Thriller (62 page)

you don’t have security cameras on the roof?”

“We have two cameras, one on each gate, and six marines

total,” Bernie said.

Rack snorted. “Hell, the Tulsa Wal-Mart has tighter security

than that.” He loaded shells and chambered a round.

“The host government provides police protection.”

“Like in Tehran?” Rack said.

A half-dozen gunshots went off in rapid succession. Stella

pushed herself flat against the floor, even though she knew it

wouldn’t make much difference. When the gunfire stopped, she

peeked outside. Thousands of fists shook in rhythm with the

chants. A separate group near the gate moved back and forth in

unison. She glimpsed a battering ram as it smacked into a brick

pillar. Chips of brick and mortar flew into the air.

“They’ve broken through! What’s the emergency plan?” Stella

tugged at Bernie’s arm. He yanked papers from their files, threw

the manila folders to the ground and stuffed the documents into

the shredder.

“Go to the vault and wait for rescue. Only shoot in selfdefense.”

Stella nodded, although she was going to make damn sure she

got there, even if it meant laying down fire to hold protesters at

bay. No one was going to take her hostage.

“Death to America,” the mob on the street chanted in harmony, but the protesters already within the embassy walls were

out of sync. The crowd fanned out into the compound, and so

many were pushing from behind, Khan had to keep moving. It

parted momentarily at a mulberry, so he jumped into the tree’s

wake. He doubled over for a moment and caught his breath and

thoughts. He hadn’t planned on participating in the riot, only in-
475

stigating it. But he had lived through enough monsoon rains to

know how hopeless it was to fight the rising floodwaters.

Death to America.

Stella was in top physical condition, but she was breathless as

she entered the cramped vault. Over a hundred people were

crammed into it, including not only American officials, but Pakistanis who worked for the facility. Some stood, others sat on the

floor; everyone contributed to the stale air. Stella turned the

shotgun’s barrel toward the ceiling and followed Thompson to

the CIA code room, weaving through the group, careful not to

step on anyone.

Inside the smaller room Congressman Rack was smashing

computers and other machines with a sledgehammer. The sound

echoed off the steel walls. She knew the CIA operatives wouldn’t

destroy their cryptographic equipment unless they believed there

was a real chance the vault was somehow going to be overrun.

Not good
.

They squeezed into the chamber and Rack stopped and looked

up. “Good to see you, Bernie. I really didn’t want to be the ranking officer in here.”

“I did what I could for our friends, but I’m not sure I got all

the payment records,” Thompson said. “Any word from our host

government?”

“Bill’s been stonewalled by the Foreign Ministry. When

pushed, Babar said they’ve sent a runner with a message to President Zia. Seems he’s off bicycling somewhere.”

“A runner. Hi-tech. What about General Ahktar?”

“You know Zia. Where the president goes, the generals are in

tow—insurance against another coup attempt.”

Stella stood uncomfortably close to Thompson. “So what’s the

evacuation plan? Is there a hatch to the roof?”

“My predecessor installed one, but don’t count on the

Marines,” Thompson replied. “We’re dependent upon our

host—”

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“The bicycling dictator?” Stella said. “Don’t you guys follow

politics? We yanked his military aid for knocking off Bhutto. He

has to live with those fundamentalists out there. You don’t think

he’s going to turn on them to help us? That would be political

suicide—even for a military dictator. Right, Congressman?”

Rack nodded. “He’s not about to break up the party. If I were

in his shoes, I’d pedal faster and wait for it to burn itself out, and

us along with it.”

“What the hell do you want me to do?” Thompson raised his

voice, then paused, and, with a calculated breath, returned to the

measured drone of a bureaucrat. “Our emergency plans call for

falling back to this position and waiting for rescue.”

“Those plans went into effect before Tehran. We’re sitting

ducks in a big steel pot and the water’s gonna boil. We need to

go on the offensive before they’re entrenched. Hold the building

or at least—”

A marine wearing a duty uniform and carrying a shotgun interrupted. “Sir, I have a man pinned down at Post-2. They’re prying the grilles off the cafeteria windows and squeezing through.

They’re crawling all over the compound. Sir, permission to use

force?”

“Only Ambassador Hummel or DCM King can authorize

force,” Thompson said.

“That’s bullshit,” the congressman said.

Thompson pointed at Rack. “You shut the door.” He continued, “Gary, has anybody found Hummel or King?”

“They went home for lunch right before the fun started. The

diplomats in the other room have them on the phone. You know

Hummel. He’ll never authorize it—and it would take too long

to try.”

“Sir,” the marine said. “It’s Sergeant Molson trapped down

there—the one whose wife just had twins.”

“Bernie, you can’t work for two agencies at once,” Stella said.

“You gonna let the diplomat’s caution rub off and tarnish the operative in you?”

477

Thompson pursed his lips and squinted an evil eye. At that

moment, she knew he hated her. He said, “I’ve got a Dragunov

in the Agency’s private collection. Take it and do whatever you

need to do—quietly.”

“Your best resource management would be to get me and the

Dragun into a little fresh air on the roof,” Stella said.

“Jesus, you can’t snipe from the roof of a U.S. embassy.”

“The rifle doesn’t exist. I don’t exist. I don’t see the problem.”

“Will you help Molson or not?”

“Whoa.” Rack held up his hand. It was twice the size of Stella’s.

“Are you out of your mind sending this girl to do a man’s job?

Give me the rifle.”

Stella’s face grew warm. “You ever fire one of these, Congressman?”

“You don’t need a trained sniper to take out rioters at thirty

yards.”

“You need someone who knows what she’s doing to tame a

Dragun indoors,” Stella said.

Thompson opened a locker and removed a sleek, black case.

Stella reached out for it. So did Rack.

“Sorry, Congressman.” He handed it to Stella. “She’s the man

for the job. But no one will stop you from checking the hall to

make sure it’s clear before she goes out.” He passed a smoke

grenade and gas mask to her.

Stella turned toward the marine. “You have a flak jacket?”

“Not here, ma’am.”

“Can you get me radio contact with the sergeant?”

“No, ma’am. He’s on a land line.”

“Tell him to use tear gas when I signal him, then run like hell

to the vault.”

“What’s the signal?”

“He’ll know.”
As soon as I do.

Stella snatched up a large rubber band from atop a file cabinet.

Rack eyed her as she pulled her shoulder-length hair away from

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her face and into a ponytail. She missed some, allowing a few

wisps to frame her face. Now the girl was ready for the man’s job.

Khan scraped his arm as he climbed the mulberry tree. The

crowd was magnificent, topping ten thousand, and he could see

three more buses down the street. They had only imagined stirring up fervor for the Islamic revolution; no one had thought as

far as occupying the embassy like their Shia brothers in Tehran.

Today’s protest was a single event, but if they could leverage it

with hostages, they could steal the show from the misguided Ayatollah Khomeini and energize their brothers around the world

with their message. The Iranians had seized the embassy with a

mere five hundred. They were many times this size and growing. It was regrettable that his students were so disorganized, but

Khan was certain he could change that.

Rack stepped from the vault first, a shotgun pressed against

his shoulder and said, “Clear!”

Stella slipped past him and set the rifle case and a shotgun on

the linoleum floor. “Thanks, Congressman. You can go back inside now.”

Rack didn’t budge. She guessed he was waiting for a glimpse

at the gorgeous weapon. She flipped open the latches. “Okay,

Congressman. She’s a beauty, but it’s time for you to move on.”

“I’m not going anywhere until that boy’s safe.”

She slammed the case shut. “Follow my lead and stay the hell

out of my way.” She opened the nearest office door and stashed

the sniper rifle behind a coatrack, covering it with a sweater.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Stella held the gas mask with two hands and smoothed out the

face piece with both thumbs, opening it to its fullest extent. She

seated her chin into the chin pocket, pushed it against her face,

pulled the harness over her head and felt for the center patch.

Satisfied, she pulled it off and placed the straps over the front of

the lens.

479

Rack adjusted his own mask.

He knows what he’s doing.

She dumped the contents from her purse and stuffed the

grenade and half-mask inside. She picked up the shotgun.

“What was all of that Dragun-taming BS back in there?”

Rack asked.

“Only a fool would choose a Dragunov over a shotgun for

close-quarter combat.” She sprinted toward the stairwell, a long

lock of hair dancing against her cheek. “A Dragun is meant to

have a good wind at its back and sunlight streaming toward her.

She’s like a wild bird. You don’t cage her.”

Stella reached the bottom of the stairway, glanced up at the security camera and then peeked through the fire door’s small rectangular window. Five men were in the hall, two carried Enfields,

a rotten choice to clear rooms. An older man was going door to

door, looking for unlocked rooms. He turned a doorknob and signaled the riflemen into position. One of the Arabs kicked the

door open with a kung fu thrust. The group rushed into the office. One remained behind, aiming the rifle down the empty hall.

Rack whispered to Stella, “We can take them all out.”

“It’s not right. They’re students.”

“They’ve got guns and fingers on the triggers.” Rack raised his

shotgun.

Stella put her hand on the barrel of Rack’s gun and pushed it

down. “They don’t have a clue what they’re doing.”

Just as she turned toward the security camera, movement

caught her eye. She jerked her head back to the window. Two

women marched from an office, followed by three armed men.

One wore traditional Islamic dress; the other sported Farrah

Fawcett hair and a short skirt.

The first American hostage.

“Damn!” Stella whispered. The throbbing of her heart seemed

to shake her entire body. She recalled her father’s training.
Paint

the picture you want them to see
. Stella took out the smoke

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grenade, pulled the pin and dropped it on the stairwell floor.

“Your mask. Now.”

“You crazy?” Rack pulled the respirator over his face.

After a few seconds’ delay, the grenade spewed white smoke.

Stella looked again at the security camera, extended both arms

parallel to the floor and pumped her fists toward her ear three

times, as if flexing her biceps. She prayed Sergeant Molson was

monitoring and caught the military’s visual signal for gas.

Smoke filled the stairwell. “Fire!” Stella shouted in Urdu, then

thrust her chin into the mask, seated it and exhaled. Careful to

stay clear of the burning phosphorous, she opened the door and

held it long enough for a cloud to billow out. Like a skilled

cricket player, she grasped the gun by its barrel and knocked the

white-hot grenade into the hall with the butt. She glided across

the corridor and yanked down hard on the fire alarm. An earpiercing ring filled the hall. She winced.

Down the hall a tear-gas canister rolled across the floor. Within

seconds the gas mixed with smoke. Lost in the thickening haze,

rioters bumped against one another, scrambling to find their

way out of the building. The marine dashed to the stairwell as

ordered.

“Help!” the American woman shrieked.

Stella ran toward the cries. The Pakistani still held her hostage

by the wrist. Stella dug her thumb into the pressure point between the Pakistani woman’s thumb and index finger until she

found bone. The woman released her grasp.

Just then, Rack appeared. He picked up the hostage and carried her to the stairwell.

Stella twisted the Pakistani woman’s hand around and pressed

down, bending it backward. Stella led her without further resistance to the stairs. The stairwell was smoky, but nothing like the

thick cloud in the hall.

On the third floor, Rack pushed up his mask. “What the hell

are you doing with her?”

“Get your own hostage—she’s mine.”

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* * *

Stella escorted the Pakistani woman to the office where she

had stashed the Dragunov. As soon as she let go of her, the