There was
a roadblock at th
e airport entrance. "Stay calm, say nothing. I will do the speaking," Bobby said. They slowed to a stop. Soldiers with machine guns blocked the way. One motioned to the driver to roll down the window. "Where are you going?" "Air Medical Service," Bobby said. "What's the problem, sir?" "That's for me to ask, not you. There's an alert." "But sir, it's urgent, as you can see."
The two rear doors of the ambulance opened, and two soldiers looked in. Florence lay still on the gurney, clenching the grip of the pistol under her
abaaya.
"Who is she?" the soldier said through the driver's window.
"The imam's wile," Bobby said.
"His favorite
wife. She's being evacuated to Cairo." He added gravely "It's critical."
The soldier straightened. "We've had no notice of this."
Bobby said angrily, "Why do you tell me this? This injury was not planned in advance! Allah is merciful—don't expect the imam to be."
T
he soldier hesitated. Then, with
a slight, contemptuous sideways gesture of his head, he indicated his permission to proceed. The ambulance's rear doors shut with a bang. The soldier in front stood aside. The ambulance moved forward.
"I think my blood pressure spiked," Florence murmured.
Th
e driver appeared to be hyperventilating. Bobby patted him on the back and spoke to him in a friendly tone. "You did well, my friend, well. A few more minutes, and it will all be over, and you'll have a great story to tell your wife and chil—"
The driver's eyes rolled up under his eyelids. He pitched forward onto the steering wheel. The ambulance veered into the path of a service vehicle.
Bobby lunged for the wheel and swung it back, avoiding the oncoming truck by inches. Florence was thrown off the gurney in a tangle of medical appurtenances. "What the hell?" she said.
Bobby was trying simultaneously to steer the careening ambulance, reach the brake with his left foot and drag the unconscious driver out of his seat, a complicated endeavor under the best of circumstances. Florence struggled to free herself of tubes and crawl to the front.
A crunching sound announced the
fact that they had driven through a wooden barrier and were now going the wrong way on a one-wa
y service road, which declared t
o even the casual observer that all was not well at the wheel.
With a grunt, Bobby succeeded in hefting the unconscious driver out of the seat and onto the floor, and then jimmied himself into the seat, reasserting control of the ambulance, which was now driving straight at a fuel truck. The ambulance had the advantage of a siren and flashing lights, forcing the oncoming vehicles off the road with angry blaring. But now other sirens asserted themselves. And as Florence groped her way over the unconscious driver to the passenger seat, she heard the squawk of voi
ces over the radio—urgent, angry voices, addressing themselves t
o the driver of the ambulance and demanding that he halt.
"H
ang on." Bobby spun the wheel and slammed on the brakes. The ambulance turned but, top-heavy, went onto two wheels. It tottered for what seemed a very long time, then fell back miraculously onto all four wheels.
Now,
at least, they were facing the right way, although they had by this point created a spectacle of themselves, and with that came increased interest on the part of a dozen vehicles in the distance. Some had mounted
heavy
-caliber guns.
Bobby assessed the deteriorating situation in the clinical language of the professional: "We're fucked."
H
e turned up a ramp that announced
Departing F
lights.
The security vehicles were still hundreds of yards off but closing fast. It was evening, and the airport was crowded. Then' were dozens of vehicles in front and hundreds of travelers getting out and entering the terminal.
"When I pull up to the curb," Bobby said, "jump out. Blend like he
ll. You can make it. Remember, ZamZ
am Best Chickens. Azool. Cyrus—"
"—from Cyprus. Yes. Bobby, I know."
"Okay, then." He drove to the far end of the terminal,
then pulled over to the curb. He'd turned off
the siren and the lights. "Go, Frenzy." "I'm stuck." "What?"
"My foot, it's wedged." Bobby leaned toward her.
"No,
y
ou
ean
't reach it
from that side." she said.
"Go
around. Quickly."
Bobby opened his door and bolt
ed around the
front.
As he did. Florence jumped
into
the driver's seat, put the
ambulance in drive and took off
with a screech
of
tires. She caught a glimpse of him in the side mirror, standing on the curb. Then the police and military cars screamed past him in hot pursuit of her.
Ambulances are built for speed. She drove fast, drawing the pursuers away from Bobby. But police and military vehicles are also built for speed, and they soon closed behind her. They had apparently satisfied themselves that there was no imam's wife inside, for they were now shooting. The low overhang of the ambulance protected the tires, and her body was shielded by the metal bulkhead behind the driver's seat. But a volley of bullets ripped through the doorway and smashed through the windshield, turning it into a spider web.
Florence analyzed her situation as she drove. In minutes, she knew, she would be captured or dead. They
'd
drag her out and—what then? Interrogation. Torture. Execution. The Wasabis would want their licks. They would want her most of all.
She heard a noise and saw the helicopter. It was flying low. keeping pace with her. She saw the man with the rifle aiming at her. She looked at the speedometer. A hundred and ten. She was approaching a highway overpass. It could all be over in seconds, neat and clean. So mu
ch easier all around. Not a particularly glorious way to go out,
smashing into the concrete strut of a highway overpass, but
SO
much cleaner. No one sc
reaming at her,
no one hooking her up to a car battery, no beheading or being stoned.
She nudged the vehicle into the left lane and kept her foot down on the accelerator. She felt, suddenly, quite calm, almost thrilled to be in such complete control of he
r fate. She thought of Nazrah,
who had set all these events in motion with her own car crash. Florence put her head down and aimed at the support And then she heard the groan.
It was the driver. She
had forgotten all about him. H
e was looking up at her in pure terror, babbling. He presented a pathetic spectacle, lying on the
floor
there, but then she remembered his seven children. If only he hadn't mentioned that. It only he'd been a little braver. If only he'
d kept that to himself and ... t
he overpass was seconds away.
She veered away from the concrete strut and
sped
under the overpass.
The helicopter was flying alongside her, low off the ground. She saw a ma
n leaning out the side door. H
e was aiming a rifle al her.
He fired three efficient shots into her engine block. The windshield splattered with oil. The vehicle began to slow.
She caught a brief glimpse of the man as he lowered his rifle. She noted the blond hair and the tell
-
tale rolled sleeves of a French para.
Yes,
she thought as her vehicle slowed and was surrounded,
they always were very good at
le sniping,
the French.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
R
ick Renard was in his Washington office Irving to persuade a portly
former U.S. senator, twice thwarted in his attempt to be elected president, to become spokesman for a chain of weight-reduction centers.
The senator was pretending that this w
as beneath his dignity, which it
was, but he had another reaso
n: He wanted more money. Renard,
meanwhile, was pretending that helping obese Americans lose weight was a magnifice
ntly selfless humanitarian act,
and if a distinguished man who had devoted his entire life to public service made a few dollars in the process, what reasonable person could object?
In the midst of this perfunctory Kabuki dance. Renards assistant entered apologetically and handed Rick a note saying that George was on the line demanding to speak to him. No, it could not wait, and yes. it was urgent, very, very urgent.
"The Whit
e House." Rick said to the senator as he reached for the phone. "Do you mind?"
The senator understood perfectly well that it wasn
't the White House, but he was flat
tered that Rick should elevate the lie to such a high degree. In Washington, you know how tall you stand by how low the other person is willing to
st
oop.
"No, of course not."
"Yes, Karl?" Rick said into the phone.
"It's Firenze," George said. "I think they
've
got her."
"Shit." Renard said. "Fuck."
The senator stared.
"I'll find out what I can." George said. "I'll meet you at your office as soon as I can get out of here. Duckett has me auditing eight-year-old visa applications, the swine."
Rick hung up.
"Is everything all right—at the
White
House?" the senator asked heavily.
"Oh, yeah. Yeah. You know how they are." Rick smiled. "Every time their numbers drop a point, it's panic city."
Rick got rid of the senator and told his assistant lo cancel everything, then switched on all the TV sets and surfed those and the Internet until George arrived with what n
ews he'd been able to gather. It
wasn't
easy,
since Duckett had petulantly downgraded his security clearance. But George had friends.
The U.S. embassy in Amo-Amas had cabled a report about some kind of disturbance in the Dismalia Quarter: shootings, car crashes, an incident at the airport, Embassy communication monitors had picked up Matari police-radio chatter about
el imra'a amrikiya
(the American woman). They had also picked up French radio transmissions to and from a military helicopter, asking f
or and receiving permission to fire upon a fleeing vehicle. H
alf
an hour later, a convoy of vehicles had driven at high speed th
rough the gates of the Prince W
azba Air Base. Following Maliq's takeover, the base had been turned into a detention facility for Mataris who were bold enough to express the opinion that Maliq's
cou
p
was less than the greate
st event in Matar since the com
ing of Islam. The vast majority of these complainants were—no surprise—female
Matar
is.
"Duckett disappeared into his office looking like a Komodo dragon had just crawled up his ass." George said
, pacing back and forth. "H
e
wouldn't give me the time of d
ay. They've got her. I know it."
"I tried calling some of the old gang at TV
Matar
," Renard sa
id glumly. "No one's left. All I
got were hang-ups. One person
actually called me an infidel. I want
my old Matar back."
Renard's assistant came in. "Someone named Bobby for you?" Rick and George practically knocked each other over, reaching for the phone.
"Bobby? Is she all right?" Rick said.
"No. They got her. Okay, just listen. I'm not gonna stay on long, on acc
ount of that double-dealin' lowl
ife Un
cle Sam probably listenin' in. You there, Sam? Y
ou listenin'? You tell us you're arrangin' for a water-taxi exfil, and ten minutes later, Anbar Tal—
my
recruit—shows up to kill us. Well, listen to this: I'm gonna come back there. If I have to
swim,
I am com
in' back there, and by the lime I'm through with you. you'll be breathin' through your asshole and crappin' through your ears. You got that?"
Renard cupped the phone and whispered to George, "I think he's upset."
"All right," Bobby said, "is it on the news over there?"
"No. not yet."
"George there? Put him on. George, what's State doin'?"
"What they do best. Nothing. Just a few cables out of Amo. Duckett won't tell me anything. Bobby, what are they going to do to her?"
"1 don't know, man. Put Renard back on. Rick, you remember that cell phone I gave you? The one I told you to keep in D.C.? Do you still have it?"
"Yeah, I think—yeah."
"All right. Use that to call me. I'll be in touch. You get started at your end." "Started—on what?" "You're a PR man, aren't you?" "Well, yeah—"
"Start spinnin", man. Spin till you drop. Yo, George?" "I'm here."
"Don't let those embassy pukes walk away from this." "I'm on it."
"All right," Bobby said, "let's get her out of there. Shock and awe, boys. Shock and awe."
The line went dead.
"What did he mean by that last part?" Renard said. "Oh. it's just knuckle-dragger talk. But for once I agree."
IT
was a small cell,
fairly cl
ean; by ceil standards, the very lap of luxury. There was a cotlike bed with a bit of foam for a pillow, a plastic pail for necessities—with a lid, very deluxe—a bottle of water, and a copy of the Holy Koran.
They'd hooded Florence after dragging her out of the ambulance. Before the hood went
over
her head, she'd had a last look at the French sniper who had put
the
bullets in her engine. H
e looked almost apologetic, giving her a little shrug as if to say,
Bui
what
c
an one do? Orders are orders, H
elas, cherie.
After the handcuffing and hooding were done, without apolo
gies or shrugs, Florence was put
in
the
back of a vehicle and driven off.
Even with her instinctive inert
ial guidance navigation, she had no way of knowing where they were taking her. After an hour, perhaps more, the hood was removed, and she found herself blinking in a bright
ly lit room, somewhere—pray Allah
—still in Matar, and not across
the
border in Wasabia.
Not
that there was much sunlight left between
the
two countries.
She was reading the Koran when she heard the key turning in the heavy door. In Washington she had met a man who had spent live and a half years being tortured and confi
ned in North Vietnam, most of it
in solitary, unspeakable conditions. He told her that even thirty years later, whenever he heard the sound of keys or a door being opened, his pulse quickened and his chest seized up.
The man who entered the cell wasn't wearing the black and blue uniform of the
mukfell
een.
One t
akes such comforts as one can.