“How are we to get out of here?” the Syrian delegate demanded of Hassani, moving from the library window that showed the last complement of guardsmen preparing to make their stand against the onrushing masses.
“There is a way prepared,” Hassani replied calmly. “I assure you.”
“It is difficult to accept the assurances of a man whose government is toppling,” shot out the delegate from Libya.
“Revolution is good for the soul at the proper intervals,” Hassani told the seven of them. “It cleanses a nation’s system and reveals the traitors in our ranks.”
“But you’re losing!” the man from Jordan blared. “Your ‘people’ will be upon us in no time.”
“The losing is a mere illusion, easily corrected in barely any time at all. Besides, what does it matter? What do any of our countries or movements matter individually so long as we must all live in fear of a small and brutal neighbor? It will all change after tomorrow. You’ll see. That’s why you are here.”
“You should have provided the details of your secret weapon before,” the delegate from the PLO chastised. “Instead you called us here at the risk of our own lives, knowing full well your nation was crumbling.”
“We’ve been through this before,” Hassani returned. “It is all behind us while this, my friends, is what lies ahead.”
Hassani moved to the table that had been set up in the center of the circle the seven men formed. Placed atop it were seven identical leather cases. The general opened one of them to allow his delegates to see the ten eight-ounce glass vials contained inside. A few shifted about to better their views. Others just sat there stupefied.
“You mean this is your secret weapon?” one of them blurted incredulously.
Hassani smiled like a teacher in front of his class. “Not quite. Two days from now I will release a deadly virus over Israel — the ultimate creation of chemical warfare. That is the secret weapon I’ve held back for this long.” He pointed toward the table. “You see, a leak within our ranks might have allowed Israel to come up with a version of this: a vaccine that will render your people immune from the virus once it is released into the air. Within each of these cases are your allotments of that vaccine. Make sure the contents of these vials are dropped into the various water-treatment facilities of your respective countries and within twenty-four hours, ninety percent of your populations will be protected from what will destroy Israel in a similar period.”
“What of the other ten?”
“Sacrifices to a much higher cause. Consider those who the vaccine does not reach to be casualties of a war we alone can win now.”
“And what if we become casualties ourselves before leaving the confines of your … country?” the representative from Saudi Arabia demanded.
“You won’t. The escape route is all prepared. You have nothing to fear.” Before the Saudi could protest he added, “You have provided your subordinates with contact arrangements as I outlined in the event you do not return. If it becomes necessary to utilize them, additional vials will be made available from backup points.”
Hassani waited to see if there was further protest. When none arose, he continued.
“Now, we have already gone over the precise details and agenda. If there are no questions, the …”
“… time has come for you to take your leave in pursuit of our destiny. My troops will buy you the time you need. I will summon your escort to take you to the escape tunnel….”
There was more, but McCracken focused all his attention on opening the latch for the electronic dumbwaiter that had allowed him to reach the second floor library unnoticed. He had found the controls for it in the kitchen, along with the convenient button marked “Library.” Isser had informed him of the meetings that had taken place there over the last few weeks and Blaine knew that’s where Hassani would choose to play his final card. Wareagle had chosen a more direct route through the palace itself, the two of them serving as insurance for one another. One of them had to reach Hassani. The madness had to be stopped here and now, buried in the rubble of the royal palace.
Hidden in the dumbwaiter, McCracken began to make out the voices as he rose toward the library. He couldn’t capture the context of the heated conversation, though, until the dumbwaiter slid to a halt before its slot in the wall. None of it surprised him. The whole scenario was almost as he expected it would be. He managed to get the latch freed and went to work on the slot in the wall. He pried his fingers about to find the handhold needed to slide it open to the library beyond. He had decided to wait until the delegates had gone before making his move. The proper finish for this was just him and Hassani.
“From the escape tunnel,” the voice of the general droned on, “escorts will be waiting for you in the street. They are disguised as beggars and will lead you safely to the airstrip. Clothes for you to blend with the chaos are waiting in the basement. Go with Allah, my friends. Go forth to achieve our destiny.”
In the dumbwaiter, McCracken heard feet shuffling, farewells exchanged, and then the heavy door being opened and closed. A single pair of feet, belonging surely to Hassani, padded across the lavish carpet toward what McCracken guessed would be the window where he could survey the last stand made by the Revolutionary Guard. The time had come.
The dumbwaiter opened into the room’s large alcove, dominated by books that provided further cover. Blaine slid the freed wall cover up and could see nothing before him other than dark, jammed-full bookcases running from wall to wall, with narrow aisles between and down the middle of them. The alcove was perhaps forty feet square, the bookcases taking up virtually all of that.
With the quick silence of a big jungle cat, McCracken slid out to the floor, kneeling with his pistol in hand since the cumbersome Uzi had been left behind in the basement. He glided forward, using the matched Oriental runners to hide his footsteps. He could tell exactly where the window was from the way the rays of sunshine streamed through. And there was a shadow, Hassani’s shadow.
He reached the edge of the forwardmost bookshelf and spun round it in combat position ready to fire.
“Don’t move!” he screamed.
And found himself facing off against a black marble bust of the Ayahtollah Khomeini that had been placed to cast just the shadow it had. Before he could turn, another voice echoed through the huge library hall.
“Drop your gun, Mr. McCracken,” Hassani ordered.
Blaine obliged and then drew his hands into the air.
“Now turn around. Slowly. And keep your feet spread as well.”
Again McCracken obeyed and found himself standing fifteen feet from General Amir Hassani who was holding a submachine gun.
“You have been quite a nuisance, Mr. McCracken, I must say.”
“We meet at last, General,” Blaine returned icily. “Or should I say we meet again … Yosef Rasin.”
The uniformed figure’s reaction was shock first and then hearty laughter. His free hand edged to his face and tugged a good portion of his beard away to reveal a much tighter growth and lighter shade of hair beneath it. A few more pulls and pinches on the theatrical makeup and the face shown was unmistakably that of Yosef Rasin.