Don Pendleton - Point Of Betrayal

Archer held up his hands in appeasement, flashed a gap-toothed grin. “Just sticking my two cents’ worth in, okay? You’re the strategy genius. I mean, hell, look at where we are so far.”

Doyle sensed the tension crackling between Stone and Archer, watched it with morbid interest. The two men, equally deadly, always seemed a step away from killing each other. Doyle often prayed for that day, but didn’t want to be there when it happened.

Stone turned back to Doyle. “Make these girls get their damn gear on. Let’s make this shit happen.”

“THERE’S BEEN a change of plans,” Jon Stone said.

The words caused a film of perspiration to break out on Tariq Riyadh’s forehead and a cold splash of fear to roll down his spine. A change? At this point? It was unthinkable. What the hell were the Americans trying to pull so close to the moment of success? Perhaps it had been a trick to expose Riyadh and his people. Perhaps Stone and his crew were double agents and the whole plan, the promises of American cooperation, an elaborate ruse to flush out traitors. Saddam was just paranoid enough to try such a thing.

“Did you hear me?” Jon Stone asked. “There’s been a change.”

“Yes, of course I heard you. Tell me more.”

“Forget it. Just send your little brother and his people over here. We need to go to Plan B.”

“Why?”

“Dammit. Just do as I say. It’s not safe to talk.”

“You said these phones were secure.”

“They are.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You think I owe you an explanation? I don’t owe you shit.”

Though he did his best to control it, Riyadh’s fear had turned to anger. He’d tried being diplomatic with this bastard, but to no avail. He wanted his country to be free, wanted to enjoy the power that came along with it. But every man had his limits. He leaned against the bar, lit up a cigarette and waited.

Stone broke the silence. “Riyadh, when this is all over, you and I are going to go round and round.”

“When this is all over, I will eject you from the country.”

To Riyadh’s surprise, Stone laughed. “Well, you little bastard,” Stone said, “you really do have a spine underneath those expensive suits. Look, it’s like this. We lost a source tonight.”

“Lost how?”

“Didn’t show up.”

“We’ve been discovered.”

“Settle down. We don’t know that. Stop jumping at shadows, for God’s sake.”

Sandwiching the phone between his shoulder and his ear, Riyadh reached under his jacket, withdrew his pistol from its holster and checked the load. A glance at the door told him the dead bolt and the chain were in place. Not that either would do much good against Saddam’s Feyadeen soldiers or his secret police.

Stone continued. “Our source didn’t know all the specifics of the plan, but he gave us Saddam’s itinerary and the motorcade information. That might be enough to put them on to us.”

“Might,” Riyadh said sarcastically.

“Yeah, smart-ass, ‘might.’ You want to push the panic button? Go ahead. I’ll have my people out of here and in Jordan in a few hours. And you bastards can find your own way out.”

“I’m listening.”

“We figure the target will hang in his bunker tonight. We can’t get him once he’s inside the main underground complex, but there are a couple of weak spots in the tunnel system. We ambush him and his people there. Kill the whole lot of them and we’re golden. Don’t worry. We drilled for this contingency.”

“Why not just bomb the bunker if you know he’s going to be there?”

“And attribute it to who? God? Officially we’re out of the assassination business.”

“I see your point.”

“I don’t care what you see. Just send your people to the rendezvous. And you get underground. Once this goes down, we’ll need you to step in.”

“Fine.”

“And one other thing, Riyadh.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m on to you. I did some checking, found out you’re looking to make a little cash on the side selling Saddam’s chemical and biological agents to the Russian mafia and the Libyan government.”

Riyadh smiled. The spy had been spying on him. The man was boorish, but smart, resourceful. Riyadh couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for the man.

“And what will it cost to buy your silence?”

“We’ll discuss that later. After we finish this op. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get lucky and someone will kill me before it’s all said and done.”

“I should hope not,” Riyadh said, not meaning it.

The phone clicked as Stone terminated the call. Riyadh holstered his pistol and went to get his brother.

DRESSED HEAD TO TOE in a black khaki bodysuit and combat boots, Abdullah Riyadh smeared black combat cosmetics to his cheeks and forehead in tight, circular strokes. Then he picked up the Heckler & Koch MP-5, slammed in a magazine and charged the weapon, realizing how it had become an extension of himself. He could field strip it, reassemble it, blindfolded, just as he could countless other weapons. He had learned to enjoy the feel of the weapon, the sense of power it gave him. The American, Chris Doyle, had trained him to handle it, to fight empty-handed. It had taken more than a year, but Doyle and the other Americans had turned Abdullah and his forty-nine comrades, a mixture of defectors and angry patriots, into a tightly knit band of warriors. Unlike Stone, Doyle had taught the men not just to fight, but to survive, to live long enough to enjoy their freedom. Though outwardly tired and cynical, Doyle seemed to care about the men he was teaching.

Hearing footsteps from behind, he whirled and saw the three Americans approaching. Other men, all outfitted in attire similar to Abdullah’s, stopped their preparations and also stared at the trio.

“Okay,” Stone said, “you girls ready to save the world, or what?”

Abdullah ignored him. Instead he looked at Doyle, who flashed a tight smile.

“We are ready to move?” Abdullah asked.

Doyle nodded. “It’s a go.”

ABDULLAH RIYADH CROUCHED beside the tire of a large troop carrier as he lay in wait for the Republican Guard soldier. Fear constricted his lungs, causing them to ache for oxygen as though he’d just run a marathon. He pressed his knees together to keep them from shaking and gripped the knife clutched in his right hand so hard that it caused his knuckles to throb.

Twenty yards away lay a critical target for the mission. Abdullah knew all too well that Saddam’s network of tunnels and bunkers was almost legendary, both inside and outside Iraq. Fewer people knew of the dozen or so well-guarded emergency exits connecting the tunnels to the surface, all of which led into innocuous structures such as small groceries or apartment buildings. If it ever struck Iraqi civilians as odd that Republican Guard soldiers might fortify such seemingly useless structures, Abdullah knew they swallowed their curiosity. Their very survival depended on such compliance.

At his back lay a one-story structure, a former restaurant apparently sagging under its own neglect. The windows and doors were boarded-over and parts of the red-brick exterior had been scorched black by fire. In stark contrast, the structure bristled with security cameras and halogen spotlights, rated the attention and protection of a handful of elite guards.

During the past thirty seconds, another portion of the crew had successfully killed power for the surrounding four blocks, including the target building. According to intelligence and best guesses by the Americans, Abdullah and his group had ninety seconds once the lights went out to cover the open ground surrounding the building and breach its defenses before backup generators restored power, resurrecting alarm systems, security cameras and lights.