Terror in D.C. (9 page)

The vigilante ex-cop toyed with the idea of leaving the terrorists to their fate. The hostages had already been freed. The cops didn't know that, but in time they would figure it out and storm the place. Then the terrorists would be arrested and … and what?

Spend the next year on the front pages of the nation's papers pleading their “cause” while they waited to be brought to trial—that's what. Hawker's imagination raced ahead. As prisoners in an American penitentiary system, they would be looked upon as martyrs by their countrymen. More than likely, American hostages would then be taken in hopes of making a deal for an exchange.

Hawker's jaw grew tight.

When all his options were considered, facing the four terrorists alone seemed the least of all the evils.

He couldn't let these murderers become the news darlings of Dan Rather and his ilk.

And there was only one way to prevent that from happening.

Hawker touched the safety tang on the Colt Commando, once again checking to make sure it was on full automatic. Then he slid quietly into the hall.

The terrorists seemed to be arguing among themselves—Hawker had no idea about what. Their voices came from the front room, the living room, and Hawker knew they must be waiting en masse to confront the police. But then he heard something else … the punch-and-chime sound of someone at a push-button phone.

Hawker stopped midway down the hall, listening.

Without warning, the loud foreign voices stopped abruptly. The vigilante couldn't figure it out at first, but then he realized that they, too, wanted to listen to the conversation on the telephone.

It was a brief conversation. There was a flutter of Arabic followed by silence, followed by another staccato rush of words, then more silence.

The phone clicked down.

Hawker was surprised that the caller now spoke in English.

“Isfahan is very angry,” the man said, his voice thick with emotion. “He is very angry at all of us. I told him we tried our best, and that it wasn't our fault—”

“What does he want us to do, damn it! Quit your blubbering and tell us!”

“He said … he said that we must not be taken alive.”

“That is all our leader said to you?”

“No … no. He said that we must kill our hostages now. He said that we then must fight the police and kill as many of them as possible. We must defend this house until …”

“Until what!”

“Until the bombs explode. Isfahan said that by that time we will have drawn much attention. Reporters will have joined the police, and many spectators too. The bombs are strong enough.… Many might be killed instead of just a few.”

“And what about the statement? What kind of statement does Isfahan wish us to make?”

The first voice was silent for a moment. Then the man said in a near whisper, “Isfahan forbids us to make any statement.”

“What?”

“It is true. He says … he says he does not trust us. He fears we may fail again. Isfahan is afraid that, in speaking, we may divulge the name of our homeland.”

“Does he think we are children!” exclaimed a third voice in outrage. “He wishes us to die for our homeland, yet make no declaration of our faith? It is not fair!”

“But Isfahan is a holy man, our leader—”

“But it is not Isfahan who now faces death!”

“I agree. I feel Isfahan is wrong. For myself, I do not wish to die. Our orders were to blow up a house, not to fight men with guns. It is not that I am afraid of dying, but I do not wish to die without a declaration of faith. If we let ourselves be taken prisoner, we would be treated well—it is the way of the Americans to treat their enemies as they would their own. We would have a great opportunity to speak of our cause—”

“You cannot make that decision!” said another. “Isfahan has given us our orders. Even if he hadn't, two of us are not present. Yezd is still outside arranging the bombs, and Baijan is with the woman and her piglets.”

There was a short silence. Hawker knew what they were thinking. Where had their friends gone? What was delaying them?

It was time to act.

So far, Hawker had counted only three voices. Perhaps the woman was wrong. Perhaps there had been only five in all: two that Hawker had killed, and the three remaining.

He moved silently down the hall. Off to his left was a room. An ornate table lamp glowed beside a massive bed. Beside the bed, a man in pajamas lay on the floor. It was the black-haired woman's husband. His pajama top was black with blood. Hawker looked at him for a moment, and was surprised when the man's arm moved. Then he saw the imperceptible heave of his chest.

The man was still alive. But he wouldn't last if he didn't get medical attention immediately.

Hawker knew he had to hurry—now time was doubly important.

At the hall opening he stopped and poked his head around the corner. The three terrorists all stood at the front window. They wore dark, baggy pants, and they had removed the stockings from their faces. Each held a stumpy Uzi submachine gun. All three were peering anxiously out the window.

“Perhaps Yezd is having trouble with the bombs,” one of them said.

“Yes. No doubt. But what about Baijan? We have not heard a word from him since he took the American woman to the back room.”

One of the terrorists chuckled nervously. “Perhaps he is showing her what it is like to be bedded by a real man. I have heard that these American women are left restless and unsatisfied by their fat white he cows.”

“Call him! Whatever he is doing, call him. We must all talk. We have a decision to make, and we will soon be hearing the sirens.”

They all turned toward the hallway in unison—and stopped.

James Hawker stood before them.

The vigilante's appearance frightened them—as it would have frightened anyone. The sharp lines of his face stood out from the black watch cap and black sweater like chiseled marble. In his right hand he held the solid weight of the Colt .44 Magnum. In his left hand the Colt Commando automatic rifle was leveled at their bellies.

Hawker took three slow steps toward them, saying easily, “You can forget about talking to your two friends. They're indisposed right now.”

“You … you have arrested them?” the man in the middle asked shakily.

“No. I didn't arrest them.” Hawker paused before adding, “I killed them. And unless you want me to kill you, you'd better do exactly as I say.”

“We wish to surrender anyway!” the man said brightly, dropping his Uzi on the rug. He jerked his head quickly at the others, and they did the same. “We are your prisoners. We ask only that we be tried fairly, in a court—”

“The only court you goat-eaters have is me!” Hawker snapped. He pointed the Colt Magnum at the face of the man doing the talking. “How many bombs are there?”

“Two … there are two, both outside.”

“And what time are they set to go off?”

“At 4:30
A.M.
”

Hawker glanced at his watch. It was 3:58
A.M.
With the revolver, he motioned toward the telephone on the desk by the window. “I want you to dial 911, the police emergency number there. Identify yourself as the terrorist who killed the cops in Wells Church. By now, they'll know what you're talking about. Then I want you to tell the officer who answers three things. Tell him you are leaving the house. Tell him there is a wounded American inside the house who badly needs medical attention. Then say you have planted bombs on houses throughout the block set to go off at 4:35
A.M.
Got that?”

“But I told you 4:30—”

“I want you to lie to them—just for me, okay? Can you remember all that?”

“No,” the man said nervously. “Not all of it.”

“Just dial,” Hawker said. “I'll remind you as you go.”

The terrorist spoke too quickly into the phone at first. Hawker could tell the officer on duty interrupted to make him slow down. The vigilante had to prompt him only once—about what time the bombs were to go off—a necessary lie to make sure the cops evacuated the entire block without wasting time to look for the bombs. Five minutes could make all the difference.

Hawker didn't want them to find the two actual bombs. Not now.

The desk officer tried to keep the terrorist talking, but Hawker motioned to him to hang up the phone. When he did the vigilante fished a big roll of electrician's tape from his satchel and secured the hands of the first two men behind their backs, then he taped their mouths closed. The man in the middle, the one who had done most of the talking, he left unbound.

“Let's go,” Hawker said, waving the Commando at them. “Down the hall and out the back way.”

The vigilante stopped them at the master bedroom. He forced them up against the wall, then he knelt over the wounded American. He was glad to see the wounded man's eyes crack open.

“Hey,” Hawker said softly, “you're going to be okay. You're going to make it.”

“My kids,” he gasped. “Are they … are they—”

“Your wife and your kids are fine. Honest.” Hawker slid pillows under his legs and pulled a blanket off the bed to cover him as he spoke. “Help's going to be here for you any minute—can you hear the sirens? It's an ambulance on its way. Hang on. Don't die. You have too much to live for.”

The wounded man smiled slightly, closed his eyes, and nodded. “Too mean to die,” he whispered. “My kids are alive?”

“You'll see them tomorrow. I promise.”

Hawker patted the man on the shoulder, then shoved the terrorists on down the hall.

They exited through the broken bedroom window. The three terrorists walked past the corpses of their dead brethren without a sound. Hawker made the terrorist leader take the first bomb. They found the second bomb attached to the side of the house, and Hawker made him carry that one too.

As the vigilante shoved them one by one over the first fence, police cars came screeching around the corner. Hawker noted that their reaction time wasn't all that good—probably eight minutes or so from when the dead cops failed to check in or respond.

Reaction time was never good after midnight on a weekend night.

He knew the EMTs, at least, wouldn't be far behind.

At a brush-covered area between the fences, a hundred yards from any house, the vigilante stopped them. Touching the barrel of the Colt Commando to the temple of the terrorist leader, he said, “Put the bombs on the ground and turn around.”

“What are you going to do? You're not going to shoot us—”

“I'm not going to shoot you.”

“You are telling the truth?”

“I'm known far and wide for my honesty. Now put your hands behind your back.”

Hawker taped the leader's hands heavily, then made them all sit on the ground. He taped the three men together at the neck, so their heads were touching, back-to-back.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I'm going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer me honestly.”

“Anything! Just don't kill me.”

“I've never shot a helpless man in my life. Now answer this question. What country are you from?”

The man gulped and hesitated too long. Hawker nudged him roughly. “What country?”

“I am an Iraqi!”

“Iraq? Why is it I think you're lying?”

“I fight for the freedom of the Iraqi peoples!”

“You fight because you don't have the brains of a radish. Where do you store your ordnance? In the Iraqi Embassy?”

“… Yes.”

“Who's your ambassador?”

The terrorist said a name.

“Then why is it you called a man on the telephone named Isfahan?”

“It … that is a code name for him.”

“Who is your religious leader?”

“The great and holy Mohammed, merchant of Mecca, prophet of Allah, the savior of mankind, and the one true god.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yes!”

“Then you're really going to enjoy what's going to happen next.”

As the terrorist struggled vainly, Hawker taped his mouth closed, then used a length of rope to tie the legs of the three men together. Using the last of the tape, he secured one bomb to the face of the terrorist leader, then placed the second bomb at his feet.

Hawker stood, straightened his watch cap, and checked his watch. It was 4:02
A.M.
Out on the street, police bullhorns boomed:
All residents must evacuate the area immediately. If you do not leave immediately, you may be killed
.…”

A medical unit was just pulling away, red lights blazing.

The vigilante was satisfied with the way his plan had worked. The black-haired woman and her kids would already be safely out of the area, and now her wounded husband was on his way to the hospital. Because the police had a deadline, they wouldn't have enough manpower to waste time surrounding the area. They would need every available man to help evacuate the area. And in the rush of traffic, they would never notice his escaping in his rental Ford.

Now, there was only the decision of whether to actually leave the terrorists to the irony of being killed by their own bombs.

It wasn't a difficult decision to make.

As Hawker climbed over the next fence, he called down to the terrorist leader. “Hey—when you see Mohammed, merchant of Mecca, give him my regards, would you?”

thirteen

“The Iraqis are behind the terrorist bombings that have killed seven families in the Washington area in the last eight weeks.”

James Hawker sat in a Jacuzzi in his posh hotel suite, hot water sudsing around his neck, a cold bottle of Tüborg in his left hand, the telephone in his right. The Jacuzzi was in a room walled with mirrors, and he saluted himself with the beer as he spoke.

“The Iraqis?” echoed the voice of Agent Lester Rehfuss. “It can't be the Iraqis. Not the Iraqi Embassy, anyway.”