"That's an example of burst fire," Lyons told him. "Point-blank."
"Let's get this old man into the garage." Blancanales handed his Beretta and an extra fifteen-round magazine to Abdul and left him at the stairs.
They dragged the mullah over the stones. In the garage, Mohammed questioned the mullah. The old man babbled, nodded his head, cried.
"If we let him live," Mohammed told them, "he'll tell us everything, take us to the others."
"He doesn't want to be a martyr?" Lyons sneered.
"That's only for soldiers," Mohammed grinned. "This old man, when he dies, he knows where he goes."
"Do they have more SAM-7 missiles?" Lyons asked. Blancanales spoke simultaneously.
"How do they get their information about the planes?"
Mohammed translated their questions, listened to the old man whine and cry. "He wants you to stop the pain in his shoulder."
Lyons looked at the two prisoners, then motioned Blancanales and Gadgets to the passage door. There, Lyons glanced down to the stairway to check on Abdul. He watched the passage as the three men talked in whispers.
"I don't think he's the head man," Blancanales told them. "The old man upstairs had a servant, and he had better robes."
"But he's dead," Lyons commented. He called over to Mohammed. "Ask him if he's the leader, the number one man."
When Mohammed questioned the mullah, the old man nodded again and again, looking around at his captors, beseeching them with his one hand. Mohammed shook his head. "Says he is, but he ain't. I say he's a stupid old priest from the desert."
"Does he know where the missiles are?" Lyons asked.
For minutes, Mohammed translated questions and answers. "He says there are missiles someplace else. If you stop the pain, get him to a doctor, he'll take you there. He doesn't know anything about the airport. Doesn't know anything about the CIA. His group makes war on America. That's all he knows."
"Pushing our luck," Gadgets told them. "We go to another place, and they're ready for us… "
"I haven't seen any telephones or radios," Blancanales told them.
"They have walkie-talkies," Gadgets cautioned. "Limited range, but…"
"This isn't their main group," Lyons reasoned.
"That old man, he's no one. Not these punks, either. They had old AKs and pistols and knives. You see the submachine gun that one raghead punk had? Looked like something out of World War II. They wouldn't have the missiles here. The main group would. When we get them, that's when this show's over."
"That's what that Hershey goof thought," Gadgets muttered. "And now he's over."
"Hershey had a traitor or informer in his team for sure," Blancanales corrected. "We don't."
"Gentlemen..." Lyons numbered his points "...one: we came in here quick and quiet. No shots. No warning. Two: no one got out. Therefore, I vote we hit the next group."
"Second the motion," Blancanales agreed.
"It's unanimous, then. Let's hit them. But," Gadgets cautioned Lyons, "what you mean is, no one got out that you know of… Now they could be expecting us, right?"
Lyons nodded.
8
The neon lights advertised cafes and restaurants. Groups of well-dressed men stood on the sidewalks. In the back seat of a taxi, Lyons and Mohammed held the bleeding mullah between them as they surveyed the street. Lyons watched the sidewalks, the open eateries, the countless Egyptians enjoying an early-evening coffee or dinner, but he knew he would not spot sentries. Anyone could be a sentry. Sentries could be watching from the rooftops of the apartments.
Lyons saw taxis carrying tourists weave through the traffic and the double-parked autos.
So it works both ways, he thought. We can't spot them, maybe they can 't spot us. Maybe.
"There, that place," Mohammed translated, looking at a cafe crowded with students and young professionals. Lounging in wicker chairs around small tables, the young men drank coffee from tiny cups. Groups talked, some argued, others read newspapers.
"That's a hangout for fanatics?"
"Garages in back. He says there's an alley. The organization has all the rooms upstairs. A whole lot of dudes up there."
"Where are the missiles? "
"He just says, 'In there, in there.' I don't think he really knows."
"But that's the place?"
"That's what he says."
"He dies if he's lying."
"Oh, yeah. He knows."
Lyons leaned forward. "Abdul, go around the corner slow. I want to look down that alley."
Abdul nodded, eased the taxi through the pedestrians cutting across the street. He stopped as a middle-aged blond man and woman jaywalked in front of him. Horns sounded behind the taxi.
"Tourists," Abdul commented as he rolled through a right turn. As if searching for an address, he peered at the small shops and apartment entries.
Lyons saw a wide commercial alley. Lights illuminated service entries and parked trucks. On the higher floors, balconies jutted from the back walls of the buildings.
"I know how we're going in," Lyons muttered.
"Should've scoped out your partner making like Spiderman," Mohammed told him. "For an old guy, he does all right."
Lyons laughed. "We'll see how you do, kiddo."
"Not me, man. I'll take the escalator."
"And ride straight into a kill zone."
"Never happen. I'm too cool. I'm telepathic. I can see into the future…"
"Oh, yeah?" Lyons continued laughing. "What do you see for tonight?"
"Dead people, man. Dead people."
"Who?"
Mohammed laughed, put out his palm. "Five dollars, I tell your fortune. I tell you who dies."
"Why pay? I'll find out soon enough."
A beeping came from the belt of Sadek's tailored slacks. He touched his pager, smiled to Parks and Katz.
"Excuse me, my friends. This marvelous American invention tells me I must call my office." His smile dropped. Unclipping the tiny box of electronics, he looked at it, held it up to the other men. "If Allah had seen fit that this did not function, if I had not responded so quickly to our friend Hershey's call, perhaps he would have forestalled his unfortunate venture. The irony… Forgive me, I return immediately."
Katz watched the Egyptian liaison officer cross the vast concrete-and-steel vault of the hangar. Speaking for an instant with a soldier, Sadek went to a non-com's desk, dialed a number.
"Does he know of the flight?" Katz-alias-Steiner asked Parks.
"Mr. Steiner, I did as you asked. He doesn't know. But let me tell you, Sadek isn't the spy. He didn't have to help Hershey. He ran out in that street. My men didn't have the guts to do what he did. He's a good man, a professional. Being an Egyptian doesn't make him a fanatic."
Across the hangar, Sadek took notes from what he heard on the telephone. Katz calculated the cost of the Egyptian secret police officer's fashionable suit, his English wing tips, the gold wristwatch. The CIA file on Sadek described him as the only son of an alcoholic poet. Though his father died early, the boy had not suffered. His wealthy relatives showered money and gifts on him. His father's older brother had paid for private schools in Egypt, then English universities. Another uncle held open a vice-presidency in the family's lucrative import concern for the time when the young officer retired from government service.