Chapter Five
Emerson addressed the four members of his team. “Congratulations and thanks for keeping your wits about you. Here’s what I plan to do. Ms. Applebee can dress as a western woman and will accompany me to the exchange place. I need to take someone as a backup when I await the kidnappers. I feel that Annie will be easier to disguise. All she’ll need is a veil across her eyes, although I don’t know if Arab women have blue eyes. We’ll have to chance it. If that’s all right with you, Annie, check one of the bags in the truck. You’ll find what you need. After I make contact, you double-time back here. Understood?”
He turned to the two men. “You two find a good hiding place. Most likely someone will check out the truck. We can’t take a chance on the benevolence of those clowns. You do get my point. Don’t panic and, above all, keep a lookout for Miller and his crew. They should be here at sundown. Let’s hope your inspectors are not around. Dave will know where to find me. Trust me.”
Scott approved of the girl’s disguise. A long flowing robe fluttered around her; her veil did a credible job of hiding her face. She hid a walkie-talkie radio in her deep bag along with a pistol. Scott locked the money case around his wrist and he and the two women took the road for town, just visible in the hazy distance.
In mid-afternoon the hostages were taken to the cellar and confined in a dank, filthy cell no more that ten feet square guarded by tough terrorists. Summer had no idea why they were there. She could only reason that the terrorists feared a rescue attempt. Her heart missed a beat or two. If she were right, it could only mean one thing: negotiations were about to start concerning their release. She prayed for a miracle, but soon abandoned the notion. Scott could not possibly be in the area.
The terrorist leader came to a decision. He had received no word about the negotiations in the past twenty-four hours, neither from his accomplice nor from the American government. Fatah had to trust his instincts that told him something was going on. Scott Emerson was here in town, had to be! He summoned some of his trusted followers.
“Go into the Souk and watch for this man. Bring him to me immediately.” He handed Scott’s photo to the men. “Memorize that face. It is that of my sworn enemy. Do not fail me.”
Market places in the Moslem world are always colorful affairs, full of life and excitement generated by frantic sales pitches and loud bargaining by tourists and other buyers. This one was no exception, thought Scott, as he and his two companions became engulfed in the proceedings. The agent walked along in a leisurely fashion ten feet away from Scott, letting it be known that she was merely a browsing shopper. Scott and the other woman strolled along like two bewildered Western tourists taken in by the sounds and smells. At one point he stopped at a small counter to buy some dates, cooked vegetables along with strong Turkish coffee. Scott glanced at his watch. It showed five o’clock.
He could feel himself growing tense and wary. Every time someone jostled him, he reacted angrily. Scott forced himself to be patient. He glanced at his companion. She looked calm and composed. He did not dare look behind. Scott just knew the agent was there.
Emerson could not figure out why no policeman had stopped him. He knew about the civil wars ripping the country apart. Then he knew. The police were in Fatah’s employ; they had been bought off. He shrugged. It fit the pattern.
At six o’clock Scott made contact. He felt a blunt object wedge into his side and a soft voice whisper, “You will come very quietly. Follow me.”
Expert hands moved quickly over his body, ostensibly looking for weapons. Emerson looked at his captor only to find a bearded, ragged man devoid of personality. Ideal man for the job, thought Scott as he went along. He hoped his backup would understand the situation. He had to trust her. The way led down a flight of worn and uneven steps, through a short tunnel and then up another flight of stairs to a gallery surrounding a courtyard on three sides. Scott noted the tunnel running straight ahead under the house. The Applebee woman did not complain. Scott took in the surroundings already formulating an escape plan to be used only in an emergency. First, he had to see the captives for himself. After all he was the negotiator. His heart skipped a beat as he thought of Summer. He pushed the sentimentality aside; he had to concentrate on the job.
The beard knocked on a door. Scott and his companion stepped inside. The beard then disappeared.
The room was cool, a heady respite from the outside heat. It was well furnished in traditional Middle East style: heavy colorful carpeting on the floor and fine tapestries on the three walls, comfortable couches and deep cushions scattered everywhere, a high ceiling with ornate stained-glass windows reflecting the sun in many splendid colors. All in all, Scott reflected that this was a room for a cultured person and not a terrorist. Then Scott realized that no man is what he seems to be. On that note a door opened, and a man came strolling out, dressed in the traditional dress of an Arab potentate: a long flowing richly decorated robe covered him from toe to shoulders. On his head rested the ubiquitous turban, offset by a gleaming diamond at the front. Scott was tempted to laugh but he withheld his reaction as he observed the man’s face. There was no show of sentiment, no show of human feeling on the dark, hawk-nosed face. Scott noticed that the man had not changed in appearance at all in the intervening years; in fact, his face showed more evil, less pity. He braced himself.
“How nice to see you again, Scott. It has been along time. How are you?”
Scott shivered as he listened. The voice was a cross between the hiss of a cobra and the wheeze of a gravedigger. Fatah reeked of death and corruption.
“Cut out the trash talk. You know why we’re here. Let’s get on with it.”
“Who is the lady?”
“This is Ms. Applebee from the Rights Committee.”
“You have the money?”
“You have the hostages?
“I have them.”
“You give a bad reputation to the vast majority of decent, honest Arabs. You bring shame upon the name of Islam. Why did you grab them?”
“My dear fellow, don’t you know?”
“No!”
“I played a trick on you. It’s the reverse plot from an old movie. I grabbed many to get one person within my reach. It worked to perfection. You are here. Welcome!’
Scott remained silent. He had to be the ultimate actor. He had to make Fatah think that he had never contemplated the idea of wreaking revenge on the Arab.
“I must congratulate you. It was a plot fit for your fiendish mind. May I see the captives now?”
“In due time. Let me say now that at this present time my associates have found your truck. We will not disable it just yet, since the hostages will need transportation. But I’m quite sure you have not told me everything, nor have we found proof that you are up to your old tricks. That ploy of yours in Syria was one for the books as you say in America. I have not forgotten it.”
“You seem well versed in American idioms. At the present time I cannot tell you everything that we know about you. I know that you know more about this kidnap plot than you want us to know. I have told you what we know of the plot but you have not told us what you know. We cannot do business in this mistrusting environment if no one tells the other what he knows or doesn’t know. We must be honest and discuss everything we know or do not know.”
Fatah’s reaction delighted Scott. He remained impassive.
The terrorist jumped up and kicked over his chair. He screamed native expletives, then he turned his anger at the American. His face became even darker in his fury.
“What kind of double talk is that? You copy the Marx Brothers too well. Do not make fun of me, you Yankee mongrel. I will have the last word. “
He pulled out a pistol and aimed it at Scott.
“We have talked enough. I want the money, now!”
“You pull that trigger, and you will never see it. I know the combination and you don’t. This case is made of unbreakable steel. Enough talk. Let me see the prisoners, now.“
Fatah led the way down a long staircase and then moved along a dank, smelly rat-infested tunnel. Scott winced as some of the little devils ran over his boots. He walked past unoccupied cells. He grew cautious and a bit afraid, afraid of what he might find. The terrorist stopped before a large cell and motioned inside. Scott gripped the bars and peered into frightened and haggard faces. There was enough light to see the hostages. He looked for Summer. He found her huddled in the corner, barely recognizable. His insides screamed at him to grab her, but he maintained his sang-froid.
Annie O’Keefe watched apprehensively as Scott made contact, observed his matter-of-fact acceptance of the situation, followed at a discreet distance as he went along with his captor to the house. Then she conformed to procedure, made a call on her walkie-talkie, and hastened to the hiding place. She arrived just prior to a visit from the terrorists. O’Keefe and the two agents hid in the house cellar and covered themselves with foul smelling rubbish. They were in time. Two Arabs searched the house thoroughly but did not locate them. The three agents found the truck intact and settled down to await Miller’s arrival.
Dave Miller sighed with relief when the message came through the radio. He had waited impatiently thirty miles away for the signal. The trucks were ready; the team members were ready. He went over the plans one more time: everyone understood, everyone was in a hurry. Miller drove the lead truck with Dalton at his side.
Summer realized something was happening when she saw the two guards look up the tunnel and step back from the door. When she heard voices, she held her breath. She let it out when she saw an apparition appear at the cell door. It was not possible. The blonde stared in disbelief; she covered her mouth to suppress a scream; her breath died in her throat; her heart stopped beating. She huddled in the corner, too weak to stand. Summer called up the last reserve of courage and strength she still possessed and remained silent. She could only gape open-mouthed at her savior.
The object of her scrutiny looked at the scarecrows and smiled his best disarming smile.
“Hello, there. My name is Scott Emerson and I’m here to negotiate your release. It may take a little time but be patient. You all look well, all look like you’re ready to party. The Marines have landed…well, one anyway. Who’s the leader of this merry band of criminals?”
The captives turned to look at Summer. She forced herself off the floor and walked unsteadily to the door.
She said in a shaky voice, “I am. We’re all happy to see you.”
Scott smiled again. His eyes found the woman’s eyes, told her something which she failed to grasp, but she did catch the faint wink.
He said in a soft, comforting voice, “Hang in there a bit longer. We’ll soon be on our way.”
Emerson glanced again at the blond girl, repressing a look of pity. It would not do her any good. He turned and followed Fatah out of the tunnel.
Scott and Fatah faced off again. The Applebee woman had never spoken a word. She merely glanced from one antagonist to the other, a frightened, confused look obliterating her real thoughts and feelings.
“May I suggest that you feed the prisoners? You did a masterful job of mistreatment, if I may say so.”
“You certainly may.” Fatah turned to a servant and murmured an order in Arabic, “Now, about the money?”
Scott knew he had to play dumb a bit longer. The sun had just begun to set and Miller needed some more time to get in position.
“Why did you do it? You could have gotten more money robbing a train or a bank.”
“I had my reasons.”
“One of them was the need to bring me back, as you so succinctly put it.”
Fatah blinked at the word. He smiled again. “It’s possible. I never forgot our last meeting when you came close to destroying my organization. I vowed revenge and now I will attain it.”
“There’s one more thing. We think that someone notified you that a certain lady would be in the party, and I think that you think I know who it was. Your original thinking was correct, and I think you knew I would come barging in because I think you know that I know who it was. Am I correct in my thinking?”
Scott got the desired response. Fatah kicked his chair away and screamed in Arabic, “Enough of this movie gangster talk, enough of the cracking-wise talk. I want the money, now!”
Emerson sobered immediately and realized he could no longer play for time. Everything now depended on Miller. He vacated his chair, walked over to the table, pulled a key from his pocket, inserted it into the handcuff lock and removed the cuffs. Fatah and the woman moved next to Scott who then punched in some numbers into the case. The top opened and all peered inside at stacks of American money. The Arab reached inside, lifted out a packet, picked off the bottom note and examined it against the light. He grunted in satisfaction. As he reached for more money, Scott slammed the cover down.
“Get the hostages on their way and I’ll re-open the case.”
Jane Applebee spoke for the first time. “You can’t do that. You violated the agreement.”
“The agreement was money for hostages. The money’s here; where are the hostages?”
Fatah finally found his voice. “I have given the order to feed them and to take them out of the cell.”
Scott stood still. He detected loud noises from the cellar. Fatah cocked his head sideways; he had heard them also. Emerson could no longer delay the inevitable.
He dialed the numbers again. Fatah and the woman waited expectantly. Then two things happened at once. The lid flew open; Scott took two steps to his right and dove behind a large couch. The resultant explosion came just before two detonations from below the room.
Dave Miller had moved along as well as he could, considering that the road was no more than a faint outline on the sand. He worried that he might bog down in the soft shoulders if he went off the road, so he had driven with all possible caution. As the sun disappeared over the western horizon, Miller drove into Al Ubayyid and made contact with the other three agents.
The agents wasted no time getting into their battle gear. Miller had had the foresight to stick with one weapon, one that had proven to be the best in the world: the Russian-made AK-47 rifle. The agents stuffed their pockets with grenades and extra ammunition clips. At a signal from Miller, drivers navigated their blacked-out vehicles through the now-quiet, dark town. He was in the front truck along with O’Keefe. Dave quickly realized that the townspeople had inklings of the coming confrontation and wanted no part of it. That would make the job easier.
O’Keefe gave a stop motion. She silently pointed out the house into which Scott had moved that afternoon. The driver braked to a stop. Miller quietly got out of the truck. The other agents did likewise. Team leader Dalton gave further instructions as he positioned his men using sign language. So far there had not been any sound. Miller looked for entry. He consulted a black box. He then led the way down the outside flight of steps. The others followed on rubber-soled shoes. Two agents stayed behind on watch with orders to turn the trucks around.
Scott felt a hot wind rush past him as he cleared the back of the couch. He hit the floor and crawled under the stout piece of furniture. Fatah and the woman were not so fortunate; the blast caught both of them completely exposed. The woman staggered back, crumpled into a corner, and slowly bled to death. It was over within five seconds.
Scott did not escape unscathed. His nose bled from the concussion, and he had the mother of all headaches—again. His left arm pained him since it had taken the fall. But he considered himself lucky. Once his ears stopped ringing, he moved gingerly from his hiding place and surveyed the damage. The room was a wreck. Ahmad ben Fatah would no longer terrorize anyone. He lay, unrecognizable, pinned to the floor under the heavy table. The woman gurgled in her death throes. Scott felt a moment of pity but soon erased it from his memory as another woman’s name flashed into his consciousness. Summer! He heard gunfire from below. Miller might need help. Scott grabbed Fatah’s pistol and headed for the door. The Arab’s words stopped him in his tracks
“I don’t suppose you care to get me out of here?”
Scott turned. He replied, “Why would I want to do that?”
“You Westerners are noted for your compassion.”
“You must be joking.”
“That was a very good strategy. Where did you learn that?”
“From Alistair McLean novels. Where else?”
“I had hoped we could deal without any trouble. You fooled me by anticipating my every move.”
“In any case this should be your last deal. No government will give your organization any refuge, now.”
Fatah tried to move his legs.
He whispered, “Do something to get me out of here, for Allah’s sake. I could make it worth your while.”
Scott knew time was running out. He stood up, his soul in turmoil.
“You betrayed the Arab culture; you assassinated some of my friends; you terrorized the world; you kidnapped honest humanitarians; you wished me dead. I have no more time to waste on you.” Scott’s voice rose a crescendo as he cried out, “For the sake of Allah I might consider mercy. But for inflicting misery on the world, I cannot, I dare not. Damn you to hell along with all the corrupt politicians, the bankers, the industrialists, the munition makers who helped and protected you. May God have mercy on me.”
Scott pulled the trigger.
Miller and his agents had caught the guards by surprise. A burst cut both of them down. Dalton moved to the cell door He lifted his rifle butt and crashed it against the lock. It did not give. He tried it again. Nothing happened. He motioned the prisoners away. They huddled in the farthest corner. Summer held her breath as Dalton aimed his rifle at the lock and shattered it with two shots. Two agents moved along the tunnel toward the far exit. They were none too soon.
The reserve guards had left their quarters and had moved along an intersecting tunnel from two directions. The agents reacted instinctively. One grenade went to the left; another sailed to the right. The explosions came simultaneously. The attackers followed up by moving into the tunnel and doing what the Russian rifle does best: kill. The guards went down like tenpins. The agents did not wait to see the result of their attack. They moved back into the tunnel and covered the withdrawal of the other agents surrounding the hostages. The group moved to the entrance and halted. Miller looked up and froze. A dozen terrorists looked down the stairwell. All had the identical weapon. All wore masks across their faces. All were non-smiling!
Scott wondered at the sudden stillness. He walked silently to the door and cracked it open. He instantly closed it. One look outside had given him the answer. Miller and the team were trapped. The guards had reacted faster than he had anticipated. Furthermore, they had made the right moves. He pulled back, searching for a way out. He quickly realized there was none. Once again he was back in Syria, only this time his own government had not double-crossed him. Scott looked around for additional weapons. He came up empty. The only thing between the team and total annihilation was Fatah’s pistol containing ten rounds. What an ironic twist, he thought, as he moved once more to the door. He needed complete surprise if he was to succeed. He gripped his weapon and opened the door.
Miller murmured to O’Keefe. “Take two men and move back to the other exit. Find another way out.”
All three double-timed down the tunnel. Two crept around the corners and sneaked a look while the third member stayed back. Agent O’Keefe was the first to stand. She stepped over dead terrorists, moved forward to the back door, peered outside and slammed it shut quickly sliding the bolt home, sealing the team inside the cellar. She looked back at the other agent and made a slicing motion across her throat. The second attacker investigated his sector and gave the same sign. The third agent ran back to Miller with the good news. He merely shrugged. He had anticipated it. He told the agent to go back and to keep a lookout on that end. All three would be told when to fall back. The man nodded and took off. Miller waited. He knew what would happen. He was right.
Scott swung the door open and commenced firing. He did so in a composed, efficient manner, not wasting any shot, making everyone count. The attack caught the terrorists by surprise. Several went down immediately. The diversion gave Miller and his team the breather they needed. He left six men with the hostages and led the way up the stairs. Automatic fire broke the stillness of the small town. Miller fired up at the guards while Scott emptied his pistol from the side. It was too much for the terrorists. Most fell; some broke and retreated into the neighboring alleys. Miller motioned the rest of the group to move topside. All gathered in a compact bunch. The three agents were recalled from the back tunnel exit.
Miller now took charge. He led the way to the trucks. The hostages kept up with the fast-moving agents. Scott sought out Summer and was relieved that she had not fallen behind. He grabbed an Arab’s rifle along with some clips and brought up the rear. Agent O’Keefe sided him. He had become confident in the slightly built girl.
Miller raised his hand. All team members came to a stop. He motioned to two men who immediately crept forward on bent knees. Scott knew they were close to the trucks. He feared a trap. As he moved to Miller to warn him, his worst fears exploded in his face. A vehicle, which Scott knew to be a truck, burst into flames and pierced the darkness like a giant fireball. Miller reacted by sending some agents down a side road with instructions to circle behind the trucks. Four men moved off immediately. He left the hostages under guard and led the rest of the team forward, taking cover in abandoned doorways. Scott heard gunfire and reasoned that the flankers had arrived at the trucks. Miller swept ahead a bit faster.
The gunfire intensified as the hostages crouched down as if they wanted to be out of sight. Scott moved up last with O’Keefe and Summer close to him. A premonition made him turn around. He had been right. That famous nightmare which afflicts all rescuers stood up and destroyed his good luck. The way back was blocked as robed assassins fanned out across the road. At the same time Miller motioned everyone to move out. Scott, being distracted, did not catch the sign. When he looked forward, it was just in time to see the last hostages and agents disappear up the street. He motioned to his two companions to go forward. They were too late. Two hand grenades flew out from a darkened window and bounced along the street toward them. Two more came from the other direction.
Scott threw himself against the two women and managed to send them flying into a deep empty doorway. He was just in time. The grenades exploded. Pieces of shrapnel clanged against the stone wall on both sides of the entranceway. Scott knew the attackers would now come storming forward.
He looked at the door, tried to open it. It was locked. He stepped back in the street and ripped a burst of rifle fire against the handle. It dropped off. O’Keefe kicked in the shattered door and led the way inside the house. Summer followed; Scott brought up the rear.
The three found themselves in an empty house. Scott had no way of knowing how much time they had to live, but he did not worry about it. He led the trio up a flight of steps onto a patio-like terrace. O’Keefe remained on guard at the entrance while Scott checked out the surroundings. He was not surprised to see there was no way out of this little trap except back down the stairs.
He shrugged—again.
Scott signaled the agent to come up. He asked her in hushed tones, “Do you still have the walkie-talkie? Get me Miller. Summer, keep an eye over the parapet for our friends.”
O’Keefe talked softly into the radio. She handed it over to Scott without comment.
“Dave, where are you?”
“We are at the trucks. We managed to save two. We lost three agents.”
“Summer, O’Keefe and I are on a rooftop cut off by the bad guys. We can’t reach you, so we’ll fall back to plan Z.”
“What the hell is plan Z?”
“It either means I don’t know, or it could mean play it by ear. You do understand?”
“Gotcha. When can we expect you?”
“I would say five days to be on the safe side but get there as early as you can. Take off and good luck.” his voice dropped. Summer detected a note of fatigue or defeatism. She could never be sure with Scott. He continued speaking, “be there one more time, old buddy …Yes, they’re both gone. End of quest.”
Scott peered over the edge but could detect no movement. He spoke to his two companions.
“Are you two ladies all right? You handled yourself well, agent O’Keefe. Summer, I can’t say we picked a nice time for a visit. Don’t talk, now. There’s water and food over on the table. Let’s help ourselves. Stuff some dates and figs in your pockets. We’re in a bind. We cannot reach Miller. So, we’ll do the unexpected. Follow me, troop.”
After a brief pause Scott led the party to the stairway. He stopped halfway down, leveled his rifle, and let off some rounds as he spied black-robed figures step through the door. He motioned for the women to re-trace their steps. O’Keefe moved to the left edge of the parapet. She looked over and then made a jump motion to Scott. He answered affirmatively. The agent stepped over the parapet and disappeared. Scott watched. She rolled once and then gave the go-ahead signal. Scott helped Summer over the railing. He grabbed both her hands and suspended her into space. O’Keefe signaled. Scott let go. The agent eased Summer down into the alley. Scott pointed to the left. Both girls took off. Scott turned to the stair entrance just in time to see the black robes burst onto the terrace. He sent them flying back down as he emptied a clip from the Russian rifle. He then vaulted to the parapet and jumped down. He rolled once, got up while still gripping his weapon and followed O’Keefe and Summer.
All stopped at the corner. Scott made up his mind to go right when a grenade exploded behind the group, and he heard pieces of iron whirr past his head and hit a parked car. They ran down the street, not knowing exactly where they were going, but all were in a hurry to escape further danger. Scott led the way down one alley after another. The two women could only guess at their destination. Scott stopped for a breather.
The agent asked a leading question. “Where are we going, Scott, if I may ask?”
He answered. “You certainly may.” He let his answer stand for what it was worth. He waited ten minutes while everyone took a breather. There was no sound of pursuit.
Summer whispered, “Maybe we lost them.”
“And maybe this is Christmas,” Scott joked in reply. “Don’t worry. They’re back there. Let’s move out.”
They had just left the shelter of the alley when shots peppered the wall next to them, coming from the left. Summer cried out and collapsed. O’Keefe instantly knelt down and examined her. Scott suppressed a groan, aimed his rifle at the attackers and sprayed the area.
In the sudden quiet the agent whispered hoarsely, “She took a hit in her left side. The bullet is still there.”
Scott and the agent moved Summer quite gingerly next to a car which afforded some protection. He motioned to O’Keefe to stay still. He moved off to the right.
The agent held Summer’s hand as both waited. An interminable amount of time went by, and Scott did not return. She worried about the situation. She checked her rifle; she had two clips left. Time passed as swiftly as an elephant on its way to the graveyard. O’Keefe sneaked a look across the street. She could now detect shadowy figures coming down the street about one hundred feet away. The agent looked for Scott. Summer moaned and gave out a soft cry. Just when the agent decided once again that males were completely useless, a man re-appeared out of the darkness. Scott picked up Summer and motioned for the agent to bring up the rear.
They moved silently down the street until Scott stopped next to a car. Someone was waiting for them. That someone opened the rear door enabling Scott to place Summer in a more comfortable position. O’Keefe sat next to her and examined her again. Scott sat in front and the driver took off.
O’Keefe exclaimed in an exasperated voice. “I demand to know where we are going. I demand to know at once.”
Scott smiled and replied. “You sound like a wife. My apologies for not telling you sooner but, as you know, we were quite busy. How’s Summer?”
“She will need a doctor and soon before gangrene sets in. The bullet has to be removed. Which way are we going?”
“We are going East.”
“East, East? Are you joking? We should be going West after Dave and the others.”
“There’s no way we can go West. We are cut off. I paid this quiet fellow to drive us to the river.”
“The river? The Nile River?”
“You catch on quickly. The Nile River, the White Nile River exactly which comes up from Uganda, not to be confused with the Blue Nile which comes down from Ethiopia and joins the White at Khartoum to form the Nile. Is that clear?”
The perplexed agent could only shake her head, yes.
“How are you fixed for first-aid?”
“I have some bandages and sulfa dust. Have the driver drive quietly as I do some repair work. Then you may answer one more question.”
“I’ll answer now. Both of you elegant ladies will make like Cleopatra. I’ll make like Mark Antony, and we’ll simply float down on a queenly barge. No problem at all!”
Scott had made good on his word. Summer and O’Keefe realized the extent of Scott’s miraculous powers when they embarked on a first-class river boat called a Dhow, a traditional craft dating back several thousand years, with a triangular sail, a deep bow and a raised stern deck. It had a big, enclosed cabin into which Scott had carried Summer and had lain her on a soft bed.
They had reached the river where Scott’s driver had located a boat attended by one man. The trio had gone aboard following mysterious hand signals from Scott and a voluble and effusive Arabic dialogue between the three men. It was too much for O’Keefe to comprehend. At one point just before sailing Scott had disappeared with one of the boatmen only to return an hour later with armloads of fresh clothing, soap and food. The agent had then washed down Summer as best she could, re-dressed the wound and attired her in clean Arab robes. The blonde had instantly fallen asleep. Soon after the boat got underway, O’Keefe reclined on an extra bed and watched the river traffic go by. She soon became dead to the world, completely exhausted by her ordeal. Her last view of Scott showed him talking to one of the men while sipping some colorless liquid she could only believe was whiskey.
Scott felt fine after he had taken a dip in the river, put on clean clothes and had slept for a few hours. Now he gazed at the river and wondered about the future. It was late afternoon, and the sun was getting weak. The two girls had fallen asleep once more. This would be his last adventure. The terrorist gang which he had fought more than once was now broken; its driving force lay crumbled up in a wrecked house. He could never understand the specious reasoning behind terrorism. Only a few terrorists ever accomplished anything and only when they turned peacemaker. He recalled two famous men who had done so: the Egyptian and the Israeli. He sipped at his drink and observed Summer twist and turn several times. Was she reliving the nightmare? His breath caught in his throat as he realized she had become more beautiful than she had ever been.
Scott looked at the agent. He was impressed by the girl’s toughness and courage under fire. She had not flinched one bit. One of the men at the helm signaled that supper was ready. Scott shook both girls awake and announced that it was gourmet mealtime. The stern lamp lit up the river as the occupants put away a full meal. There was no talk of putting up at the riverbank. Summer was developing a fever and she needed medical attention and quickly. Scott gave her aspirin and hoped for the best.
Emerson knew that the women were dying of curiosity. They had been on a trip full of strange coincidences. O’Keefe brought up the subject.
“Scott, what happened to the Applebee woman?”
“Her name was not really Applebee. Our suspicions became firm when we uncovered a secret radio, she was carrying on the plane. We let her radio Fatah before we wrecked it, accidentally of course.”
Summer broke in. “I don’t understand. If she wasn’t Applebee, then who was she?”
“Her real name was Henrietta Foxworth, a member of an old English family close to the throne for several hundred years.”
“But she showed excellent credentials to the organization.”
“Those credentials were taken off the real Jane Applebee who was found dead back in England. It was a classic impersonation.”
“Why did she join?”
“Think, Summer. Who recruited you? Who persuaded you to go to Africa?”
The girl was silent for a long moment before she replied in a small voice. “She did.”
“The idea was to get you there so that you would be kidnapped. The real motive for the job was to get me to charge down there since she knew about our past relationship. Fatah was really after me.”
O’Keefe asked, “What was her connection to Fatah?”
Scott drew a deep breath before replying. “She was his sister. His real name was Douglas Foxworth.”
Both girls caught their breaths.
Summer murmured, still in shock. “How do you know?”
“Brace yourself. The first clue to his true identity came from Jimmy himself, strangely enough. When we brought in his body, we found a knife in his pocket that he had wrestled from someone just before he had been shot. We found prints on it that we sent to Interpol. The files came up empty. We then sent the prints to various countries, one of them England. By sheer luck some curious clerk sent the prints to army headquarters which then identified our man from his service in the Coldstream Guards, an elite outfit. Agents from six different countries tracked him from one country to another. At that time the Middle East governments were giving refuge to terrorists. When Clinton bombed the Sudan, that government realized that it no longer paid to do so. That’s why we received help from the Sudan.”
He turned to Summer and murmured, “Sorry to open old wounds, but you see his death was not wasted.”
The agent asked in a questioning voice. “There remain many loose ends. How did we cross the border so easily? How did Miller find the place so quickly, how did you find the driver and, finally, how did you locate Cleopatra’s barge?”
“The border crossing had already been arranged back at the French base. The dramatics were only to confuse potential Fatah spies. When I went down to the cell, I stuck a small range finder to the bars; Miller just followed directions. These two evil-looking men,” he turned and indicated the two Arab listeners, “are really military officers posted in the area by the government to watch for us. Let me introduce you to Colonel Abrahim Hafez and Major Suleiman Sharif.”
Both men saluted and broke into broad smiles.
O’Keefe persisted. “Just before we entered the tunnel, I heard an explosion upstairs. Do you care to comment on that?”
“Oh that. We rigged up a bomb in the bottom of the money case. Fatah and his sister happened to be near and …well, you know the rest.”
“How much money was in the case?”
“One million dollars.”
“Are you joking? You destroyed a million dollars? That’s a one followed by six zeros.”
“I know what it is. But we did not play fair with the man. We filled the case with counterfeit money. We placed some real money here and there to fool the clown, though. We succeeded. The money is back in L.A.”
Summer said, “So it’s over. The terrorist ring has been broken. What now, Scott?”
“We’ll move sedately over this mother of all rivers, take in the exquisite scenery and relax. We’ll be in Khartoum tomorrow where we’ll find a doctor. Let’s all get some more sleep.”
Summer received another shock to her overworked system when she spied Dave Miller at a special dock where the Sudanese officers tied up the boat.
He waved hello. “Glad to see you finally decided to cut your vacation short and rejoin the world. Did you have a nice trip?”
“It couldn’t have been better. You must thank the Sudan government for its protection. Where are the others?”
“Dalton took them on to the States. I flew from the French base to here two days ago. It’s all over.”
“Not quite,” replied Scott quietly.
He turned to Summer and the agent. “Dave will take over now, Summer, You’ll be in good care shortly.”
The girl asked in a worried voice, “Where are you going? Won’t you be with us?”
“I have one more thing to do.”
Summer gratefully laid down on the stretcher.
He kissed both girls on the cheek. “O’Keefe, you did a swell job. I would hate to try any funny stuff with you if you weren’t in the mood.”
She gave him a tender smile. “Don’t be too sure about that. It was one hell of a ride. Are you really just a lawyer?”
Scott chuckled and replied, “I am now. So long.”
He turned to Summer. He noticed a glow in her eyes. He waved to her just before two hospital attendees took her away.
Emerson shook the hands of the Sudanese officers and gave them an effusive thank you in their native language.
He turned to Dave, “You did well, old buddy. You understand this is my final show. Don’t you call me for another negotiating session, ever. Take care of yourself.”
Scott turned and walked away.
Dave Miller murmured, “He did not say positively.”
He looked at the two officers. They understood and broke out in beautiful, knowing smiles.
The ubiquitous black cab pulled into the curb in front of an elegant townhouse in London’s fashionable Mayfair section. A man got out and waved the taxi away. He then walked slowly to the green door and pulled back the ornate stone lion’s head and let it drop against the door. He repeated the action one more time. The door opened and a gaunt face peered out. Instantly, the nose rose forty-five degrees and the eyes looked down from an extended height.
A voice intoned, “Yes?”
The traveler extended a note and added, “Please give this to Sir Anthony.”
The door closed. The man waited. The door re-opened, and the face stepped aside, letting the traveler enter.
He followed the servant into a typical English living room: oak bookcases rose from floor to ceiling against one wall and on either side of the wide door; rare and priceless tapestries along with rare paintings filled the second wall. A cheery fire blazed in the large fireplace filling the third wall. Two armchairs sat on either side of the hearth. A man arose from one and waited for the traveler’s arrival.
He was a typical English aristocrat, born and bred to serve the long-gone empire, but now retired and living with old memories. The man was tall and slender with a full head of gray hair that complemented his gray mustache, high cheek bones, thin lips and slender fingers.
He spoke first in a cultured, Oxford accent. “To what do I owe this visit? You seem to be well placed since the note from the ambassador spoke highly of you.”
“Thank you for taking the time to see me, Sir Anthony.”
“Please sit. Can I talk you into a brandy? It’s quite chilly tonight.
The man replied, “No, thank you just the same. I bring you bad news. It’s about your nephew and niece.”
The man straightened up and then slumped back into his chair. ‘I can guess. Where did it happen?”
“In the Sudan.”
“Was it concerning the kidnapping of the hostages?”
“It was.”
“Were you instrumental in the episode?”
“I took part in it. I’m extremely sorry about that.”
Sir Anthony remained silent for a long time. Then he said, “I expected that news for some time. Do not crucify yourself. Both my niece and nephew died a long time ago. They were always wild in their ways, even though they were born into privilege. I still do not know why they became what they became. I have no explanation, none at all. Perhaps it was a revolt against that same privilege. Who knows? I’m glad my brother and his wife are no longer with us.”
He suddenly became silent. It was a subtle dismissal.
The stranger rose from his chair. He walked to the foyer and looked back. The old man stared into eternity with unblinking eyes. The visitor thought of the famous book, Remembrance of Things Past, and wondered about a possible analogy. He blinked and turned away.
At the door the butler said, “Thank you for bringing the news. Sir Anthony had been expecting you. Goodnight.”
The traveler walked out into the typical London fog. He looked for a cab, but changed his mind. It was a good night for a walk. As he started off, he reflected on the past operation. One terrorist gang had been eradicated. Were there others building up resentments against the western world? The man shrugged again. Who could answer that? He was sure of only one thing. The world needed chaos to achieve progress. It was strange but nothing worthwhile occurred without it. He shrugged again. There would always be wars, revolutions, insurrections, and rumors of war.
Scott Emerson raised his coat collar and walked away. He stopped and smiled suddenly.
He exclaimed out loud, “I’m sure there are some field hands back in California in trouble with the police who need my help. I’d better move it!”
The one-time negotiator hurried on in the damp fog. There was work to be done.
