Pharaoh (47 page)

He picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘This is William Blake,’ he said. ‘Pass me over to General Hooker.’

‘Blake!’ cried Hooker as he picked up the line. ‘What have you done? Where the hell are you? We need you here to—’

Blake cut him off. ‘General, please tell me what’s happening with the Armageddon program.’ He gestured for Husseini to get closer so he could listen in on the conversation.

‘We’re working on Husseini’s computer, but it’s just as we feared. Our technicians have figured out how to block the detonation procedure but, if they do so, an auxiliary command will be given for a second system. If they turn that one off the same thing will happen again. The bombs are timed to explode at half-hourly intervals. The first one will explode in four hours and forty minutes, and the others will follow. We’ve asked the Russians to help us to defuse them, but there’s nothing they can do unless we can tell them what type of bombs they are.’

‘General,’ he said, looking straight into Husseini’s eyes, ‘I hope to have some important information to give you soon. Don’t move from there for any reason and . . . tell Miss Forrestall that I’m thinking of her, if you should see her.’

‘Blake! Damn it, tell me where—’

Blake hung up and said to Husseini with an expressionless voice: ‘More coffee, Omar?’

Husseini fell back in his chair and lowered his eyes, closing himself into a silence that seemed endless in the little bare room. When he raised his eyes they were full of tears.

He put his hand into his inside jacket pocket and took out a little black box. ‘This device contains a copy of the program that’s in the computer. They told me to carry it with me whenever I had to leave the main computer. That’s all I know.’

‘Can it be connected to the phone?’

Husseini nodded. ‘The hook-up’s inside. There’s also a little plastic card that contains the password.’

Blake opened the box and found the card. It contained a word in cuneiform characters that spelled out Nebuchadnezzar.

He said, ‘Thank you, Omar, you’ve done the right thing. And now let’s hope that luck is on our side.’

He called the switchboard again and had them pass him to General Hooker.

‘General, I have the back-up system. Press the voice button on your phone. I want your computer technician to hear this. OK, the unit I’m holding in my hand looks like a very powerful, sophisticated portable computer. I’m hooking it up to my phone now. You can connect this line to your main computer and download it. As soon as you’re asked for a password, type in “Home” and a sequence of cuneiform letters will appear. Click on that word and the program will open. General, you can have them stop with the radio broadcast. We don’t need it any more. Good luck.’

He sat and watched the LEDs lighting up on the little display, signalling the flow of information through the telephone lines.

‘Is there any coffee left?’ asked Husseini.

‘Certainly,’ said Blake. ‘How about a smoke?’

He poured the coffee and lit a cigarette for him.

They sat in silence opposite each other as the room got warmer, listening to the tapping rain on the foggy windowpanes. Blake checked his watch: 200 minutes to the start of the apocalypse.

Husseini sat shivering. Neither the blanket on his shoulders, nor the hot coffee could overcome the chill inside him.

Abruptly the little LEDs blinked off: the data transmission was complete. Blake unplugged the computer and hung up the receiver.

He waited a few minutes before calling them back. ‘It’s Blake. Any news? Yes . . . I understand, the abandoned factory at the intersection of the Stevenson and Dan Ryan expressways. No, it’s not too far from here. We can meet in the parking lot at Wells and 37th in half an hour. Fine, General. See you there.’

He hung up and turned to Husseini.

‘They’ve found the bombs. The one here in Chicago is at the intersection of the Stevenson and the Dan Ryan, in the abandoned Hoover Bearings factory. It’s being guarded by at least three armed terrorists. One of them, the only one who isn’t wearing a face mask, is stationed in the control booth of a crane, thirty metres up from the ground. He’s armed with a machine gun. Thousands of people are on those expressways, trying to get out of the city. The subway tunnel is right there; the train lines are close by as well. If the bomb explodes, the consequences couldn’t be more disastrous. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll come back here to get you.’

Husseini didn’t answer, although he had had a sudden flash of understanding. Abu Ahmid had never stopped considering him a deserter and he realized now, with absolute clarity, what punishment had been prepared for him.

Blake walked down the rain – and wind-racked street to his car and set off towards the site. Police cars were reversing crazily in every direction and sirens on the street corners sounded an alarm every few minutes, like in an old war film.

He had just reached the parking lot when he saw Hooker’s car turn off at 37th Street. He sounded his horn repeatedly.

‘The special assault teams are already in place, Blake. What are you planning to do?’ shouted Hooker from his car window.

‘I’m coming with you!’ yelled Blake.

He got out of his car and into the general’s and they took off at top speed. Sitting next to the driver in front was Captain McBain.

‘Do you know how to stop the priming sequence?’ asked Blake as soon as he sat down.

‘No, we don’t,’ admitted Hooker. ‘But I’ve sent the best men we have. Let’s hope we can do it. We’re still on line with the Russians. As soon as we see the bombs and can describe them, they’ll try to figure out the model and send us the defusing procedure.’

‘How much time have we got?’

‘The special assault team left fifteen minutes ago in a helicopter and should be at the site already. They have sixty minutes. It could be enough.’

‘They’ve run into problems, sir,’ interrupted McBain.

‘What’s happening?’

‘The resistance is worse than anticipated. The terrorists are holed up inside the old factory. There are at least three men armed with rocket launchers and machine guns. One of our helicopters has been downed.’

‘Damn, that’s all we need,’ grumbled Hooker.

‘They’re trying to buy time,’ added Blake. ‘Weren’t there any specifics in Husseini’s files?’

‘No, nothing at all,’ said Hooker. ‘Except that word – donkeys. But donkeys are donkeys.’

‘Yeah, but . . . wait a minute.’

‘What?’

‘You could ask your friends in Moscow the Russian word for “donkey”. Maybe it means something. Maybe military slang,’ mused Blake, thinking out loud.

‘Wait, hold on a second, Blake. McBain, have them pass you the line with Captain Orloff in Moscow. Ask him how they say “donkey” in Russian and if the word means anything else to him.’

McBain connected to his Russian colleague and put the question to him. Astonishment evident on his face, he was soon repeating, ‘O-s-jo-l.’

‘Oblonsky . . . sistema . . . jomkostnogo . . . limita.’

‘Oblonsky limited capacity system. Bingo!
Spasibo, spasibo, Kapitan!
’ he shouted enthusiastically to the Russian officer, and then turned to his superior. ‘The initials do mean something, General Hooker!’

McBain, still listening to his Russian colleague through his earphones, used the other line to communicate with the special assault team. ‘This is Golf Bravo One, do you read me, Sky Riders?’

‘This is Sky Riders. We’ve got the situation under control. The two commandos inside the factory are dead but the third is still up on the crane. We have one dead and three wounded. And we have the bomb.’

‘Attention, Sky Riders, we have the detonation override code. It must be transmitted to the other teams in Los Angeles and New York. Attention, this requires your full attention. I will be giving you the instructions directly from Moscow, who is on the other line. Repeat, Sky Riders, any error can be fatal. Don’t let the third terrorist out of your sight. He could be very dangerous.’

‘We’ve got a team looking to take him out. Proceed with instructions. We’re ready to roll, Golf Bravo One,’ said the voice on the other end of the line.

Their car arrived at its destination ten minutes later, and while McBain remained on board to continue transmitting the instructions from Moscow, General Hooker and Blake got out and ran towards the building. They instantly found themselves under machine-gun and rifle fire. The entire area was powerfully illuminated by photoelectric cells, but many of the bulbs had been destroyed in the shoot-out.

The captain leading the special assault team immediately dragged them behind cover. The storm continued to rage on and the lot in front of the factory was invaded by angry gusts of wind and freezing rain.

‘Foul weather, isn’t it, sir?’ The officer had to shout to be heard over the noise of the storm and the gunshots.

‘Where’s the bomb?’ asked Hooker.

‘Up there, General,’ replied the officer, pointing to the top floor of the old factory. ‘But the third terrorist is barricaded in the crane booth and he’s got us in his sights.’

Blake tried to shield his eyes from the squalling rain with his hands as he looked up towards the enormous trestle on which the long crane jib swung, pushed by the wind.

The barrel of a machine gun protruded from the booth, spurting fire against the assault team stationed around the building, who immediately responded by attacking the steel girders and walls with their guns. Each burst of fire set off a sort of prolonged, sinister pealing in the entire structure, sending sparks cascading like tiny bolts of lightning in the raging storm.

The gigantic structure started to vibrate and revolve on its axis.

‘Oh, Christ!’ said Blake. ‘He’s rotating the jib. If he positions it crosswise to the wind, he’ll cause the entire structure to come crashing down onto the expressway. Captain, send someone to disengage the clutch, for God’s sake.’

The officer signalled to one of his men, who hurried forward under a rain of bullets to the base of the tower and began to climb up the iron ladder.

At that moment, a window in the crane cabin opened and a man crawled out onto the boom as the jib continued to rotate. He was about twenty-five years old and his face was uncovered. Amazingly agile, he was somehow managing to avoid the bullets that whistled past him. For a moment he looked down and it seemed that he would fall. And suddenly Blake heard a desperate cry behind him. It was Husseini.

He was standing stock still in the pouring rain and yelling, ‘Said! Said!’ He ran across the big lot in front of the building to the tower of steel. He was shouting as loudly as he could, his face streaked with tears and rain. He was shouting at the youth who continued to advance towards the tip of the crane’s jib.

Blake whispered excitedly into Hooker’s ear and the general raised his arm to order a cease-fire, while the leader of the assault team relayed the order to his men as well.

Even the storm seemed to obey that order and the downpour subsided, while the force of the wind lessened.

Husseini’s voice rang out even louder: ‘
Said! Said! Ana waliduka! Ana waliduka!
’

‘What is he saying?’ asked Hooker.

Blake looked back wide-eyed. ‘He’s saying, “Said! Said! I’m your father! I’m your father!” ’

Hooker watched the rain-drenched man in the middle of the lot and the youth who continued to crawl towards the outer tip of the jig. His weight on the long arm, almost completely crosswise to the force of the wind, made the whole structure shake precariously.

‘Oh, my God,’ muttered Hooker.

The youth on the jib was rising to his feet and the officer who was watching his every move with a pair of binoculars shouted, ‘Watch out! He’s full of explosives! Take him out! Fire! Fire!’

A shot hit him in the leg and the young man staggered.

Husseini swung around, gripping a gun. ‘Stop!’ he yelled, out of his mind. ‘Don’t shoot! Stop or I’ll kill you!’

The officer gestured to his men and, just as Husseini was about to pull the trigger, a shot brought him to his knees. As he fell, he raised his eyes to the sky and saw his son dragging himself to the very tip of the jib, from where he dived into the void, an angel of death making for the river of cars on the highway below. But as soon as he had taken wing a furious fusillade was heard. The boy was caught in mid-air by the special operations snipers and his body simply disintegrated.

His blood fell along with the rain onto the face and shoulders of his dying father.

Blake leapt forward, running towards Husseini through the deserted lot, shouting, ‘Omar! Omar!’ A rivulet of blood dyed the water streaming under his body pink. Blake took him into his arms; he was still breathing. ‘Omar

Husseini opened eyes already dulled by death. He said, ‘You went east. Did you see . . . did you see the columns of Apamea? Did you . . . see them?’

‘Yes,’ said Blake, his eyes glassy. ‘Yes, I did see them, Omar. They were pale in the light of dawn, like virgins awaiting their husbands, and red at dusk, like pillars of fire, my friend . . .’ And he held him close as he died.

T
HE CRANE
groaned and creaked in the wind, which was picking up again, but the special force operator managed to reach the cabin at the top and disengaged the transmission. The jib, now swinging free, rotated slowly on its platform until it came to rest, immobile, in the direction of the wind.