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.