On Wings of Eagles (43 page)

    He remembered something Simons had said. "The Gasr Prison is our Bastille!"

They cheered louder.

Rashid turned and ran into the square.

    He took cover on the streetcorner opposite the huge steel entrance gates of

    the prison. There was a fair-sized mob in the square already, he realized;

    probably the prison would be stormed today with or without his help. But

    the important thing was to help Paul and Bill.

He raised his gun and fired into the air.

    The mob in the square scattered, and the shooting began in earnest.

    once again, the resistance was halfhearted. A few guards fired back from

    the gun towers on the walls and from the windows close to the gates. As far

    as Rashid could see, no one on either

262 Ken Follett

side was hit. Once again, the battle ended not with a bang but a whimper.

the guards simply disappeared from the walls and the shooting stopped.

    Rashid waited a couple of minutes, to make sure they had gone, then he ran

    across the square to the prison entrance.

The gates were locked.

    The mob crowded around. Someone fired a burst at the gates, trying to shoot

    them open. Rashid thought: he's seen too many cowboy movies. Another man

    produced a crowbar from somewhere, but it was impossible to force the gates

    open. We would need dynamite, Rashid thought.

    In the brick wall beside the gates was a little barred window, through

    which a guard could see who was outside. Rashid smashed the glass with his

    gun, then started to attack the brickwork in which the bars were embedded.

    The man with the crowbar helped lum, then three or four others crowded

    around, trying to loosen the bars with their hands, their gun barrels, and

    anything else that came to hand. Soon the bars carne out and fen to the

    ground.

Rashid wriggled through the window.

He was inside!

Anything was possible.

    He found himself in a little guardroom. There were no guards. He put his

    head out of the door. Nobody.

He wondered where the keys to the cell blocks were kept.

    He went out of the office and past the big gates to another guardroom on

    the far side of the entrance. There he found a big bunch of keys.

    He returned to the gates. Inset into one of them was a small door secured

    by a simple bar.

Rashid lifted the bar and opened the door.

The mob poured in.

    Rashid stood back. He handed keys to anyone who would take them, saying,

    "Open every cell--let the people go!"

    They swarmed past him. His career as a revolutionary leader was over. He

    had achieved his objective. He, Rashid, had led the storming of the Gasr

    Prison!

Once again, Rashid had done the impossible.

    Now he had to find Paul and Bill among the eleven thousand eight hundred

    inmates of the jail.

    ON WINGS OF EAGLES 263

Bill woke up at six o'clock. All was quiet.

    He had slept well, he realized with some surprise. He had not expected to

    sleep at all. The last thing he remembered was lying on his bunk listening

    to what sounded like a pitched battle outside. If you're tired enough, he

    thought, I suppose you can sleep anywhere. Soldiers sleep in foxholes. You

    become acclimtized. No matter how frightened you may be, in the end your

    body takes control and you nod off.

He said a rosary.

    He washed, brushed his teeth, shaved, and dressed, then he sat looking out

    the window, waiting for breakfast, wondering what EDS was planning for

    today.

    Paul woke up around seven. He looked at Bill and said: "Couldn't sleep?"

"Sure I slept," Bill said. "I've been up an hour or so."

    "I didn't sleep well. The shooting was heavy most of the night." Paul got

    out of his bunk and went to the bathroom.

    A few minutes later breakfast came: bread and tea. Bill opened a can of

    orange juice that had been brought in by Keane Taylor.

The shooting started again around eight o'clock.

    The prisoners speculated about what might be going on outside, but no one

    had any hard information. All they could see was the helicopters darting

    across the skyline, apparently shooting down at rebel positions on the

    ground. Every time a helicopter flew over the prison, Bill watched for a

    ladder to come dropping out of the sky into the courtyard of Building

    Number 8. This was his regular daydream. He also fantasized about a small

    group of EDS people, led by Coburn and an older man, swarming over the

    prison wall with rope ladders; or a large force of American military

    arriving at the last minute, like the cavalry in the western movies,

    blasting a huge gap in the wall with dynamite.

    He had done mote than daydream. In his quiet, apparently casual way, he had

    inspected every inch of the building and courtyard, estimating the fastest

    way out under various imagined circumstances. He knew how many guards there

    were and how many rifles they possessed. Whatever might happen, he was

    ready.

it began to look as if today would be the day.

    The guards were not following their normal routines. In jail everything was

    done by routine: a prisoner, with little else to do, observed the patterns

    and quickly became familiar with them. Today everything was different. The

    guards appeared nervous,

264 Ken Follett

whispering in comers, hurrying everywhere. The sounds of batde outside grew

louder. With all this going on, was it possible that today would end like

any other day? We might escape, Bill thought, or we might get killed; but

surely we won't be turning off the TV and lying down on our bunks as usual

tonight.

    At about ten-thirty he saw most of the officers crossing the prison

    compound, heading north, as if they were going to a meeting. They hurried

    back half an hour later. The major in charge of Building Number 8 went into

    his office. He emerged a couple of minutes later-in civilian clothes! He

    carried a shapeless parcel-4iis uniform?--out of the building. Looking

    through the window, Bill saw him put the parcel in the trunk of his BMW,

    which was parked outside the courtyard fence, then get in the car and drive

    away.

    What did that mean? Would all the officers leave? Was that how it would

    happen-would Paul and Bill be able just to walk out?

    Lunch came a little before noon. Paul ate but Bill was not hungry. The

    firing seemed very close now, and they could hear shouting and chanting

    from the streets.

    Three of the guards in Building Number 8 suddenly appeared in civilian

    clothes.

This had to be the end.

    Paul and Bill went downstairs and into the courtyard. The mental patients

    on the ground floor all seemed to be screaming. Now the guards in the gun

    towers were firing into the streets outside: the prison must be under

    attack.

    Was that good news or bad? wondered Bill. Did EDS know this was happening?

    Could it be part of Coburn's rescue? There had been no visitors for two

    days. Had they all gone home? Were they still alive?

    The sentry who normally guarded the courtyard gate had gone, and the gate

    was open.

The gate was open!

Did the guards want the prisoners to leave?

    Other cell blocks must have been open, too, for there were now prisoners as

    well as guards running around the compound. Bullets whistled through the

    trees and ricocheted off buildings.

A slug landed at Paul's feet.

They both stared at it.

    The guards in the gun towers were now firing into the compound.

    ON WINGS OF EAGLES 265

Paul and Bill turned and ran back into Building Number 8.

    They stood at a window, watching the mounting chaos in the compound. It was

    ironic: for weeks they had thought of little else but their fteedorn, yet

    now that they could walk out, they hesitated.

"What do you think we should do?" said Paul.

"I don't know. Is it mote dangerous in here or out there?"

Paul shrugged.

    "Hey, there's the billionaire." They could see the rich prisoner from

    Building Number "e one who had a private room and meals brought in from

    outside-crossing the compound with two of his henchmen. He had shaved off

    his luxuriant handlebar mustache. Instead of his mink-lined camel coat, he

    wore a shirt and pants: he was stripped for action, traveling light, ready

    to move fast. He was heading north, away from the prison gates: did that

    mean there was a back way out?

    The guards ftom Building Number 8, all now in civilian clothes, crossed the

    little courtyard and went out through the gate.

Everyone was leaving, yet still Paul and Bill hesitated.

"See that motorcycle?" said Paul.

..I see it."

"We could leave on that. I used to ride a motorcycle."

"How would we get it over the wall?"

110h, yeah." Paul laughed at his own foolishness.

    Their cellmate had found a couple of big bags and he began to pack his

    clothes. Bill felt the urge to take off, just to get out of here, whether

    or not that was part of the EDS plan. Freedom was so close. But bullets

    were flying around out there, and the mob attacking die jail might well be

    anti-American. On the other hand, if the authorities were somehow to regain

    control of the prison, Paul and Bill would have lost their last chance of

    escape ...

    "I wonder where Gayden is now, the son of a bitch," said Paul. "The only

    reason I'm here is because he sent me to Iran."

Bill looked at Paul and realized he was only joking.

    The patients from the ground-floor hospital swarmed out into the courtyard:

    someone must have unlocked their doors. Bill

could hear a tremendous commotion, like cr g,women's

    yrin from the oell block on the other side of the

    street. There were more and more people out in the

    compound, flocking toward the prison

266 Ken Folleu

entrance. Looking that way, Bill saw smoke. Paul saw it at the same moment.

Bill said: "If they're going to bum the place .

"We'd better get out."

The fire tipped the balance: their decision was made.

    Bill looked around the cell. The two of them had few possessions. Bill

    thought of the diary he had kept faithfully for the last forty-three days.

    Paul had written fists of things he would do when he got back to the

    States, and had figured out, on a sheet of paper, the finance on the new

    house Ruthie was buying. They both had precious letters from home that they

    had read over and over again.

    Paul said: "We're probably better off not carrying anything that shows

    we're Americans."

    Bill had picked up his diary. Now he dropped it again. "You're right," he

    said reluctantly.

    They put on their coats: Paul had a blue London Fog raincoat and Bill an

    overcoat with a fur collar.

    They had about two thousand dollars each, money that Keane Taylor had

    brought in. Paul had some cigarettes. They took nothing else.

    They went out of the building and crossed the little courtyard, then

    hesitated at the gate. The street was now a sea of people, like the crowd

    leaving a sports stadium, walking and running in one mass toward the prison

    gates.

Paul stuck out his hand. "Hey, good luck, Bill."

Bill shook his hand. "Good luck to you."

    Probably we'll both die in the next few minutes, Bill thought, most likely

    from a stray bullet. I'll never see the kids grow up, he realized sadly.

    The thought that Emily would have to manage on her own made him angry.

Amazingly enough, he felt no fear.

    They stepped through the little gate, and then there was no more time for

    reflection.

    They were swept into the throng, like twigs dropped into a fast-flowing

    stream. Bill concentrated on sticking close to Paul and staying upright,

    not to get trampled. There was stiff a lot of shooting. One lone guard had

    stayed at his post and seemed to be firing into the crowd from his gan

    tower. Two or three people fell_one of them was the American woman they had

    seen before--but it was not clear whether they had been shot or had merely

    stumbled. I don't want to die yet, Bill thought; I've got

    ON WINGS OF EAGLES 267

plans, things I want to do with my family, in my career, this is not the

time, not the place, for me to die; what a rotten hand of cards I've been

dealt ...

    They passed the Officers' Club where they had met with Perot just three

    weeks ago--it seemed like years. Vengeful prisoners were smashing up the

    club and wrecking the officers' cars outside. Where was the sense in that?

    For a moment the whole scene seemed unreal, like a dream, or a nightmare.

    The chaos around the main prison entrance was worse. Paul and Bill held

    back, and managed to detach themselves from the crowd, for fear of being

    crushed. Bill recalled that some of the prisoners had been here fbr

    twenty-five years: it was no wonder, after that length of time, that when

    they smelled freedom they went berserk.

    It seemed that the prison gates must still be shut, for scores of people

    were trying to climb the immense exterior wall. Some were standing on cars

    and trucks that had been pushed up against the wall. Others were climbing

    trees and crawling precariously along overhanging branches. Still more had

    leaned planks against the brickwork and were trying to scramble up those.

    A few people had reached the top of the wall by one means or another and

    were letting down ropes and sheets to those below, but the ropes were not

    long enough.

    Paul and Bill stood watching, wondering what to do. They were joined by

    some of the other foreign prisoners from Building Number 8. One of them, a

    New Zealander charged with drug smuggling, had a big grin all over his face