Thriller (61 page)

happened to the other man?”

“The man on the beach?”

“Yes.”

“He’s dead,” said Yannis as he made he way back toward them.

“I shot him with this.” Yannis held up Point Guard’s weapon.

“What about the canister?” asked Harvath, fighting back the

shock beginning to take over his body.

“He dropped it in the tunnel. Don’t worry.”

But Harvath was worried. They had to secure the canister and

get the hell out of there. “We need that canister. Go get it.”

Harvath collapsed onto the beach and waited for Yannis to

come back with the Achilles device. While he lay in the sand,

466

Ben did his best to work the spear free of Harvath’s arm and dress

his wounds. It was an incredibly painful procedure.

The longer Yannis was gone, the more Harvath began to

worry. When he did finally return, it wasn’t with good news. “I

can’t find it.”

“What do you mean?” said Harvath as Ben helped him to his feet.

“The canister is gone.”

“That’s impossible. We’re the only ones here.”

“I don’t think so. There’s a trail of blood leading down the corridor and up the stairs into the kitchen.”

Upon hearing that piece of information, the bottom dropped

out of Harvath’s stomach. “We’ve got to get upstairs.”

Harvath led the way as quickly as he could through the low

tunnel, down the corridor and up the stone steps into the house.

The trail of blood couldn’t be missed. He used the beam of his

SureFire to trace it back through the house, out into the courtyard, and right up to the spot where Constantine Nomikos’s blue

Land Rover had been sitting less than half an hour before. There

was no sign of the Land Rover, the device or Nomikos.

Harvath reached for his radio only to realize that Ambassador

Avery had pitched it into the water, along with the rest of his gear.

Defeated, Harvath leaned back against the outer wall of the

courtyard. He tried to tell himself that it would be impossible for

a man as high profile as Constantine Nomikos to hide forever,

but Harvath had been around long enough to know that with

enough money, anything in life was possible.

He had also been around long enough to know that the good

guys didn’t always win.

Raelynn Hillhouse’s spy fiction draws upon her extraordinary

life experiences. As a former smuggler, Hillhouse has slipped

through some of the world’s tightest security. From the UzbekAfghan border region to Central Europe, she’s been followed,

held at gunpoint and interrogated. Six months before the

Libyan Intelligence Service’s East Berlin office orchestrated

the bombing of Pan Am 103, one of their operatives attempted to recruit her as a spy. Another foreign government

later tried, too, but failed.

Hillhouse loves cold war intrigue, but has recently been

fascinated by how the war on terror has transformed modern

espionage, adding new players, while decreasing the role of

traditional ones. Her debut,
Rift Zone,
a cold war thriller,

received widespread critical acclaim. Her next thriller,

Outsourced,
deals with a Pentagon operative who infiltrates

a for-profit, private military corporation suspected of selling

seized arms to terrorists. He becomes a target in the multibillion-dollar war on terror, and the only one he can trust is

his ex-fiancée. Unfortunately, she’s been hired to kill him.

While researching
Outsourced,
Hillhouse came across a little-known event that kept nagging at her. She knew her

468

main character, Stella, had somehow been involved in an incident that marked the first time the United States was targeted by fundamental Islamic terrorists. Two weeks after

American hostages were seized in Iran in 1979, the U.S. embassy in Pakistan was overrun by Islamic extremists, razed,

and two Americans and two foreign nationals lost their lives.

This all-but-forgotten incident was actually a key event in the

origins of modern terrorism, and was pivotal for Stella, whose

life would become entangled in the complex struggle.

Islamabad, Islamic Republic of Pakistan

November 21, 1979

Khan heard the muezzin wail from the loudspeakers, calling the

faithful to midday prayers, and he pedaled faster. Students

streamed into the mosques. He counted a dozen men wearing

the same dark green sweater vests, and smiled. The wardens had

received their uniforms; after prayers, the weapons would be distributed. He wished he could personally give them their final instructions, but knew he was taking a risk being seen on the

campus. But he couldn’t deny himself prayers with his brothers.

Not today. Not on the biggest day of his life. Khan jumped from

the bicycle running and shoved his way into the packed courtyard. As he washed himself at the fountain, he overheard fragments of conversations, “Death to the American dogs, death to

Carter, death to the Zionists.” He saw eyebrows knit, jaws

clenched, eyes glaring. Their anger was contagious. Khan was

overjoyed.

470

* * *

Inside the American embassy compound, a waiting room afforded Stella not only a panorama of cows grazing on dry scrub,

but also a view of the main gate. Several dozen young men loitered in the tree-lined street, apparently oblivious to the news of

the siege in Mecca and the rumors that the U.S. and Israel were

behind the capture of Islam’s holiest site. She hoped that the pastoral scene didn’t change after midday prayers.

The windowpane appeared too thin to be bulletproof and

would shatter with the first brick. Either embassy architects

hadn’t given much thought to security or their local contractor

had cheaper ideas. The antishatter laminate had small bubbles

under the film. She couldn’t get the hostages in Tehran out of her

mind as her fingernail scraped at one corner of the laminate; it

easily separated from the glass.

A man strolled over to her. He was taller than she had first

guessed, someone used to concealing his height. Clean-cut, athletic build and a burn scar on his left forearm—a soldier or spy.

He, too, was waiting on the CIA’s deputy chief of station, so she

guessed spook.

“Strange-looking critters, aren’t they?” He pointed to the red,

humpbacked cows and water buffalo. “You don’t see Sahiwals

back home. I knew an old boy in the Panhandle who tried to beat

the drought with them. They’re lean. Made some of the toughest steaks you ever ate.”

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“I’m Congressman Tom Rack.” He extended his hand and

looked her over as if admiring a prize heifer.

“Stella.” She turned back toward the street. The number of

people had grown to over one hundred and more were arriving

every minute. Some carried signs, but kept them at their feet,

turned away so she couldn’t read them.

They’re waiting for something.

Bernie Thompson walked into the waiting room and greeted

Stella.

“Great to see you,” Stella said, “but we’ll have to make it an-
471

other time. I want out of here before that crowd starts up. I don’t

want to get caught in a situation like Tehran.”

“Welch and I just got back from driving around looking for

demonstrations and everything was quiet.”

“Take another look.”

A half-dozen Punjab Transport Corporation buses pulled up.

Passengers were smashed against the fogged windows. “I have

to fire off a cable, but we need to talk,” Thompson said. “Give

me two minutes. Only two minutes.”

The masses swelled around Khan, crunching every centimeter of space. Each breath was a struggle, but he kept shouting as

loudly as he could, “Death to the American dogs.” He shook his

clenched fist in beat with the crowd, their anger pounding the

embassy walls. “Death to the Americans.” The words became a

mantra, and thoughts of his mission, thoughts of his family,

thoughts of everything, fell away. “Death to the Americans.”

Khan had only one thought. He and the mob were one.

Death to Americans.

“Death to America,” he said, gasping. The multitude began to

move, sweeping him along. He shuffled ahead, unable to see

where he was going but sure he was moving toward the embassy,

toward the Americans. As they passed through the gate, bodies

squeezed tighter, pressing harder and harder, crushing against his

chest. He struggled for breath but still he mouthed, “Death to

America.”

The furnishings in Thompson’s office were American, although the workmanship was definitely local. Stella had long ago

noticed that drywall wasn’t a strength of Third World craftsmen

who were accustomed to the single-wall construction of the

tropics. Several blotches of spackle showed through the thin

white paint, and in one corner the drywall didn’t quite reach the

ceiling. Thompson sat at his desk, but Stella stood and kept an

eye on the uneasy streets below. She realized that she’d seen sev-
472

eral men wearing hunter-green sweater vests. When she took a

closer look, she saw one key a walkie-talkie. “Bernie, they’ve got

a command-and-control structure. I’m out of here.”

Thompson’s phone rang. “Hold on a minute. Let me check the

back gate for you,” he answered, then paused. “That many. What

about the service gate?” His face hardened, as if the muscles were

assuming their own battle stations. “Send a man to the roof. I

want to know what we’re facing.”

“Bernie—” Stella approached his desk, holding up a hand.

“Some are carrying Enfields.” The turn-of-the-century single-bolt

action rifles had helped hold the British Empire together and they

remained a powerful symbol among former subjects. In the right

hands, they were highly accurate.

Thompson continued, “You copy that, Gunney? Enfields. You

know the Rules of Engagement. Unless the DCM changes them,

you can only fire to protect yourself. Good luck.” He slammed

the phone down. “Looks like we’re going to rock and roll.”

They studied the swelling masses. So far, everyone remained

behind the metal-piping barricade surrounding the compound.

The crowd was focused upon a commotion at the gate, but two

women seemed to be looking straight at them. Suddenly, one

stepped aside. Metal glistened in the sun, and Stella understood.

“Down!” Stella tackled the former high-school linebacker and

they slid toward his desk. The window exploded. Shotgun pellets sprayed the drywall. A few shards of glass flew into the

room, but the laminate held most of the fragments.

They stared at the cratered wall, then looked at each other. She

caught a brief, unnerving glimpse of raw fear in his face. He

briefly shut his eyes, shook his head, but didn’t speak. The unyielding face of the hardened operative returned.

The office door burst open and Rack crawled into the room,

hugging the floor. “Anyone hurt?”

Stella lowered the blinds, then turned off the lights. “I’m fine.

Bernie?”

473

“I’m okay.”

“Have you got a rifle?” Stella said. “I’ll take out the shooter.

I’m not bound by your Rules of Engagement.”

“Neither am I,” Rack said. “Give me whatever firepower

you’ve got.”

“Firing into the crowd would incite things further,” Bernie said.

Chants could now be heard through the broken window. “There

are some shotguns in the marines’ case. Self-defense only. Understand?” Bernie reached into a desk drawer, removed a set of

keys and tossed them to Stella. “You’re under my command. Gear

up while I protect my agents.” Lying with his belly on the floor,

Bernie dialed the combination on the wall safe. He opened it,

grabbed a box crammed with index cards and scooted over to his

shredder. He stuffed the growling machine, nearly choking it.

A brick flew into the room. Stella jumped but continued inching toward the gun locker. She unlocked the case, passed Rack

a 1200 Winchester pump-action shotgun and took one for herself. She held the stock in her right hand and pointed the barrel

toward the ceiling. She pumped the wooden slide back and forth

to assure herself that the gun would work when she needed it.

Rack leered at her. “In your dreams, Congressman.” She flashed

him a smile and pumped the shotgun one last time. “In your

dreams.”

Khan lost himself in the crowd—in his crowd. He speculated

that they numbered in the thousands, but could really only see

those pressing against him. A towering shesham tree was about

ten meters away and it would make a good perch from which to

survey the event if he could make it up to the first fork.

The chants were so loud, but he thought he had heard a gunshot. He wound through the masses toward the tree, at first excusing himself, then pushing and shoving until he hit another

wall of bodies—hot, sweaty, smelly bodies. The throng constricted around him like a python. He raised his fist in the air

and gasped the words
Death to America.

474

* * *

Stella listened as the mob chanted over and over, faster and

faster, until the words blurred into a whirlwind of rage. “I

counted three marines on my way in. And did I understand that