"One talked, the other didn't. Who's he?" Lyons pointed behind Katz.
Sadek watched Able Team straightening their gear. He took a pack of English cigarettes from his coat pocket. He lit a cigarette with a gold lighter.
"Sir, I should ask that of you," the Egyptian said.
"Ask him," Lyons pointed to Parks as he moved past Sadek.
The Egyptian watched Able Team and the two taxi drivers jog away. He called after them, "Police and soldiers have surrounded the block. You cannot leave!"
Blancanales called back without breaking pace. "Wanna bet?"
Parks turned to Katz, his face livid. "I'm calling Washington," he said. "You've come here and run your own dirty tricks squad through another country's laws. A country we're attempting to convince of our friendship and respect..."
"Why do you shout at me, Mr. Parks?" Katz asked him.
"Those guys knew you. You were talking with them, they..."
"Talking with whom?" Katz glanced around as if confused by Parks's question.
Parks ran into the open expanse of concrete beyond the parked trucks. His head turned from side to side as he looked for Able Team. He rushed to the nearest trucks, glanced between the vehicles. Katz followed the angry young Agency officer.
"Talking with whom?" Katz repeated.
"They're gone"
"Who's gone?" Katz asked.
In the back of the pitching truck, Jake Newton lay utterly still. Terrorists surrounded him. He felt their boots pressing against his legs, heard the moaning and crying of wounded, the Arabic words of other men.
They ignored him. A minute or so after the terrorists had thrown him into the back of the truck, he had heard the shooting. Slugs and shrapnel had ripped through the canvas. He'd heard the screams and panic, the long firefight. Before he could summon the strength to attempt to escape, hope of rescue had ended as the terrorists crowded into the truck.
Jake faked unconsciousness throughout the long ride from the city. After careering around corners, bumping over the streets of Cairo, every turn and lurch an agony to the battered prisoner, the truck sped through the highway traffic. Which direction had they taken him? It did not matter. He had already cut the rope around his hands. When they stopped, he would try to make his break.
He listened as the truck drove through desert quiet. No traffic passed. The truck neither slowed nor accelerated, simply held a steady speed on a good road. After an eternity, the terrorists around him gathered their weapons and talked again.
Voices called out. He heard the sound of a generator. The truck stopped. He lay still, as if dead, while the terrorists left the truck. A leader shouted instructions in Arabic.
Hands jerked at his feet. As Jake slid from the floorboards of the truck, he pulled his hands from the tangle of ropes on his wrists and opened the one eye that still worked.
Slamming an elbow into a face, feeling teeth break, he grabbed at an AK, felt the stamped metal of the receiver. But he did not have the strength to stand. Blood drained from his head. His legs, still tied at the ankles, buckled beneath him. He fell into darkness before his body hit the ground.
Merciful unconsciousness sheltered the American from the kicks and punches and rifle butts of the Warriors of Allah.
15
Beyond the noise and streaking headlights of the highway, moonlit fields extended into the distance. Slouched in the back seat of his taxi, Gadgets stared out at the lights of peasant farms and villages. Some lights were the flickering amber of fire, others were electric white. Able Team had left the warehouse as they had entered, through the ancient sewer. Now they raced toward the village of el-Minya.
Would a battle at the old agricultural school end it? All through the night, as they had fought from one terrorist stronghold to another, Gadgets had considered the conflicting and confusing information. He knew the background of the groups, he knew of their involvement in many attacks against moderate Arab leaders and Europeans, he had seen their operations. Able Team had destroyed two separate gangs of Muslim fanatics. Yet he could not think of the night's actions as steps toward victory. The facts simply did not justify optimism.
Keying his hand radio, he buzzed Lyons and Blancanales. "Hey, this is the Wizard. Conference time."
"What do you want to talk about?" Lyons answered.
"All of this trash tonight. It doesn't make sense."
"Tell us," Blancanales told him.
"I want a real conference. We should stop the cabs for a second, all pile into one."
"Why?" Lyons asked. "You think they could monitor our frequency?"
"Not really. I just want to jive face to face. I got a thermos of coffee I'll share."
"Stopping immediately!"
Headlights flashed behind Gadgets and Mohammed. A half-mile back, other high beams blinked. As his taxi eased over to the side of the road, Gadgets saw the other taxis slow and stop. Lyons legged it from his car, Blancanales followed a few seconds later.
Lyons sat in the front seat. He put out a Styrofoam cup. "Where's my coffee? And I didn't come here for any criticism. I think I'm doing great."
"No doubt about it, you're doing fine."
Blancanales swung open the door, caught a Kalashnikov before it fell out. He set the autorifle on the floor and sat next to his partner.
Flooring the accelerator, Mohammed swerved into traffic.
Lyons shouted. "Go easy, you crazy cowboy Arab. The man's pouring my coffee."
Gadgets passed the steaming cup to Lyons, then turned to Blancanales. "You think Mr. Ironman here's doing okay?"
The Puerto Rican ex-Green Beret considered the question, finally answered, "For a leg grunt, yeah."
"What?"
"Yeah," Gadgets agreed. "For a leg soldier, he's got style. Can't complain."
"Hey! I'm not ground bound. I jump. High drop, low drop"
"With parachute or without," Gadgets added.
"I've jumped. Done it for fun. Don't have jump wings, but Talking about tough stuff, where were you when I was rolling around on that killing floor? I got shot waiting for you. Look at this"
He passed them an AK slug that he had pried out of his battle suit.
Gadgets looked at it. "Did it hurt?"
"Nah, man. Hit me in the..."
"Hit him in the head," Blancanales joked. "Commies should issue armor-piercing rounds when the Ironman comes around."
"Did you want to talk or what?" Lyons demanded, impatient with the kidding.
"Oh, yeah. I don't call a conference to practice my Ironman jokes. About all this stuff with the Raghead International. I been running it through my cranial circuits over and over but it does not make sense. I mean, there's no schematic. It's strictly circle city.
"First, we ran up against that gang who tried to rocket the limousines. We hit them then. Twice. Hard. We went looking for the SAMs, but what do we find? Artillery rockets. Not exactly something you smuggle across the border in a crate marked Farm Tools.
"Then the Agency runs their scam on the jet shooters. They spot one agent in the control tower. But he wasn't the one that alerted the missile crews in the city. They had a radio at the airport communicating with their headquarters in the city. Think about it. They wouldn't have just one man with a buzzer and one man with a voice radio. Ten to one, they got a network of spotters out there at the International."
Blancanales shook his head slowly. "That's not certain. Their agent in the tower couldn't radio his information straight, so they had a backup. Makes sense that way, too."
"Maybe. But look at how they operate in the city. They've got a central command, then satellite units scattered all over the place. The command center got the word, then relayed it to all the other units."
"Not anymore," Lyons told his partner. "Command Central is deactivated."
Gadgets gulped his coffee, poured more from the thermos. "We killed some of them. I checked inside those trucks. Crated SAM-7s and good radios. But you said four trucks got away. And how do we know all of their field units were in the warehouse? Anyway, they hit Air Force planes. Why not American airliners? That's what scares me."