Thompson's phone rang. "Hold on a minute. Let me check the back gate for you," he answered, then paused. "That many. What about the service gate?" His face hardened, as if the muscles were assuming their own battle stations. "Send a man to the roof. I want to know what we're facing."
"Bernie-" Stella approached his desk, holding up a hand. "Some are carrying Enfields." The turn-of-the-century single-bolt action rifles had helped hold the British Empire together and they remained a powerful symbol among former subjects. In the right hands, they were highly accurate.
Thompson continued, "You copy that, Gunney? Enfields. You know the Rules of Engagement. Unless the DCM changes them, you can only fire to protect yourself. Good luck." He slammed the phone down. "Looks like we're going to rock and roll."
They studied the swelling masses. So far, everyone remained behind the metal-piping barricade surrounding the compound. The crowd was focused upon a commotion at the gate, but two women seemed to be looking straight at them. Suddenly, one stepped aside. Metal glistened in the sun, and Stella understood.
"Down!" Stella tackled the former high-school linebacker and they slid toward his desk. The window exploded. Shotgun pellets sprayed the drywall. A few shards of glass flew into the room, but the laminate held most of the fragments.
They stared at the cratered wall, then looked at each other. She caught a brief, unnerving glimpse of raw fear in his face. He briefly shut his eyes, shook his head, but didn't speak. The unyielding face of the hardened operative returned.
The office door burst open and Rack crawled into the room, hugging the floor. "Anyone hurt?"
Stella lowered the blinds, then turned off the lights. "I'm fine.
Bernie?"
"I'm okay."
"Have you got a rifle?" Stella said. "I'll take out the shooter. I'm not bound by your Rules of Engagement."
"Neither am I," Rack said. "Give me whatever firepower you've got."
"Firing into the crowd would incite things further," Bernie said. Chants could now be heard through the broken window. "There are some shotguns in the marines' case. Self-defense only. Understand?" Bernie reached into a desk drawer, removed a set of keys and tossed them to Stella. "You're under my command. Gear up while I protect my agents." Lying with his belly on the floor, Bernie dialed the combination on the wall safe. He opened it, grabbed a box crammed with index cards and scooted over to his shredder. He stuffed the growling machine, nearly choking it.
A brick flew into the room. Stella jumped but continued inching toward the gun locker. She unlocked the case, passed Rack a 1200 Winchester pump-action shotgun and took one for herself. She held the stock in her right hand and pointed the barrel toward the ceiling. She pumped the wooden slide back and forth to assure herself that the gun would work when she needed it. Rack leered at her. "In your dreams, Congressman." She flashed him a smile and pumped the shotgun one last time. "In your dreams."
Khan lost himself in the crowd-in his crowd. He speculated that they numbered in the thousands, but could really only see those pressing against him. A towering shesham tree was about ten meters away and it would make a good perch from which to survey the event if he could make it up to the first fork.
The chants were so loud, but he thought he had heard a gunshot. He wound through the masses toward the tree, at first excusing himself, then pushing and shoving until he hit another wall of bodies-hot, sweaty, smelly bodies. The throng constricted around him like a python. He raised his fist in the air and gasped the words Death to America.
Stella listened as the mob chanted over and over, faster and faster, until the words blurred into a whirlwind of rage. "I counted three marines on my way in. And did I understand that you don't have security cameras on the roof?"
"We have two cameras, one on each gate, and six marines total," Bernie said.
Rack snorted. "Hell, the Tulsa Wal-Mart has tighter security than that." He loaded shells and chambered a round.
"The host government provides police protection."
"Like in Tehran?" Rack said.
A half-dozen gunshots went off in rapid succession. Stella pushed herself flat against the floor, even though she knew it wouldn't make much difference. When the gunfire stopped, she peeked outside. Thousands of fists shook in rhythm with the chants. A separate group near the gate moved back and forth in unison. She glimpsed a battering ram as it smacked into a brick pillar. Chips of brick and mortar flew into the air.
"They've broken through! What's the emergency plan?" Stella tugged at Bernie's arm. He yanked papers from their files, threw the manila folders to the ground and stuffed the documents into the shredder.
"Go to the vault and wait for rescue. Only shoot in self-defense."
Stella nodded, although she was going to make damn sure she got there, even if it meant laying down fire to hold protesters at bay. No one was going to take her hostage.
"Death to America," the mob on the street chanted in harmony, but the protesters already within the embassy walls were out of sync. The crowd fanned out into the compound, and so many were pushing from behind, Khan had to keep moving. It parted momentarily at a mulberry, so he jumped into the tree's wake. He doubled over for a moment and caught his breath and thoughts. He hadn't planned on participating in the riot, only instigating it. But he had lived through enough monsoon rains to know how hopeless it was to fight the rising floodwaters. Death to America.
Stella was in top physical condition, but she was breathless as she entered the cramped vault. Over a hundred people were crammed into it, including not only American officials, but Pakistanis who worked for the facility. Some stood, others sat on the floor; everyone contributed to the stale air. Stella turned the shotgun's barrel toward the ceiling and followed Thompson to the CIA code room, weaving through the group, careful not to step on anyone.
Inside the smaller room Congressman Rack was smashing computers and other machines with a sledgehammer. The sound echoed off the steel walls. She knew the CIA operatives wouldn't destroy their cryptographic equipment unless they believed there was a real chance the vault was somehow going to be overrun. Not good.
They squeezed into the chamber and Rack stopped and looked up. "Good to see you, Bernie. I really didn't want to be the ranking officer in here."
"I did what I could for our friends, but I'm not sure I got all the payment records," Thompson said. "Any word from our host government?"
"Bill's been stonewalled by the Foreign Ministry. When pushed, Babar said they've sent a runner with a message to President Zia. Seems he's off bicycling somewhere."
"A runner. Hi-tech. What about General Ahktar?"
"You know Zia. Where the president goes, the generals are in tow-insurance against another coup attempt."
Stella stood uncomfortably close to Thompson. "So what's the evacuation plan? Is there a hatch to the roof?"
"My predecessor installed one, but don't count on the Marines," Thompson replied. "We're dependent upon our host-"
"The bicycling dictator?" Stella said. "Don't you guys follow politics? We yanked his military aid for knocking off Bhutto. He has to live with those fundamentalists out there. You don't think he's going to turn on them to help us? That would be political suicide-even for a military dictator. Right, Congressman?"
Rack nodded. "He's not about to break up the party. If I were in his shoes, I'd pedal faster and wait for it to burn itself out, and us along with it."