Glenn Meade (58 page)

Weaver climbed out of the car, saw
the motorcycle propped against one of the rocks near the tomb recess. Haider
ignored it, led the way down towards the shaft opening. The tools he'd left
earlier had been removed, lay scattered about. He lit one of the lamps, and
when they had crawled down through the opening and entered the tomb area, for a
split second Weaver marveled at the splendid hieroglyphics, the undisturbed
ancient stone coffin, but Haider was already kneeling in front of the rock
shaft that led to the passageway. He wiped sweat from his face, ready to push
himself through. 'Be careful how you go. Deacon might be about.'

She waited until the sentries had
moved away, then strolled towards the hotel. As she came on to the lawns at the
side of the building, she noticed the anti-aircraft and machinegun emplacements
on the roof. Her eyes were instinctively drawn to a light in one of the rooms,
one floor below the roof parapet.

A square terraced balcony with
French windows jutted out from the room, protected by a safety railing. On the
right-hand wall, a heavy wooden trellis clad with flowered creepers led up to
the balcony, the entire area below it in shadow. The French windows appeared
closed, but there was a light on beyond a gauze mosquito screen. She stood there
for several moments, taking deep breaths, nausea in the pit of her stomach,
then she moved towards the shadowed trellis, put a hand on the wood and tugged.
It felt secure. She started to climb towards the balcony.

Deacon was getting restless. He
checked his watch again. Fifteen minutes had passed. He heard a noise behind
him in the passageway, froze, then stepped back into a corner of the cave and
quickly extinguished the lamp, his chest pounding.

To his horror, he saw a wash of
light, shadows flickering on the walls. His fear and confusion mounted, and
then Haider stepped through, followed by Weaver. He waited until Haider had
climbed up on to the boulder, then stepped out, his pistol raised.

'I really don't think that would
be wise, Major, unless you've changed your mind about being a traitor. Get down
off the rock, very slowly. Both of you remove your firearms and toss them on
the ground.'

Weaver didn't move, but Haider
slid off the boulder, stood there fearlessly. 'Shoot me, Deacon, and you'll
give the game away to the guards above. But then I'm sure you thought of that.

So on second thoughts, why don't
you go ahead and pull the trigger?'

Deacon's brow glistened, and he
nervously licked his lips.

'Don't tempt me, Haider, or you'll
be on your way to the undertakers.'

'Then let's see if you've got the
guts to do it.' Haider stepped closer, and for just a brief second there was
blind panic on Deacon's face, but it was long enough. Haider made a grab for
the pistol and it exploded with an almighty bang, the shot ricocheting off the
walls. Deacon struggled fiercely, but Haider punched him in the face, and
Weaver stepped in, slammed the butt of his pistol into the back of Deacon's
skull. He gave a muffled cry and slumped to the ground.

'Get his belt, Harry. Tie his
wrists.'

The gunshot seemed to go on for
ever, before fading to a ghostly echo. Deacon was unconscious as Weaver quickly
removed his belt and secured his hands behind his back.

'You took a risk - he could have
killed you, Jack.'

'It seems it's my day for playing
hero - easy enough when you've nothing to lose. And I could have been wrong
about the guards - the walls probably muffled the shot.' Haider wiped away a
gloss of sweat with his sleeve, nodded up towards the roof shaft.

'Ready?'

'As I'll ever be. I just hope
Rachel hasn't already gone too far with this.'

'We'll soon find out.' Haider
climbed up on to the boulder, offered Weaver his hand, and pulled him up.

In the signals room of the Mena
House, a telephone jangled.

Private Sparky Johnson blinked,
came awake with a yawn. He had his feet up, enjoying a short nap during his
shift.

At that hour of the morning, the
communications traffic was pretty thin. In front of him, the two radio
transmitter-receivers and the array of six telephones on the table had been
relatively quiet for the last hour. The duty captain was across the room,
making the most of the lull, fast asleep and snoring, his head cradled in his
arms on the desk.

A second telephone jangled.

Johnson picked up the first.

Out of the corner of his eye he
saw the captain wake with a yawn. 'Signals room, Mena compound,' Johnson said
into the mouthpiece.

The second phone kept ringing.

Johnson ignored it, listening to
the first caller. He frowned deeply, swiveled round, beckoned the captain, saw
him stand and hitch up his pants.

'Got it, sir!' Johnson replied
smartly into the receiver, and without a moment's pause picked up the second phone
and barked, 'Signals room, Mena.'

He listened again, and this time
it seemed as if someone had slit his veins. '

The captain came over, yawned. 'A
problem, Sparky?'

Johnson had a finger in the air,
asking for silence as he listened to the caller, cold beads of sweat rising on
his brow.

'Yes, Lieutenant, I sure hear what
you're saying - I sure do - but one moment, please.' He covered the mouthpiece
and looked up, frantic. 'First call's from the front gate, sir. An intelligence
officer named Sanson from GHQ just passed through, on his way to the
President's suite. He's issued a security warning, ¦wants the Secret Service
detail alerted immediately.'

The captain frowned. 'What the
hell for?'

Johnson thrust the receiver into
the captain's face, desperately snatched up another phone and began to dial.
'There's a frantic woman on the other line. Claims she's Lieutenant Kane,
British Intelligence Corps. And Jeez, I think you'd better listen to what she's
saying.'

She climbed to the top of the
trellis, staying in the shadows, then slipped over the railing on to the tiled
balcony. The light was still on beyond the mosquito screen, and when she peered
into the room she saw the familiar figure of
Roosevelt
,
alone, seated in a wheelchair, a pair of spectacles on as he read through some
papers.

Her heart raced. She removed the
silenced Luger from her tunic and cocked it. Using her identity card, slipping
it carefully into the crack between the French windows, she silently lifted the
safety latch, and in an instant she had moved into the bedroom.

Roosevelt
looked up, startled, the glasses almost falling from his face. He saw the young
woman standing there threateningly, the silenced Luger in her hand. 'Don't you
think it's a little late for callers, Lieutenant?' he said casually.

He saw something in her face then,
not fear, but a kind of self-loathing that was almost pitiful, just as she
aimed the pistol at his head. 'Sir, I truly regret having to do this.'

Roosevelt
looked into her eyes, held her stare, then his gaze shifted to the metal bell
by the bedside. Too far to reach. There was just a frightening second of
hesitation, then he looked back at the woman and said very calmly, 'Madam, if
you're going to shoot, I suggest you do it now.'

Griffith
was napping in the suite's lounge
when the telephone rang. He picked it up, and at the same moment there was a
loud, urgent knocking on the door,
Anderson
on his feet in an instant, moving towards it, the Thompson machinegun at the
ready.

'I've got it.'

But
Griffith
was barely listening, concentrating
on the frantic voice from the signals room at the other end of the line. His
face draining, he jumped to his feet, tugging the Smith & Wesson from his
shoulder holster, shouting at
Anderson
,
already opening the door to the password.

'Leave it, Howie!
Battle
stations! We've got an assassin in the
grounds-!'

But everything seemed to be
happening at once, loud voices in the hallway now, a kind of desperate bedlam
as a flurry of anxious Secret Service men burst in, their weapons drawn, taking
positions by instinct, covering the doorway, hall and lounge window. A
breathless Sanson pushed in behind them, screamed, 'For God's sake get to the
President!'

But Sanson's words were redundant,
drowned by a clatter of frantic activity, barked orders, and Griffith already
lunging recklessly down the short hall that led to Roosevelt's bedroom,
Anderson behind him.

They lay in the hollow until it
was safe to move, then Weaver led the way smartly across the lawns towards the
front of the hotel, Haider beside him. They saw a sudden eruption of chaotic
activity, dozens of sentries and military police appearing from nowhere. There
was an abandoned Jeep parked out front on the gravel, the two
Sherman
tanks were starting up, their engines
roaring to life, the anti-aircraft batteries on the roof coming alert, swiveling
their guns skyward.

A flustered MP lieutenant went
past. Weaver grabbed his arm. 'What's going on?'

'There's a security alert in
operation, sir. We've reason to believe there's a-'

At that precise moment gunfire
erupted from somewhere, two quick shots, and then a siren went off, filling the
air with a pitiful wail. The lieutenant darted into the hotel, screaming at a
group of military police to follow, dozens of them piling into the lobby after
him.

Haider's face tightened, said it
all. 'We're too late.'

Weaver's heart pounded. His
expression was drawn but he was still in command of himself. He nodded towards
the side of the building. 'The gunfire came from round there.' He started to
move away. More troops were already racing into the hotel from the compound,
orders being shouted by confused-looking officers.

'Don't run, Jack. It'll only
attract attention. And whatever you do, stay close to me.'

When Griffith burst into the
bedroom, Anderson was right behind him, the Thompson cocked and ready, Sanson
charging in after them, his revolver drawn, more Secret Service men barreling
in behind. ‹ One of the French windows was open wide. The woman dressed as a
lieutenant was standing a couple of feet from
Roosevelt
,
the silenced pistol raised in her hand. She started, panicked, jerked the gun
and fired, hitting
Anderson
in the hand. He dropped the Thompson, but
Griffith
brought up his .38, got off a shot that hit the woman in the shoulder, then
another, the force sending her flying back through the open French window, as a
wounded
Anderson
threw himself bodily across
Roosevelt
as a human shield.

There was brief but utter bedlam
in the room, Griffith giving cover while Anderson yanked the wheelchair round,
aided by two more Secret Service men, and they pushed Roosevelt from the room
and out into the corridor with frightening speed, chaos reigning outside in the
hall and lounge as more Secret Service men swiftly helped move the President
away from danger and out of the suite.

Back in the bedroom, Sanson
grabbed the Thompson and darted through the open French window on to the balcony,
just as the sirens went off. He scoured the shadows but saw nothing moving, the
silenced Luger lying discarded on the tiles, then he raced to the end of the
balcony and looked down, just as a uniformed figure moved away from the trellis
below the balcony and ran across the lawn.

'Halt or I fire!'

The woman kept moving, clutching
her shoulder. He brought up the Thompson, fired from the hip, a ragged burst
that tore up the lawns, but the woman was still moving, fleeing towards the
darkness of the gardens. He fired again, a long sustained burst this time, and
finally the woman spun, as if hit, stumbled and fell forward. This time Sanson
raised the machine gun fully, got her in his sights and squeezed the trigger
again. Click.

The magazine had emptied. Out in
the garden the woman got up, clutching her side, dragging herself away. He
yanked out his pistol, aimed, managed to fire off two quick rounds before she
disappeared into shadows.

Down on the lawns, dozens of
confused troops piled into the gardens. 'Stop that woman!' Sanson roared from
the balcony, pointing. 'Get after her!’

When they reached the side of the
hotel, they saw Sanson on the balcony, a Thompson in his hands, the machinegun
spouting flame as he directed his fire out towards the darkened lawns in a
sustained and savage burst.

Haider pointed to a moving figure
out in the gardens. 'She's over there. Rachel!' ‹¦ Weaver saw her hit by the
tail-end of Sanson's burst of fire.

She spun, stumbled and fell,
clutching her side, before Sanson's firing ended abruptly and she staggered to
her feet.