"Hasan," Rodgers said gently, "would you tell your colleague that everything is ready and that I'm going to cooperate? Tell him I'm sorry for having misled him about the nature of the van. Promise him that it won't happen again."'
Rodgers let his gaze slip down to Mary Rose. The poor woman was breathing slowly. She looked as if she were trying not to vomit.
Mahmoud pulled her up by the hair.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" Private Pupshaw grunted, tugging against his bonds.
"Stow that, Private," Rodgers warned. He was trying to ignore the knot of outrage in his own gut.
Hasan nodded approvingly in Rodgers's direction. "I am pleased that you see this our way now."
Rodgers didn't say anything. There was nothing to be gained by explaining how he felt about a gun-wielding man threatening a bound, unarmed civilian. All the general wanted to do right now was keep the terrorists in the front of the van, away from the computer station.
Mahmoud handed Mary Rose to Ibrahim, who held her tightly with one arm across her chest. The Syrian leader approached Rodgers. As he did, the general hopped forward. He stopped at the computer station opposite the one to which he'd connected the telephone. He lay a reassuring hand on Pupshaw's shoulder.
Mahmoud spoke to Hasan, who translated.
"Mahmoud wishes you to talk," Hasan said.
Rodgers looked at Mahmoud. Some of the anger had left his face, which was good. Rodgers wanted to keep things slow and chatty, give Op-Center time to receive and decode the message. He also wanted to buy time for them to turn a satellite on the ROC if they hadn't already. And he suspected that if he told them some of what the ROC could do, they wouldn't imagine that it could do more — such as access highly secure computers in Washington. If the terrorists learned the full capabilities of the ROC, national security and undercover lives would be compromised. And dodgers would have no choice but to get to either keyboard and hit Control, Alt, Del, and Cap "F" — fry the facility, whatever the cost.
"This is a United States surveillance facility," Rodgers said. "We listen to radio communications."
As Hasan explained to Mahmoud, Rodgers felt Pupshaw squirm.
"General, let them kill us instead," the Striker whispered.
"Quiet," Rodgers reprimanded him.
Hasan turned back to Rodgers. "Mahmoud wishes to know if you knew about the work we did today."
"No," Rodgers said. "This is the first time our facility has been used. We're still working on it."
Hasan translated. Mahmoud spoke and pointed to the small satellite dish.
"Can you send a message from here?" Hasan asked.
"A satellite message?" Rodgers asked hopefully.
"Yes. Yes, we can."
"Computer messages as well as voice messages?" Hasan inquired.
Rodgers nodded. If Mahmoud saw the ROC as his personal megaphone, so much the better. Op-Center could keep track of them by watching or listening to them.
Mahmoud smiled and said something to Ibrahim. Ibrahim answered confidently. Mahmoud spoke again, and this time Ibrahim put his other arm around Mary Rose's chest and pulled her from the van.
"What are you doing?" Mary Rose asked fearfully. "General! General—"
"Leave her alone!" Rodgers demanded. "We're doing what you want!"
He began hopping forward. "If you want someone, take me," he said.
Hasan held him back. Rodgers grabbed the Syrian's hair, but couldn't keep his balance. Hasan threw him down into the nearest battery well. Sondra reached out to help Rodgers, but he waved her away. If anyone was going to get knocked around, he wanted it to be him. She sat on the edge of the well.
"I have treated you well!" Hasan shouted. He spat in the general's face. "Animal! You don't deserve it!"
"Bring her back," Rodgers snarled at Hasan. "I'm doing what you asked."
"Be silent!"
"No!" Rodgers shot back. "I thought we had an agreement."
Mahmoud walked over and pointed the gun down at Rodgers. The Syrian's face was impassive as he spoke to Hasan.
Hasan ran his fingers through his hair. "You angered me for nothing, Mr. Rambo," he said. "Ibrahim is taking the woman to the Turk's motorcycle. He will follow us at a distance. Mahmoud has ordered that you use these computers to turn off the satellite. If we are stopped, her eyes will be cut out and she will be left in the desert."
Rodgers swore at himself. He'd blundered into this and made an enemy of Hasan. He had to step back and try to think logically.
Hasan pulled Rodgers up and threw him into the free chair by the computer station. As he did, Mahmoud spoke.
"Mahmoud says you have wasted too much time," Hasan told him. "We want to see this van from a satellite."
Rodgers shook his head. "We don't have that capaci—"
Mahmoud turned and kicked Sondra in the face. She had seen the boot coming and rolled with it, lessening the impact. It spilled her onto her side, but she sat up again quickly, defiantly.
Rodgers felt the kick as well. It had punted logic into a remote end zone. He looked at Hasan. "You tell Mahmoud that if he touches one of my people again, he will get nothing, ever."
Mahmoud spoke hurriedly to Hasan.
"Mahmoud says he will beat her to death unless you obtain the capacity we requested," Hasan replied.
"You are on United States property," Rodgers said. "Tell Mahmoud that we don't obey dictators, whatever the price." Rodgers glared at Hasan. "Tell him, damn you."
Hasan obliged. When he had finished, Mahmoud went to kick Sondra again. Since her hands were free, she was able to cross her forearms and block the blow. At the same time she turned her hands inward, facing one another, and caught his shin. Holding it, she pushed his leg up and he stumbled back.
"Atta way, Private," Coffey said under his breath.
Screaming with fury, Mahmoud stomped down on the woman's right kneecap then kicked her in the chin. She wasn't fast enough to react to the blows and sprawled back against the wall. Mahmoud walked over and stomped her belly. Her arms slipped to her sides and she gasped for breath.
"For Christ's sake, stop!" Katzen said.
Mahmoud kicked Sondra twice in the chest, and this time she moaned. Then he kicked her in the mouth. With each blow Katzen's eyes burned with greater anger, first at the Syrians and finally at Rodgers.
"He's going to kill her," Katzen said. "Jesus, do something!"
Rodgers was proud of his Striker. She was ready to give it all for her country. But he couldn't allow it. Despite what he'd said about dictators, democracy would be better served by the likes of Sondra DeVonne living, not dying.
"All right," Rodgers said. "I'll do what you ask."
Mahmoud stopped, and Sondra tried to pull herself into a sitting position. There was blood on her cheek and mouth. She opened her eyes and looked at Katzen, who exhaled tremulously.
Rodgers held on to the table and swung himself into the empty chair. He put his hands on the keyboard. He hesitated again. If it were just himself and Pupshaw, maybe even Katzen and Coffey, he could tell the Syrians to go to hell. But by giving in to their first demand, he'd shown that his skin could be penetrated. By attacking Hasan, Rodgers had lost the ability to divide the terrorists. That had been stupid. But he'd been tired and afraid for Mary Rose, and it was over and done. Now he had only two assets left: his life and surprise. As long as he could work the ROC for these men, he would stay alive. And as long as he stayed alive, he could always surprise them.
Provided you keep your wits, Rodgers reminded himself. No more temper.
Mahmoud spoke. Hasan nodded.
"We want to see Ibrahim in the picture," Hasan told Rodgers. "Be certain you show him."