Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (58 page)

           
“Jadallah, the Muslim Brotherhood
can step out of the shadows and take its place in the center of the world stage
if this happens,” Hijazi argued. “Salaam is that powerful, that well known—and
after this offensive against us, she looks more and more like a defender of
Egypt
. We need to tap into that power—and the
best way for that is to embrace her as an equal, not as a victor. Only you can
make this happen. She needs this from us as much as we need Salimah, Jadallah.
Do it.”

 
          
Fazani
was still looking quizzically at Hijazi, still trying to figure out what his
game was, but he nodded as he turned to Zuwayy. “Let’s do this, Jadallah,” he
said. “Once we have our people in
Egypt
and get our cut of the oil revenues, then
we can set about destroying Salaam and taking over. We’ll put our spies in
place all over
Egypt
, and we’ll keep an eye on every move her military forces make. We’ll
play her game for a while, let her think she’s won—and then, when she’s gotten
a little fatter off the oil money, we’ll stomp her once and for all.”

 
          
Zuwayy
still didn’t look pleased. He looked warily at both Hijazi and Fazani. “I will
not wait long for all this to happen,” he said. “A month or two, no more. We
get our concessions from
Egypt
, and then we move in—and Salaam dies, this
time for good.”

ALEXANDRIA
,
EGYPT
 
THE NEXT NIGHT

           
At Amina Shafik’s urging, Susan left
the balcony of her Alexandria home late at night, got undressed, showered, then
stood in the steamy bathroom for several minutes, staring at the hazy
reflection in the mirror. She had plenty of questions for that person in the
mirror, but no answers were forthcoming.

 
          
Her
eyes roamed over her wet, naked body, pausing on the still-unhealed scars from
the blast that took her husband’s life. Her breasts were spared, but the blast
had chewed and scorched large segments of her left shoulder, arm, and hand—a
few more feet closer, the doctors said, and the blast would’ve taken her arm.
Her left eye was still intact and would require several more surgeries to get
any vision at all, but the doctors warned that if the vision in her right eye
started to get worse, they would have to enucleate the left eye to keep it from
sympathetically damaging the right.

 
          
She
was lucky to be alive, she thought. Somebody up there still likes me. It also
meant that if she was still alive, her mission here on Earth was still not yet
finished. But what was her mission? Was it to avenge her husband—or was it
something else? It was too late, and she was too tired, to think about it any
more.

 
          
Susan
shook her head at the sad, scarred reflection in the mirror, mercifully shut
off the bathroom light, and stepped into...

 
          
...
a dark figure standing directly in front of her.

 
          
“Major! Ilha’uni!”
she shouted. She
swung with her right fist, but her blow was effortlessly turned away.

 
          
Behind
the figure, the bedroom door burst open. Amina Shafik, crouching low behind the
doorjamb with her side arm pointed inside, shouted,
“Wa’if! Yiden ala tul! Imshi!
Stop! Hands up! Move away!” But Susan
felt a crackling of electricity, like stiff cellophane being crunched inside
her skull, and Shafik collapsed to the floor.

 
          
“Amina!”
Susan cried. She tried to rush to her bodyguard’s side, thinking she was dead,
but the dark figure roughly pushed her away onto the bed.
“Who are you?”
Susan shouted. She hoped one of the outside guards
might hear her, but they were all probably dead too. “What do you want?”

           
The figure reached out and flipped
on the bedroom light. To Susan’s immense surprise, it was one of the American
commandos, dressed for full combat in the electronic battle armor and
strength-enhancing microhydraulic exoskeleton. “
Patrick?
Is that you?”

 
          
Patrick
McLanahan turned, lifted Shafik in his hydraulically augmented arms, carried
her into her bedroom next to Susan’s, and gently laid her on the bed. Susan
felt the breeze blowing in off
Abu Qir
Bay
through the bedroom patio doors and
realized that Patrick had to have climbed up seventeen floors, or jumped at
least a hundred feet from the nearest building, to get over to her bedroom
balcony. He returned to the bedroom moments later and removed his helmet, rage
blazing in his eyes.

 
          
“I
thought you were dead,” Susan said, pulling on a thin, silky dressing gown.

 
          
“I
thought we were going to go after the ones who killed your husband,” Patrick
said. “I thought you were going to help me find my wife and my men.”

 
          
“I
am helping you.”

 
          
“By
making a deal with Zuwayy to take the prisoners to Mersa Matruh and lock us up
in the bunker so he could wipe us—and your political rival Khan—out with a
nuclear weapon?”

 
          
“You
think I had something to do with that awful attack? I’m as horrified as you
are,” Susan said. “I’ve been under house arrest here in
Alexandria
. I never heard from Zuwayy or anyone from
Libya
. As for Khan—I’m glad he’s dead, the
murderous bastard, but I had nothing to do with it. He was double-crossed by
his buddy Zuwayy—why, I don’t know. It’s all part of Zuwayy’s twisted scheme
for power.”

 
          
“And
you didn’t bother telling me about this? We thought you had turned us all in—we
got out as soon as we could.”

 
          
“You
didn’t bother telling me you were going after Zuwayy.”

 
          
“I
told you I was going to try to recover Wendy and my men, or go after Zuwayy to
force him to give them up— that was the best way I thought of doing it,”
Patrick said. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know if I could trust you.
Apparently I was right.”

           
“So what are you doing here now?”
Susan asked. “Why risk climbing a seventeen-story building and confronting a
dozen armed guards? You won’t find your wife here.” Patrick clenched his fists
in anger, the flexible electronic armor in his gauntlets and exoskeleton making
little humming noises. “I’m going to go home, Susan. I’ve already attacked
Zillah and Al-Jawf. I’m tired, and my men are tired.”

 
          
Susan’s
mouth dropped open in surprise. “How can you do this? You and your men alone
couldn’t possibly have the power to do this.”

 
          
“It’s
done.” He paused, looking at her with a strange, faraway expression. “What will
you do?”

 
          
“I’m
going to fight—what else do you think I’d do?” Susan replied hotly. “I don’t
care if Zuwayy attacks my country and blows up my bases—I’m going to stay and
fight! While my name and my dead husband’s name still mean something in this
country, I’m going to use them to bring peace and justice to
Egypt
.”

 
          
“So
you can become president?”

 
          
“I
want to see General Ahmad Baris made president of
Egypt
. He has the experience, and he is
completely loyal to
Egypt
.” She saw Patrick imperceptibly nod his
approval. She moved off the bed and stepped toward him. “Patrick, I need your
help.”

 
          
“What
am I supposed to do?”

 
          
“Be
my instrument of war,” Susan said. “I can’t trust anyone: not the military, not
even my personal guards—Khan had them all on his payroll, and I think they’re
just looking for an opportunity to strike again without revealing their
treason. The Muslim Brotherhood in
Egypt
will certainly move to assassinate me and
make
Egypt
a theocracy. They mean to create a strong union between
Egypt
,
Libya
, and the other Muslim Brotherhood
states—with Zuwayy pulling the strings. If I can uncover the plot or conspiracy
to undermine the law in
Egypt
in favor of
Libya
, I can pave the way to elevate General
Baris to the presidency.”

           
“What kind of conspiracy?”

 
          
“The
conspiracy to kill my husband, for starters,” Susan said bitterly. “I know Khan
and Zuwayy were both involved. I also suspect there was some kind of conspiracy
to force withdrawal of foreign oil companies from
Egypt
.” Susan stepped closer to him and placed
her hands on his chest, looking deeply into his eyes. “Will you help me? As the
wife of a martyred president, I can offer much assistance to you.” He
hesitated, his eyes staring at a spot beyond her shoulders. “Is your mission
complete? The reason you came here, the reason you attacked
Libya
—is it over?”

 
          
For
a moment, it looked as if Patrick might crumble. His shoulders slumped, his
eyes drooped, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes,” he finally responded
woodenly.

 
          
“Then
take on a different mission—help me uncover and remove the traitors from
Egypt
,” Susan said. “
Egypt
is in danger of becoming another theocratic
dictatorship—or, worse, a stooge of Jadallah Zuwayy. Help me stop this. Use
your power for real justice, not just for a few dollars.”

 
          
He
looked down at her, and she could see his eyes roam from her eyes to the wounds
on her shoulder and arm, the anger in his eyes turning to empathy. She turned
her eyes away from his and backed away from him. “What’s the matter?” Patrick
asked.

 
          
“Don’t
look at my wounds, dammit,” she said. “Don’t take pity on me.” She pulled her
gown down off her shoulders—purposely a bit farther down her chest than
necessary to show the majority of her wounds. “You want to take a look? Take a
good look.” He did—including the parts of her naked body that were not damaged,
she noticed. Maybe this guy didn’t have quite the stone heart she once thought.
Now was the time to drive the message home... .

 
          
“Don’t
you dare pity me, McLanahan,” Susan went on. “I don’t wear a suit of armor like
you—I’m fighting this battle with all the weapons I have, which is just about
what you see here. I don’t need your pity.” She took his armored hands into
hers, squeezed them, then placed her right hand on his chest. “I need these
fighting hands, Patrick, and I need this heart. Be my champion, Patrick. Help
me. If you’ve had enough of fighting for money, then try fighting for justice.
Fight for me instead.”

           
He didn’t say anything—but his eyes
replied for him. The pity had turned to something else—not quite trust, not
quite friendship. But he would be back.

 
          
“You’re
going to leave me, aren’t you?” she asked sullenly.

 
          
“I
have to.”

 
          
“To
bury your brother. I know.” She lowered her eyes. “And to mourn your wife. I
know all about mourning—I’ve done a lot of that lately.” She pulled up her robe
over her shoulders, but did it in such a way that covering up was even more
seductive than exposing herself. Patrick picked up his helmet, fastened it in
place, and then stepped to the bedroom patio. “Patrick.” He turned, the
helmet’s bug-eyes looking sinister and comical at the same time. “You will
always have an ally here in
Egypt
. I will always be here for you.”