Pitt crouched and turned sideways as Kazim, his face abruptly flushed with hate, his teeth clenched in sudden rage, lashed out at Pitt's groin with his booted foot. The thrust was vicious and carried most of Kazim's weight behind it. His expression of wrath suddenly turned to one of shock as Pitt, in a lightning move, caught the flailing foot with his hands in mid-flight and gripped it like a vise.
Pitt did not move, did not cast Kazim's leg aside. He merely stood there holding it between his hands, keeping the General balancing on one leg. Then very slowly he pushed the maddened Kazim backward until he dropped into his chair.
There was a stunned silence in the room. Kazim was in shock. As a virtual dictator for over a decade, his mind refused to accept insubordinate and contemptuous treatment. He was so used to people quivering before him, he did riot know how to immediately react at being physically subdued. His breathing came quickly, his mouth a taut white line, his dark face crimson with anger. Only the eyes remained black and cold and empty.
Slowly, deliberately, he eased a gun from a holster at his side. An older automatic, Pitt observed with remote detachment, a 9-millimeter Beretta NATO model 92SB. Unhurriedly Kazim thumbed down one side of the ambidextrous safety and aimed the muzzle at Pitt. An icy smile curled beneath the heavy moustache.
Pitt flicked a side-glance at Giordino and noted that his friend was tensed to leap at Kazim. Then his gaze locked on Kazim's grip on the automatic, waiting for the slightest tightening of the hand, the tiniest flexing of the trigger finger, bracing his knees to dodge to his right. This could have been an opportunity for an escape attempt, but Pitt knew he had lost any advantage by pushing Kazim too far. His death would be slow and deliberate. It stood to reason Kazim was a good shot, and he would not miss at that close range. Pitt knew he might move fast enough to duck the first shot, but Kazim would quickly adjust his aim and shoot to maim, first one kneecap, then the next. The General's evil eyes did not reflect a quick kill.
Then, half an instant away from when the room would explode in gunfire and convulsive bodies, Massarde made a flourish in the air with his hand and spoke in a commanding voice.
"If you please, General, conduct your execution elsewhere, certainly not in my party room."
"This tall one is going to die," Kazim hissed, the black eyes gazing at Pitt.
"All in due time, my good comrade," said Massarde while casually pouring himself another cognac. "Do me the courtesy of refraining from bloodying up my rare Nazlini Navajo rug."
"I'll buy you a new one," Kazim growled.
"Did you consider the fact he might want a fast and easy way out? It's obvious he baited you, choosing a fast death rather than suffering the agony of long, drawn-out torture."
Very slowly the pistol dropped, and Kazim's deathly smile turned wolfish. "You read him. You knew exactly what he was about."
Massarde gave a Gallic shrug. "The Americans call it street smarts. These men have something to hide, something vital. We both might benefit if they could be persuaded to talk."
Kazim pushed himself from the chair, approached Giordino, and raised the automatic again, this time shoving the Berettas barrel against Giordino's right ear.
"Let's see if you are more talkative than you were on your boat."
Giordino didn't flinch. "What boat?" he asked, his tone as innocent as a priest at confession.
"The one you abandoned minutes before it blew up."
"Oh, that boat."
"What was your mission? Why did you come up the Niger to Mali?"
"We were researching the migratory habits of the fuzzwort fish by following a school of the slimy little devils upriver to their spawning grounds."
"And the weapons aboard your boat?"
"Weapons, weapons?" Giordino made a downward turn of his lips and raised his shoulders in ignorance. "We ain't got no weapons."
"Have you forgotten your run-in with the Benin naval patrol boats?"
Giordino shook his head. "Sorry, it doesn't ring a bell."
"A few hours in the interrogation chambers of my headquarters in Bamako might jog your memory."
"Not a healthy climate for uncooperative foreigners I assure you," said Massarde.
"Stop conning the man," said Pitt, looking at Giordino. "Tell him the truth."
Giordino turned and stared blankly at Pitt. "Are you crazy!"
"Maybe you can stand torture. I can't. The thought of pain makes me ill. If you won't tell General Kazim what he wants to know, I will."
"Your friend is a sensible man," said Kazim. "You would be wise to listen to him."
Just for a second Giordino's blank look slipped, then it was back again, only this time it was beaming with anger. "You dirty scum. You traitor—"
Giordino's verbal abuse was abruptly cut off as Kazim pistol-whipped him across the face, opening a bloody gash on his chin. Giordino staggered two steps backward, then stopped and lurched forward like a maddened bull. Kazim lifted the automatic and aimed it between Giordino's eyes.
Here it comes, Pitt thought coldly, thrown off track by Giordino's bursting temper. Pitt rapidly stepped in front of Kazim and grabbed Giordino's arms, pinning them behind his partner's back. "Steady, for God's sake!"
Unnoticed, Massarde pressed a button on a small console by the couch. Before anyone spoke or made another move, a small army of crewmen surged into the room, their combined mass and weight driving Pitt and Giordino to the floor. Pitt barely had a fleeting glimpse of the avalanche before he tensed for the crush. He went down without fighting back, knowing it was useless, determined to save his strength. Not Giordino, he thrashed like a crazy man, filling the room with curses.
"Take that one back to the bilge," shouted Massarde, coming to his feet and pointing at Giordino.
Pitt felt the pressure fall away as the guards concentrated on wrestling Giordino into submission. One of the guards swung a short snapper cosh, a weight on the end of a flexible cable, and cracked Giordino on the neck just below and behind the ear. A grunt of pain and all fight went out of Giordino. He went limp as the guards grabbed him under the arms and dragged him from the room.
Kazim pointed the automatic at Pitt, who was still lying on the floor. "Now then, since you prefer cordial conversation to agony, why don't you begin by giving me your correct name."
Pitt twisted to his side and sat up. "Pitt, Dirk Pitt."
"Should I believe you?"
"It's as good a name as any."
Kazim turned to Massarde. "Did you have them searched?"
Massarde nodded. "They carried no credentials or papers of any kind."
Kazim stared at Pitt, his face a mask of repugnance. "Perhaps you can enlighten me on why you've entered Mali without a passport?"
"No problem, General," Pitt let the words rush out. "My partner and I are archaeologists. We were given a contract by a French foundation to search the Niger River for ancient shipwrecks. Our passports were lost when our boat was fired on by one of your patrol vessels and destroyed."
"Honest archaeologists would be begging like simpering children after being chained in a steam compartment for two hours. You men are too hardened, unafraid, and arrogant to be anything but trained enemy agents—"
"What foundation?" Massarde broke in.
"The Society of French Historical Exploration," Pitt answered.
"I've never heard of it."
Pitt made a helpless gesture with his hands. "What can I say?"
Since when do archaeologists explore for artifacts in a super yacht equipped with rocket launchers and automatic weapons?" asked Kazim sarcastically.
"It never hurts to be prepared for pirates or terrorists," Pitt smiled stupidly.
At that moment there was a knock on the door. One of Massarde's crewmen entered and handed him a message. "A reply, sir?"