Paul Christopher - The Templar Cross

They arrived back at the camp just as darkness fell. Alhazred let them out of the 4?4 in front of their tent.

"I thought perhaps that I would have you to my quarters for dinner tonight so we could discuss what you saw today, but I have changed my mind." He nodded curtly to the two men. "Perhaps we will see each other sometime tomorrow and talk about your friend Peggy."

Alhazred put the truck in gear and drove off. Holliday and Rafi ducked into the tent.

"He's a phony, isn't he?" Rafi said.

"Absolutely," Holliday said and nodded. "A total fraud."

Then they heard the helicopters.

They made a sound like the hesitant whispering of giant metronomes, a double chattering roar dropping out of the darkening sky like a flight of monstrous steel locusts. From the multiple rotor sounds there were at least four of them. Even without seeing the choppers Holliday knew they were big, most likely Sikorsky S-92s or Italian-made Augusta Merlins.

"What the hell is going on?" Rafi yelled, raising his voice above the screaming thunder.

"The camp is under attack!" answered Holliday. Four helicopters that size could transport almost a hundred men in total, more than enough to take on the Tuaregs.

Holliday headed for the entrance to the tent. Before he could reach it, a man appeared in black combat BDUs, a black balaclava covering his face and a short-barreled MP5 machine gun in his hand. He had an automatic pistol in a quick-release holster on his right thigh, a gigantic combat knife in a Velcro sheath on his left leg and lightweight body armor on his chest. As he burst through the tent flap he raised the MP5. Holliday pretended it was the Army- Navy game and drop-kicked the commando between the legs.

The man screamed and staggered, the machine gun stitching a line of bullet holes across the camel-skin ceiling. Holliday kicked the commando a second time, just as hard, and the man toppled backward. Barely pausing, Holliday dropped with one leg bent, smashing the fallen man with his knee, crushing his nose. Holliday then reached down, swept the commando knife from its breakaway sheath and plunged it between the commando's chin and the top edge of his body armor, bringing the serrated blade across both carotid arteries and the windpipe. Blood fountained, splashing the front of Holliday's shirt. The commando made a sound like air being let out of a bicycle tire and died.

Rafi stared at the carnage, mouth gaping open, eyes wide. Holliday grabbed the MP5, then ripped open the quick-release holster on the dead man's thigh. A brand-new Beretta M9, the military version of their standard 9mm automatic. He pulled back the slide and tossed it to Rafi. The young Israeli looked as though he had a poisonous snake in his hand.

"Point and shoot," said Holliday. "Safety's on the left. You know it's on when you see the little red button, just like now. Flip it down and shoot anyone who looks at you wrong. Understand?"

Rafi nodded mutely.

There was a ripping sound behind them. Holliday and Rafi both turned. Like something out of an old Western film a blade appeared in the side of the tent and ripped downward. Unbidden, Rafi raised the big black automatic pistol and Holliday saw his thumb flip down the safety. A face appeared. Holliday expected to see another balaclava-wearing commando. Instead the face was that of Emil Abdul Tidyman, the traitorous smuggler.

"This way!" he ordered urgently. The knife ripped down to the base of the tent. "Come! Now! The camp is being attacked!"

"Why should we come with you?" Rafi asked, the gun still pointing straight at the man. From where he stood Holliday could see that Rafi's grip on the weapon was firm and unwavering. The gun wasn't shaking. Holliday smiled bleakly. The lesson had been learned. It seemed that Rafi had overcome his squeamishness.

"There are five big helicopters out there. More than a hundred heavily armed men." Tidyman said. "Unless you come with me, you will die."

"With you we'll live?" Holliday asked.

"I know a way out of here," said Tidyman.

"Why should we trust you?" Rafi asked.

"Because I'm the only chance you've got."

Rafi turned and glanced quickly at Holliday, the weapon in his hand still immobile. Holliday gave him a quick nod. He knew Tidyman was right. With nowhere to go a hundred enemies was too many; they'd be slaughtered along with the rest of the Tuaregs. For a moment he considered who the attackers might be and then put the thought out of his mind. There would be time for that kind of analysis later. If they managed to survive, that is.

"Lead the way," he said to Tidyman.

Rafi lowered the M9. Tidyman's face withdrew from the floor-to-ceiling slit in the wall. Rafi and Holliday followed the Egyptian out into the cloaking darkness.

Tidyman was dressed in military attire, all black like the commandos but with a beret instead of a balaclava. He carried a holstered pistol but no other arms. Leading the way he crept between the hutlike tents, working his way toward the sheep and goat enclosure on the western side of the camp.

Behind them there were bursts of sporadic gunfire and the choked screams of dying men. Camels shrieked, panicking and tearing at their picket lines, unable to do anything more than stagger into each other with their hobbled legs. Fires sprang up as tracers burst against the tents and rifle grenades found their targets.

Holliday caught a flicker of movement on his left and turned. A figure rose up out of the darkness, an indigo-robed Tuareg-Elhadji. He was carrying a straight sword, four feet long with a simple wooden crosspiece and grip, the nicked blade glinting as it swept down in a deadly arc.

Holliday had a brief flashing memory of a black-turbaned Taliban officer wielding an immense curved pulwar in the ruins of a village just outside Kandahar years before; he did exactly what he'd done then: ducked. He rolled to one side, keeping low to avoid Elhadji's backstroke, then came up on his knees, tearing the commando knife out of its sheath and sweeping it into the fluttering of the Tuareg's robes, cutting through the fabric and slicing into the tendons at the back of his legs, crippling him. As Elhadji fell he managed to slide a lethal-looking dagger from his right sleeve, bringing it up toward Holliday's stomach. Holliday reared back but he knew it was too late; the Tuareg was going to gut him.

A single shot rang out and Elhadji was thrown backward, the right side of his face disintegrating, his turban unraveling in a mess of blood, brains and hair. Holliday looked up. Rafi stood over him, one hand extended, the other holding the smoking pistol.

"Point and shoot, right?" the Israeli archaeologist said, grimacing.

"Point and shoot," Holliday said, taking Rafi's extended hand and pulling himself up.

"Come on!" Tidyman hissed.

They reached the sand rampart and struggled upward after Tidyman. Reaching the summit, Holliday looked back. Much of the camp was on fire now, and Holliday could see the silhouettes of the Tuaregs etched against the flames. Lines of tracers marked the attacking commando force, and from the spitting spiderweb of light Holliday could see that the attackers were herding the native force against the far eastern wall.

As Holliday watched he saw a new line of fire from the top of the far rampart. The firing came from at least a score of heavy weapons. It was an ambush; a squad had been lying in wait, catching the Tuaregs in a deadly cross fire.

Holliday turned again. They were in exactly the spot they'd been that morning, except now the area between the rampart and the almost invisible runway was blocked by five hulking helicopters in red and white livery. They were Augusta-Westland Merlins, as Holliday had thought. A Merlin variant had just been tested as a replacement for the president's Flight One. Holliday knew they had just about the longest range of any medium-sized transport chopper on the market.