Indeed it did. Ever since the Big Three of the radical Islamic states — Libya, Iran, and Syria — founded the Militant Islam group in the holy city of Qom, the Middle East had been abuzz with rumors of a new wave of terrorist assaults. The action was code-named Operation Ifrit.
Not coincidentally, the last communication AXE received from Agent N3 stated that he was following up a hot lead concerning that same operation. That was over six weeks ago. Since then, Carter hadn't been seen or heard from. The earth seemed to have swallowed him up.
Something of Hawk's poker face slipped. He showed a flicker of interest, and Lemniak picked up on it, which was encouraging, demonstrating as it did that the old con artist was not too far gone to have lost all critical judgment. That was why Hawk engineered the deliberate slip in the first place. Perhaps Lemniak's judgment could be relied on in other matters as well.
Lemniak pounced. "I see that does mean something to you! You wouldn't be in Israel right now if not for Ifrit."
"Why don't you sell whatever you've got to the Israelis?"
"Don't be absurd! They don't toss that kind of money around."
"Neither do we."
"Besides, I don't trust them. They're compromised."
"Compromised?"
"Penetrated. Infiltrated. Subverted."
Hawk did not bother to hide his disbelief. "By whom?"
"Ah-hah." Lemniak waved a chiding finger. "That's part of what I've got to sell."
"That might be worth something — if it's true."
"It's true, all right, and it's only part of the package I'm offering. Israel's not the only target, you know. America's Arab allies are slated for punishment too."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"What's a paltry million dollars compared to the toll in lives and property you'll save? Would you have paid a million to block Khomeini's rise to power? To save Sadat? To keep your Marines from being blown up in Beirut? Of course you would. I tell you, those debacles are child's play compared to Ifrit."
"That brings us back to the big question. What have you got?" Hawk asked.
"The boss of terror." Lemniak was smug, scenting victory in the negotiations. "The linchpin, the mastermind behind the entire plot."
"Who is it?"
"I know who he is and where he is. He's not far from here." A shudder ripped Lemniak's smugness. "There's still time for you to kill him if you act now. Don't try to take him alive. He's too dangerous for that. Kill him."
"Who?"
"I'll tell you that much. It won't do you any good without the rest of the information." Lemniak leaned forward. "His name is R…"
Gunfire interrupted the revelation.
Petra Kelly didn't like rush jobs. They were particularly dicey here in the Land of Zion, where universal military service and an armed citizen-soldiery stacked the deck against a successful action.
But she liked dying even less. Her master enforced a uniform policy regarding such infractions as disobedience, insubordination, failure to carry out an assignment. Offenders were executed. Messily.
She was the sole daughter and eldest child of a wealthy Dublin tradesman. Her revolt against affluence and privilege took her into the Provo wing of the IRA. She concealed her family background, fearful that she would not be taken as a serious comrade because of it. After she made her first kill, nobody ever told her to make tea again.
She did her murderous work well. Who would imagine that such a lovely green-eyed colleen was a terrorist? Northern Ireland proved too small a venue for one of her talents, so she got on the international circuit, wreaking havoc throughout Europe and the Mediterranean.
And then one day she got involved in Operation Ifrit, and since then, her life was no longer her own. She belonged body and soul to her master.
He never took her, never even touched her. He desired only that she continue doing what she was so good at: killing. And killing, and killing, and killing.
She liked the work, but she feared him. Quite an individual, this man who terrified the terrorists.
Petra was leggy and lissome. Her short red hair was netted and flattened under a blond wig. Oversize sunglasses masked much of her elfin face, giving her a vaguely buglike look.
She wore a sleeveless white V-necked dress that displayed the inner curves of her firm, pert breasts. Slung over her shoulder was a large woven straw bag, the sort available at every souvenir stand, a type used by many tourists.
Petra was not alone. Joining her on the job was Ulli Schwob, late of the German Red Army Faction. Ulli was ten years her senior, half a head taller, and some fifty pounds heavier. She was built like the Brunnhilde of a third-rate Wagnerian opera company.
Ulli also wore a light summer dress, and, like Petra, toted a straw bag. The pair sat at a table not far from Hawk.
Ulli kept craning her neck, peering down into the street. Her vigil was now rewarded.
A taxi pulled up to the curb, disgorging four armed men. They looked worried but grimly intent on carrying out their business.
The master had provided plenty of firepower for this job.
Petra and Ulli went to work. They stood up and started shooting.
While he was verbally fencing with Lemniak, Hawk's eyes had been in constant motion, systematically scanning his surroundings for the jarring detail that spells danger. Something about Petra and Ulli had nagged at his sixth sense, and his gaze kept returning to them.
Perhaps it was the matching straw totes sported by the two innocent-seeming women. There was no reason why companions might not have identical bags, but surely it was more than coincidence that they both had reached inside them at the same time…
Gunfire crackled on the street and sidewalk.
Ulli and Petra fished Uzis out of their bags and stood up. The unexpected gunplay behind them threw off their timing.
Hawk was already in motion.
He didn't waste time on shouted warnings. Even as he threw himself out of his chair, he pulled Lemniak down and to the side.
The deadly pair's opening rounds passed overhead, missing the two prone men but striking a waiter. The café's outdoor patio was transformed into a scene of instant chaos. Pandemonium.
Tables were overturned, panicked patrons threw themselves flat on the floor, shrieks and sobs counter-pointed the rat-a-tat-tat of high-velocity submachine gun rounds.
Yoga workouts kept Hawk supple, but the drop to the floor jarred his bones. He tipped over the table, its heavy rim cracking the stones with a deafening crash.
Lemniak was whimpering and babbling at the same time.
Adjusting her line of fire, Petra held her Uzi low, sweeping the slugs toward Lemniak. Bullets gouged a trail of holes across the stone floor.
Something totally unexpected happened to Petra. She was shot. Twice. She went down.
Now where the hell did that come from? Hawk wondered. From the corner of his eye he saw Andy Stanton crouching low, snapping off shots.
Good boy. He'd make Killmaster yet, if they all lived through this engagement.
Ulli took out the corporal early on, or so she thought. The beautiful sabra's right arm was half shot off at the shoulder, but somehow she got her Galil into play.
She poured a burst into Ulli. Ulli put up her hands as if they could prevent the slugs from hitting her. She went down in a hail of bullets.
The quartet of backup gunmen had run into trouble as soon as they piled out of the taxi. Trouble's name was Griff. The whole shooting match went off ahead of schedule because the black AXE agent started blasting when the killers stepped out on the sidewalk.
Only two members of the original foursome survived the gunplay with Griff. The other two sprawled dead on the pavement.