Cairo Countdown

19

Hiding in a closet, Omar shook with fear. The darkness of the tiny space stank of the urine fouling his fatigues. Ashamed of his fear of martyrdom, yet fearing capture more than death, the commander thought of suicide, to die with his men rather than accept the shame of trial.

Or interrogation. Were the attackers Egyptian commandos? If his countrymen took him, there was no hope. He would be dismembered as a matter of course. Unless he had enough gold to buy his freedom.

Or were they American? By radio from Cairo, his leader had warned him. It had been the Americans who had attacked his command center in the city. Did they now search for the American he had captured? What treatment could he expect? He thought of suicide, his body shaking at the thought.

Should he rush from hiding? Throw himself at the attackers? Offer his life to Allah?

Despite his terror, he laughed at these possibilities. He talked like that to his soldiers. He talked of Allah and martyrdom and Paradise, but he knew only graves awaited dead soldiers — sometimes not only graves, only places by the side of the road, a feast for green-backed flies.

But what if Americans found him?

Forcing himself to face the chance of death, he realized he feared death less than capture by the Americans. And even if he fought, death might not come quickly. Fumbling in the thigh pocket of his tailored fatigues, he found a grenade. He looped a finger through the safety pin.

If Egyptians found him, he would surrender and trust his luck to his compatriots' fickleness.

If Americans found him — the determined Americans — he would give himself a quick death and take the Americans with him.

In the first gray light of day, nothing moved. Flames flickered in the courtyard. Soot-heavy smoke rose in swirls as the dying wind whipped the flames. Somewhere a wounded man screamed and whimpered.

"We can't go room to room," Blancanales told Lyons. "We'd run into every one of those losers who are still alive."

"I know all about it. Number one cop fear: searching rooms with lowlifes waiting to kill you."

"If we can find one alive, one who'll tell us where our man is…"

Lyons laughed. "Then we got to search these rooms. Let's go." He keyed his hand radio. "Wizard!"

Gadgets jogged around the corner. "What you want?"

"See any of these losers alive?"

"I hear one." He pointed toward the sound of the screaming man.

"Get the others organized. We got to find that Agency man. If we can find a raghead who knows where, that'll get us out of here quick."

Turning to the office behind them, Lyons pointed to himself. "I take the door. Cover me through the window."

Blancanales stood beside the window. He leaned forward for an instant, exposing himself to any terrorists hiding inside, then snapped back. An auto-burst ripped through the window, glass tinkling to the tiles.

"Come out and you live!" Lyons shouted.

Arabic answered him. Abdul shouted Arabic to those inside. They waited for an answer. "I told them we would give them mercy…"

The door slammed open, a blur with a Kalashnikov spinning to aim his autorifle at the men at the window. Lyons fired his Atchisson from a distance of six inches into the chest of the terrorist. The muzzle-blast lit a girl's face as the shock threw her through the air, her back exploding in a spray of blood.

A grenade flew from the window. Blancanales swatted it back with one hand, then crouched as the flash threw glass and dust from the window. Abdul called out again for the terrorists inside to surrender.

No answer. Gadgets pulled a grenade from his battle armor. "These diehards deserve a special treat." He jerked the pin from a canister, let the lever flip free, counted, "One, two, three…"

As he pitched the grenade in, a voice shouted. Abdul translated, "They want to surrender."

White phosphorous created hell. They heard screams inside. "Too late," muttered Gadgets.

As they went to the next office, a form glowing with specks of metallic incandescence clawed at the window. Jagged shards of glass slashed the screaming terrorist's hands and arms. White fire burned in the howling mouth of the creature as the phosphorous melted through the face, continued burning into the tissues of the throat. Abdul raised his Uzi to give the agonized terrorist the release of death.

Lyons pushed the weapon aside. "Let it go. Maybe that noise will motivate these other crazies to come out."

Abdul went to the next office and shouted inside.

A voice answered in Arabic. As the screaming continued, Abdul spoke with the terrorist inside. He turned to Lyons. "He says he'll surrender. Will you kill him?"

"Not if he tells us what we need to know."

Abdul negotiated with the man inside. The door opened and a Kalashnikov clattered onto the tiles. A young man came out, his hands high. Lyons grabbed him by the collar and slammed him down to the tiles. With one foot on the boy's back, Lyons held the Atchisson against the boy's head as Blancanales searched him. Blancanales found two grenades, which he passed to Gadgets. He pocketed a knife.

"Is there anyone else in there? If he lies, I kill him."

The boy shook his head to Abdul's questions.

"Now ask him where the American is."

Again the boy shook his head, pleaded with his captors. "He says he doesn't know anything about him."

"Is the American still alive?"

Abdul questioned the boy, then translated the answers. "He saw the American. The others brought the American from the city. He doesn't know anything about him. He's only a recruit. With the National Front a month."

"And there's no one else inside there?"

"He said no."

"We'll find out." Lyons jerked the boy to his feet and shoved him into the office doorway. Crying and pleading, the boy twisted to face Lyons. Holding his prisoner in front of him, Lyons stepped into the room. Blancanales waved a flashlight over the interior.

A dead soldier sprawled on a table, his stiffening hand holding a wadded rag against a chest wound. Blood soaked his uniform, puddled on the table and floor. Using the boy as a shield, Lyons searched the room. He hooked a closet door open with his boot, stepped back. Blancanales shone the flashlight inside. They saw stacks of papers and books.

Stripping a grenade from the dead terrorist, they went to the next office. Abdul called out for surrender. He received no answer. Lyons shoved the boy in front of the window. No shots came.

Lyons kicked open the door, then took cover against the thick clay wall. But no terrorists fired. Lyons pushed the boy through the door. Then he rushed inside, his Atchisson ready. Blancanales followed an instant later.

An RPG had punched through the wall, shredding books and filing cabinets. Grabbing the boy, keeping him in front of them, Lyons and Blancanales searched the demolished room. They found no one.

As they left the office, the boy spoke quickly with Abdul. "He says he will take us to the commander's office. The commander will know."

"Great. Our punk just might live through this…"

Shoving the boy along, crouchwalking beneath windows, dodging past doors, they went directly to the main offices. Again, Abdul called out for surrender.

A voice answered. "I give up. I am only a technician. I can help. I am not a fighter…"

"Come out! Hands up if you want to live."

The Libyan radio operator walked from the offices of the commander. "I am only a technician, only a technician…"

Sweeping the Libyan's feet from under him, Lyons spread him flat on the tiles. He searched him, found a .25-caliber Beretta in his boot top.

"You're not a fighter? What's this for?"

"It is the only gun I have."

"Shut up." Lyons kicked him over onto his back and searched him some more. "Where's the American prisoner? Tell us and we'll let you live."

"Prisoner? I do not know. I only operate radio."

"Oh, yeah?" Gadgets asked. "Where is your equipment?"

"In there. I can tell you where Commander Omar hides. He knows where prisoner is."

"Show me."

The radio operator got to his feet. Lyons grabbed the guy's collar and shoved the man ahead of him.

"Any tricks and I will kill you."

"Not me — I only technician."

They went through the outer offices. The Libyan pointed to a door. "He is in there."

"Open it."

"No! He will shoot."

"Tough."

Shouting in Arabic, the Libyan opened the office door. Lyons heard the word Americans.

Blancanales shone the flashlight into the office. They saw Persian rugs, hand-carved furniture, but no officer. Lyons jabbed the Libyan with the Atchisson. "Tell him to come out if he wants to live."

The words had no effect. Lyons grabbed the Libyan by the collar again and forced him to another door.

"Open it."

They saw a white-tiled bathroom with modern European fixtures. "Now that other door."

As the closet door opened, Lyons heard an elbow strike the door, smelled excrement. A piece of metal flipped free. Lyons saw it was a grenade lever.

Slamming the radio operator against the door, Lyons jammed it closed. A scream came from inside the closet. Hands grabbed the doorknob, shook it. The Libyan struggled against Lyons's grip, finally twisted away.

Bits of steel wire punched a hundred holes in the closet door. The man inside screamed, fell out of the shattered door, rolled across the floor, his body in shreds, the front of it punctured.

He still lived only because the grenade had exploded below waist level.

Blancanales whipped cords from his pocket and looped fast tourniquets around the Egyptian's legs at the crotch. He reached into the tangle of shredded clothes and shoes inside the closet to find a wooden clothes hanger. He snapped the hanger apart and used two lengths to twist the cord loops tight. The blood flow from the commander's legs slowed.

"Where's the American?" Lyons shouted into the moaning man's face.

Commander Omar shook his head. Lyons shouted again, "Tell us and you live."

Ashen with shock, the commander looked up at the black-clad Americans who questioned him and tended his wounds. Finally he answered.

"He is alive. Alive. In the small room… below the stairs…"

"Who else is there? Any of your soldiers?"

"No one… he is alive… have mercy on me."

Blancanales looked up to Lyons. "The Agency will want this one."

"Then keep him alive."

Shoving the Libyan ahead of him, Lyons went back to the smoky walkway in front of the offices. The sky was light with day.

"Keep this one, Wizard. Talk tech with him. Abdul, come. Where are Mohammed and Zaki?"

"There… and there." Abdul pointed to opposite sides of the courtyard. The other two taxi drivers were crouched low, watching the walls and courtyards for movement.

"Good. Come on."

Lyons moved fast, crabbing under windows, sprinting past doors, down stone steps. He saw nothing down there. Holding the Atchisson ready, he followed the stairs around into a room.

Twisted bodies sprawled everywhere on the bricks of the floor. One clutched an AK as Lyons approached, struggled to lift the muzzle. A shot from the Atchisson destroyed the terrorist's throat and turned him into a dead man. Continuing, Lyons searched for the door. An autoburst from Abdul killed a wounded Arab.

Fearing a booby trap, Lyons jerked the door open and dashed to one side. He waited to the count of ten, then looked in.

The American lay in his blood, his hands and feet bound behind him. Lyons glanced at the interior of the room, actually a janitor's closet with sink and cabinets for cleaning supplies. Going to one knee, Lyons felt the prisoner's throat for a pulse; he found it.

Blood was clotting at the captive's mouth. The Agency man still breathed. Lyons examined his wounds by the glow of a penlight and saw huge bruises. He saw cuts and broken teeth and eyes, swollen shut. He saw the marks of shoes and boots on the man's face.

Lyons cut the ropes and carefully unwound them around the man's blue hands. Lyons laid the American on his back and checked his body all over. Boot marks and the ovals of AK butts marked the man's chest and back.

"You're okay now," Lyons whispered. "Just hold on. We'll get you out of here. Can you talk? Can you hear me? I'm an American, we've come to get you out."

Jake Newton struggled to open his eyes. Lyons continued speaking quietly, soothingly. "You'll be all right; you look okay; we're getting you out of here."

Turning on his side, Newton vomited blood, retched again and again.

Lyons keyed his hand radio. "Wizard, get on your radio, call the embassy, the Air Force, whoever. Our man's alive, but he's bleeding inside. He's been kicked and beaten all to bits."

One of Newton's bloody hands gripped Lyons's arm. A tortured voice croaked, "Thanks… thanks…"

"We got help on the way." Lyons turned to Abdul. "Stay with him."

Running up the stone steps, Lyons saw the Libyan radio operator tied hand and foot on the walkway. Inside the office, Gadgets had set up his radio and autorecorder beside the terrorists' American equipment.

"I got the leader," Gadgets laughed. "It worked. He radioed here, I recorded it…"

"You got the medics coming?" Lyons demanded.

"On their way. And the colonel's got the news on..."

"Tell me later." Lyons rushed to the commander's office.

Blancanales was working on the Egyptian's wounds, packing a field dressing against the ripped and punctured flesh of the terror leader's gut. His partner looked up as Lyons entered.

"Is the Agency man okay?"

"He's alive." Lyons stooped down to examine the tips of Commander Omar's mirror-polished boots.

"What're you doing?"

Clotted blood and some flesh clung to the boot tips. Lyons wiped his finger across the crevice where the boot's upper joined the sole. Flesh came away. Lyons's voice went cold. "Those tourniquets tight?"

"Tight, man. He'll make it."