Stone grabbed his wrist and tried to grasp the barrel of the gun. Slammed against the wall, Stone pushed him away with his leg, but now the second man came from the side and slugged Stone.
Cornered, Stone’s only chance was to take away the first man’s gun as the muzzle of the automatic came toward Stone’s face.
Stone hollered. The second man growled in Arabic, “Shut him up!” Stone spit in the first man’s eyes, surprising him. The first man stumbled back over the broken toilet bowl, and as he regained his footing, Stone closed his hand over the barrel and stunned him with a sharp head-butt. The man’s nose crunched.
Now Stone had a solid grip on the automatic and was taking it away when the second man slashed at Stone with a knife. Stone ducked, and with his left hand struck the first man’s throat with a karate chop, crushing his larynx. Clutching his throat, the man collapsed over the toilet bowl and the gun dropped. The second man now held the knife close to Stone’s eye.
The blade inched closer. As it touched the eyelid, a muscular blond-haired arm wrapped tightly around the second man’s neck. The hand holding the knife lost strength. The man’s face reddened, bubbles formed on his mouth, and his eyes bulged. Stone wrenched the knife from his hand. At the same time Dirk Lange snapped the man’s neck.
On the floor, the first man, gasping for air from the broken larynx, picked up his automatic. He aimed it at Stone’s groin, but he pushed aside the gun and placed two shots from his Colt into the man’s chest. The sound reverberated within the small room as the man flew backward.
Stone and Lange waited, expecting to hear shouts or calls from outside. Only faint music came from the restaurant.
After a moment, Lange went to the door and searched the area. “No one here. I saw these two follow you here to the loo,” Lange said. “I heard you shout. Figured you needed help.”
“Thanks. You came just in time.” Stone bent down at the basin and, using the fetid water from the tap, washed his face. “What do you suggest we do with the bodies?”
“There’s a large rubbish bin outside,” Lange said. “We’ll dump them there.”
Lange’s sudden cold demeanor surprised Stone. The fact the man wasn’t breathing hard impressed him. Strong mind. Tough body. “Let’s empty their pockets first,” Stone said.
They found cash, passports, and various shaped keys, which Stone said he’d examine later. It took both of them to drag the bodies one by one from the bathroom to the dumpster. Finished, Stone said, “Let’s get out of here.” Then stopped. “Where’s Sandra?”
“Took the truck and followed Nabeel when he left. She’ll ring you on your cell.”
“We have to get out of here.”
Lange tossed over two wallets taken from the men’s pockets and fingered the collection of keys in his hand. “We can use their Mercedes,” he said, pushing the release button for the car door. A short beep came from the direction of the parking lot. They headed toward a row of parked Mercedes. Lange pressed the button again, and the horn of a black sedan sounded.
“Hop in. We’ll drive somewhere where we can wait for Sandra to call,” Stone said. “Do you know someplace by the sea? I’m sweating like a pig.”
Under palm trees bent by the ocean breeze, they looked over the Iraqi passports of the dead men and, seeing nothing of immediate interest, searched the car. Stone draped a cloth over the license tag to conceal it from passing traffic. The trunk provided a few surprises: two AK-47s, three Russian-made automatic pistols, and a canvas sack containing what Stone recognized as a C4 plastic explosive.
Lange shook his head. “What on earth were they thinking, carrying this around in their car?”
A truck passed and Stone slammed down the trunk lid. He leaned on the car, and, enjoying the cool breeze, looked up at fat storm clouds forming on the horizon. “Maybe they were on the way to a delivery. That would explain the two cars.” He pulled out his cell phone. “I should call Sandra.”
Sandra Harrington maintained a discrete distance behind Nabeel Asuty’s car as she had been taught at the agency’s surveillance school in Virginia. Nabeel traveled through congested neighborhoods similar to the ones she had passed through that morning. It was easy to follow the Honda as it slowed and occasionally halted for pedestrians and animals.
Even with the heat, Sandra kept the windows only partially open. Thieves were expert in reaching in and making fast grabs for purses and jewelry. As she passed the shops and dingy two-story houses, the sounds and smells of West Africa hit her senses — music, much of it Western pop, smoke from the charcoal stoves, shouted sales pitches, wafts from overflowing cesspools, laughter, fragrance from an unseen flower, singing.
Sandra’s quarry left the city and started to climb up one of Freetown’s many tall hills. Trees and fields replaced buildings as Nabeel’s Honda increased speed up the winding road. Traffic was light, but she was able to hide behind a lumbering, smoke-belching dump truck. Still ascending, the air thinned and birdcalls from heavy-leafed trees replaced the noise of the city.
Nabeel’s route surprised her. She had expected him to head for one of the downtown mosques, not the countryside. Her cell phone rang. It was Stone. She gave him her location and told him she’d call back when her target had reached his destination. She couldn’t talk and at the same time shift gears on the twisting hill.
After a few more turns, she had no one between her and Nabeel’s car. She slowed, lost eye contact, but trusted that after a few curves, she’d spy his car again. Around a bend, she spotted his brake lights and watched him turn. For a brief moment she pulled off the side of the road, then proceeded to the turnoff and left the macadam for a red-dirt road. She passed a number of houses surrounded by high cinderblock walls topped with razor wire.
Nabeel’s Honda entered a gated compound, the inside hidden by a high wall. She needed a higher elevation. To the right she looked up to where a hill rose. From there she could look down on the compound. Her map showed a road winding up to and beyond the top of the rise.
In less than five minutes she was walking along a ridge, searching for the best vantage point. She chose a place hidden by trees and brush and peered down into the compound. A large housing complex sat surrounded by walls. Seven cars were parked on the grounds where men, apparently guards, walked back and forth smoking cigarettes. The back of the house looked down on Freetown and the bay. A concrete terrace with a lap-sized pool, tables, chairs, and umbrellas provided a vantage point for the owner.
Sandra found a tree stump, checked for bugs and snakes, settled herself, and looked over the scene. The rich, green hilly landscape overlooked the city below. It was quiet except for an occasional rooster crow and a dog bark. She called Stone.
“Are you okay? Where are you?”
She told him. “Are you two still at the café?”
“No. We had a problem with two of our target’s friends. I’ll explain later. Be careful. They play dirty. How long do you intend on staying at your location?”
She studied the woods around her and scanned the compound again. She felt a shiver as if someone was watching her. “Not long.”
Placing the phone in her pocket, she tried to interpret Stone’s statement about having a problem. From the last mission they were on, she knew how he solved problems. Very decisively. He did attract trouble.
She thought about Stone and Lange. What was Lange’s part in all this? She had noticed tension between the two men on the way to the café and again at lunch. Was she the cause? Two men posturing before a woman? She smiled while lowering the binoculars. Dirk Lange was a charmer. No wonder that CIA gal fell for him. The strong jaw. That deep, confident voice.