The Second Saladin

OVER.

Miles read on, to the punchline, and found out who ordered Frenchy Short to blow Saladin II and why.

Miles stood, clearing the screen, sending Frenchy’s message back to the serene depths where it would be safe forever. He knew he had to reach Chardy now — and fast.

Danzig thought he saw something move.

His heart jumped.

“Chardy! Chardy, I’m here!”

He ran through a set of pillars, through a shadow — to nothing.

“Chardy! Chardy! Where are you, Chardy?”

His echo boomed around the chamber and back at him. His breathing was rushed and hard. The pillars offered a hundred crazy perspectives, each yielding a wall, a far-off duct, a doorway, a ramp, a shadow. Yet no human form stirred. The smell of combustion was rich and rancid and the atmosphere seemed to burn his skin. He fought for more oxygen.

“Chardy! Chardy!”

Then Danzig saw a figure half-emerge — freeze — pull back into a shadow.

At that moment the scope of his betrayal became evident. A great hate filled him — the urge to kill. Kill with his hands. But kill whom? He didn’t know. Then came the terror. It was total and almost annihilating. And next: a suffocating self-pity. He had so much to do, to give, to contribute. If only he could tell the man, make him see, reason with him.

But Ulu Beg stepped fully out of the darkness. He wore jeans and was fair and tall and seemed — strong. Danzig had no other word. The man stared at him. He had his pistol.

Danzig began to run. He ran crazily from pillar to pillar, back into the chamber, through terrific heat.

“Help me,” he screamed.

He looked back once and could see no one, but he knew the man was there. Ahead the world tipped precariously, spun out of clarity as tears or sweat filled his eyes. He sobbed for breath and the air would not come. He ran for the door and knew he’d never make it. But he did.

He was there. The door was locked. Danzig slid weeping to the floor, clinging to the warm handle, pulling weakly, and the man came out of the shadows and stood not far off. He stood straight and pulled the bolt of his gun.

“No, please, no,” Danzig cried.

Then the lights vanished. Danzig cowered in the darkness. A thousand red EXITS glowed.

“Ulu Beg,” cried Paul Chardy.

Ulu Beg answered with a burst of gunfire.

Bluestein looked at him sullenly.

“All right,” he said. “Now get out of here.”

Miles didn’t even see him.

He rushed down the corridor, and turned in his necklace to the guards. He had to wait a century for the elevator. Finally it arrived and he stepped in. The trip up was swift and silent.

He headed down the last hall, moving swiftly, keeping his eyes down, passing guards. But just before a turn, he heard footsteps He recoiled in panic, backing, testing knobs. One gave — there was always some careless bastard, you could count on it — and Miles slid in. A dark room, some kind of office anteroom encased him.

Outside, the steps grew to a clatter. He recognized the voices — men from his own operation. Now what the hell were they doing here? What was going on? He knew he could not face them, and let them pass, hearing their excited jabber. When they’d gone he bolted, raced through Badge Control, signed out, and bounded into the parking lot. The air was cooler now. He shivered, looking for the van. It was supposed to be right here. What the —

The van was gone.

Oh, Christ, he thought.

But a car wheeled up to him and a door flew open and he recognized some of the Bureau people.

“Where’s Chardy?”

“Get in, for Christ’s sake,” somebody commanded.

“Where’s Chardy?”

“Get in, goddammit. Danzig’s flown. There’s a flap.”

The news staggered him. He could see Danzig having finally broken; he knew he should be there. Danzig alone, confused, walking the streets. There’d be a huge mess-up at Operations.

He jumped in.

“I’ve got to reach Chardy. Is he on a radio net or something?”

“Everybody’s on the net tonight,” somebody up front said, and reached back to hand him a microphone. “You’re Hosepipe Three. Chardy’s Hosepipe One. Our headquarters is Candelabra.”

Miles snorted. The Bureau’s idiotic games. He pressed the mike button and, feeling silly, said, “Hosepipe One, this is Hosepipe Three. Do you read? Are you there? Paul, are you—”

The response was instantaneous and furious.

“Hosepipe Three, this is Candelabra, get the hell off the air, we need this channel!”

“Screw you, Candelabra. Hosepipe One, this is Hosepipe Three. Chardy. Chardy, it’s Miles, goddammit!”

But there was no answer.

Ulu Beg waited for his eyes to adjust to a dark that was less than total. Signs glowed on pillars; one far door was ajar, throwing a long slash of light through the chamber. Shadows fell away from this streak of light across the cement and he knew that to step into it would be to die.

But he did not care. Only Danzig mattered.

“Ulu Beg, listen to me.” The voice rang through the low space.

But Ulu Beg did not listen. Instead, lying flat on his stomach, the silenced Skorpion in the crook of his arm, he slithered ahead like a lizard.

Had Danzig moved? Ulu Beg guessed not. He wasn’t a man for much motion, no matter what the circumstances. He looked for a sign of the man but could pick nothing out in the dark.

“Ulu Beg,” Chardy shouted, “it’s a Russian game. This fat man means nothing.”

Ulu Beg slithered ahead.

“Ulu Beg. The Russian, Speshnev, killed your sons.”

Ulu Beg crawled ahead. He would not listen. But a memory of his sons came over him again, now at this ultimate instant. His sons: their smell, which he had loved so, gone. Their delicate lashes, their perfect fingers, their soft breathing, their quickness and boundless energy — gone. The memory convulsed him. He heard Speshnev instructing him in Libya: “Danzig killed your sons, betrayed them, made them die.” He’d had a photograph of the bodies. “Look. From an office in America ten thousand miles away he decreed death to the troublesome Kurds, death to your boys.”

Let me be strong just another minute, he thought. Then kill me, Chardy. Kill me.

“Ulu Beg. Don’t make me kill you,” Chardy called.

“For God’s sake” — Danzig, sobbing from nearby — “save me, Chardy, oh, God, save me, please.”

With a scream that was a sob, Ulu Beg rose and fired a clip at the voice. The hot shells poured from the breech and the stench of powder rose and he could see sparks where the bullets struck. Ricochets whined about. Then the bolt locked back: he was out of ammunition.

He jammed in a new magazine.

He searched around in the darkness and could see nothing. He looked back and heard sobbing ahead. He swung the metal stock over the piece, locking it in place. He rose and walked to Danzig. He found the fat man next to the door, weeping softly.

“Naman,” he said.

“Don’t!”

It was Chardy, so close behind him he could almost feel the breath. “Don’t. Please don’t.”

The van pulled up.

“Colonel, are you sure?”

“Oh, yes,” said Speshnev. “It’s quite necessary.”

“We have technicians,” said the younger man. “Men of great skill and experience.”