Sayed Ahamed greeted them with embraces and handshakes. Today he wore a tailored suit and gold rings. Pomade glistened on his wavy hair. A French cigarette streamed smoke into the air as he gestured.
"Friends of my friend! He told me of his good fortune. Your clothes! I hope they are not ruined."
"I'm sorry, I didn't have time to change."
"To come here? Do not think you must be formal. I am dressed like this because of the negotiations. If I go in uniform, they think I'm a warlord. I must look like one of the despicable politicians to talk peace."
Both Blancanales and Lyons noticed the fatigues and web gear hanging on a coatrack. A Kalashnikov leaned against the wall.
"But you did not come here to listen to my complaints..." Ahamed lowered his voice. "The Iranians know Powell is my friend. They sent a message about the woman. They want him, not her. If he goes alone and unarmed, they'll let her go, they say."
Lyons looked at Powell. "You'll never come back. And neither will she."
"She has nothing to do with it. I need information, and she can lead me to a man who's got it."
"We'll question that prisoner, hear what he knows."
"Already happening," Powell told them. "They'll bring the information up real quick."
"We'll question him ourselves."
"No you won't, specialist. You may be a tough guy, but you just don't want to be involved in what's happening to that Iranian. Take my word for it. Ahamed's men do not like those Revolutionary Guards. Especially Iranians in partnership with Libyans."
"Libyans?" Blancanales asked.
Powell briefed them on the suspected plot between the Libyans and the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. "And Clayton got killed checking out that conspiracy. If I don't break it, I'm out of work. And the hit happens. Don't know who'll do it, don't know when or where, but that Libyan was looking at the President when he said, 'The sword rises.' "
"The President?" Lyons asked.
"Of the U.S. of A." Powell emphasized.
Powell reacted to the sound of footsteps outside and swung the door open as a militiaman raised his hand to knock. The militiaman relayed a report. Both Ahamed and Powell questioned the militiaman in Arabic.
Powell considered the information, nodding. "Good deal, we got our ticket. They won't know what hit them."
"What about the woman?" Blancanales asked. "Was the offer to trade her sincere? Will she still be alive?"
"The Iranian had information on that Oshakkar. He's an American black-nationalist psycho working with the Iranians. Now I don't need her at all."
"Dead reporters make for bad press," Blancanales cautioned. "Ask your man to question the Iranian about what they intend to do with the woman. Where she will be. Maybe we can get her out somehow."
"Too late, boy scout. No good deed. That Iranian went to paradise. You want in on this? You two and me and my friends against Libyans and Iranians and Black Muslims who want to murder the President of the United States?"
Lyons and Blancanales nodded, without a word canceling their assignment and accepting a new mission.
9
"Things have changed..."
"What?"
His back to the freezing wind, Lyons squatted on the rooftop of a West Beirut tenement with a view of the city and mountains to the east. He spoke with Gadgets Schwarz, who still waited on the roof of the apartment house where Powell lived in East Beirut, kilometers away. The absence of concrete and steel blocking the signals enhanced the transmitting and receiving range of the hand radio.
"We're in on a..." Lyons caught himself. Despite the encoding circuits of the hand radio, he decided not to risk briefing his partner. The Agency had access to the same equipment Able Team used. If the Agency directors learned that Able Team after talking with the renegade agent they had been sent to Beirut to kidnap or execute had decided to disregard instructions and join the renegade in an unauthorized counter-terrorist operation, Able Team might become three men without a country, outlaws.
"We're in on something interesting, that's all I can say."
"So what does that mean?" Gadgets demanded, his voice angry. "I'm up here getting frostbite while you're doing interesting things around town. What's going on?"
"Stay there. Continue monitoring. Watch for unusual..."
"You giving me orders, Ironman? This team don't work like that."
"I can't tell you what's going on, Wizard. I can't. When we get back, I'll give you the news."
"What's happened? What's going on?"
"Things have changed. Things aren't like what we were told. Remember the shoot-out in the desert with the vatos, the Twenty-third Street gang? We had that Texan who swore by .45 Colts?"
"A trip down memory lane..." Gadgets considered the information. "Oh, yeah! He was cool, but wasn't his name..."
"Yeah, it was and still is."
"That wasn't in the briefing."
"No, it wasn't. Another thing that wasn't in the briefing. That Texan's been specializing in street warfare lately, and there is no chance repeat, zero chance that we would have taken him alive. So be cool..." Lyons used the Wizard's jive "...and let me slide until I can brief you."
"Okay, okay. Cool it is. You don't know how cool, like I'm freezing."
"We'll get it done and get back to you. Later."
Lyons trotted down eight flights of stairs to a devastated street, where Blancanales and Powell and a platoon of Shias waited. He started for Powell's Mercedes. "Ready to go," he said.
"We're walking from here," Powell said as he moved from the side of the Mercedes, crossed the sidewalk and threw open the door to a shuttered shop. The Shias went first, moving quickly through the midday darkness along a familiar path. Powell waved a flashlight for Blancanales and Lyons as he spoke.
"The Iranians can't expect me to trade myself for the girl. But they know I'll show, seeing how they gave me their address. So they'll have ambushes set. Problem is, they're operating in Shia territory. And we know the sector better than they do. So they're going to die."
"You got another way in?" Lyons asked.
"That's it, specialist. No way I'm going through any front doors again today. That scene with the Revolutionary Guards was me at my most stupid. I thought that phony Frenchy knew what was going on and she took me straight into the trap. Ain't going to happen again."
The line of men moved through fire-gutted storerooms. Doorways had been blasted through the concrete walls to create a corridor leading through the buildings. Sometimes they walked through total darkness, sometimes through gray light filtering through artillery-shattered ceilings and walls. Rats skittered in darkness around them.
"Why do you call that reporter a phony Frenchwoman?" Blancanales asked. "Do you think she's traveling with a false passport?"
"Call her phony because she's got a Canadian passport and she calls herself French. That's about as phony as they come."
"A Quebecois?"
"That's it. Loser imitation French. Same as the Maronites here. The Maronites think they're French. They don't speak Arabic. Always waiting for foreigners to come to their rescue, always willing to let foreigners die for their traditions, their privileges, their bigotry. The Crusaders, the Turks, the French, the Israelis, finally us Americans we've all fought for those losers. And this is one American who ain't going to do it again."
"But the Christians fought the PLO," Lyons countered. "They can't be all bad if they kill those creeps."
Powell laughed. "The Shias fought them. The Druze fought them. The Americans, the Greek Orthodox, the atheists, the Syrians they all fought the Palestinians. Even the PLO fought the PLO! But what do the Maronites do? They fight Palestinian women and children and old men. Against men with rifles, they call for the Syrians or the Israelis or the U.S. Marines."