In the brick wall beside the gates was a little barred window, through which a guard could see who was outside. Rashid smashed the glass with his gun, then started to attack the brickwork in which the bars were embedded. The man with the crowbar helped him; then three or four others crowded around, trying to loosen the bars with their hands, their gun barrels, and anything else that came to hand. Soon the bars came out and fell to the ground.
Rashid wriggled through the window.
He was inside!
He found himself in a little guardroom. There were no guards. He put his head out of the door. Nobody.
He wondered where the keys to the cell blocks were kept.
He went out of the office and past the big gates to another guardroom on the far side of the entrance. There he found a big bunch of keys.
He returned to the gates. Inset into one of them was a small door secured by a simple bar.
Rashid lifted the bar and opened the door.
The mob poured in.
Rashid stood back. He handed keys to anyone who would take them, saying, 'Open every cell--let the people go!'
They swarmed past him. His career as a revolutionary leader was over. He had achieved his objective. He, Rashid, had led the storming of the Gasr Prison!
Once again, Rashid had done the impossible.
Now he had to find Paul and Bill among the eleven thousand eight hundred inmates of the jail.
Bill woke up at six o'clock. All was quiet.
He had slept well, he realized with some surprise. He had not expected to sleep at all. The last thing he remembered was lying on his bunk listening to what sounded like a pitched battle outside. If you're tired enough, he thought, I suppose you can sleep anywhere. Soldiers sleep in fox-holes. You become acclimatized. No matter how frightened you may be, in the end your body takes control and you nod off.
He said a rosary.
He washed, brushed his teeth, shaved, and dressed; then he sat looking out the window, waiting for breakfast, wondering what EDS was planning for today.
Paul woke up around seven. He looked at Bill and said: 'Couldn't sleep?'
'Sure I slept,' Bill said. 'I've been up an hour or so.'
'I didn't sleep well. The shooting was heavy most of the night.' Paul got out of his bunk and went to the bathroom.
A few minutes later breakfast came: bread and tea. Bill opened a can of orange juice that had been brought in by Keane Taylor.
The shooting started again around eight o'clock.
The prisoners speculated about what might be going on outside, but no one had any hard information. All they could see was the helicopters darting across the skyline, apparently shooting down at rebel positions on the ground. Every time a helicopter flew over the prison, Bill watched for a ladder to come dropping out of the sky into the courtyard of Building Number 8. This was his regular daydream. He also fantasized about a small group of EDS people, led by Coburn and an older man, swarming over the prison wall with rope ladders; or a large force of American military arriving at the last minute, like the cavalry in the Western movies, blasting a huge gap in the wall with dynamite.
He had done more than daydream. In his quiet, apparently casual way, he had inspected every inch of the building and courtyard, estimating the fastest way out under various imagined circumstances. He knew how many guards there were and how many rifles they possessed. Whatever might happen, he was ready.
It began to look as if today would be the day.
The guards were not following their normal routines. In jail everything was done by routine: a prisoner, with little else to do, observed the patterns and quickly became familiar with them. Today everything was different. The guards appeared nervous, whispering in corners, hurrying everywhere. The sounds of battle outside grew louder. With all this going on, was it
At about ten-thirty he saw most of the officers crossing the prison compound, heading north, as if they were going to a meeting. They hurried back half an hour later. The major in charge of Building Number 8 went into his office. He emerged a couple of minutes later--in civilian clothes! He carried a shapeless parcel--his uniform?--out of the building. Looking through the window, Bill saw him put the parcel in the trunk of his BMW, which was parked outside the courtyard fence, then get in the car and drive away.
What did that mean? Would all the officers leave? Was that how it would happen--would Paul and Bill be able just to walk out?
Lunch came a little before noon. Paul ate but Bill was not hungry. The firing seemed very close now, and they could hear shouting and chanting from the streets.
Three of the guards in Building Number 8 suddenly appeared in civilian clothes.
This
Paul and Bill went downstairs and into the courtyard. The mental patients on the ground floor all seemed to be screaming. Now the guards in the gun towers were firing into the streets outside: the prison must be under attack.
Was that good news or bad? wondered Bill. Did EDS know this was happening? Could it be part of Coburn's rescue? There had been no visitors for two days. Had they all gone home? Were they still alive?
The sentry who normally guarded the courtyard gate had gone, and the gate was open.
The gate was open!
Did the guards
Other cell blocks must have been open, too, for there were now prisoners as well as guards running around the compound. Bullets whistled through the trees and ricocheted off buildings.
A slug landed at Paul's feet.
They both stared at it.
The guards in the gun towers were now firing
Paul and Bill turned and ran back into Building Number 8.
They stood at a window, watching the mounting chaos in the compound. It was ironic: for weeks they had thought of little else but their freedom, yet now that they could walk out, they hesitated.
'What do you think we should do?' said Paul.
'I don't know. Is it more dangerous in here or out there?'
Paul shrugged.
'Hey, there's the billionaire.' They could see the rich prisoner from Building Number 8--the one who had a private room and meals brought in from outside--crossing the compound with two of his henchmen. He had shaved off his luxuriant handlebar mustache. Instead of his mink-lined camel coat, he wore a shirt and pants: he was stripped for action, traveling light, ready to move fast. He was heading north, away from the prison gates: did that mean there was a back way out?
The guards from Building Number 8, all now in civilian clothes, crossed the little courtyard and went out through the gate.
Everyone was leaving, yet still Paul and Bill hesitated.
'See that motorcycle?' said Paul.
'I see it.'
'We could leave on that. I used to ride a motorcycle.'
'How would we get it over the wall?'
'Oh, yeah.' Paul laughed at his own foolishness.
Their cellmate had found a couple of big bags and he began to pack his clothes. Bill felt the urge to take off, just to get out of here, whether or not that was part of the EDS plan. Freedom was so close. But bullets were flying
