'We'll go separately,' Jon decided. 'A change of clothes would be helpful.'
Peter eyed Randi. 'Especially the lady's black tights and all.'
Randi turned her cool gaze on him. 'The lady will take care of herself, thank you. Let's agree where we'll go next. For me, it's Paris, Marty, and my CIA station chief.'
'I'm for Paris, too,' Peter said.
'Where will you go, Jon?' Randi asked innocently. 'To report to your army intelligence bosses?'
Jon could hear Klein's voice in his ear: Tell them nothing. He said, 'Let's just say I'll catch up with you in Brussels, after I've been to NATO headquarters.'
'Right. Sure.' But Randi smiled. 'Okay, after we do what we have to, we'll meet in Brussels, Jon. I know the proprietor of the Caf Egmont in old town. Drop a message there when you're ready. That goes for both of you.'
They said 'good luck' all around. Randi ran lightly toward the building's rooftop exit door, a stunning figure in her tight black working clothes and pale blond hair. The men watched her, then Peter jogged toward the fire escape, his lean, lined face inscrutable. Left alone, Jon walked to the parapet and stared down. The antiterrorist units, with their heavier weapons and flak jackets, were spreading out. There were no alarms, no shooting, no activity of any kind beyond their methodical dispersal. As for the terrorists, they appeared to have vanished.
Jon ran across the rooftops to the farthest building he could reach and took the interior stairs down. At each door, he paused to listen. On the third floor he found what he wanted: Inside, a television was on. He heard the volume decrease, a window creak open, and a man's voice shout down to the street, '?Que paso, Antonio?'
A voice called up in Spanish, 'Didn't you hear all the shooting, Cela? There was a terrorist battle. The police are all over the area.'
'Despus de todo lo ocurrido, eso nada mas me faltabd. ?Adios!'
Jon heard the window close and waited for the man to speak to anyone else in the apartment. But the only sound was of the television, the volume again raised.
Jon knocked sharply and announced in peremptory Spanish, 'Policia. We need to speak with you.'
He heard swearing. Soon the door was flung open, and a heavy man in a dressing gown with a potbelly glowered at him. 'I been home here all'
Jon pressed the muzzle of his Sig Sauer into the man's stomach. 'Sorry. Inside, por favor.'
Five minutes later, dressed in a pair of pants and a sports jacket from the man's closet, a white shirt with the collar open, and the dressing gown over everything all far too big in the waist Jon tied and gagged the Spaniard and left. He sauntered down the stairs to the street, where he joined a group of alarmed residents who were watching the police unit as it stopped before the apartment building. In their dark combat gear, the officers rushed in, leaving two behind to interrogate the onlookers. After a few questions, the pair sent one resident after another back into their buildings.
When the officers finally reached Jon, he told them he had seen nothing and no one, and lived in the previous building, which they had already searched. The police officer ordered him back to his 'own' building, and moved on to the next interview. When Jon was sure the officer's back was turned, he crossed the street into the shadows of the far sidewalk, rounded the corner, and discarded the dressing gown.
At the San Bernardo metro station, he took the next train, where he picked up a discarded copy of El Pas, one of Madrid's daily newspapers, from one of the seats, and buried his face in it, using his peripheral vision to watch for tails. Soon he transferred to line eight, and from there he rode out to Aeropuerto de Barajas. Just before entering the terminal, he found a large waste bin. He checked quickly to make certain he had still not been detected. Then he dropped his Sig Sauer into the soiled paper cups and wrappers and, with a pang of regret, watched it sink. He tossed the newspaper on top.
With nothing but his stolen clothes, wallet, passport, and cell phone, he bought a ticket for the next Brussels flight. After he phoned Fred Klein using the new number that was thankfully up and running and arranged to have a change of clothes, a uniform, and a weapon delivered to him in Brussels, he sat down in the waiting room, where he read his detective novel.
The Brussels flight was departing from the next gate, but he saw no sign of Randi. About ten minutes before his plane was to board, a tall Muslim woman wearing the traditional black head covering and long black robes a pushi and abaya, not the chador, which covered the eyes as well as the head and body sat down across the aisle from him. He watched her unobtrusively. She sat immobile, her hands hardly visible, looking at no one. Her face was modestly lowered.
Then he heard that same strange, soft sound that seemed almost a part of the wind. It gave him a start. Obviously there was no wind inside this modern, bustling airlines terminal, at least none that was natural. He looked sharply at the woman who was swathed in black, instantly regretting that he no longer had his Sig Sauer.
She seemed to sense his interest. She looked up, gazed boldly into his eyes, and winked. And humbly bowed her head. Jon repressed a smile. Peter had fooled him. The faint strains of a whistled tune reached his ears' Rule Britannia.' The old SAS trooper loved his little jokes and amusements.
When his flight was finally called, Jon was still scanning all around for Randi, his stomach tight with worry. She had been first to leave. She should have arrived here by now.
After leaving Peter and Jon, Randi had run down the central staircase, stopping to knock on doors until she found an apartment on the first floor where there was no response. She picked the lock, hurried inside, and discovered a closet filled with flamboyant women's clothes. She chose a tight skirt that flared wide below the hips and looked as if it had been designed for the swirl of a flamenco dancer. Quickly she put it on as well as a peasant blouse and high-heeled black pumps. She shook out her hair so it was loose and fluffy around her head, and then she hung her MP5K submachine gun under the skirt from her waist.
The apartment building was quiet, and she was just beginning to relax, when she reached the front entry hall with its fake palms and expensive oriental carpeting. But through the glass panel on the front door she could see five masked men running toward her, glancing warily back over their shoulders as if they were being chased. She felt a burst of fear. The terrorists.
She retrieved her weapon, wheeled around, yanked open a door beneath the stairs, and dashed down into a dark basement. Breathing hard, she listened intently. As the basement door opened above again, she sprinted away from the light, batting aside spiderwebs. Feet clattered down. The door closed, and sooty darkness spread. Men grumbled in Arabic, and she realized from their conversation that they had not noticed her. The five were here because they were hiding, too.
Out on the street, some kind of heavy vehicle screeched to a stop, booted feet pounded the pavement, and orders were given in Spanish. The Guardia Civil shock troops had arrived, and they were spreading out to hunt for the terrorists.
Inside the basement, the men's voices were angry now, continuing low in Arabic:
'Who are you, Abu Auda, to tell us to die for Allah? You've never even seen Mecca or Medina. You may speak our language, but not a single drop of the blood of the prophets runs in your veins. You're a Fulani, a mongrel.'
A deep voice, hard and tight, sneered, 'You're a coward who doesn't deserve the name of Ibrahim. If you believe in the Prophet, how can you be so afraid to die a martyr's death?'
'Afraid to die? No, black one. That's not it at all. We were beaten today. But that's just today. There'll be better times. To die senselessly is an affront to Islam.'
A third voice said contemptuously, 'You tremble like a timid woman, Ibrahim.'
And a fourth: 'I stand with Ibrahim. He's proved himself over more years than you've lived. We're warriors, not fanatics. Let the mullahs and imams prattle of jihad and martyrdom. I speak of victory, and a Spanish prison has many doors for those who'll fight on for Allah.'
The deep voice asked quietly, 'You'll surrender, then? You, too, Ibrahim? And Ali as well?'
'It's wise,' the first voice, Ibrahim, announced with a tremor of fear. 'M. Mauritania will find some way to free us quickly, because he needs all his fighters to strike his great blows against our enemies.'
The contemptuous voice was impatient. 'You know there's no time to free any of us. We've got to fight our way out now like men, or die for Allah.'
More angry arguments from the trio who favored surrender were abruptly cut off by three low, sharp sounds. Silenced gunfire. Probably from the same weapon. Randi listened as the silence stretched for what seemed minutes but was probably only seconds. She kept her MP5K aimed into the impenetrable darkness toward the sounds of the
