The riot cuffs still secured Pierre's dead hands to the steering wheel. Blood and brains had sprayed the windshield. The militia punks had put a bullet through the head of the handcuffed driver before looting Able Team's equipment.
Blancanales aimed his AK and fired, dropping both punks with ComBloc 7.62mm slugs through their brains. "We need another car."
Powell pointed at the van. "It has the keys in the ignition. Load up and follow me."
"Where?" Lyons asked.
"To my friends."
Posters of the Imam Moussa Sadr stared down from the walls. Shia militiamen — some in the mismatched fatigues of the irregulars, others in the OD uniforms of the Lebanese army — watched the Americans enter. They greeted Powell and stared at Lyons and Blancanales. Lyons received special attention. Clotted blood and filth stained his tailored sports coat and slacks. All the militiamen noted the unusual assault weapon the blond, blue-eyed American carried.
"Wait here," Powell told Lyons and Blancanales. "I'll talk to my friend."
The Marine continued into another office where clerks typed at desks. Another clerk cranked a mimeograph machine. Powell went to a secretary and explained his visit.
Lyons grinned to all the militiamen. He turned to Blancanales and said quietly, "Daniel in the lions' den. Or maybe it's Lyons in the..."
A middle-aged, scarred militiaman interrupted with a question in broken, accented English. "You kill... massacre Revolutionary Guards?"
"Here goes..." Then Lyons answered in distinct, short phrases. "Did not kill all. One lives."
The militiaman nodded, laughed. He told others what the American had said. A young man spoke quickly to the older man. The young man pointed to the Americans, then outside. The older man asked another question. "Why not kill all?"
"Information. Interrogate. Now others question him."
"Yes, question, then kill. You Marine?"
"Only soldiers," Blancanales answered.
"But Americans, yes? Good. You kill Revolutionary Guard. We kill Guard. We kill Syrians, Russians, PLO."
"But why do you kill them?" Blancanales asked.
"Marines friends. Revolutionary Guard kill Marines. We kill Revolutionary Guards."
Lyons nodded. "That's straightforward. Can't argue with that logic. In fact, I nominate that man for United States secretary of state."
Powell had returned. The scarred fighter pointed to Lyons and questioned Powell in Arabic. Powell answered and the man jumped up and grabbed Lyons. Before Lyons reacted, the man embraced
Lyons and then slapped him on the back. All the others in the room laughed and cheered. Powell pulled the two Americans toward the inner office.
"What did you say?" Lyons asked, amazed.
"It's what you said, nominating Sergeant Azghar for secretary of state. All that old dude talks about is how the United States doesn't know its way around. How the U.S. should get smart. You most definitely made his day. Fact is, Azghar's got it right. The secretary of state don't know shit about Lebanon, and he ain't willing to learn."
Sayed Ahamed greeted them with embraces and handshakes. Today he wore a tailored suit and gold rings. Pomade glistened on his wavy hair. A French cigarette streamed smoke into the air as he gestured.
"Friends of my friend! He told me of his good fortune. Your clothes! I hope they are not ruined."
"I'm sorry, I didn't have time to change."
"To come here? Do not think you must be formal. I am dressed like this because of the negotiations. If I go in uniform, they think I'm a warlord. I must look like one of the despicable politicians to talk peace."
Both Blancanales and Lyons noticed the fatigues and web gear hanging on a coatrack. A Kalashnikov leaned against the wall.
"But you did not come here to listen to my complaints..." Ahamed lowered his voice. "The Iranians know Powell is my friend. They sent a message about the woman. They want him, not her. If he goes alone and unarmed, they'll let her go, they say."
Lyons looked at Powell. "You'll never come back. And neither will she."
"She has nothing to do with it. I need information, and she can lead me to a man who's got it."
"We'll question that prisoner, hear what he knows."
"Already happening," Powell told them. "They'll bring the information up real quick."
"We'll question him ourselves."
"No you won't, specialist. You may be a tough guy, but you just don't want to be involved in what's happening to that Iranian. Take my word for it. Ahamed's men do not like those Revolutionary Guards. Especially Iranians in partnership with Libyans."
"Libyans?" Blancanales asked.
Powell briefed them on the suspected plot between the Libyans and the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. "And Clayton got killed checking out that conspiracy. If I don't break it, I'm out of work. And the hit happens. Don't know who'll do it, don't know when or where, but that Libyan was looking at the President when he said, 'The sword rises.' "
"The President?" Lyons asked.
"Of the U.S. of A." Powell emphasized.
Powell reacted to the sound of footsteps outside and swung the door open as a militiaman raised his hand to knock. The militiaman relayed a report. Both Ahamed and Powell questioned the militiaman in Arabic.
Powell considered the information, nodding. "Good deal, we got our ticket. They won't know what hit them."
"What about the woman?" Blancanales asked. "Was the offer to trade her sincere? Will she still be alive?"
"The Iranian had information on that Oshakkar. He's an American black-nationalist psycho working with the Iranians. Now I don't need her at all."
"Dead reporters make for bad press," Blancanales cautioned. "Ask your man to question the Iranian about what they intend to do with the woman. Where she will be. Maybe we can get her out somehow."
"Too late, boy scout. No good deed. That Iranian went to paradise. You want in on this? You two and me and my friends against Libyans and Iranians and Black Muslims who want to murder the President of the United States?"
Lyons and Blancanales nodded, without a word canceling their assignment and accepting a new mission.
9
"Things have changed..."
"What?"
His back to the freezing wind, Lyons squatted on the rooftop of a West Beirut tenement with a view of the city and mountains to the east. He spoke with Gadgets Schwarz, who still waited on the roof of the apartment house where Powell lived in East Beirut, kilometers away. The absence of concrete and steel blocking the signals enhanced the transmitting and receiving range of the hand radio.
"We're in on a..." Lyons caught himself. Despite the encoding circuits of the hand radio, he decided not to risk briefing his partner. The Agency had access to the same equipment Able Team used. If the Agency directors learned that Able Team — after talking with the renegade agent they had been sent to Beirut to kidnap or execute — had decided to disregard instructions and join the renegade in an unauthorized counter-terrorist operation, Able Team might become three men without a country, outlaws.
"We're in on something interesting, that's all I can say."
"So what does that mean?" Gadgets demanded, his voice angry. "I'm up here getting frostbite while you're doing interesting things around town. What's going on?"
"Stay there. Continue monitoring. Watch for unusual..."
"You giving me orders, Ironman? This team don't work like that."
"I can't tell you what's going on, Wizard. I can't. When we get back, I'll give you the news."