Beirut Incident (2 page)

I sighted carefully. A lucky shot would crush his spine, a very good one would smash his hip. I aimed for the spine.

I squeezed the trigger slowly and deliberately.

Wilhelmina bucked in my hand.

Sand spurted at the Dutchman's feet.

Involuntarily, he jerked backward, partially upright. That was a mistake. It made him a better target. The second shot hit him, and he spun halfway around before he dived again for the cover of the truck wheel. The third shot kicked up more sand.

I cursed and put my fourth shot through the cab of the truck. A lucky ricochet just might put Raschid out of action.

I was up and over the crest of the hill now, plunging, sliding, half up to my knees in pouring sand; I was straining to keep from pitching forward in the loose footing, with Wilhelmina clutched in my right hand, and my canteen firebomb in the other, held gingerly aloft.

Three shots from Hamid Raschid's rifle thundered in the desert stillness. They spat into the sand ahead of me in rapid succession. The range wasn't too bad, but a man lurching downhill from above is an almost impossible target. Even the finest marksmen in the world will invariably shoot low in such circumstances, and that's what Raschid was doing.

But now I was closing in and nearing the bottom of the hill. I was within thirty yards of the truck, but still I could not see Raschid as he fired again through the open doors of the cab. Bullet-wind ripped at the pocket of my bush jacket.

Twenty yards now. The ground was suddenly level, and much harder. It made running easier, but it also made me a better target. A rifle boomed to my right, then again. The Dutchman had gone back to work.

Now I was fifteen yards from the cab of the truck. The muzzle of Raschid's AK-47 extended across the front seat spouting flame. I threw myself to the right and onto the hard-baked ground just a half second before a bullet whined overhead.

As I went down to my knees, I swung my left arm in a long, looping arc, lofting the canteen firebomb gently into the cab of the truck.

It landed perfectly on the seat, tumbling across the barrel of Raschid's rifle toward the wiry Saudi.

It must have been only inches from his dusky, highboned face when it exploded in a roaring geyser of flame. One earsplitting shriek of agony ended eerily, cut off at the high crescendo as Raschid's lungs turned to ash. I was already moving, leaping for the shelter of the big SAMOCO truck hood.

I leaned against the heavy front bumper for a minute, gasping for air, the blood pulsing in my forehead from super-exertion, my chest heaving.

It was the Dutchman and me now. Just the two of us playing cat and mouse around an old blue stake truck in the middle of the empty Saudi Arabian desert. Only a few feet away I could smell the acrid stench of burning flesh. Hamid Raschid was no longer a player in this game, only the Dutchman.

I was at the front of the truck, exhausted, winded, covered with sand, frying in my own sweat. He was nicely positioned behind the rear wheel of the truck. He was wounded, but I had no way of knowing how badly.

He was armed with a rifle. The chances were also damned good that he had a pistol. I had Wilhelmina and Hugo.

There were only two choices open to each of us: Either stalk the other or sit and wait for the stalker to make the first move.

I knelt quickly to peer under the truck. If be were moving, I would be able to see his legs. He wasn't. The tiniest bit of pant leg, just a glimpse of white linen, peeked out from behind the right wheel.

I removed the silencer from Wilhelmina for better accuracy. Holding onto the bumper with one hand and leaning almost upside down, I squeezed off a careful shot at the scrap of white.

At best, I might get him on a ricochet or perhaps even cause a blowout that would startle him enough to break cover. At worst, it would let him know exactly where I was, and that I knew where he was.

The shot reverberated in the silence as if we were in a small room rather than one of the emptiest spaces in the world. The tire wheezed air and slowly flattened, canting the big truck over at an awkward angle toward the right rear. The net result was that the Dutchman had a slightly better barricade than before.

I stood up against the heavy grill and counted back. I had fired four shots so far. I would much rather have a full clip, no matter what happened. I fished some shells out of my bush jacket pocket and began reloading.

A shot rang out, and something nudged the heel of my shoe, sand spurting up out of nowhere. I jumped, startled. I cursed myself for being careless and leaped onto the bumper of the truck in a half crouch, keeping my head below the level of the hood.

The Dutchman could shoot under trucks, too. I was lucky. If he hadn't been shooting from an extremely awkward position — as he must have been — he could have cut my legs out from under me.

For the moment I was safe, but only for the moment. And I couldn't remain clinging to that unbearably hot metal hood much longer. Already my body felt like it had been charcoal broiled.

My alternatives were limited. I could drop to the ground and He there, to peer under the truck and wait for the Dutchman to make his move, hoping for a shot at him underneath the chassis. Except that with his rifle, he could reach around the protecting wheel and pretty well spray any vantage point I might choose without exposing much of his body.

Or else, I could hop down off that bumper and leap into the clear on the left, so I would have a full view of the man. But no matter how I jumped, I would land somewhat off-balance — and the Dutchman would be kneeling or prone, and steady. He had only to move the muzzle of his rifle a matter of inches for a dead-on shot.

If I went the other way, circling the truck and hoping to catch him by surprise from the other side, he would shoot the legs out from under me the moment I moved in that direction.

I took the only other route open to me. Up and over. With the Luger in my right hand, I used the left as a lever and clambered onto the radiator hood, then up to the cab roof, to drop silently to the bed of the truck. With luck, the Dutchman would be fairly low in the sand behind the deflated right wheel, his attention riveted on the space under the truck bed, waiting for a glimpse of me.

There was no shot, no flurry of movement. I had apparently made my move undetected.

I peered through the space between the slats of the high-staked truck bed. Then, slowly, I crept across to the right rear corner of the vehicle.

I took a deep breath and stood up to my full six-feet-four so that I could look down over the top slat of the sideboards, Wilhelmina at the ready.

There he was, spread-eagled at an angle from the wheel, flat in the sand on his belly. His cheek was firm against the stock of the rifle — the classic prone position for marksmanship.

He had no idea I was there, just three feet above him, staring at his back.

Carefully, I raised Wilhelmina to chin height, then extended my arm over the side of the upper slat of the truck. I aimed at the back of the Dutchman's neck.

He remained motionless, waiting for the first sign of movement that he could spot underneath the truck. But I wasn't coming that way. He was as good as dead.

I squeezed Wilhelmina's trigger.

The gun jammed! Goddamned sand!

Instantly, I shifted my weight from my left foot to my right and snapped my arm downward to release Hugo. The stiletto slid neatly into my left hand, its pearl handle hot to the touch.

There was no way Hugo could jam. I grasped the knife by the haft and cocked my arm, holding the stiletto ear-high. I usually prefer a blade-throw but at this distance, with no interval for the standard end-over-end flip, it would be a haft-throw, straight down, three feet, right between the shoulders.

Some sixth sense must have warned the Dutchman. He suddenly rolled over on his back and stared up at me, his AK-47 arcing toward me as his finger began the trigger squeeze.

I snapped my left arm forward and down.

The needle point of the stiletto pierced the Dutchman's staring right eyeball and drove its three-sided razor-sharp blade into his brain.

Death twitched the saboteur's finger, but the shot echoed harmlessly in
the
desert sand.

For a moment I hung on with both hands to the top slat of the truck, my forehead pressed against the back of my knuckles. My knees suddenly felt very shaky. I'm fine in action, well-trained, never hesitant. But after it's all over, I always get a very shaky, nauseated feeling.

In one way I'm very normal. I don't want to die. And each time there's the flood of relief that I got them and it wasn't the other way around. I took a deep breath and went back to my work. It was just routine now. The job was over.

I retrieved my knife, wiped it clean, and returned it to its forearm sheath. Then I examined the Dutchman. I had hit him in that wild shooting charge down the hill, all right. The bullet had ranged along the right-hand rib cage. He had lost a lot of blood and it roust have been painful, but it was hardly a crippling wound.

It didn't really matter, I thought to myself. What did matter was that he was dead and the job was over.

There was nothing of importance on the Dutchman, but I transferred his wallet to my pocket. The boys in the lab might learn something interesting from it.

Then I turned my attention to what was left of Hamid Raschid. I held my breath while I made a distasteful search of his clothes, but found nothing.

I stood up, fished one of my gold-tipped filter cigarettes out of my bush jacket pocket and lit it, figuring out my next move. Just leave things as they were, I finally decided, inhaling the smoke gratefully despite the parched condition of my mouth and throat, I could send a
sadiki
crew back to pick up the truck and the two bodies once I returned to Dhahran.

Raschid's red checked
kaffryeh
caught my eye and I kicked at it with the toe of my shoe, flipping it over in the sand. Something gleamed, and I leaned over to examine it more carefully.

It was a long, thin metal tube, much like the sort of thing that expensive cigars are packed in. I took off the cap and peered at it. Looked like granulated sugar. Wetting the end of my little finger, I tasted the powder. Heroin.

I replaced the cap and balanced the tube in my palm thoughtfully. About eight ounces. It had been, undoubtedly, Raschid's payoff from the Dutchman. Eight ounces of pure heroin could go a long way toward making an
emir
out of a' beggar in the Middle East. I stuck it in my hip pocket and wondered how many of those tubes the Arab had received in the past. I'd send it back to AXE. They could do what they wanted with it.

I found Raschid's canteen in the front seat of the truck and drank it dry before tossing it aside. Then I climbed into the Jeep and headed back down the highway to Dhahran.

Dhahran hung low on the horizon, a dark green silhouette about eight miles down the road. I pressed harder on the accelerator. Dhahran meant cold showers, clean clothes, a tall, cool brandy and soda.

I licked dry lips with a parched tongue. A day or two more to get my reports in order and I'd be out of this hellhole. Back to the States. The fastest route would be by way of Cairo, Casablanca, the Azores, and finally, Washington.

Not one of those cities would rank with the garden spots of the world, but I had plenty of time coming to me if David Hawk didn't have an assignment ready and waiting. He usually did, but if I took my vacation in bits and pieces all along the route home, there wouldn't be much he could do about it. I just had to make sure I didn't accept any telegrams or cables along the way.

In any case, I thought, there's no point taking the dry-throat non-fun route. I'd go home the other way, by way of Karachi, New Delhi, and Bangkok. After Bangkok, what? I shrugged mentally. Kyoto, probably, since I have never cared much for the smog and clamor of Tokyo. Then Kauai, the Garden Island of Hawaii, San Francisco, New Orleans and finally, Washington, and an undoubtedly furious Hawk.

Before all that, of course, there was still tonight — and probably tomorrow night — in Dhahran. Muscles tightened involuntarily, and I grinned to myself.

I'd met Betty Emers just a week ago, her first night in Dhahran after having been in the States on a three-month vacation. She had come into the club at about nine o'clock one night, one of those women with such a sexual aura that somehow, in that special, subtle way, communicated the message to every man at the bar. Almost in unison every head in the place turned to see who had come in. Even women looked at her, she had that kind of presence.

I'd been attracted to her at once, and she hadn't sat alone at her table more than five minutes before I walked over and introduced myself.

She'd scanned her dark eyes over me for a brief second before she returned the introduction and invited me to join her. We'd had a drink together and talked. I learned that Betty Emers was an employee of one of the American-owned oil companies — and I learned that her life in Dhahran had lacked an important element: a man. As the evening progressed and I found myself becoming more drawn to her, I knew that that would soon be remedied.

Our evening ended with a night of furious lovemaking in her small apartment, our bodies unable to get enough of each other. Her deeply tanned skin was as soft as velvet to the touch, and after we'd spent ourselves, we'd lain quietly, my hand gently caressing every inch of that wonderfully smooth skin.

When I had to leave the next day, I did so with reluctance, showering and dressing slowly. Betty had wrapped a wispy robe about her, and her farewell had been a hoarse, "See you again, Nick." It had not been a question.

I thought now of her perfect body, the flashing eyes, her short black hair, and I felt her full lips under mine when Td taken her in my arms, crushing her to me as we lingered long and deep over a farewell that promised more delights to come…