses further up, Hazard came on another dead example of Gabil’s marksmanship.

The odds were improving.

It was time to work his way around. He headed for the west face but stopped momentarily when he heard shots. They sounded far away. He recognized the staccato bursts of automatic rifles punctuated with individual, sharper reports. The firing seemed to last a long while. No doubt, Gabil was in the middle of it. Hazard plugged for him and, when the firing stopped, it occurred to Hazard that the silence afterward was death, one way or the other.

He continued along that course to the corner, where he took a look around. The west face was raked bright with moonlight, and there, about a hundred feet away in clear view, was another of the Arabs. On a higher course, twenty or so above. He was headed for the north face.

Another decision for Hazard: Confront him or try to evade him? He chose the latter, thinking he might be able to do it if he timed it right.

He waited, concealed in shadow, until the Arab had reached the corner. Hazard’s idea was to stay close to the vertical rock and go around at the exact moment the Arab’s concentration was focused on safely managing the same thing in the opposite direction. They would, in effect, exchange places.

The moment came.

Hazard made his move.

Not quickly enough.

The Arab opened up on him, the bullets chinged close. All Hazard had succeeded in doing was to trade advantage for disadvantage. Now he was in the moonlight and his adversary had the dark. For cover, Hazard pressed full length into the inner angle of the course. The bullets chipped the edge no more than a foot above him. He couldn’t stay there. His only chance was to get back to the dark side. Making things worse, he was also now headed in the wrong direction.

Keeping tight against the inner angle of the course, he used his hands to push and his toes to pull. It required all his strength to retreat inch by inch. Finally his feet felt the vertical edge of the corner, and then the edge was at his thighs, at his waist, and half of him went around and drew the rest of him around into the dark.

The Arab had been firing all the while, and was still firing sporadically at where Hazard had been. Which meant he hadn’t noticed Hazard’s reverse move. From the flames that spat from the muzzle of the automatic rifle, Hazard guessed the Arab was fifty to sixty feet away. Just barely within the Llama’s range.

He waited until the Arab fired again and using that to gauge his target, he squeezed off two, three shots. Had he missed? Underestimated the range? He moved quickly up two more courses and squeezed off another round, another, and then he heard the Arab feel the pain and fall.

Hazard went up to him, saw he wasn’t dead but doubtless would be soon. In any case, he was unconscious, out of it.

To hell with the west face, Hazard thought. He’d try the unexpected. He’d go all the way up and, according to how the situation appeared from there, choose the best way down. At the moment it seemed a good idea.

But not so good later on, after Hazard had climbed another fifty courses. He stopped, only halfway up, to catch his breath and convince himself he was doing the smart thing. His shins and knees didn’t agree, but he resumed climbing. Instinctively, the farther up he went the less he felt in danger. And by the time he reached the one hundred fiftieth course he was almost taking the rocks like a regular any-day tourist.

He stopped again for a rest. It was then that it occurred to him that he had an empty clip in the Llama. Stupid. He released the empty and reached to the holster strap for his last remaining spare.

It wasn’t there.

Somewhere along the way, probably during the belly-down crawling, it had worked itself loose and out.

Nothing to do about it now except curse the Pyramid. In the last hour he’d learned to hate this wonder of the world. It was punishing him.

Up he went, with his new problem of no ammunition. Now it was vital that he reach the top to determine which of the three moon-lighted faces offered a safer trip down. Keeping in mind that Gabil had said there were eight or nine Arabs at the start, the most there should be now was five—counting, possibly, Mustafa. At least one, perhaps two, would be at the base of the dark side because it was the obvious way. That left three for the other faces, one each. Unless during that lengthy volley of shots he’d heard earlier Gabil had managed to get another one or two. Maybe not, thought Hazard, maybe none, maybe Gabil had been subtracted.

On the hundred ninety-ninth course, just two from the top, Hazard paused again. He was tired, breathing hard and feeling the climb in his legs, which were rubbery and aching. He sat for five minutes, then went to the top.

It was a fairly level platform about forty feet square. Nothing of interest there, just more rocks dull and worn from exposure and the tramplings of millions of sight-seers. He went first to the east edge, looked down and saw no one. He crossed over for a look down the west face, which also appeared empty of any sign of life. That made him all the more uneasy about the south face. He cautiously approached that edge. Coming right up the middle, now only about twenty courses from the top, was Mustafa. Alone. On the hunt with an automatic rifle. He hadn’t seen Hazard.

The best Hazard could do was to try to hide. He quickly went to the dark side and down one course. Again he stretched out and wedged his body along the inner angle formed by the step of the rocks.

He soon heard Mustafa climb up onto the platform, breathing heavily. After a moment he heard Mustafa’s footsteps, and judging from them, knew he’d gone over to survey the west face. Then across to the east.

The north, the dark face, would be next. Hazard wedged even tighter into the shadowed angle as the footsteps headed his way, drawing closer. Suddenly, there was Mustafa standing on the edge above. Hazard took shallow, short, noiseless breaths.

All Mustafa had to do was look directly below. Even dark as it was there, chances were he’d notice Hazard. Mustafa’s eyes scanned and strained to make out the courses further down. Literally overlooking Hazard, he turned and walked from that edge.

What Hazard next heard was the familiar scratch and flaring of a match. Supporting himself with one arm, he slowly raised up, kept his head horizontal and brought one eye just above the level of the platform.

Mustafa was faced two-thirds away, having a smoke, the first in over an hour. For the moment the need for nicotine took precedence; he would also take the opportunity to reload the rifle. It had to be near empty by now. He altered his hold on it, pressed the release and jerked the thirty-shot magazine free. He shoved it into his left jacket pocket. He had two spare magazines in the right.

Hazard had no time to consider his next move. Almost as a reflex he leaped up and went for Mustafa.

For that second or two the rifle was useless. Mustafa managed to get the full magazine from his pocket but he was only close to snapping it into place when Hazard hit him.

He hit him with a head thrust, came at him fast, lowering his head at the last moment to catch Mustafa exactly front center between the curves of the ribs. The impact drove Mustafa back and down. The rifle flew from his grasp.

Mustafa didn’t try to retrieve it. He also didn’t give Hazard a chance to push his advantage. In a single, swift motion he recovered and came up. With a knife.

The sight of it backed Hazard off. He dug quickly into his pocket for his special knife. The blade flicked out. He’d wanted a confrontation, but not this.

Mustafa had good reason to be confident. He’d learned to fight with a knife almost before he’d learned to eat with his left hand. He took his stance—a crouch with knees bent slightly for spring, feet apart and flat so that he could shuffle and more surely feel the surface beneath them, arms at chest level, extended to about half their reach. He circled Hazard, who stayed in place, merely turning defensively to keep Mustafa in front of him.

Hazard’s mouth was dry and his stomach felt as though it were cringing into a hard ball. He tried to recall his instructions, theories, hours of serious but not so deadly practice at knife fighting. This was different.

Mustafa stalked around, gripping his knife lightly, like an artist would a brush. He dabbed the air with it, painted the air with little intricate, distracting designs.

Don’t look at his knife, Hazard warned himself, watch his eyes.

A sudden move by Mustafa, a sort of zig-zagging lunge with a swipe to it.

Hazard went up on his toes, arched, pulled his midsection in.

Not soon enough. It felt like a fine, white-hot wire had been drawn across his chest.

“Weld l-qáhba!”—son of a whore—Mustafa said, adding insult to injury.

Hazard didn’t know how badly he’d been cut but he could feel the blood running down. Desperation made him go on the offensive. He lunged forward, slashed, but Mustafa easily avoided his pass. Hazard realized then he couldn’t win on these terms. No way.

Mustafa continued his circling stalk. “L-ihûdi hallûf!”—Jew pig. He would, he thought, toy with Hazard, prolong it, carve Hazard into submission, weaken him with loss of blood, and then, when Hazard was down, helpless, and asking for his life, he’d end it. Bedouin style. By severing Hazard’s spinal cord.

Hazard concentrated on Mustafa’s eyes. He saw them tighten just slightly, perhaps telegraphing the start of another lunge. He’d have one chance.

He straightened and kept one leg perpendicular while he swung the other out in a swift semicircle. The side of his foot connected with Mustafa’s thrusting forearm, parrying Mustafa’s knife hand, sending it upward and away. In almost the same motion Hazard snapped that foot down and shifted his weight forward on it. He came in low, bringing his knife up. A diagonal stab.

The point went into Mustafa just below the right rib cage. The moment it met resistance the six-inch blade activated, rotated, spun in through skin and fat, bored in through muscle and vital organs, blood vessels and arteries. To the hilt.

Mustafa’s neck stiffened and his chin went up. Hazard caught a glimpse of Mustafa’s disbelieving expression. A protesting grunt came from the oval of Mustafa’s mouth just before he collapsed backward over the edge of the south face and tumbled deadweight down about forty courses.

Hazard controlled the urge to throw away the knife. He retracted its blade and put it back in his pocket. His wound was burning. He tried to determine how bad it was but really couldn’t. From the pain and his shirt sopped sticky with blood, he knew it was more than a scratch. He picked up Mustafa’s automatic rifle, found the magazine, snapped it into place, and started down the west face.

No trouble on the way down, maybe they were all dead or gone. The Jeep was where he’d left it. Gabil was in the passenger seat.

“Mustafa?” Gabil said.

Hazard nodded decisively as he got behind the steering wheel. He was relieved to see Gabil, genuinely pleased. It now looked as though they both might make it. The moment called for some show of camaraderie and, soon after they were under way, Hazard extended his hand, palm up. Gabil wasn’t familiar with the new American custom of a palm slap for well done. His huge hand enclosed Hazard’s and gave it a couple of shakes.

Landsmen, thought Hazard. It was a good feeling. He told Gabil about the rendezvous near Rahman.

Gabil wanted to know how he’d managed that.

Hazard explained as briefly as possible, self-conscious about how farfetched it must have sounded to him. He expected Gabil to be incredulous but all the Israeli said was, “Keep the moon over your left shoulder.”

By then they were well out on the desert, with the headlights finding nothing but the endless beige of sand. Seldom a flat stretch, mostly dunes and hollows, one after another. The grind of the Jeep’s transmission and the repetition of its rather unhealthy engine added to the monotony.

“What will you do when you get home?” Hazard asked.

Gabil didn’t reply.

Hazard glanced over and saw Gabil was slouched down, chin to chest, apparently dozing.

Hazard thought of the answer to his own question. Gabil’s days as an agent for Mosad were over. Now that his cover was blown he’d no longer be of any use to that organization; he’d be too easily recognizable. Would Gabil go back to the army, or to his original ambition and be a teacher? Probably both. Fighter and teacher. Yes, in Israel he would be both. Hazard decided he wanted to keep in touch with Gabil; maybe even write letters.

Crest of a dune ahead. And then there was an unexpectedly steep drop off. Hazard braced himself for it and noticed Gabil didn’t try to hang on. Gabil lurched forward and stayed slouched against the dashboard.

Hazard asked was anything wrong.

No answer. No movement.

Gabil was dead, shot twice in the lower part of his back. He hadn’t complained, not even mentioned it. Maybe he’d thought he could last the trip or more likely, he’d known he couldn’t and at least wanted to be headed toward home.

Hazard decided he’d try to take Gabil home, not leave him in this enemy land if he could help it. He pulled Gabil back to the seat so that he appeared more comfortable.

It was half past four. Dawn was only an hour or so off. No way of making it to the coast by then—the rendezvous time he’d sent to Keven. The eastern horizon was already hinting orange.

He still had fifty miles to go when the sun came up. And it was much higher, creating a bright, hot morning when Hazard saw a vast field of white military crosses in the distance. El Alamein. Sown with the lives of thousands, but barren ground, bleached and deathly dry.

A short way farther on was the coastal road, a black, incongruous ribbon. Hazard crossed over it and after five miles more there was the Mediterranean. He concealed the Jeep in the dunes.

Getting out, standing for the first time in hours, his head felt light, his legs heavy. Everything seemed to be tilting and he was suddenly nauseated, had to use the fender of the Jeep to steady himself. Blood had seeped down and saturated the waistband of his jeans. He was very thirsty.

He surveyed the beach. It was deserted, no sign of anyone having been there recently. He’d have to negotiate a fairly high embankment to get down to the water.

Every movement required extreme effort. He assumed that was from loss of blood and delayed shock. He got the automatic rifle from the back and placed it on the hood. Then he went around, opened the door and squatted to pull Gabil over and out. He got his shoulders and back under Gabil’s body, but it seemed he’d never be able to rise with all that additional weight on him. He thought of having to leave Gabil there and, determined not to, he slowly straightened up. One hand helped balance Gabil. The other took up the rifle. Hunched over, wobbly, hardly able to life his feet, he went down the crumbling incline and across the wide beach to a large, jutting rock at the water’s edge. He dropped Gabil in the shade of it and fell to the wet-packed sand.

He closed his eyes, but when he felt himself slipping away into a deep, red vortex he opened them, forced them wide open, blinked and shook his head sharply to try to clear it. The day had seemed stark clear to him before, but now there was a haze. Caused by the sea?

Five minutes past nine.

Maybe the Israelis would come back for another look. A final onceover before giving up. Ten miles east of Rahman. Hell, Hazard realized, he could be twenty miles east for all he knew, way off the mark. Probably the rendezvous message hadn’t even gotten through. Stupid of him to have put that much faith in it. Telepathy. A mental game, that’s all it was. Unpredictable, tenuous. Who could seriously believe in it, count on it? He had and he was going to die alone here on a desolate North African beach. Sure as hell.

And for what?

He gazed over at the late Abraham Ben-David.

The tide was coming in. Hazard felt it reach his feet, cold. It lapped up. Was that how it would be? A cold sort of drifting away?

Thoughts of his father and Carl. Ironic that his father would never know how and why he’d died, would never get to enjoy the pride of knowing. As for Carl, maybe somehow Carl had been with him all the way.

Saving best for last, his thoughts went to Keven. Times with her crowded up. Now he knew they were his only true times. Only with her had he ever, ever been touched and reached.

He raised his head and shoulders, his body went rigid, and his hands at his sides fisted in protest.

No use. He lay back.

Keven. How much she’d meant to him, really. Much more than he’d ever told her. She must have known. But …

Keven, if you were here now I would tell you. I would hold me to you. I would say it over and over into your mouth until I was out of breath. I would.

He felt the same sense of futility he’d known when Carl had died. The same impotence from not being able to say what had been left unsaid. Was there a way to say it now?

He fixed his mind on the words, making them the image that he desperately wanted to send. Detaching his awareness of everything else—the pain of his wound, the beach, the water, oncoming death—he visualized Keven’s eyes, their special blue with slivers of silver.

Her eyes.

The image.

As he saw it.

As she would see it.

With her eyes.

The image.

It was not difficult for him to bring the two together. No strain to keep them simultaneous in his concentration. They seemed eager to merge and remain one.

Keven and I love you.

He prolonged the experience, finding it pleasant. But a sound interrupted.

Incredible sound.

A camouflaged helicopter was coming in low over the water.