this task, it in no way affects your freedom to emigrate whenever you wish.”
“We discussed this in the comm room. I said I would help.”
“If only it was possible to trust the word of every person I dealt with,” the ambassador said.
“Tell me what you need.”
“There are twenty-one names here. Seventeen men, four women. All senior members of the Alliance who have either recanted their position and thrown their weight behind the conservatives, or plan to do so today. All but three have lost someone close to them.” The ambassador handed over the pages. “I need to ask that you contact these people without mentioning my name. Washington cannot be seen to take an official stance on who forms the next Iraqi government.”
“I understand.”
“But if or when you connect, you may tell them the message comes from me personally. Stress that last word. This is not an official declaration. But let them know I am deeply involved.”
“If I have a problem, may I contact you?”
The ambassador pulled out one of his own cards and scribbled on the back. “Don’t go through the switchboard. This is my private number. Either I or Ms. Hickory will be available day or night.”
“I would not dream of calling unless it is a matter of critical importance.”
“That is the word to describe this situation. Critical.”
“If I manage to contact them, what shall I say?”
“Just this. Don’t give up.” The ambassador narrowed the space between them. “Hold fast to hope.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
T he pines covering the valley had adapted to their arid surroundings. The trees were stunted, with gnarled limbs and roots that fought the rocky earth for a hold. As Marc and his team walked forward, the needles muffled their movement. The Iranians noted how the others moved and matched them step for step.
They walked to the right of the single-lane road. Josh was on point. Marc kept him just within sight. Josh’s remaining team flanked their progress from the road’s other side. Behind Marc walked the Iranians, close enough for Marc to hear Fareed’s breathing. Duboe and Hamid’s men shielded the rear.
As they slowly approached the lone cottage marking the village’s entrance, Josh and two of his men flitted forward. When they all regrouped by the cottage, the two guards roving that end of the village were down and out. Hamid and Yussuf slipped into the mist and returned with the third guard. While the three were lashed together and stowed inside the hut, Marc and Duboe surveyed the terrain. The central lane of the village was utterly still.
Marc pointed Josh forward. “Check the way ahead.”
The mist drifted low to the ground, flicking tendrils up around their legs. A long couple of minutes later, Josh returned and breathed, “All clear.”
“We’re still missing that fourth guard.”
“No sign of him.” Josh pointed to a trail emerging from the cottage’s other side. “I followed that up to where it meets the cliff.”
Marc moved away from the stone wall and studied the village once more. The houses to the right of the central lane were built with narrow cuts between their rear wall and the cliff face. Those back areas were divided by crumbling stone fences, previously meant to hold kitchen gardens and animal pens. Marc could see they were overgrown with weeds.
Marc shifted back behind the wall and said, “Go.”
Josh signaled to his team, then melted into the mist and disappeared.
Marc drew Fareed and the Iranians in close. “You take up station here. Guard our way out.”
The Iranian jerked a nod. “Is good.”
Marc said to Hamid, “You know the target building?”
“Seventh house on right. Past the trail on left leading to the field and river.”
“I’m on point. You’re next. Who holds the rear?”
“Duboe.”
“Don’t bunch up. Ready? Okay. Let’s go rescue some hostages.”
– – Marc moved forward in a crouch, his heart pounding hard. The light was coming up very swiftly and burning away the mist. He had not expected this, how desert light seemed to ram its way through the sky, passing through all the gentle hues in seconds rather than minutes. Now there were neither shadows nor fog to hide them. They would have to rely on surprise and speed.
He raced down the central road. To his right, the cliff loomed over the village. The satellite image had suggested the fields between the village and the river were now used for live-fire training. Which meant the open ground could be littered with live rounds, dummy charges, hidden alarms for training, anything. Marc’s team took the village’s only lane at a full sprint.
An Iranian guard came up the trail leading to the fields and the river beyond. He was not alert to the prospect of interlopers coming toward him at a dead run. He spotted them a heartbeat before Marc plowed into him. Marc chopped him in the throat, cutting off the yell before it was formed.
The man was well trained. He went for his side arm as he choked for breath and blocked Marc’s second strike. Marc did not give him the chance to draw. He was too close in to risk using the spray, so he clubbed the man between the eyes with the silver canister. Again. A third time. The man went down.
Marc tried the spray on him, but the canister was bent at an angle now and refused to work. He tossed it away.
“Here.” Hamid shoved his own at Marc, then bent over to lash the guard’s wrists and ankles. Duboe mashed tape across his mouth, then helped Hamid drag the man into the trees.
Marc caught a hint of motion out of the corner of his eye. He sprinted across the open space before his brain actually identified what he had seen.
Another guard was emerging from the alley between the target building and the barracks. He was bent over slightly, slurping from a mug in his hand. The mug probably saved Marc. The guard hesitated before dropping his drink and lifting the gun cradled in his other arm. Marc slammed into the guard, grabbing the man’s machine pistol and hammering him in the face.
The guard was massive, a bearded giant with stained teeth, and savage enough to ignore his broken nose. He fitted his finger into the trigger and fired. The bullets dug a furrow in the ground. Marc used the machine pistol to smash the man’s face a second time, but the guard only snarled louder and swung the barrel so bullets raked along the building’s overhanging roof.
Then Hamid and his men appeared, using their own weapons to strike the guard. He went down hard.
Marc rounded the target building’s corner, jerking back as a panic-stricken third guard fired off a noisy burst. Marc pulled a compression grenade from his belt and lobbed it around the corner.
The blast roared from the narrow space between the two buildings. Marc yelled, “Alex! Alex Baird! ”
From inside the target building came a soft but distinct, “Here. In here.”
Marc sprinted around the corner. The bearded guard lay sprawled by the building, blood seeping from his nose and one ear. He blinked groggily as Marc kicked his gun away, then flipped him over and tagged his wrists and ankles.
Shouts rose from the surrounding cottages. It sounded as though the entire encampment was yelling. Marc found himself growing calmer as a result. For the first time since leaving the bus, he felt utterly in control. “Hamid!”
“I hear you.”
“Clear out the next house!”
“We are on this!”
Marc had to wait as Hamid and Duboe shattered the neighboring building’s shutters with automatic fire, then tossed in a compression grenade. Two. Three. Four. The window’s remnants blasted out as if the entire building sneezed. Then the roof groaned and slowly collapsed inward.
Marc turned back to his target. The cottage’s two windows were barred and sealed. The original door had
