Captain Mustafa’s twelve Libyan soldiers did not blink or twitch behind the AK-47s they aimed at Cody and Caine.
Cody noticed Abdul Kamal keeping his fist gripped around the butt of his holstered sidearm, as if he would like nothing better than to unholster the weapon and kill the American and the Englishman on the spot.
Vronski appeared to be enjoying himself, the thin smile across his mouth reflecting the unhealthy glitter in his snakelike eyes.
“Captain, search these two.”
Mustafa gulped audibly.
“Uh, is that absolutely necessary, er, at this time, Colonel Vronski?”
“You refuse to obey my command,” the Russian snarled.
“O-of course not, Comrade Colonel.” Mustafa turned to Cody and Caine. “Turn around, against the wall, both of you,” he ordered, but he kept his distance, Cody noticed, telling him who ran the show here when it came right down to important jobs like capturing and interrogating spies, which is how Libya and the Russians would play this, he knew.
It had been a gamble, penetrating into Libya, into this camp like this, and he and Caine had lost the gamble, since he could not get his hand into his pocket to reach the matchbox-sized transmitter device he had been provided with before he and Caine had taken off for Tripoli as O’Devlin and Wade.
Roberts had explained, back aboard the American carrier in the Mediterranean, that the transmitter was rigged to fire out one spurt of a signal with enough power to reach the CIA base north of Bardai in Chad where Rufe waited at this moment with the F-82 pilot for a signal that would only come if Cody could press the button to send the signal.
He and the Englishman turned as instructed and, just like a cop frisk back in the States, planted their feet apart to lean forward, bracing their arms against the wall.
Mustafa made a hurried but thorough pat-down of Caine.
“Don’t get too personal, mate,” Caine snarled as the Libyan’s hands patted his upper thighs. “You smell like camel dung.”
Mustafa stepped back from the Brit, handing Caine’s wallet and spare ammo clips to Vronski, then he turned to Cody.
Mustafa grunted when he found the transmitter in Cody’s pocket. He withdrew it and showed it excitedly to Vronski.
“Comrade Colonel, look what I have found! What can it be?”
“Give it to him, fool,” Kamal snapped.
Mustafa obeyed.
Vronski examined the transmitter, his smile becoming a chuckle that sounded like a shovel dragging across dry pavement.
“You two are not alone, then, it would seem. The rest of your men, Cody, are somewhere nearby. Is that it? You were not able to signal them to attack.”
Cody and Caine turned around.
“You weren’t as clean as you thought when you left Padomir,” Cody told Vronski.
“Ah, yes, I meant to ask how you traced us here.”
Kamal snarled at the KGB man. “None of this matters, damn your Russian soul.” He unholstered his pistol, his eyes smoldering naked hatred at Caine and Cody. “These filth are responsible for the deaths of my men in Rome! I will—”
Vronski turned on him.
“You will holster your weapon at once.”
Cody drew himself up. ready to respond if the terrorist aimed that pistol anywhere in his or Caine’s direction. He saw the Brit react similarly, neither of them concerned at this moment about the Libyan soldiers who would not fire unless ordered to by Vronski, who obviously wanted them alive.
Kamal curled his finger around the trigger, and Cody could see that every fiber in the Arab burned, commanding him to raise the pistol and fire on the enemies of his people who had slain his men, but religious ferver and hatred gave way to reason and restraint, and Kamal holstercd the pistol, not looking at Vronski or the captives, and Cody wondered if the only reason he backed down wasn’t because he wanted to but because he knew he’d be blown to bits by a roomful of AK-47s if he did not obey the Russian.
“You are wrong to let them live,” he said sulkily.
“Nevertheless, it is my wish,” Vronski said, gloating at the captives. “The two of you will be my promotion out of hellholes like this. Colonel Kaddafi will reward me, and so will my superiors.”
“And where does that leave Abdul, I wonder?” Caine said with a sneer.
Cody picked up on that.
“Why, Abdul is going to be history after the colonel stands by and watches him put a new unit together”—he looked at the Arab—“or haven’t you guessed that yet, camel breath?”
A cagey stare came into Kamal’s eyes.
“I know what you try to do, American, and you, too, English. You try to turn me against my friend, Colonel Vronski. You cannot. The colonel and I may not always agree, but we do work together, is that not so, Colonel? We trust each other.”
“Quite so,” Vronski assured them. He gave the transmitter device in his hand a small toss to catch it in the same hand. “You will not have the chance to use this, Mr. Cody, I am sorry to say.” He looked sharply at Mustafa. “I will take care of the prisoners. Deploy every available man, including the attending terrorists, along the perimeter. Including the patrols in the vicinity that a sizable command, perhaps thirty men or more, may be in the vicinity awaiting a signal to attack. And order full air cover to blanket this region at once in case any sort of fighter aircraft tries to land or attack us.”
“At once, Comrade Colonel,” Mustafa assured him, “but… what of these two?” He indicated Caine and Cody. “Should we not—”
“I will take them to the guardhouse,” said Vronski. “Give Abdul one of your men’s AK-47s. He will keep them covered as we march them across the compound for their first taste of imprisonment. Then we will begin the interrogation, once defensive measures have been taken.”
“As you wish, Comrade Colonel.”
Mustafa appeared not altogether displeased to have his responsibility for the prisoners assumed by someone else. He instructed one of his soldiers to hand a weapon to Kamal. then he and the Libyan regulars filed out, leaving Cody and Caine alone with the quarry they had fought and traveled all this distance to catch.
Except that Kamal had them under the gun, and there was no way to contact Murphy and the F-82 to bring the cavalry to the rescue.…
Caine said to Vronski, in a tight voice, “You’re, uh, sure Abdul here knows enough not to pull that trigger?”
The Russian’s snake eyes glittered.
“Never mind that. Both of you, raise your hands. We leave this trailer. Abdul will be directly behind you. The cell house is directly across the compound from us. We will march directly there. And I can assure you that I will not hesitate to order Abdul to open fire if you give me just cause.”
“Remember why you’re keeping us alive, Colonel,” Cody reminded him. “Kill us and you lose us. If Abdul pulls that trigger, you’ll be lucky if the KGB ever lets you out of Libya.”
“You behave as one who would welcome torture,” Kamal sneered. “That is no way for a man to die.”
Vronski explained. “He thinks that the longer he and the Englishman remain alive, the better their chances of survival.” To Cody and Caine he continued. “Do not think, gentlemen, that I would not instruct Abdul to fire at your legs? You need hardly be in good physical condition for us to learn all we will learn once we begin to work on you. Enough talk. Outside, everyone, and no trouble.”
Cody and Caine exchanged the briefest of glances. Cody knew the Englishman would look for the first chance, any chance, at overpowering Kamal for that rifle, as would Cody, but he could tell that the Brit also understood, as he did, that Kamal knew enough about survival, in the desert or anywhere else, not to get close enough to allow either of the prisoners any kind of opportunity to disarm him and turn the tables.
They raised their arms over their heads as instructed and exited the trailer.
He glanced behind once to see Vronski striding side by side with Kamal, who aimed the AK-47 directly at their backs, keeping a ten-foot distance.
They crossed the compound.
The night had turned cool, the breeze sharper than before.
When they approached the one-cell stockade structure, the barred door of which functioned as one wall, the cell probably rarely used, Cody noted that he and Caine and the two holding them prisoner had this heavily shadowed corner of the base to themselves.
Captain Mustafa and some of his soldiers were across the compound, walking in the other direction, nearing the captain’s trailer from which Mustafa would radio in backup, to alert his superiors of the American and the Englishman taken prisoner here.
Some of the Libyan regulars spread out toward the bunkhouse trailers to awaken the terrorists.
At the cell house Cody and Caine stopped, turning to face the other two.
Cody noticed that Kamal, during the short walk across the compound, had edged away from Vronski but remained too far away with the AK-47 for either prisoner to make an attempt at wresting it from him. Cody fought the sinking feeling that this time it really was finished. He had let down Caine and Hawkeye and Murphy, and he had especially let down the memory of two murdered Americans named Laura and Daniel Parker and anyone else who had ever suffered at the hands of Abdul Kamal and Yuri Vronski.
Vronski stepped around past them, his thin smile almost showing teeth. He reached to open the cell door, motioning them inside.
“If you will, gentlemen. Abdul and I will return to attend to you—that is to say, to commence the interrogation, shortly, as soon as we—”
Kamal said softly, “Colonel…”
Vronski lost his smile at the Arab’s tone of voice. He turned slowly to realize that Kamal now held the AK-47 leveled at him, as well as at Cody and the Englishman. He started to move to the side.
“Abdul—”
“Silence!” Kamal spat. “Remain where you are, Russian dog.”
Vronski froze, an expression of shock and impotent rage marking him as a man not used to having his authority questioned.
“You are making a terrible mistake—” he began.
Kamal snarled. “Silence, I say. I only wish you to live long enough, Colonel, to know that I believe everything these men said a while ago. You think me an uneducated savage, do you not, because I have not attended your universities or read your books, but you should have known that we of the desert are wise in ways your pampered race has forgotten.”
Caine commented, “Sounds like he’s got you pegged about right, Colonel KGB .”
Vronski, sounding a shade panicky, said, “Abdul, you are being used. Can’t you see what these men try to do? You, yourself, said they were trying to turn you against me.”
“It does not mean they do not speak the truth,” Kamal snapped. “I see it in your eyes, I hear it in your voice, I feel it when I am with you. You wait your time only for me to recruit a suitable unit to replace my men slain, then you will have me killed, or think you will, and another will take my place until you have no further use for him.”
“Abdul, I swear, the thought never entered my mind!”
Cody kept his hands upraised, as did Caine at his side, several paces away from Vronski, listening to this exchange, waiting for a chance, but any move right now and Kamal would swing that AK on them and cut them to pieces before he killed Vronski.
Cody looked around them and saw that the unfolding drama in this corner of the camp was not drawing any attention whatsoever.
Mustafa and his men disappeared into the captain’s trailer.
Lights were going on one by one in the bunkhouse trailers as the Libyan soldiers continued rousing sleeping terrorists, but still no one noticed what was happening here.
He had half expected something like this to happen, since the trailer where he and Caine had been captured, when he had first sensed a caginess in Kamal’s eyes, but as yet there was nothing he or Caine could do, and it could stay that way if Vronski talked himself out of this or if Kamal opened fire on Caine and Cody first.
Guess that depends on which of us he hates the most, thought Cody.
He said, “Admit it, Colonel. Kamal’s right about everything he’s saying.”
Vronski faced the Arab without flinching.
“I suggest you think this thing through, Abdul, and not act rashly. Lower that weapon. This will be forgotten, I promise you. True, we have had our differences, but surely nothing that cannot be dealt with in a more responsible fashion. You need the KGB, remember. If you kill me—”
“The prisoners tried to escape,” Kamal said. “You, Colonel, caught fire by mistake. A most regrettable accident. You see, now I know how the Russian peasant mind works. I did not know this when we first became associated. I will deal differently with your replacement, and I will have the best unit among all of the Palestinian factions.”
“Abdul, you are making a terrible mistake.” Vronski’s voice tremored.
“I think not,” the Arab said, disagreeing. “I only wanted you to know why I do this thing. There is nothing more to say, Soviet filth.”
Vronski’s expression widened into one of panic with the heightening awareness that he was one or two heartbeats away from ceasing to exist.
“Noooo—” he started to scream.
Kamal triggered a noisy burst from the AK-47 that powerhoused Vronski backward against the iron-barred front of the cell house, a dozen heavy projectiles exploding the Russian’s skull and much of his chest area, now violently straining through the bars into a surreal splat across the inside wall of the cell.
Several things happened at once.
Cody and Caine, as if by prearranged signal because their minds and reflexes reacted identically and simultaneously, had dodged away at the first sign of a snarl from Kamal in the seconds before the Arab opened fire.
Gunsmoke swirled, and Cody’s eardrums rang as he saw Kamal swing the AK-47 in their direction even before what remained of Vronski’s standing corpse had a chance to fall forward from where the hail of bullets had pinned him against the cell.
A new sound, unexpected, deafening, slashed across the sky at nearly rooftop level.
Caine and Cody hit the ground around the corner of the cell house at the same instant Kamal opened fire behind them, the slugs from the hurriedly triggered burst piercing the structure, projectiles snicking through air where Cody and Caine would have been had they not hit the deck, the yammering of the AK-47 behind them rubbed out by the high-pitched, keening whistle that made Cody think oddly of what it would be like to stand on a runway at JFK during takeoff.
Caine, grabbing the earth inches away, growled the name that flashed through Cody’s mind in that instant.
“Rufe!”
Murphy had not waited far the signal! The plan had been for Caine and Cody to get onto the base, break into wherever the explosives were stored, plant them around, quietly take care of Kamal and Vronski, then slip off the base and signal Murphy, who would level what was left of the place after the planted explosives did their work, then the pickup of Caine and Cody.…
The F-82 whistled by overhead, and in what seemed like the same instant a mighty explosion from the direction of the airfield pounded the earth and fired the sky with crazy orange-red daylight.
Murphy had Figured that they had run into trouble and might need some help. He and the pilot would not start blowing the camp up until he saw some indication that his teammates were clear, but figuring that they might need some help, he and the fighter jet’s pilot began by taking apart the vehicles and equipment on the airstrip.
Cody and the Englishman scrambled like crazed crabs to the back side of the cell house, knowing that Kamal would be distracted for a second perhaps, but no more, by the jet attack and explosion.
The compound came to life, trailers spilling out men in various stages of attire, everyone toting rifles.
Lots of confusion, soldiers running, everyone looking frantically in the direction of the airfield beyond the perimeter as secondary explosions of the fuel supply ka-whumped the night apart some more from over there.
Reaching the back of the cell house, they split up without a word between them, Caine staying where he was, crouching down on one knee, both hands straightened to deliver a martial-arts attack at Kamal if the terrorist came around the side of the cell house after them.
Cody darted around the opposite side.
Two priorities: the immediate threat of the terrorist who would be coming around one of the sides of the small structure after them; and taking care of Captain Mustafa before the Libyan sent that message to Tripoli for reinforcements. Cody’s estimation of the base commandant indicated that Mustafa would not delegate the task; he would want to crow on his own to the brass about the two “spies” trapped at his installation.
He pulled up short at the front corner of this side of the cell house and glanced around it, half expecting to see Kamal waiting to blow his head off.
He saw no Kamal.
He saw instead Captain Mustafa approaching on a dead run with two rifle-toting soldiers from the direction of his trailer. He must have heard the gunfire or seen the gun flashes when Kamal killed Vronski, even with the jet flying overhead.
The F-82 returned, swooping in to tire at the center of the compound this time, where Murphy must have figured Cody and Caine would stay away from, what with the concentration of running terrorists and soldiers everywhere down there responding to the attack.
The desert night seared itself into wide-open fire and thunder again, the center of the compound becoming an erupting inferno of hellfire and torn asunder, airborne bodies.
The impacting blast pitched Mustafa and his two men from their feet. One of the men did not get up from where he sprawled, the back of his head blown away. The second soldier had lost his rifle and knelt on one knee, dazed, perhaps wounded by shrapnel.
Cody threw himself from the corner of the cell toward where Vronski’s remains lay burbling, spreading red mud upon the dirt.
Mustafa stood, picked up his pistol, started forward, and saw Cody.
Cody yanked the Tokarev from Vronski’s holster and swung it around in a two-handed grip on Mustafa as the base commandant tracked his own pistol on Cody, who propped himself on both elbows for an aim he knew had to be true. He squeezed the trigger.
The round from the Tokarev drilled through Mustafa’s open mouth, messily rupturing apart the back of his head.
Cody stood, shifted aim slightly, and pegged over the Libyan soldier, then whirled to continue on around to the back of the cell house. He had not heard the pounding of the AK-47, but that could have been because of the explosion inside the compound or the earsplitting wail of the F-82 that had sounded low enough on this pass as if approaching for a landing nearby.
He came around the back of the cell house fast, but he was wary… and drew up in a short stop at the sight that met him there.
Abdul Kamal lay stretched out, flat upon his back. Caine knelt upon the ground beside him, having found a small, sharp rock protruding from the ground near where the Brit must have surprised and disarmed the terrorist.
Caine held Kamal’s head in both hands, methodically striking the back of the head repeatedly against the rock, over and over again; what looked like red jelly spilled from the dead man’s head, over the rock and much of the ground around them.
Cody stepped forward. He grabbed Caine’s shoulder with steely fingers.
“Richard, Richard, enough, he’s dead. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Caine released the head from his grip as if discarding a particularly disgusting piece of garbage.
“Guess I held it all inside for too long,” he said as he stood, turning from what remained of Kamal. “It got the better of me.”
Cody grabbed the terrorist’s AK-47, stripping the corpse of spare ammo clips, one of which he palmed into the rifle. He tossed the Tokarev to Caine.
“Let’s pull out. Rufe set down somewhere near here. We can outtly those MIGs the Libyans have, but if they catch us on the ground, we’re dead meat.”
They took oft at a run along the barbed wire at this side of the compound, behind the trailers, away from the screams and moans of pain from the dying and walking wounded in the aftermath of the devastating explosion at the center of the compound.
They reached the front gate.
Cody cut loose with the AK-47, and men there went spinning into bloody, pulped ruin.
They charged on through, skirting well past the fires raging around what remained of camp vehicles, the bush plane and fuel tanks by the runway where most of the activity centered.
At first the ridged dunes surrounding three sides of the camp played tricks on Cody’s ears. He saw no sign of the jet in the sky, hearing the nearby whistling of its idling where the pilot must have landed after switching off his lights so the camp personnel could not see the touchdown, and now everyone at the base had something else on their minds, reeling from the air strike.
He and Caine paused after they made it over the nearest dune, putting themselves out of sight from the camp. Cody listened intently.
“Over there,” he decided, pointing to where he thought the jet noise came from.
“Right you are.” Caine nodded.
They headed in that direction, desert sand sucking at their every footfall, slowing them.
Cody cast a look skyward over his shoulder, behind them, but he could make out no sign yet of Libyan jets scrambling toward the camp.
He had pegged Mustafa right. Someone else would radio for help, but maybe they had enough time to clear away.
They topped the rise of another dune in the direction in which they had pinpointed the sounds of the grounded F-82, then they saw it, sleek and silvery like a shaft of moonlight itself between two of the dunes where the pilot had steered after touching down on a mesa just beyond.
The cockpit cover raised, Rufe Murphy stood on a wing, waving them on when he spotted them.
“Well, all fucking right!” the big guy hooted happily. “And here I thought I was gonna have to find me two new team buddies.”
Cody and Caine raced to the plane. The pilot gunned the engine, the whistling sound increasing.
Murphy hopped back into the copilot seat, and the plane started rolling forward before they sank into the seats.
The cockpit cowl clamped into place, and Cody and his men strapped themselves securely into their armored seats.
Centrifugal force flattened them backward, the fighter jet thrusting forward as if catapulted from a giant slingshot, the shrill whistling filling their ears as they slipped on flight helmets.
The jet left the ground.
“Make one more run?” the pilot’s voice crackled in Cody’s headset.
“Affirmative,” Cody growled.
The F-82 banked around into another combat approach, zipping in low again across the scene of devastation spread out below, and the night boomed to two more blasts.
Missiles streaked like fiery, pointing fingers, first at the row of trailers adjacent to Mustafa’s trailer, then at the line of bunkhouse trailers.
The jet pulled into a steep climb.
Behind and below, the big bangs of the missiles striking more devastating infernos shook the air, their impact leveling once and for all this terrorist training base. But the rolling thunder was lost under the surrounding jet shnek inside the cockpit, the F-82 scaling up, up, and away from there, the pilot setting a high-altitude course through the starry night.
Out of Libya.