Then a figure shot out from the open doorway, and he squeezed off four accurate shots in rapid succession that made it dance and jerk.
It was Soraya who followed the dead American Chalthoum had heaved out of the doorway. Swinging her makeshift sling amid the hail of bullets, she let fly its load of quicklime into the face of the shooter. The instant the caustic calcium oxide struck his body fluids-the sweat on his cheeks and the tears in his eyes-a chemical reaction caused the blooming of a terrible heat.
The shooter screamed, dropped his gun, and instinctively clapped his hands to his burning face, trying to scrub off the substance. This only made matters worse for him. Soraya scooped up his gun and shot him in the head, putting him out of his misery, as she would a crippled horse.
Her low whistle brought Chalthoum and Yusef out of the burial chamber.
— One down, she said. -Three to go.
Are you all right? Moira stepped out of the bathtub and helped Humphry Bamber to stand.
— I think I ought to be asking you that question, he said, glancing with a shudder at the shattered head of the intruder. Then he turned and vomited into the toilet.
Moira turned on the cold water in the sink, drenched a hand towel, and placed it on the back of his neck. He took it and held it against the bridge of her nose as they left the bathroom.
She put her arm around his wide shoulders. -Let‘s get you back to somewhere safe.
He nodded like a lost little boy as they picked their way through the office. They were almost at the door when she glanced at the wall of computers.
— What did you find out? What‘s inside Noah‘s version of Bardem?
Bamber broke away, went to the laptop hooked up to all the other equipment, and disconnected it. Closing it, he tucked it under his arm.
— If you don‘t see it for yourself, you won‘t believe it, he said as they hurried out of the office.
I‘m not interested in Treadstone or what Alex Conklin was up to, Peter Marks said.
Willard appeared unfazed. -But you are, I assume, interested in saving CI from the Philistines. It was almost as if he‘d anticipated Marks‘s response.
— Of course I am. Marks turned his empty glass over when Willard tried to fill it with the bottle‘s last round of whisky. -Do you have something in mind-something, I assume, to do with Black River‘s complicity in domestic murder, especially, goddammit, the DCI‘s death?
— The DCI is M. Errol Danziger.
— Don‘t remind me, Marks said sourly.
— I have to. He‘s the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in CI‘s shop, and believe me when I tell you he‘s going to beat all you fine young gentlemen into banana paste if nothing‘s done to stop him.
— What about you?
— I am Treadstone.
Marks stared bleakly at the older man. Whether it was all the singlemalt he‘d consumed or having his face pushed into reality, he felt sick to his stomach. -Go on.
— No, Willard said emphatically. -Either you‘re in or you‘re out, Peter. And before you answer, please understand that there‘s no backing out, no room for second thoughts. Once you‘re in, that‘s it, no matter the cost or the consequences.
Marks shook his head. -What choice do I have?
— There‘s always a choice. Willard poured himself the last of the liquor and took a deep sip. -What there isn‘t-and this goes for me as well as for you-is an opportunity to look back. From this moment on, there is no past. We move forward, only forward, into the dark.
— Jesus. Marks felt a shiver run down his spine. -This sounds like I‘m making a deal with the devil.
— That‘s very funny. Willard smiled and, as if on cue, produced a threepage document, which he spread on the table facing the younger man.
— What the hell is this?
— Also funny. Willard placed a pen on the table. -It‘s a contract with Treadstone. It‘s non-negotiable and, as you can see in clause thirteen, nonrevokable.
Marks peered at the contract. -How is that enforceable? Will you threaten to take my soul? He laughed, but it was too brittle to hold any humor. Then he squinted, reading one paragraph after another.
— Jesus, he said when he was finished. He looked at the pen, then at Willard. -Tell me you have a plan to get rid of M. Errol-fucking-Danziger or I‘m out of here right now.
— Lopping off one head of the hydra will be useless because it will only grow another. Willard picked up the pen and held it out. -I will get rid of the hydra itself: Secretary of Defense Ervin Reynolds Halliday.
— Many have tried, including the late Veronica Hart.
— They all thought they had evidence that he was operating beyond the law, a well-trod path that Halliday knows far better than they did. I‘m taking an altogether different route.
Marks looked deep into the other man‘s eyes, trying to judge his seriousness. At length, he took the pen and said, — I don‘t care what route we take as long as Halliday ends up being roadkill.
— Tomorrow morning, Willard said, — you‘ll need to keep that sentiment in mind.
— Is that a whiff of sulfur I smell? But Marks‘s laugh was distinctly uneasy.
— I know this man. Yusef brushed the quicklime paste off the dead gunman‘s face with the tip of his boot. -His name‘s Ahmed, he‘s a freelance assassin who usually works for the Americans or the Russians. He grunted.
— Now and again at the same time.
Chalthoum frowned. -Has he worked for the Egyptians before?
Yusef shook his head. -Not to my knowledge.
— You don‘t use him, do you? Soraya was examining what was left of Ahmed‘s face. -I don‘t remember seeing his name on any of your reports.
— I wouldn‘t trust this scum to bring me a disk of bread, Yusef said with a curl of his upper lip. -In addition to being a professional murderer, he‘s a liar and a thief, always, even when he was a small boy.
— Remember, Chalthoum said with a grim look at Soraya, — I want at least one of them alive.
— First things first, she said. -Let‘s just concentrate on getting out of here alive ourselves.
He was still trying without success to brush the odors of quicklime and death off his clothes, but this business allowed Soraya to take the lead-
which, again, was something he deplored. Ever since they‘d arrived in Khartoum something had taken possession of him, a sense of protectiveness toward Soraya that clearly made her uncomfortable. Possibly it was being away from Egypt; he was in unknown territory, after all, and he knew only too well that he was most sure of himself in his own territory.
She heard him call softly to her but resisted the urge to turn and look at him. Instead she moved steadily forward in a semi-crouch until she came to the first courtyard. There were positions to the left and right on either wall where snipers would have an excellent field of view. She fired a shot at each spot in turn, but there was no answering fire. That was it for the shooter‘s.45, so she dropped it and took out the Glock that Yusef had given her. After double-checking that it was loaded she moved out across the expanse of the grim-looking courtyard, keeping to the shadows thrown by the walls. Not once did she look back, trusting that Amun and Yusef were not far behind her and would provide cover if she got into trouble.