Annnar tore the thin, triangular-shaped, eighteen-centimeter blade from his back, whipped back his elbow like a piston, then rammed the knife into Yazid's chest just under the rib cage.
The vicious thrust lifted the revolutionary Muslim impersonator off his feet. Paul Capesterre's eyes bulged in shock and terror. His only sound was a hoarse gurgle.
"Farewell, vermin," Ammar croaked through his bleeding mouth.
And then the knife was jerked free and he made a sweeping arc toward the spot where he sensed Fawzy was standing. The knife wasn't designed for a slashing attack, but his hand came in contact with Fawzy's face, and he felt the blade slice the cheek.
Ammar knew Fawzy was right-handed and always carried a gun, an old nine-millimeter Luger in a holster slung under the left armpit. He fell against Fawzy, attempting to clutch the arrogant fanatic, while shoving the knife upward again.
Without sight, his timing was late.
Fawzy had swiftly drawn the Luger. He pushed the barrel into Ammar's stomach and triggered two rounds before the knife drove into his heart.
He dropped the gun and clutched at his chest. He swayed a few steps to his side, staring down with a swaying quizzical look at the knife protruding on an upward angle below his sternum. Finally his eyes rolled upward and he dropped to the floor only a meter from where Capesterre had fallen.
Ammar very slowly sank to the ceramic tile floor and settled on his back. There was no more pain, none at all. He saw visions without his eyes. He could feel his life ebbing away as if it were floating down a stream.
His fate had been decided by a man he'd only met briefly. The unage came back of the tall man with the green eyes and the set grin. A wave of hate surged and just as quickly passed. Dirk Pitt-the name was etched in the darkening reaches of his mind.
He felt a euphoric contentment close over him. His last thought was that Ibn would take care of Pitt. Then the slate would be wiped clean....
The President sat in a leather armchair and stared at four television monitOrs-Three were tuned to the major networks, while the fourth was a direct feed from an ArTny communications truck at Roma. He looked , but his eyes glistened with intensity. They roved steadily from one monitor to the next; his face was set in concentration.
"I can't believe so many people can exist in so small an area," he said wonderingly.
"Their food has about run out," said Schiller, g from an up-to-the-minute CIA report. " g water is scarce, and the sanitation facilities are backed up."
"It's tonight or never," sighed Nichols wearily.
The President asked, "What kind of numbers are we looking at?"
"A computer head-wunt from an aerial photograph shows nearly four hundred and thirty-five thousand," replied Schiller.
"And they're going to pour ugh a corridor less than a kilometer wide,"
Nichols said grimly.
"Damn that murdering bastard!" the President said savagely. "Doesn't he realize or care that thousands will be killed or drowned in the crush alone?"
"A majority of them women and children," added Nichols.
"The Capesterres aren't known for charity and goodwill," muttered Schiller acidly.
"Still not too late to remove him." This from CIA director Martin Brogan. "Killing Topiltzin would be comparable to assassinating Hitler in 1930."
"Providing your hired gun got close enough," commented Nichols.
"Afterward, he'd be butchered by the crowd."
"I was thinking of a high-powered rifle from four hundred meters."
Schiller shook his head. "Not a practical solution. A clear shot could only come from an elevation on our side of the river. The Mexicans would know immediately who was responsible. Then things could Turn real ugly. Instead of a peaceful crowd, General Chandler's troops would be facing a maddened mob. They'd storm Roma with any weapons they could find, guns, knives, rocks and bottles. Then we'd have a real war on our hands."
"I concur," said Nichols. "General Chandler would have no choice but to open up with everything he had to save his men and any American citizens in the area."
The President struck the arm of the chair with his clenched fist in frustration. "Is there nothing we can do to prevent mass slaughter?"
"any way we look at it," said Nichols, "we're on the short end of the stick."
"Maybe we should say the hell with it and Turn over the Alexandria Library's treasure to President De L4orenzo. Anything to keep it out of Topiltzin's filthy hands."
"A meaningless gesture," said Brogan. "Topiltzin's only using the artifacts as an excuse for a confrontation. Our intelligence sources report he plans the same immigrant invasions from Baja into Southern California and across the border at Nogales into Arizona."
"If only we can stop this madness," muttered the President.
One of four phones buzzed, and Nichols picked it up. "General Chandler, Mr. President. He's coming through on a scrambled frequency."
The President let out a long breath. "Staring into the face of the man I may have to order to kill ten thousand people is the least I can do."
The monitor faded for a moment and then came back with the head and shoulders of a man who was in his late forties.
His face was gaunt and his heavily silvered hair was bare of helmet or cap. The stress of command showed in the lines around the blue eyes.
"Good morning, General," the President greeted him. "I regret I can see you and you can't see me, but there is no camera at this end."
"I understand, Mr. President."
"What is the situation?"
"A heavy rain is just starting to fall, which should prove a godsend for those poor people. They can replenish their water supplies, dust will be dampened, and the stench from their latrines is already beginning to diminish."
"Have there been any provocations?"
"The usual taunts and banners, but no violence."
"from what you can observe, have any of the crowd become discouraged and started drifting back to their homes?"
"No, sir," replied Chandler. "if anything, they're more enthused. They think their Aztec messiah brought the rain, and he's pounded his chest to convince them of it. Groups of Catholic priests have been circulating among the people, preaching and begging them to return to the church and their homes. But Topiltzin's goons quickly escort the good fathers out of town."
"Martin Brogan thinks they'll make their move tonight."
"My intelligence agrees with Mr. Brogan's timetable." The General hesitated before asking the fateful question. "any change in orders, Mr. President? I'm still to stop them at any cost?"
"Until I tell you different, General."
"I must state, sir, you've placed me in a very awkward situation. I cannot guarantee my men will cut down women and especially children if so ordered."
"I'm in sympathy with your position. But if the line is not held in Roma, millions of poor Mexicans will see it as an open invitation to pour into the United States unhindered."
"I can't argue the point, Mr. President. But if we let loose a wall of modern firepower into half a million people jammed shoulder to shoulder, history will convict us of committing a crime against humanity."
Chandler's words triggered the horror of Nazi vileness and the Nuremberg tnals in the President's mind, but he stiffened his resolve.
"Repugnant as the thought is, General," he said solemnly, "the consequences of unaction are unlikely. My National Security experts predict that a wave of self-preservation hysteria will sweep the country, resulting in the formation of vigilante amiies to beat back the flood of illegal immigrants. No Mexican-Americans will be safe. The death toll on both sides could climb to astronomical proportions.
Conservative legislators will rise up and demand Congress vote a formal declaration of war against Mexico. I don't even want to think about what happens after that possibility."
Everyone in the room could clearly see the confusion of conflicting thoughts and emotions that were swirling through the General's mind.