"GOC, this is Gaza Station. We are under attack. I repeat, we are under attack. Communications may soon be compromised. We need air support and extraction immediately. I repeat, we are under a Level Five attack and need immediate assistance."
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the entire bank of video screens in front of him went dead. Then the lights went out. Gaza Station was shaking furiously. All power was gone. They were standing in complete darkness.
THIRTY-TWO
Those living under the Hotel Baghdad never knew what hit them.
But all of them could feel the five-story structure above them disintegrat ing, succumbing to the three massive explosions and an eighteen-hundred-degree firestorm. The east face came down first, followed by the south portico. Then, just a few seconds later, the rest of the building's core col-lapsed as the crushing weight of the top floors became too much for the lower floors to bear. A noxious cloud of smoke filled the air. Flames shot out from every crevice.
Bennett smashed to the floor. Instinctively covering his head with his arms, he tried desperately to shield himself and McCoy from the chunks of ceiling crashing down all around him. Everything in the room shook violently. He could hear the pipes in the bathroom being ripped through the tiles and erupting into a ceaseless spray of water. The lights flickered and sparked, ttien all shorted out, then several more explosions rocked the safe house.
And then, the explosions stopped. Debris stopped falling. The temperature in the room began spiking quickly. It was getting more and more difficult to breathe. Bennett was numb. Hadn't he been through this already? Hadn't
it all been a dream, a nightmare? Yes, he told himself, yes — both. But this was no premonition. This was no vision of an evil yet to come. This was real.
"Erin, you OK?" he whispered in the darkness, a rising anxiety thick in his voice.
"I don't know. I'm bleeding from some glass, I think. But nothing seems to be broken. How 'bout you?"
"Same, I think. I'm OK. Can you walk?"
"I think so."
"Where's your Beretta?"
"It's here, somewhere — what just happened?"
Bennett didn't answer. He crawled his way through the broken glass of the television and shattered mirror and picture frames over to Ziegler's desk. He felt around in the pitch-blackness for the file drawers, then pulled open the bottom one on the right. Sure enough, it was unlocked. And sure enough, they were there — two loaded .357 Magnums and boxes of spare rounds of ammunition, just like in the dream.
"What are you doing?" asked McCoy, feeling around for her purse and the handgun and spare clips inside it.
"The other night, I had a nightmare. I saw this exact situation, except you weren't with me."
"What?"
She suddenly found her purse under the shattered coffee table.
"The Hotel Baghdad just collapsed. Three huge explosions. I think one of them was a car bomb. Maybe a truck bomb. I don't know for sure."
"What are you talking about?"
"I told you. The dream I had the other night — there was a huge explosion. I was in this room. All the lights went out. But I could see Gaza Station filling up with fire and smoke — burst pipes, men firing AK-47s, coming in through gaps in the ceilings. Look, we don't have much time. We need to get Sa'id and Galshnikov, and find Ziegler and Tariq and anyone on their team still alive."
McCoy didn't know what to say. She didn't know what he was talking about, or what to believe. No one knew Jon Bennett better than she did, but she'd never heard him talk like this. Dreams? Premonitions? It wasn't like him. It didn't make sense. But he was right about one thing — they didn't have much time to get out alive. Worse, they had no idea how to get out. There was no way they could go back up the silo by which they had entered. They had to find Ziegler or his deputies.
She chastised herself for not getting briefed earlier on all the possible escape options. It was standard operating procedure for every operative at every CIA safe house — planning for every contingency, always preparing for the worst. She hadn't done any of it. She'd let her guard down, and now it might cost them.
McCoy felt around in the darkness for the phones on Ziegler's desk. Finding one, she grabbed one of the receivers and began to dial the control room.
"Jon, the lines are dead."
There was a long silence.
"Jon, in your dream, did you see how to get out?"
He hadn't. He didn't know. Not for sure. All he'd seen was a shoot-out in the main control room, the one that ended with him getting killed. But he couldn't tell her that. She'd already done so much for him. She'd saved his life countless times. He owed her as much, and he was determined to protect her at all costs.
"Just follow me and stay close," he said, then scrambled over to the door, holding the two .357s out in front of him.
As he'd done in the dream, Bennett put the back of his hand against the door, just as his father had taught him when they'd stayed in hotels. It was hot — too hot — and he winced in pain and quickly pulled his hand back and blew on it. He silently cursed himself. He should have seen that coming. He could see an orange glow through the cracks in the door frame. The fires had to be close. But they didn't really have any choice. If they stayed in Ziegler's room, they were as good as dead. That much was certain. He decided right there. They might not make it out of this place, but at least he was going to die trying.
Bennett set the pistols down on the floor, took off his right shoe, pulled off his sock, and put it over his left hand. Then using that hand he quickly turned the handle and pulled the door open. A blast of superheated air hit him in the face and he drew back, using the door as a shield. He quickly put his sock and shoe back on, looked around the room and scooped up the guns. The fires in the hallway provided more than enough visibility to see the destruction that had been wrought all around him. Bennett just stared at it all, then looked back at McCoy. Her face was sweaty and glowing amidst the raging flames, but her eyes sparkled with an inner life that he found so magnetic.
"You ready?" he whispered, his mouth close to hers. "I guess."
His face moved still closer to hers. He wanted to kiss her before he died. Now seemed as good a time as any. But suddenly, another explosion rocked the building. They could hear the crackle of automatic gunfire. It was definitely inside the Gaza Station complex, but it wasn't close. It had to be on the other side, closer to the main control room. But a shot of fear and adrenaline coursed through his veins. He had no way of knowing who was shooting at whom. How was he supposed to defend them if he had to— when he had to?
They worked their way to the junction of two hallways, staying low to avoid suffocating on the smoke snaking along the ceilings. One of the hallways led to the main control room. Ziegler, Tariq, and their team were probably in there, and the urge to keep going in that direction was almost overpowering. They had to find them. They had to find out how to get out of this place before it was too late.
The other hallway led to Sa'id's and Galishnikov's room. They had to find them, too, especially Sa'id. The man was now the prime minister of Palestine. They were all under direct orders by the president of the United States to protect him at all costs. Still, what good would it do to find them if they had no idea where to take them? Couldn't they come back for those two later, after they hooked up with Ziegler and his men? Bennett froze for a moment. His eyes scanned both hallways, looking for any sign of friends or enemies, as he processed both options. Finding Ziegler first made more sense. It seemed logical, and it was closer, faster. But it was a seduction, a temptation. He knew it. He could feel it. Something was luring him in. Something was warning him off. He agonized as the flames and heat grew more intense. They couldn't stay still. They had to keep moving.