Ross’s notes suggested that he’d been trying very hard to pin down the Barq Cyrenica leaders on exactly who supported them, both politically and financially, but had not been successful. It seemed to be true that Qadhafi had never disavowed them or put any obstacles in the way of their basing themselves within his territory, but that might merely have been political discretion on his part. On the other hand, he might be financing them, or absolutely controlling them. Ross’s frustration in not being able to answer this question was very clear in the notes, and I could see why. If he could name names in his book, fix responsibility on some well-known international figure, it would increase the book’s news value and therefore its sales.
Barq Cyrenica’s object here was the destruction of the mosque, blowing it up during the first day’s prayers and ceremonies, while it was full of dignitaries, as I’d supposed. But what was their method? How did they plan to get through Al-Gazel’s security? I was leafing through the pages, looking for the answer, when a voice said, “A writer hates to see that, you know.”
I looked up. It was Ross, in the open doorway, a long-barreled target pistol in his hand. He smiled at me almost sadly, playing the scene for all its melodramatic potential, enjoying himself. “Skipping about, you know,” he explained. “A writer thinks his every word is golden. Take your time, Sam. You’re in no hurry.”
47
My first thought was: Have they found the bodies? I half-turned, looking out the window behind me, and was relieved to see the same sentry still out there, still seated by the dirt-filled pool. So my luck was bad, but not as bad as it might be, because all I would have to contend with now was Ross and his target pistol, not the entire army of Barq Cyrenica.
And the pool was filled with dirt because they’re digging a tunnel.
The thought just came to me. I wasn’t looking for it, it was probably the only time all day I hadn’t been looking for it, the reason to fill a swimming pool with dirt, and in that moment of distraction I’d seen the pool again, and I’d seen the faint tire tracks leading out across the unmown lawn, and there it was.
Why they needed four months to get set up.
How they meant to get past Al-Gazel’s security.
How they would manage to put an entire vanload of dynamite under the mosque.
When you dig a tunnel, a long and fairly complicated tunnel, one of the major problems you face is what to do with the dirt. A certain amount they could just distribute in the woods back there, but not all of it. The rest had to be stored where it wouldn’t look like what it was, particularly from the air. Police helicopters, small private planes, the helicopters of traffic reporters, all would occasionally pass overhead. A brown or tan swimming pool would look odd from the air, but not impossible, and nothing to cause unusual interest or concern. But a big pile of fresh-dug earth in a woody area behind the controversial new mosque would bring a lot of attention.
I sighed, preparing to deal with Ross. He had his target pistol in his hand, and I had three pseudo-Colts, two tucked inside the borrowed belt and one in plain view on the desk, between the open folder and the word processor keyboard. So now it was time to do my Clint Eastwood impression. “Ross,” I said, keeping my voice very soft, “have you ever killed anybody?”
“I will if I have to.” He was grimly determined.
“How do you think I got out of that room?” I asked him, and picked up the automatic from the desk.
His eyes widened. The guy with the gun wasn’t supposed to be challenged. “Hey,” he said. “Watch that, Sam.”
I pointed the automatic at him. “One,” I said.
“Don’t make me shoot, Sam!”
“Two.”
Face agonized, he threw the target pistol away to his right with a sudden convulsive movement. It bounced on the arm of the easy chair and fell into its seat. Embarrassed, resentful, Ross glared at me, saying, “I can’t shoot a friend, you knew that.”
What I knew — and what he was finding out — was the difference between appearance and reality. “Close the door,” I told him.
He turned to do so, but as he did Doreen came snaking in through the opening, her small face tense and determined. “Doreen!” he said, astonished.
We were both astonished. Neither of us moved as Doreen headed straight for that chair, grabbed up the target pistol, turned with it in both hands, and shot Ross three times. He was still falling when she lowered the gun, looked in my direction, and said, “He attacked me, it was self-defense. You saw it.”
What I saw, when I looked out the window, was the sentry by the pool grabbing his machine pistol and running for the house. Doors down there slammed.
Low and intense, Doreen said, “I hated him. He didn’t care what they did. He was supposed to protect me, and he didn’t care.”
Opening the window, I said over my shoulder, “You can explain it to the guys coming up.” Then I went over the sill.
48
Blundering around in the dark. The distant glow from Ross’s house seen down through the trees behind me was my only guide as I headed out, following the direction the tire tracks were taking when they’d gone beyond the light, just past the new hole in the chain link fence at the back of Ross’s property. The tumbled land climbed steeply back here as I moved up in the general direction of Al-Gazel, hoping to find their fence before Barq Cyrenica found me. I’d climb over it and gladly appear on their security’s television screen.
Except it didn’t work that way. For five minutes I scrambled up into the wooded and eroded hills, taking the easiest route through the tangled underbrush, constantly looking back at those houselights for guidance, and then one time I faced forward to see light ahead of me. A house? The light seemed very dim. Cautiously, I moved forward.
The van. Probably it had been the thick shrubbery on both flanks that had kept me on the van’s new-beaten path even when I couldn’t see it. In any case, there it was, just ahead, facing this way, backed up into a steep gully.
The light came from behind the van, and seemed to flicker and move as I watched, throwing shadows across the scrubby face of the hill. I inched forward, and from two or three car-lengths away I could see through the windshield and through the body of the van that the rear doors were open and men were back there, in the light, moving around.
Unloading the cartons.
I crept forward, and when I’d reached the van, I went down on my stomach to look under it and count feet. Eight of them.
Could I make it away from here, through the thick brush, without getting lost, without these people hearing me, without pursuers from the house finding me? Would I become too turned around to find the Al-Gazel fence?
What was the alternative?
I hate derring-do. Usually you’re merely risking the game and your own personal survival for no good reason, which is the lesson I learned both in the army and on the police. Routine and care and thought are almost always the better way. In Mark of the Vampire, 1935, Lionel Atwill’s police captain summed up the alternatives: “Well? Are we going to sit around and think, or are we going to do something?” I know it isn’t the answer he wanted, but I believe that most of the time we’re all better off to sit around and think.
However, there do come those exceptions to the rule. Not liking it, I got to my feet, put an automatic in each hand, and walked around to the back of the van.