The First Casualty

56

There was the sound of feet on the staircase. Jason turned the door’s dead bolt.

“Swell,” Andrews observed dryly. “They can’t get in but we can’t get out. Stalemate.”

Jason went to the window and peered out.

“Thirty or forty feet down,” Andrews said. “If you’re lucky, a broken leg is all you’ll get. At least until those assholes outside that door find you.”

“You always this optimistic, or just having a bad day?”

His answer was the click of the knob turning, followed by beating on the door.

“How long you suppose until they get whoever has the key?” Andrews asked. “Any chance you can turn that machine around and blast them?”

Jason shook his head. “I don’t think the power source is in this room. Besides, if this thing can bring down an airliner, I don’t want to be that close to its beam or whatever when it strikes something.”

Voices from the other side of the door were audible. Jason caught a few words his limited Arabic vocabulary allowed him to understand.

“At least they’re not trying to break the door down,” Andrews noted.

“No. They’ve probably sent for the man with the key.”

“Now who’s the optimist?”

Jason holstered his Glock and went to the window again. He stuck his head out. “I don’t see anyone down there. They must all be in the stairwell.”

“So? It’s still too far to jump.”

“Who said anything about jumping? The reason this minaret could be built higher than a couple of stories is the wooden beams sticking out of the side. C’mon.”

The beams, though massive, were virtually invisible at night. Spaced in rows about ten vertical feet apart, they jutted about half that distance from the sides of the minaret. Jason recalled the rows being regularly spaced so that one telephone pole — size piece of wood was exactly above the one below except for the ones on the end of each row, which diminished in number as the pyramid-shape grew increasingly narrow as it rose.

Dangling by his arms from the sill of the open window, Jason’s feet hung in space as they searched for traction. This wasn’t going to be quite as simple as he had hoped. Reluctantly, he loosened his grip, holding on only with his fingers. The extra inch or so helped. The tips of his toes touched a solid surface but he couldn’t stand on it flat-footed. He was going to have to chance it. He took a deep breath and let go.

He found footing on the wood but he was losing his balance. He tried to steady himself using his arms like a tightrope walker but to no avail. He fell and for one terrifying moment was certain he would plunge to the ground below. Instead, one hand grabbed the beam. In seconds, he was chinning himself up and was sitting astride it.

Now what? He certainly wasn’t going to try free falling again in hopes he might be lucky enough to grab another of the wooden poles. Careful of his balance, he took off his belt. He looped it around the beam, holding both ends.

“Artiste!” A hoarse whisper from above. “How the hell do you get from one of these beams to the next without falling?”

“Good question. Hope to have an answer for you in a moment,” Jason replied and swung into the void.

For an instant that seemed an eternity, he swung through the darkness before his right leg smashed into the beam below with an impact so painful he feared he might have broken a bone. Belt in one hand, he used the other arm to hold on to the wood until he could place the belt in his teeth and then use both arms to pull himself onto the protruding beam.

Andrews had obviously heard him. “What happened?”

“Use your belt to swing down to each beam.”

Minutes later, both men were on the ground, concealed in the shadows.

“Think it’s safe to head for the hotel?” Andrews asked.

“If we’re going to move at all, I’d suggest doing it before they find we aren’t still in the minaret.”

The two men set out, resisting the temptation to run, thereby attracting the attention of whoever might be in the deserted streets.

Andrews gave a look over his shoulder although someone could have been an arm’s length away and not be seen in the darkness. “They must know where we’re staying. You suppose they plan to attack us there?”

“If they were going to do that, they already would have. I think they may be afraid of attracting attention to the fact Al Qaeda, or its North African affiliate, the Islamic Maghreb, is operating in Mali. They don’t want a fuss until they are finished — or nearly finished — with their business here.”

“Emphani spoke with some of them while he was at the mosque this morning. From the accent, he’s pretty sure they aren’t from anywhere in North Africa. His guess is Afghanistan.”

“Al Qaeda on the half shell.”

“Hell, Artiste,” Andrews said, “we knew that coming in.”

Viktor and Emphani met them at the door of the hotel.

Jason took in the small lobby. “Where are your bags? I thought I gave a direct order to hit the trail if the Chief and I weren’t back in half an hour.”

Emphani smiled holding up his wrist so Jason could see his watch. “Five, no, six minutes remain.”

From the looks the African and Russian exchanged, it was obvious they had had no intent of deserting their comrades, orders or not. As a former officer, Jason appreciated loyalty, but not at the expense of disobeying orders. An overabundance of allegiance to one’s fellows contrary to orders had gotten more than one man killed. On the other hand, he gained nothing from chewing out Viktor and Emphani.

“OK, I’ve got things to do for tomorrow and so do you, starting with checking your equipment. Plus, there’s a change in our strategy.”

Although the four deemed a direct attack in the hotel was unlikely, they moved their equipment and weapons into Jason’s room, the one with the best view of the town, in general, and of the mosque, in particular. Like the veterans they all were, three were disassembling and cleaning a variety of firearms for the fourth or fifth time since arriving in Mali.

Jason was assembling the .50-caliber Barret M82A1 sniper rifle. It was not an attractive gun. Matte gray, its muzzle rested on a bipod while its unique recoil absorption system and side vent gave it a bulk uncommon to rifles. Instead of a stock, its rear end was no more than a loop of metal behind the pistol grip and trigger.

“What is kill range?” Viktor wanted to know as he walked around the weapon.

Jason was carefully attaching the Leupold Mark 4, a stubby but efficient scope, one of only two that could absorb the abuse delivered by such a large bore rifle. “It’s been used effectively at three thousand meters, one-point-one miles.”

“Originally used as an anti-matériel weapon, if I recall,” Andrews chimed in. “In fact, there’s a selection of ammo.”

Jason placed two of the bulky ten-shot magazines beside the gun. “That’s why I brought extra clips.”

Emphani stuffed a fist into his yawning mouth as he stretched out on the floor beside the bed. “A long day. I sleep now.”

Jason shook his head. “Not until we go over the new plan for tomorrow.”