Sepulchre (28 page)

The two terrorists knew that the European clothes they wore and the fact that they were among a cosmopolitan crowd would not help if they panicked and rushed from the scene, even though others around them were doing precisely that. At that particular time, Parisians were regarding any Arab or Algerian 'type' with suspicion, for the French authorities had arrested a known PLO activist a few weeks before under a charge of conspiracy; an ultimatum had been delivered by Al-Fatah that unless the 'hostage' was released and allowed to leave the country, then France could consider itself at peril. The French authorities had a reputation in those days for 'going soft' under such pressure, and the bomb planted at the Gare du Nord was meant to show how serious the terrorists were.

Asil and Youssef forced themselves to walk calmly away from the train station. Unfortunately it was their apparent coolness that gained the attention of an astute gendarme who was making his way into the station. The police, including the CRS and CSP, hod been put on special alert since the arrest of the terrorist, and this particular gendarme had taken note of his pre-duty briefing on exactly what to look out for before and after an outrage such as this. He hurried after the two smartly dressed Arabs, stopping them with a sharp, 'Alors, messieurs!' when he was close.

The mistimed blast had considerably shaken Asil and Youssef, for if the bomb had exploded just a few moments earlier, it would have been their own bodies spread across the station concourse. Now they were being apprehended by the police! Without even waiting to be questioned, Asil drew a knife from a hidden sheath in his jacket and stepped towards the uniformed man. He was expert with the blade, as Youssef had become expert with the garotte, and knew that the policeman's belt and buttoned tunic might prevent a clean thrust into the stomach. The heart was equally as difficult, because their pursuer had raised his left arm across his chest, intentionally or unintentionally blocking a lunge. Asil went for the next best target, aware that it would take his victim a minute or so longer to die, but at least he would drop instantly and lose consciousness within fourteen seconds. The knife slashed across the gendarme's upper left arm, the thrust outwards and deep, severing the brachial artery. The wounded man stared in disbelief, then fell to the pavement.

A woman screamed, but in the hubbub of similar cries and the blaring of sirens, no one took much notice. The Arabs fled, no longer concerned whether or not they were more noticeable. They ducked into the metro, hastily purchasing tickets and anxiously waiting on the quaff for a train - any train - to come in, expecting shouts from the barrier at any moment. When one arrived, Youssef shuffled along beside it, pulling at the latch which opened the compartment door before the train had fully stopped. They collapsed into seats, praying to Allah that the doors would shut and the train move off before any blue-uniformed men tumbled in after them. They changed at the next station, Gare de l'Est, going on to Chaussee d'Antin, and from there to Montmartre. They had journeyed no great distance, but enough to throw off any pursuers and not long enough for the police to set up checks at metro exits (even if that were possible with so many stations). They emerged into the soft glow of evening and the distant sounds of sirens.

They strolled down the wide, tree-lined boulevard towards the river, mingling with tourists, their hearts still beating wildly, although outwardly they managed to appear nonchalant. They passed streetside restaurants, sniffed at roasting meat and spicy sauces, politely declined when approached by smiling prostitutes, not stopping until they reached the Seine where they watched the passing bateaux-mouches crammed with sightseers.

Only then did they look slyly at each other and giggle.

They had a 'safe house' to go to, an apartment in one of the small courtyards in the Rue Mouffetard area close to the outdoor market just across the river. Hut there was no need to make their way back yet; indeed, training had taught them it was often better to stay lost in the crowd for as long as possible.

They wandered along the river bank for a short while, then headed back into the streets towards St Denis, taking their time rind watching the street entertainers-buskers, dancers, jugglers, even fire-eaters. They felt frightened but exhilarated. They felt alive. The operation had been successful, and there was the bonus of one dead gendarme. Their clothes were too nondescript for easy identification, even if witnesses to the stabbing had come forward; and at the height of the tourist season, with students of all races gathered in this city of culture and romance, two young Arabs of murderous natures would be almost impossible to wheedle out.

The only disappointment came when they were seated at a streetside cafe drinking white wine (so wonderful to be away from the strictures of a Moslem society) and learned from the conversations around them that nobody appeared to have been killed in that day's bomb blast at the Gare du Nord, although five people, a child among them, were seriously injured.

Asil and Youssef drifted on, soon finding a creperie where they took delight in decadent European cooking. As they consumed the food and wine, it was with each other they flirted. The bustle and the festive atmosphere (despite the bombing) around them heightened their excitement; the killing and maiming served as a stimulus for their passion.

Eventually they crossed the river at the lie de la Cite, going towards the market quarter and their apartment, but stopping once again to take more wine at one of the cafes on the Place de la Contrescarpe. After two more glasses they decided that the night still held further adventures for them. The crowds had dwindled, most of the tourists having tottered back to their hotels and pensions leaving the streets mostly to students and winos, the clochards. Asil and Youssef finally went in search of yet another victim, one who, would fulfil a certain need in them.

They rejected the first two male prostitutes because they looked too old - in their twe=nties at least - and too tough. The third was an effeminate boy who locked no more than seventeen. He led them into a dark cul-de-sac where he assured them they would not be disturbed. Youssef did not have leis beloved garotte with him, but the tie he wore would do; prolonged torture would not he possible here, but Asil would have fun with his blade while the boy's skin turned purple and his tongue swelled from his mouth.

Unluckily for them, the 'boy' was neither as young as he appeared, nor what he claimed to be (and certainly not effeminate).

Light from a distant lamp glinted on the pistol he produced from beneath his jacket. 'Police,' he informed them, holding up an ID in his left hand.

The bullet scraped along the bone of Asil's lower arm as he lunged with the knife, this time his victim's stomach exposed and an easy target. The fake prostitute dropped like a stone, the gun firing into the pavement before falling from his grasp.

Asil screamed with the pain in his arm, the knife slipping away, lodged in the policeman. Somewhere not too far away a whistle blew for the gendarmerie were out in force that night because of the bomb outrage, and the gunshots had been heard. Youssef dragged his friend away, hurrying him through the narrow streets in the direction of their apartment. A car screeched around a corner ahead of them, its lights blazing.

The two terrorists ducked into an alleyway, breaking into an awkward run, convinced they had been spotted. They had. The police car came to a halt at the alleyway entrance; doors flew open, uniformed men jumped out. They shouted, 'Arretez!' before aiming their weapons and firing.

Bullets smacked into the walls around the fleeing Arabs and one ricocheted off cobblestones to tear through the outer edge of Youssef s calf. Both men were handicapped, although they were able to keep on the move. Youssef was weeping as he limped along, the whole of his leg numbed with the shock, pain not yet registering.

They emerged into a wider street and saw other uniformed men coming towards them. There were still a few pedestrians around, one or two cars crawling close to the kerbs. All came to a standstill as the shouting gendarmes weaved through them. Asil and Youssef started in the opposite direction, running as fast as their wounds would allow, cursing themselves for their foolishness, knowing how angry their masters would be at the risk they had exposed themselves and the organisation to. They silently implored Allah to lend them wings.

Rounding another corner, they stumbled over the bodies of three clochards huddled on a metro vent (these raggedy men relished the underground warmth whatever the season). Asil struck his head against the pavement, stunning himself. The complaining winos kicked out and Youssef rolled into the gutter. He quickly sat up and was horrified when he saw the inert body

of his friend. Running footsteps drawing near, headlights and blaring sirens approaching fast. He scrambled to his feet and pulled up his dazed companion, urging him to run.

Into an alleyway apposite they went, the smell of an underoround river that had been turned into a sewer strong in the confines of the narrow space. A saxophone played bluesily overhead, the musician uninterested in the commotion below. Garbage piled up in heaps against walls near the backdoors of restaurants. Run, Asil, Run, Youssef! But to where? Paris was not familiar, they were disorientated. They would never find their way to the apartment that night.

The numbness had left Youssef's leg. It felt as though it was an fire. Ash's head had not yet cleared, and all he was really conscious of was the searing pain in his arm. He had to rely on his lover to lead him onwards.

Out into another street, this one wider than the last, but with little cruising traffic. Across the road, into a courtyard, shouts and footsteps behind. Both men were near to exhaustion, their wounds draining strength. They knew they could not go much further.

Akhoo Sharmoota! No way out! The courtyard was a closed trap! Beloved Allah, show mercy to loyal soldiers of the jihad!

Shouted commands outside. Whistles blowing. Tyres screeching to a halt. Doors slamming.

But Asil was pointing and Youssef could not understand how his dazed companion had seen the tiny opening between the buildings, a dark cleft as if the houses had been eased apart.

Yatamajad ism al rab! The way had been shown!

They staggered across the courtyard, where lights from windows were coming on to throw reflections like searchlights down on them. and entered the pinch-black opening, just enough room inside far them to lope along helping each ocher. A dim glow Seemed to rise from the ground ahead, and they soon found themselves at the tap of a seep flight of stone steps. A single streetlarnp lit the exit a short distance away.

Voices in the courtyard behind. No time to linger. Down they went. But blinding pain gnashed throe gh the muscles of Youssefs calf and he slipped, gabbed far Asil as he fell, taking him along, aver and aver, the edges of the worn steles scraping skin, jarring, bones, as they plunged then slid, slowing to a tumbling roll as they neared the bottom.

They lay there, tangled together. sobbing and moaning, with no strength to carry on, and no will either.

The exit was not far away. Yet it was too far.

Echoing footsteps from above The policemen would punish them severely for killing one of their own. And when they realised they had killed yet another earlier in the day, that they were responsible for the bombing at the station, what then? Asil and Youssef shuddered, the thought shared. They reached for each other's hand and waited, shivering with hurt and fear.

But something was moving across the opening in front of them. A shiny blackness. Sleekly slow. They thought it would pass by, but the vehicle stopped when the rear door was level with the passageway.

The door opened. A voice whispered to them down the close walls of the alley.

'Ta al maee wa sa ta eesh lee taktol mara sani ya - come with me and you'll live to kill again,' it said.

The promise gave them enough strength to crawl into the black limousine.

(And it was a promise that Kline certainly kept.)

31 RETURN TO NEATH

Kline stirred, shifting in the seat so that his face was away from Halloran.

The Shield operative watched him, his attention momentarily away from the passing countryside. The psychic had hardly moved since the Mercedes had left the Magma building an hour or so before, yet he had seemed too still to be sleeping. No rhythmic breathing, no total limpness; it was almost as if he had gone into same kind of self-induced trance. Maybe he had, Halloran considered. Wasn't that what psychics did

Nat for the first time during the journey, Halloran looked over his shoulder through the rear window. A couple of cars behind but, as far as he could tell, nothing to warty about: they weren't being followed. The Granada containing his own men came iota view, keeping swell back, ready to accelerate into action should a problem arise. He checked ahead before settling back into the seat, remaining alert, but reasonably sure there were no immediate worries. .Although Monk and the. Jordanians had been left back at Magma, evidently to collect some items for Kline from his penthouse, he considered it no, great loss of manpower. If the Mercedes were to come under attack, then he could rely on himself and the two Shield men without the. blunderings of untrained bodyguards to hinder his own counter-tactics. The fact that his, own men were armed mow added to his confidence.

Halloran ran a hand over his eyes and across his rough chin. He was tired, the dream last night obviously having disturbed what little rest he'd had in the armchair. A shower, a shave, and something to eat wouldn't come amiss. .fin inspection of the house and grounds and then, with luck, a couple of hours' sleep. There was an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger, but which told him he would need all the rest he could get if he were to cope with the next day or two. An instinct he had come to depend on through the years made him aware that something was imminent. It was a feeling he couldn't explain even to himself, but there was a familiar tension building inside him, honing his senses, sharpening his reactions, preparing him for what was to come. Fear had always mingled with that sensing, and that was natural; but this time a deep foreboding was involved, a disquieting dread, and that was new to him.