Don Pendleton - Promise To Defend

“What about the second floor?” Encizo asked.

Colvin nodded at the computer operator, who with a few keystrokes, changed the picture again. “Flyovers indicate a great deal of body heat here. And it’d make the most sense for them to keep hostages here. They can herd them into rooms, most of which have no windows, for security reasons, making it easier to guard the prisoners.”

“What are your negotiators telling you?” McCarter asked. “What do these blokes want?”

“Typical terrorist crap—release certain members of their group, cut U.S. aid to Israel, withdraw troops from the Middle East.”

“In other words, the impossible,” McCarter said.

“You got it. Frankly, I think they’re stalling. These guys may be fanatics, but they aren’t stupid. They have to know we don’t negotiate with terrorists. Especially in today’s climate. I don’t understand what their endgame is here.”

“Probably doesn’t matter at this point,” McCarter said. “The only endgame I envision for these bastards is to go horizontally. How many hostages do we have inside?”

“About fifty, including the six Marines killed during the initial fighting. When they seized the place, they let a lot of the locals go. Some of the staff was out of the compound, doing other things.”

“The locals tell you anything?”

“Depending on who you believe, they have anywhere between two dozen and thirty fighters in there. We’ve had U2s winging over the compound all day, snapping off surveillance photos. Near as we can tell there’s between a half dozen and ten terrorists patrolling the grounds or stationed on the rooftops at any given moment, just daring us to take them out. According to the people who got away, everyone else was herded into the main building.”

“What other ways are there into the building?” asked James, the lanky former Navy SEAL.

Colvin’s associate changed the screen again. A split-screen image pictured the embassy’s rooftop in one frame and a boarded-up hotel in the other. McCarter remembered seeing the hotel as they’d approached the embassy. His face must have betrayed his curiosity because Colvin immediately jumped in to explain.

“Liberia was a damn mess for years,” he said. “A corrupt government, a civil war, drug-crazed rebels. At the same time, al Qaeda has hammered embassies on this continent and has more than its share of followers running around. Place is a security man’s nightmare.”

“Only more so today,” James said, running the tip of his index finger along his pencil-thin mustache.

“Sure. Compound that with other events like the attacks on the WTC and the takeover of our Tehran embassy in the 1970s, and you know the State Department’s been waiting on something like this to happen for years. We didn’t necessarily expect it here in particular, but we did expect it.”

“The point?” McCarter asked.

“The point is that we have more entrances into the embassy than we let on. The thinking was that we needed a way to get our people out of here in case of an emergency, an escape hatch, if you will. To do that, we built a tunnel that connects the embassy to this burned-out hotel.”

“Get out,” James said. “You’re saying there’s actually a secret tunnel leading into the embassy?”

“Of sorts. But it’s secure as hell. It stretches about three hundred yards, with battleship-steel doors every seventy-five yards or so. It also has a boatload of cameras, motion detectors and other protective measures installed. We designed it to get people out, but also to sneak commandos in.”

“Any way they could know about it?” McCarter asked.

“Only an idiot would guarantee that it’s foolproof.”

“Then that’s the way we’ll go, at least some of us. I want to hit these SOBs from more than one direction. So I’ll need at least two volunteers.”

MAJID JASIM CURLED his fingers under the edge of his ski mask and peeled it away from his face, discarding it with a careless toss. He noticed a few of the hostages, all bound by ropes but not blindfolded, sneak looks at him, maybe memorizing his features in case they were rescued. Or just to satisfy their own morbid curiosity, a look at their executioner, perhaps. He allowed himself a smile. Let them look.

He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, replaced it in his pocket and unconsciously smoothed the hairs of his mustache with the thumb and forefinger, raked back his thick black hair with the fingers of the same hand. At five feet ten inches, he had a wiry build of a welter-weight boxer and the ramrod posture of a soldier. He’d been both for many years, but that was before he’d lost everything and been forced to change professions.

Scowling, he gripped his weapons belt with both hands and hitched it higher up on his hips. He rested his right hand on the worn grip of the Heckler & Koch VP70 pistol, one of the few things he still possessed from his former life. He’d been a commander in Saddam Hussein’s fedayeen army, had lived comfortably with the government salary and an endless supply of money, food and sex extorted from civilians. He’d provided a good life for his family. But all that changed after the Americans invaded the country and Baghdad fell. He’d stood and fought, both during the invasion and as an insurgent in the ensuing occupation. He’d pretended it had been out of a sense of nationalism, a conviction that the infidels wouldn’t sully his homeland with their damned occupation. In reality, though, he just had hoped to wear the Americans out, make them go home. As that possibility had become increasingly distant, he’d fled the country and journeyed to Syria where it had been all too easy to parlay his military talents into mercenary work.

That’s how he’d met the American, David Campbell. The man had sought him out, wanting him to help pull off an impossible mission. And when it had come time to discuss price, Campbell had—how did the Americans say it?—made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. So he hadn’t.

The sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. He looked and saw another man, face wrapped in a scarf, approaching. He held an AK-47 by its pistol grip, let the muzzle point at the floor. Although the wrap obscured most of his features, Jasim could see the man’s furrowed brow, his narrowed eyes, all telegraphing his concern.

The man—Tariq Hammud, who Jasim considered his closest adviser—kept his voice barely above a whisper, addressing him in Arabic.

“Sir, you expose your features to these people. Is that wise?”

“Is it wise to ask such a question?” Jasim countered.

“I mean no disrespect. But I was told we must keep our identities secret. At least, that’s what the American said. Has all that now changed?”

“Have I said it’s changed?”

“No.”

“Do you take orders from me, or from the American? Are you now a loyal subject of the infidel?”

The creases in Hammud’s brow deepened and his voice took on a cold edge. “Of course not.”

“But you suppose that I am a loyal subject of the American and should follow his orders to the letter. Am I understanding this correctly? Or perhaps that I should behave like a woman and cover my face in public. Is that it?”

“Never,” Hammud said, his voice rising in volume. “To suggest such a thing would be an insult.”

“My point exactly. We are agreed, then, that I may expose my face as I choose, rather than when given permission?”

“Of course. I was in error to suggest otherwise.”

Jasim suppressed a smile as he watched the other man squirm. “Did you come only to harass me about this?”

Hammud shook his head. “No, we found Fisher. He wants to speak with you.”

“He has news?”

“He says so.”