Two more helicopters broke away, but Girling only tracked their passage on the periphery of his vision. A complex at the base of the cliffs was beginning to take shape as his eyes grew accustomed to the light. It was as strange as any he had ever seen. Its rigid geometry looked incongruous against the desert setting, but the fact it was fifty kilometres from the nearest outpost of civilization made it absurd.
It was a perfect square, its sides some fifty yards long, its walls approximately fifteen feet high. In its midst was a great courtyard, covered, in part, by a flimsy roof. There were a number of outhouses scattered round it, all whitewashed. Beyond the out-houses a trench enclosed the cluster of buildings.
More details leapt into focus. In one of the corners he noticed a minaret set starkly against the rocky backdrop, a building within the building at its base.
Girling turned to Abdullah. ‘What is this place?’
‘I do not understand,’ Abdullah replied. He had to shout over the gunfire. ‘It is a caravanserai.’
Girling had never seen one close up.
‘Did you know about this caravanserai here?’
‘No, ya majnoon.’ There was a mixture of puzzlement and anger on the bedouin’s face. ‘A caravanserai is the desert’s own miracle, a sacred place, where even rival tribes forget their differences.’
It was only when Girling looked at one of the walls side-on that the pieces fell into place. ‘Look,’ he shouted. ‘Your caravanserai is made of wood.’
Before Abdullah could ask him the purpose of such an edifice, the two Sikorskys that had broken away thirty seconds earlier swept in low and fast from the open end of the wadi. Their noses reared as the pilots bled off the excess speed. Then they began to settle on the expanse of dust between the caravanserai and the two outhouses. Even before their wheels brushed the ground men leapt from their ramps.
A group of eight soldiers rushed to one of the outhouses amidst covering fire from the helos circling overhead. Accurate sniping fire came from the men who had been deposited earlier on the clifftops.
The soldiers were difficult to spot, dressed as they were in black, gas masks and hoods on their heads.
There was a flash like a firecracker detonation and the outhouse door blew off its hinges. Two men scurried inside. Another group dished out similar treatment to the second outhouse in a mirror-image operation. The second door blew open just as the first group of soldiers began hurrying back across open ground towards the helicopters. Each soldier supported mannequins, all dangling legs and dead weight. The second group reappeared and from somewhere a star-shell rose into the sky, bursting in an incandescent shower of green phosphor.
The two Sikorskys lifted off from the ground and peeled away.
There was so much action that Girling did not know where to look. At the head of the wadi, the second pair of Sikorskys began to lower over the caravanserai, ropes spilling from their bodies like disembowelled entrails. In an instant men were abseiling to the ground.
It took, perhaps, less than two minutes for the soldiers to clear the rooms with gunfire and grenades. This time, they did not reappear with mannequins. As he watched, the caravanserai was torn apart.
Another star-shell, red this time, burst in the sky. The Sikorskys reappeared and, once more, the ropes fell from the cabins. The helicopters pulled away, clearing the cliffs just as a series of explosions blew the building apart.
Then the noise ceased, leaving only a ringing in Girling’s ears.
Shabanov jumped from the side door of his MH-53J onto the tarmac at Wadi Qena. The other three helicopters swept down from the sky one by one, each separating by a hundred yards as it lowered wheels to the ground.
The Russian had exchanged his Soviet combat fatigues for American ones. It had been decided that since they were using US helicopters they would standardize on US military equipment, right down to the uniforms. Apart from anything else, it would lead to fewer identification problems when they took the Sword’s caravanserai for real.
Shabanov waved to his pilot and took a last admiring look at the MH-53J. With mid-air refuelling, it was big enough to ferry them all the way into and all the way out of the target area and yet Soviet pilots who had flown it, his Soviet pilots, said it performed like an agile combat helicopter. Remarkable. Would that their own technology were as good.
When he turned to the other Sikorskys, two of them were already trundling across the tarmac to their hangars leaving Ulm’s machine alone, facing his, the two birds looking like overweight gunslingers at a dawn showdown. He watched Ulm swing out of the co-pilot’s seat, drop to the ground, catch sight of him and start walking over.
They met half-way.
‘Well?’ Ulm said.
Shabanov pulled off his helmet and ran a gloved hand through his bristle length hair. ‘Tell Mr Jacob-son to alert the KC-130 tankers. We’re ready to go as soon as General Aushev gives the all clear.’
‘When could that be?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine, Elliot. When the weather’s fine, when the hostages are all in the optimum position, when the Angels are asleep, when the gods smile…’
‘That could be weeks.’
‘Or tomorrow.’ Shabanov breathed deeply. He felt good. ‘You can tell Mr Jacobson we’re ready, Elliot. For the moment, that’s all that matters.’
CHAPTER 19
Only in the cool air-conditioned interior of the Misr Tours office at Ramsis Station did Girling notice the acrid odour of his body and clothes for the first time. His filth-ridden suit and sweat-stained skin had gone unremarked amongst his fellow travellers — mainly fellahin peasant farmers — on the third-class wagon from Qena to Cairo. But here, surrounded by a bus load of Italian tourists, their leader remonstrating angrily with a girl behind the desk who was disclaiming all knowledge of a block booking on that morning’s express to Luxor, the smell of the camel saddle and the dust on his jeans almost choked him.
With the uproar at its height, Girling calmly reached across the desk, picked up the phone and dialled Sharifa. He let the phone ring for almost two minutes, but there was no answer. He was relieved, because it meant she had done his bidding and gone to Lazan’s.
Enduring hostile glances from a couple of elderly tourists at the back of the melee, Girling dialled a new number, Stansell’s apartment, and waited for the answering machine to engage. He was reluctant to show up there personally in case he ran into one of Al-Qadi’s men. For the moment, being dead suited him down to the ground.
He activated the remote access code and listened to his messages. There were four from Kelso, his voice getting successively angrier. Interspersed amongst them were the calmer tones of Jack Carey, asking him to call with details of his forthcoming exclusive on the Angels of Judgement. Time was running short if he was going to make the edition. Girling smiled to himself. God, did he have a story for Carey now.
On the train, with eight hours to himself, Girling had resolved not to release details of what he had seen in the desert until after the rescue was complete. Not only did he want it to go ahead, uncompromised, he felt consumed by the need for the Angels of Judgement to get what was coming to them. The fact that he had seen the rehearsal — and knew of the punishment the Americans and the Russians would unleash once the hostages were secured — gave him a glow of satisfaction. It was as if he would be going in with them. As if their revenge was his also. His last message was from Lazan. The Israeli asked him to get round to see him as soon as possible, before he did anything else. At the embassy, day or night. He would be there, not home. There had, he said, been some interesting developments.