Call to Duty (44 page)

“No,” Zack replied. “Not at all.”

“Look,” the colonel said, “why don’t you go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under and I won’t turn you in as a deserter. Leave the bird here.”

“As you wish,” Zack said and returned to the table. “I think we had better leave,” he told Willi. “He’s been drinking and is in an ugly mood.”

“Yes, let’s,” she said and stood up. “I do have plans for us—elsewhere.”

Zack helped her on with her coat and they headed out the
door. The colonel was right behind and caught up with them outside. “Hey, mac!” he yelled. “I thought I told you to leave the bird here. You stupid or deaf?”

“Are you talking about me?” Willi asked, her voice arched and frosty.

“Yeah,” the colonel grunted.

“Really,” she said, “if you are in rut and do wish to stand at stud, may I suggest a barn down the road. I’m quite sure you will find the beasts there most appealing. But on the other hand, they don’t really deserve someone like you, do they? So please feel free to take matters into your own hands.”

It took a moment for the words to sink through the man’s drunken stupor. His face flushed. “British bitch…” He swung his arm to slap Willi.

Zack’s left hand flashed out. He grabbed the colonel’s arm and twisted, almost dumping him to the ground. “You had better go back inside,” he said.

“Who do you think you are?” he growled and jerked free. He started to walk away and then turned and swung a haymaker at Zack’s head. It was a clumsy move and Zack stepped back, easily avoiding the punch. The man tried again but this time Zack blocked it with a hard sideways chopping motion to his forearm. The man grunted, surprised by the pain, but he was persistent and swung again. Zack dodged the punch and snapped two rapid jabs to the colonel’s right biceps. It was beyond the colonel’s experience that two such quick and easy-looking punches could hurt so much. He tried to raise his right arm but it wouldn’t respond.

“Let it go, Colonel, while you can still walk and talk at the same time.” The hardness in Zack’s voice drilled through the alcoholic haze in the man’s brain. For the first time the colonel really saw his adversary. Zack was standing perfectly still, at ease, his face impassive. A well-founded fear gripped him with the sure knowledge that he was overmatched and that the young American would maul him unmercifully. He retreated into the pub.

“Get in the car,” Willi said. She ran around to the driver’s side of the red Morgan.

“Your car?” Zack asked.

“I borrowed it from Roger.”

Bertram?”

She nodded. “But he doesn’t know it.” She gunned the engine and spun a tight U-turn.

“Where are we going?” Zack asked.

“Roger’s family home.”

Then they chorused in unison, “But he doesn’t know it.”

Willi drove fast and competently, sure of the road. But she far exceeded the reach of the shaded half-beam headlights. “Zack, would you have hurt that drunken sod?”

“The choice was his, not mine.”

She wheeled the car into a narrow lane and pulled up in front of a gate house guarding the entry into a big country estate. “The Bertrams gave me a key,” she explained. “The main house is closed for the duration. It’s a drafty old place, but this is very cozy.” She unlocked the door and let them in. Inside a coal fire was going in the fireplace and a note was on the table. “I called ahead and told the housekeeper I was coming. The old dear started the fire and left dinner in the cooker.” She smiled at him. “Hungry?” He nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

Zack settled into a comfortable couch in front of the fire. As she had advertised, the room was warm and snug. “This is the first time I’ve been warm this winter,” he called.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Willi sang from the kitchen. “I hope you like shepherd’s pie. And there’s a bottle of wine.” He shed his coat, loosened his tie, kicked off his shoes and stretched out. Willi brought a tray through and they ate in front of the fire. After they had finished the wine, she curled up on the floor beside him, cuddled his legs and stared into the fire. “This is so peaceful,” she murmured. A feeling of contentment and warmth swept over him and he dozed.

He was vaguely aware of movement. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked.

“About an hour.” She was still curled up on the floor at his feet but was wrapped in a blanket. She had stoked the fire and the room was still cozy and warm. “I let you sleep. You needed the rest.”

“You’ve let your hair down,” he said. He reached and stroked her hair. She held his hand to her cheek and then gently kissed his palm. She looked at him, her face serious,
her lips slightly parted. Zack pulled her up to him and the blanket fell away. She was naked and her skin glowed in the soft firelight. She sat on his lap and he tenderly kissed her. “Is it that warm?” he wondered.

“It will be,” she said and nipped at his ear. She wiggled around to face him and her long legs straddled his nips. Her arms encircled his neck and she hungrily kissed him, her mouth open. “Oh, it will be.” Her hands pulled at his tie and she slipped it over his head. Then her long fingers undid the buttons on his shirt and reached inside, stroking his chest, before she dropped the shirt to the floor. She slipped to the floor and undid his belt and loosened his pants. Her ringers danced over his crotch and she pulled his pants free. She tickled at his feet as she tugged his socks off. “I love your body,” she whispered. Her tongue explored his thighs as she pushed between his legs and worked higher.

Zack groaned and stood up, pulling her with him. He scooped her up to carry her into the bedroom. “No,” she whispered. “By the fire.” They sank to the rug and he laid her on her back. Her legs lifted as he entered her and then wrapped around his, claiming him. “I do love you,” she murmured.

The fire was dying. Willi unfolded from the couch and tossed the blanket over Zack. She dumped the last of the coal out of the bucket onto the fire. “There should be more in the shed,” she said.

“You can’t run around outside naked as a jaybird in this weather,” Zack said from under the blanket. “It’s raining cats and dogs.” She arched an eyebrow and darted out the door, bucket in hand. She was back in a moment, her skin moist from the rain. She fed the fire and jumped back under the blanket. “My God!” he yelped. “You’re freezing!”

“Stimulating, yes?” Her mouth was on his neck and her hands roving over his body.

“You’re insatiable,” he told her.

“Only around you. Now pay attention.” He gladly complied.

Zack shifted his arm into a more comfortable position. It had gone to sleep and tingled. Willi moved and readjusted to
the change. He stroked her back and stared into the fire. “You’re worried about something,” she said. “I can tell.”

“I was just thinking.”

She sat up, curled into the corner of the couch and studied his face. Willi was a clever strategist and consummate tactician when it came to bending others to her will and she had given hours of thought to the problem of Zack Pontowski. She knew that she loved and wanted him more than anything else in her life. Yet she realized the peace between them was very fragile and could be shattered again. She had used lust and sex to draw him to her and loosen the bonds that Chantal had woven around him. But had she been too aggressive in their lovemaking? She had to show him another side to prove that she was the right woman for him. I will marry you, Zack Pontowski, she promised herself.

“I hope you’re not feeling guilty,” she ventured. No answer. She was certain she had hit the truth and warned herself to avoid mentioning Chantal. “Zack.” She reached out and touched his cheek, turning his face to look at her. “I do love you.” Damn you, she thought, say the words too—make yourself commit to me. She pressed ahead. “And I’m willing to settle for this moment, or the next one, or however many we can have.”

“What happens if you should, ah, become, ah…” he searched for the right words.

“Pregnant?” She supplied the missing word. He nodded. She bit her cheek to suppress her laughter. He was to typically American, so prudish, so determined to do the right thing. “Then I will name him Zack.”

“And if it’s a girl?”

“You are sure of yourself,” she chided him. “There are no strings here.” She sensed immediately that she had said the wrong thing. He did want commitment and strings. She opted for the truth. “I do want you—forever and ever. But our future is on hold and until we are free again to make our own decisions and get on with our lives, I want these moments with you.”

He accepted the truth of what she was saying and fell silent. She waited, knowing that his restless mind was still questing down some unknown path, chasing an illusive thought, cornering a problem.

“Willi, what was the errand that brought you here?”

Her carefully guarded world crashed down about her. He was thinking of Chantal and probably suspected that her duties with SOE had brought her to 2 Group headquarters at Uxbridge.

“I’m on leave,” she lied. “I had to take care of some family business.”

Sixteenth Street, Washington, D.C.

General Simon Mado whistled a tuneless melody as he walked down Sixteenth Street near the National Geographic Society building. A dark gray town car pulled to the curb beside him. The front-seat passenger window rolled down and a voice called him by name, telling him to get in. Very fancy for a reporter, he thought. The rear door swung open and he got in. A small-caliber handgun was jammed into his ribs as the car moved into the midday traffic. “You bastards made a bad mistake,” he growled.

A needle jammed into his arm was his only answer.

Consciousness came slowly and Mado fought the fog that swirled through his brain. His first clear impression was of a very bitter taste in his mouth. Slowly another sensation came to him: He was lying naked under a blanket in a narrow berth. I’m on a boat, he thought. The soft light streaming through a porthole and a gentle rocking motion told him it was afternoon and that they were in smooth waters. Now where are my fuckin’ clothes, he thought. Since he still had his watch on, he checked the time. “Been out about three hours,” he mumbled and stood up to look out the porthole. They were anchored in a small cove that made him think of Chesapeake Bay. Apparently he hadn’t been taken too far. He wrapped the blanket around him toga-style and checked the cabin door. It was unlocked. He pushed it open and stepped into the main salon of the boat. The sole occupant was Tina Stanley, Senator Courtland’s aide. Like him, she was wrapped in a blanket. He ignored her and tested the door leading to the deck.

“It’s locked and they’re outside,” Tina told him. He could hear panic in her voice.

“Who are they?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Her panic was building.

“What the hell happened?” Mado growled. “I thought you had set up a meeting with a reporter.” She gave a little nod, looked away, and jammed a fist against her teeth. She started to shake. Mado turned it all over in his mind. What the hell was going on? What wires had been crossed? He was supposed to be providing a friendly reporter with “deep background” on the rescue mission that was about to be launched or was already in progress. That was all. If the mission failed, the reporter would have a ready-made exposé with which to embarrass the Pontowski administration. But this was not a situation that a general officer wanted to be caught in. “I’ve got to talk to them,” he said, pounding on the door.

“I don’t think they want to listen,” she said, tears flowing down her cheeks, ruining what was left of her makeup.

The door flew open and three men walked in. One dropped two small clear plastic capsules on the table next to Tina. “What are those?” Mado asked.

“Bullets,” Tina whispered. “Coke.”

One of the men ripped their blankets away and pushed them together. The other men started taking photos.

New Downtown, Washington, D.C.

Bobby Burke, the director of central intelligence, was not surprised that Charlie Bonazelli was waiting for him in the office the CIA used as one of its fronts in the New Downtown section of Washington, D.C.

“How they hanging?” Bonazelli asked in his friendly way. He handed Burke an envelope with four very clear and unambiguous photos.

“As usual,” Burke replied. He didn’t know how to reply to the crude greeting. He examined the photos. “Have these been given to the right people?”

“Of course. They’re front-page stuff.”

“Then all is well?”

“Of course.”

“Then why are you here?”

Bonazelli made a thoughtful face. “The families owe you
big-time and all parties are aware of our debt to you,” he began. “But we don’t know how you want to end this.”

“Let them go tomorrow morning.”

Bonazelli’s bushy right eyebrow shot up. “A very simple thing. And if it becomes complicated? Very complicated.”

“Then they should be discovered together.”

“Yes, I see. If we have to do that, the debt would then be—”

“Settled,” Burke said in his pompous, most bureaucratic, voice.

The White House, Washington, D.C.

“Almost noon,” Mazie said to herself. She had been on duty in the Situation Room since six
A.M.
and was hungry. “Well, why not?” She jabbed at a button on the intercom panel and called the kitchen for lunch. Twenty minutes later, a steward brought her a tray and a newspaper.

“I thought you’d like to see this,” he said with a tight grin. It was one of the sleazy tabloids she had seen at the checkout counter of her local market. The front page was packed with headlines and a delicately censored photograph of two nude people locked in an embrace. The headlines proclaimed that a general had been discovered in a drug and sex tryst with a senator’s aide aboard a yacht on Chesapeake Bay. Story on page two. Mazie opened the tabloid to page two and smiled as she read how one General Simon Mado, United States Air Force, had been discovered with his paramour, Tina Stanley, an aide to Senator William Douglas Courtland, on board their love boat. The boat was aptly named
Bustin’ Loose
. So much for the career and credibility of Mado, Mazie decided as she dropped the paper and devoured the sandwich. Men! she laughed to herself, always thinking with their peckers.

Then another thought came to her. I wonder if Mado was set up? It could not have happened at a better time. This is exactly what the media loves, sex and scandal, and it turns public attention away from us and onto Courtland. Who would do that?

She turned her attention to the green numbers on the master clock on the wall. They were marching with a relentless pace toward 2100 hours Greenwich mean time. Two smaller
clocks read out the local time for Washington, D.C., and Burma. “Noon here and midnight in Burma,” Mazie Kamigami said to herself in a vain effort to break the building tension. Then: “Only four hours to go.” The attack was scheduled to begin at 2100 hours Greenwich mean time or four in the morning in Burma. A video screen flashed
WAIT
, telling her a message was coming in. She toggled the key that routed SatCom transmissions to the small speaker set in the telecom console in front of her.

“Hammer, this is Fastback.” It was Mackay and even the encryption/decryption cycles of the SatCom could not completely distort his voice. They were using the SatCom because Hammer, the MC-130 carrying Mallard and Trimler, was still on the ramp at Udorn waiting to launch two hours prior to the attack. Mazie listened to Mackay’s situation report, updating his commanders on the progress of the mission. Pastback had moved out of its hide, reached its initial position but had not yet made contact. But Bigboot was mired down six miles short of their objective.

Relief engulfed Mazie. Bigboot did not have enough time to move into position and the attack would have to be aborted. Delta would be extracted. Then a sickening feeling swept over her. Innocent lives were at stake and she was willing to sacrifice them because her father was in danger. She felt like a traitor. She punched at a button on the telecom console in front of her and buzzed the national security adviser’s office on the secure line. Her voice was under tight control when she said, “Mr. Cagliari, we have a situation that requires your attention. Bigboot is still not in position.”

Three minutes later, Cagliari barged into the Situation Room. He listened impassively while Mazie detailed the situation for him. Before he could respond, Mackay’s voice came over the SatCom. “Hammer, this is Fastback. I’ve ordered Bigboot to move out of the jungle and run the road. They’ve been told to commandeer a vehicle if possible.”

Cagliari stroked his beard. “It might work,” he finally allowed.

“Are you going to tell the President?” she asked.

She didn’t like the answer. “No…you are…. As soon as he returns from the hospital. I’m going to the Pentagon and
I’ll link up with you when I’m in the NMCC” He was out the door. The sick feeling in Mazie’s stomach was back.

The Golden Triangle, Burma

The compound was quiet when Heather returned to her room. She sat down in front of a mirror and stared at her reflection. Slowly she rubbed her cheek. Then she saw Samkit sitting in a corner. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Heather said tonelessly. Samkit rose and padded across the room, picked up a brush and started to stroke her hair. The heavy odor of sex was still on her. “Morihama likes me” was all Heather said.

“You should sleep in another room tonight,” Samkit said. Heather stood up and followed Samkit to the servants’ wing. She moved automatically, without emotion, not questioning, only obeying. Samkit pushed her into a deserted room and helped her into bed without undressing. Samkit waited until the girl’s breathing smoothed and drifted into the comforting currents of sleep. She left, locked the door behind her, and hurried into the kitchen to see if there was more news. A cook told her that a stranger had arrived and was demanding a huge meal and a girl for his bed. Another servant reported that he was sharpening a long sword and asking about me two Americans he was to “test.”

“He’s the executioner,” the cook announced, sure of himself. He repeated all the rumors coursing through the compound.

Samkit yawned and left, telling them that she was tired and going home. Outside, she hurried across the compound to the barracks where a gardener had told her the two condemned Americans were being held. A soldier stopped her at the entrance and shoved her into the guard shack. He was bored and studied Samkit. “What are you doing here so late?’ he demanded.

“They say the Americans are going to be separated from their heads tomorrow and I wanted to see them.” She studied the guard, gauging his reaction. “Maybe I can get a lock of their hair,” she whispered.

The guard nodded, understanding. He had heard of differ
ent potions that could be made with such ingredients, “The general has given orders not to let anyone see them. He’d have my head with theirs if he heard….” He stroked her shoulder.

Samkit moved to him and rubbed her body against him, knowing what the price was. He pulled her blouse open and stroked her breasts. Samkit closed her eyes and waited until he was finished. She tried to make the right sounds and movements at the proper time. It was over in less than two minutes. “Now get out of here, old woman,” he growled as he buttoned his pants.

Her fury blazed as she tugged her clothes in place. She started to leave, only to whirl on him. “A curse brews strong when I have part of you in me,” she snarled. He backed away as a white-hot wrath built in the small woman. She started the chant that would call down a
nat
, one of the ancient spirits that inhabited their world. Fear and superstition held a primitive power over all the soldiers, and the image she evoked was real for the simple and illiterate man.

“Please,” he begged, offering her all his money and possessions. But there was no mercy in Samkit as she conjured the
nat
. The soldier collapsed to his knees, wailing his own death lament.

“If you do what I ask,” Samkit said when she had finished, “I will release the
nat
and lift the curse.” He begged her to tell him what she wanted. “Show me where the Americans are being kept and let me talk to them.” He jerked his head in agreement and led her to the cells. He opened the door and let her in. “Go,” Samkit ordered. The guard hurried back to his post. “Listen carefully,” Samkit whispered to DC. “After I leave, lie on the floor and pull the sleeping pallet over you for protection. If you hear anything, be very quiet, close your eyes and open your mouth. Yawn deeply and cover your ears with your hands.” DC told her that she understood. “I need a lock of your hair,” Samkit said, pulling out a small pair of scissors from the black bag she carried. Then she moved over to Ricky’s cell, repeated her instructions, and clipped a lock of his hair.

On the way out, Samkit showed the guard the hair she had taken and told him that she would release the
not
when the Americans were dead. Once out of sight, she slipped off her
sandals and ran for the service gate on the other side of the compound. When she reached the outside, the rain came down, soaking her to the skin as she ran down the road. She was barefoot and her saronglike tubular skirt snapped against her legs. In frustration, she pulled the skirt up to free her legs and ran faster. Through mist in front of her she caught a glimpse of three trucks parked beside the road. She recognized them as the supply trucks that arrived early every morning at the compound. A hand reached out of the shadows and grabbed her. “Samkit,” a heavy male voice growled. It was the German anthropologist.

“The general is going to kill the Americans tomorrow,” she gasped.

The German did not question her information. He had learned from long experience that Samkit, as were many servants in this part of the world, was an unimpeachable source of information. He unsnapped a small radio from his belt and spoke rapidly into the microphone.

The monkey of command was firmly on Mackay’s back as he talked to the two colonels still orbiting in Thai airspace in E-Squared’s MC-130. “Hammer copied all,” Mallard said, confirming that he had all the details.

Mackay looked at Kamigami and the captain who was to lead Fastback into the compound and storm Chiang’s villa. “Decision time,” he told the two men. They all appreciated that the two colonels were waiting for Mackay’s recommendation as the on-scene commander. “No word from Bigboot and we have to make contact with the trucks now. I’m going to recommend an abort.” It pained him to say it and fatigue drew his face into tired lines. The captain’s lips were compressed into a tight line and he said nothing.

“Sir,” Kamigami said, “Captain Woodward is with Bigboot.” Mackay shot the sergeant major a hard look. But he said nothing, waiting for Kamigami to make his point. “If anyone can get Bigboot into position, he can.” The sergeant shut up. He had said enough.

Mackay’s eyes drew into narrow slits. He would find out later how the British captain had managed to come along but for now, he evaluated how his presence changed the situation. Woodward had repeatedly proved himself to be the most re
sourceful special forces operative Mackay had ever met. It was a new factor in the equation. “We could slip the attack thirty minutes,” he said, “so Woodward can get Bigboot into place. While he’s doing that, we make contact with the trucks and move into position. If Bigboot doesn’t do their thing, we know that they didn’t make it. Then we abort, cut and run. Hammer can coordinate it, have the helicopters moving toward us for a rapid extraction if things go to shit, and have Specter ready to give us cover. Your thoughts.”