Diplomatic constraints

Islamabad, Islamic Republic of Pakistan November 21, 1979

Khan heard the muezzin wail from the loudspeakers, calling the faithful to midday prayers, and he pedaled faster. Students streamed into the mosques. He counted a dozen men wearing the same dark green sweater vests, and smiled. The wardens had received their uniforms; after prayers, the weapons would be distributed. He wished he could personally give them their final instructions, but knew he was taking a risk being seen on the campus. But he couldn't deny himself prayers with his brothers. Not today. Not on the biggest day of his life. Khan jumped from the bicycle running and shoved his way into the packed courtyard. As he washed himself at the fountain, he overheard fragments of conversations, "Death to the American dogs, death to Carter, death to the Zionists." He saw eyebrows knit, jaws clenched, eyes glaring. Their anger was contagious. Khan was overjoyed.

***

Inside the American embassy compound, a waiting room afforded Stella not only a panorama of cows grazing on dry scrub, but also a view of the main gate. Several dozen young men loitered in the tree‑lined street, apparently oblivious to the news of the siege in Mecca and the rumors that the U.S. and Israel were behind the capture of Islam's holiest site. She hoped that the pastoral scene didn't change after midday prayers.

The windowpane appeared too thin to be bulletproof and would shatter with the first brick. Either embassy architects hadn't given much thought to security or their local contractor had cheaper ideas. The antishatter laminate had small bubbles under the film. She couldn't get the hostages in Tehran out of her mind as her fingernail scraped at one corner of the laminate; it easily separated from the glass.

A man strolled over to her. He was taller than she had first guessed, someone used to concealing his height. Clean‑cut, athletic build and a burn scar on his left forearm‑a soldier or spy. He, too, was waiting on the CIA's deputy chief of station, so she guessed spook.

"Strange‑looking critters, aren't they?" He pointed to the red, humpbacked cows and water buffalo. "You don't see Sahiwals back home. I knew an old boy in the Panhandle who tried to beat the drought with them. They're lean. Made some of the toughest steaks you ever ate."

"I'm a vegetarian."

"I'm Congressman Tom Rack." He extended his hand and looked her over as if admiring a prize heifer.

"Stella." She turned back toward the street. The number of people had grown to over one hundred and more were arriving every minute. Some carried signs, but kept them at their feet, turned away so she couldn't read them.

They're waiting for something.

Bernie Thompson walked into the waiting room and greeted Stella.

"Great to see you," Stella said, "but we'll have to make it another time. I want out of here before that crowd starts up. I don't want to get caught in a situation like Tehran."

"Welch and I just got back from driving around looking for demonstrations and everything was quiet."

"Take another look."

A half‑dozen Punjab Transport Corporation buses pulled up. Passengers were smashed against the fogged windows. "I have to fire off a cable, but we need to talk," Thompson said. "Give me two minutes. Only two minutes."

The masses swelled around Khan, crunching every centimeter of space. Each breath was a struggle, but he kept shouting as loudly as he could, "Death to the American dogs." He shook his clenched fist in beat with the crowd, their anger pounding the embassy walls. "Death to the Americans." The words became a mantra, and thoughts of his mission, thoughts of his family, thoughts of everything, fell away. "Death to the Americans." Khan had only one thought. He and the mob were one.

Death to Americans.

"Death to America," he said, gasping. The multitude began to move, sweeping him along. He shuffled ahead, unable to see where he was going but sure he was moving toward the embassy, toward the Americans. As they passed through the gate, bodies squeezed tighter, pressing harder and harder, crushing against his chest. He struggled for breath but still he mouthed, "Death to America."

The furnishings in Thompson's office were American, although the workmanship was definitely local. Stella had long ago noticed that drywall wasn't a strength of Third World craftsmen who were accustomed to the single‑wall construction of the tropics. Several blotches of spackle showed through the thin white paint, and in one corner the drywall didn't quite reach the ceiling. Thompson sat at his desk, but Stella stood and kept an eye on the uneasy streets below. She realized that she'd seen several men wearing hunter‑green sweater vests. When she took a closer look, she saw one key a walkie‑talkie. "Bernie, they've got a command‑and‑control structure. I'm out of here."

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."

"What the hell do you want me to do?" Thompson raised his voice, then paused, and, with a calculated breath, returned to the measured drone of a bureaucrat. "Our emergency plans call for falling back to this position and waiting for rescue."

"Those plans went into effect before Tehran. We're sitting ducks in a big steel pot and the water's gonna boil. We need to go on the offensive before they're entrenched. Hold the building or at least‑"

A marine wearing a duty uniform and carrying a shotgun interrupted. "Sir, I have a man pinned down at Post‑2. They're prying the grilles off the cafeteria windows and squeezing through. They're crawling all over the compound. Sir, permission to use force?"

"Only Ambassador Hummel or DCM King can authorize force," Thompson said.

"That's bullshit," the congressman said.

Thompson pointed at Rack. "You shut the door." He continued, "Gary, has anybody found Hummel or King?"

"They went home for lunch right before the fun started. The diplomats in the other room have them on the phone. You know Hummel. He'll never authorize it‑and it would take too long to try."

"Sir," the marine said. "It's Sergeant Molson trapped down there‑the one whose wife just had twins."

"Bernie, you can't work for two agencies at once," Stella said. "You gonna let the diplomat's caution rub off and tarnish the operative in you?"

Thompson pursed his lips and squinted an evil eye. At that moment, she knew he hated her. He said, "I've got a Dragunov in the Agency's private collection. Take it and do whatever you need to do‑quietly."

"Your best resource management would be to get me and the Dragun into a little fresh air on the roof," Stella said.

"Jesus, you can't snipe from the roof of a U.S. embassy."

"The rifle doesn't exist. I don't exist. I don't see the problem."

"Will you help Molson or not?"

"Whoa." Rack held up his hand. It was twice the size of Stella's. "Are you out of your mind sending this girl to do a man's job? Give me the rifle."

Stella's face grew warm. "You ever fire one of these, Congressman?"

"You don't need a trained sniper to take out rioters at thirty yards."

"You need someone who knows what she's doing to tame a Dragun indoors," Stella said.

Thompson opened a locker and removed a sleek, black case. Stella reached out for it. So did Rack.

"Sorry, Congressman." He handed it to Stella. "She's the man for the job. But no one will stop you from checking the hall to make sure it's clear before she goes out." He passed a smoke grenade and gas mask to her.

Stella turned toward the marine. "You have a flak jacket?"

"Not here, ma'am."

"Can you get me radio contact with the sergeant?" "No, ma'am. He's on a land line."

"Tell him to use tear gas when I signal him, then run like hell to the vault." "What's the signal?" "He'll know." As soon as I do.

Stella snatched up a large rubber band from atop a file cabinet. Rack eyed her as she pulled her shoulder‑length hair away from her face and into a ponytail. She missed some, allowing a few wisps to frame her face. Now the girl was ready for the man's job.

Khan scraped his arm as he climbed the mulberry tree. The crowd was magnificent, topping ten thousand, and he could see three more buses down the street. They had only imagined stirring up fervor for the Islamic revolution; no one had thought as far as occupying the embassy like their Shia brothers in Tehran. Today's protest was a single event, but if they could leverage it with hostages, they could steal the show from the misguided Aya‑tollah Khomeini and energize their brothers around the world with their message. The Iranians had seized the embassy with a mere five hundred. They were many times this size and growing. It was regrettable that his students were so disorganized, but Khan was certain he could change that.

Rack stepped from the vault first, a shotgun pressed against his shoulder and said, "Clear!"

Stella slipped past him and set the rifle case and a shotgun on the linoleum floor. "Thanks, Congressman. You can go back inside now."

Rack didn't budge. She guessed he was waiting for a glimpse at the gorgeous weapon. She flipped open the latches. "Okay, Congressman. She's a beauty, but it's time for you to move on."

"I'm not going anywhere until that boy's safe."

She slammed the case shut. "Follow my lead and stay the hell out of my way." She opened the nearest office door and stashed the sniper rifle behind a coatrack, covering it with a sweater.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Stella held the gas mask with two hands and smoothed out the face piece with both thumbs, opening it to its fullest extent. She seated her chin into the chin pocket, pushed it against her face, pulled the harness over her head and felt for the center patch. Satisfied, she pulled it off and placed the straps over the front of the lens.

Rack adjusted his own mask. He knows what he's doing.

She dumped the contents from her purse and stuffed the grenade and half‑mask inside. She picked up the shotgun.

"What was all of that Dragun‑taming BS back in there?" Rack asked.

"Only a fool would choose a Dragunov over a shotgun for close‑quarter combat." She sprinted toward the stairwell, a long lock of hair dancing against her cheek. "A Dragun is meant to have a good wind at its back and sunlight streaming toward her. She's like a wild bird. You don't cage her."

Stella reached the bottom of the stairway, glanced up at the security camera and then peeked through the fire door's small rectangular window. Five men were in the hall, two carried Enfields, a rotten choice to clear rooms. An older man was going door to door, looking for unlocked rooms. He turned a doorknob and signaled the riflemen into position. One of the Arabs kicked the door open with a kung fu thrust. The group rushed into the office. One remained behind, aiming the rifle down the empty hall.

Rack whispered to Stella, "We can take them all out."

"It's not right. They're students."

"They've got guns and fingers on the triggers." Rack raised his shotgun.

Stella put her hand on the barrel of Rack's gun and pushed it down. "They don't have a clue what they're doing."

Just as she turned toward the security camera, movement caught her eye. She jerked her head back to the window. Two women marched from an office, followed by three armed men. One wore traditional Islamic dress; the other sported Farrah Fawcett hair and a short skirt.

The first American hostage.

"Damn!" Stella whispered. The throbbing of her heart seemed to shake her entire body. She recalled her father's training. Paint the picture you want them to see. Stella took out the smoke grenade, pulled the pin and dropped it on the stairwell floor. "Your mask. Now."

"You crazy?" Rack pulled the respirator over his face.

After a few seconds' delay, the grenade spewed white smoke. Stella looked again at the security camera, extended both arms parallel to the floor and pumped her fists toward her ear three times, as if flexing her biceps. She prayed Sergeant Molson was monitoring and caught the military's visual signal for gas.

Smoke filled the stairwell. "Fire!" Stella shouted in Urdu, then thrust her chin into the mask, seated it and exhaled. Careful to stay clear of the burning phosphorous, she opened the door and held it long enough for a cloud to billow out. Like a skilled cricket player, she grasped the gun by its barrel and knocked the white‑hot grenade into the hall with the butt. She glided across the corridor and yanked down hard on the fire alarm. An ear‑piercing ring filled the hall. She winced.

Down the hall a tear‑gas canister rolled across the floor. Within seconds the gas mixed with smoke. Lost in the thickening haze, rioters bumped against one another, scrambling to find their way out of the building. The marine dashed to the stairwell as ordered.

"Help!" the American woman shrieked.

Stella ran toward the cries. The Pakistani still held her hostage by the wrist. Stella dug her thumb into the pressure point between the Pakistani woman's thumb and index finger until she found bone. The woman released her grasp.

Just then, Rack appeared. He picked up the hostage and carried her to the stairwell.

Stella twisted the Pakistani woman's hand around and pressed down, bending it backward. Stella led her without further resistance to the stairs. The stairwell was smoky, but nothing like the thick cloud in the hall.

On the third floor, Rack pushed up his mask. "What the hell are you doing with her?"

"Get your own hostage‑she's mine."

Stella escorted the Pakistani woman to the office where she had stashed the Dragunov. As soon as she let go of her, the woman collapsed to the floor in a coughing fit. Barely able to hold her head up, she vomited from the tear gas. Stella calculated that she had a couple of minutes to work without interference. She crouched below the window and inspected her surroundings as she crawled over to lock the door.

Before she reached it, she sensed someone in the hall. She stopped and aimed the shotgun.

"Friend!" Rack's deep voice boomed above the din of the fire alarm.

Stella lowered the shotgun, now certain he had military experience.

"Get your pretty ass back into the vault," Rack said. "I don't know what the hell you're thinking, but taking this woman as a hostage isn't going to mean shit to them."

"Cover the hallway while you're standing there." Stella inventoried the office. Its standard furnishings provided no unusual options.

"That mob will rip you apart," Rack said.

"You know as well as I do they're going to loot this place, then torch it. Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm not sticking around." She rifled through a desk drawer. A private collection of Snickers bars, Cadbury chocolates and a bag of Fritos was stuffed behind a cash box. She ripped the wrapper from a candy bar and bit down. She tossed Rack a Snickers, then shoved the rest of hers into her mouth.

"You're nuts." Rack looked out the window, then lowered the blinds.

"Eat it. If you're with me, I'm not going to risk your blood sugar tanking." She glanced at the woman who was still throwing up from the tear gas.

"Who the hell are you?" Rack asked her.

"A girl who needs the wind at her back and sunlight streaming toward her." She flashed him a smile, then opened a metal supply cabinet. "I am going to get out of here." She found duct tape. "Guess this is the best I'm going to do."

"I don't like leaving everyone behind in that vault."

"You'll figure out a way to spin it before election time rolls around. If I could save them, I would. Bernie's the ranking officer‑he has to stay. But the others are diplomats. They'd rather be taken hostage than fight their way out."

A chunk of brick smacked against the bent blinds. Stella didn't jump but only glanced up. She crawled over to the heaving woman and gently patted her back to reassure her while she removed her light gray headscarf. She continued talking to Rack. "If you're with me, you need to find your own costume. I'm sure there are several donors still groping around down there." Stella coughed. Smoke and tear gas were beginning to blow upstairs. "Lock the door when you go. And try to pick up one of the En‑fields to add to the illusion."

Stella tied up the woman and pulled on her jilbab to begin her transformation to a modest Muslim woman. Her arms stuck four inches out of the sleeves and the hem hit between her ankles and knees, a racy length she would have to compensate for with her posture. She tied the scarf around her head, shoving every strand of hair under it.

As she was about to leave, Rack returned, depositing an armful of white clothes and an old rifle onto the desk. "Here's hoping that one of these pairs of Paki pj's fits."

"No friends with you?"

"I don't do hostages‑slow you down too much." Rack thrust his arm into the sleeve. The seams ripped. He tried the other one on, but he could barely shove his large hand through the narrow opening. "I might have just screwed myself when I gave the diplomats our guns and told them to lock the vault."

Even the most hard‑core rioters avoided burning buildings, but Stella took only enough time in Thompson's office to use his CIA‑issue disguise kit to darken their fair complexions and to rinse color through Rack's blond hair and long sideburns. He wore a wool skull cap and a pair of white kurta pajamas that Thompson had stashed in his office, no doubt for a clandestine rendezvous. Aside from the gas mask, he made a pretty good local, albeit a large one.

Stella ran as quickly as the long, tight jilbab permitted. She put on the gas mask, pulled up the coat and bounded down to the first floor. The hallway was empty of intruders but filled with tear gas and smoke. They didn't want to risk going out a door and allowing more rioters inside. They had to find where they had broken in.

She crept into an office. The windows were partially broken, but the grates were intact. She crossed the corridor and entered another office, catty‑corner from the one she had checked. She searched the ground floor in a modified star pattern, careful not to move along the same line, always staying a shade to the oblique.

Rack found her, motioning that he'd discovered the rat hole. She signaled him that she needed a moment. He disappeared into the cafeteria.

It was time to add the finishing touch to her costume: a typewriter. In a land where most people paid scribes to type their papers, she would be the envy of the other looters.

She stepped inside an office, then froze. Two men lay motionless on the floor. One wore only his underwear. One of their heads was turned a little too far to the left. Necks were not easy to break. The congressman's trained‑if he's a congressman.

She grabbed an IBM Selectric typewriter. Hiking up the jilbab, she stepped over the bodies. She shuddered.

The hallway was still empty and the door that Rack had entered was shut. She put her hand on the knob, then stopped herself. Rather than enter as Rack would expect, she slipped inside the kitchen and slinked over to where she could see Rack. He crouched behind a serving counter, studying the crowd outside. She crept into the room, staying below the tables, out of sight of the protesters. Rack spotted her and waved.

The cafeteria wasn't as cloudy as the hallway, but enough gas and smoke lingered to make breathing miserable. Stella put her hand on the gas mask with the dread of someone about to jump into an icy pond. She counted to three, then pulled it off. Her reluctant body inhaled. She coughed. Her eyes wanted to clamp shut but she held them wide open. When they emerged from the window, they had to appear as if they had braved the smoke of a burning building.

She stood on tiptoe and spoke into Rack's ear. "If anyone looks at us too closely, here's what to do…"

"Ladies first," Rack whispered when they got to the window.

Stella handed him the typewriter. She wanted to hike up the jilbab so her legs could maneuver, but she didn't dare break character. A mob circled the building at a cautious distance. Thousands of eyes were watching their egress.

The windowpane was shattered and pieces of glass jutted out from the frame. She knocked away debris. Perching on the sill, she swung her legs out in tandem, then dropped to the ground.

Rack lowered the heavy typewriter to her, then jumped down. He swaggered with the rifle over his shoulder and his pants riding up on him. Stella slouched, but the jilbab was several inches too short. They were the only show to watch as they crossed the fifteen meters between the building and the crowd.

They were too exposed.

They weren't going to make it.

She tugged at Rack's pajama sleeve.

Suddenly, Rack threw his head back and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Allahu Akbar." He pointed the Enfield into the air and fired. "Allahu Akbar!" His voice boomed.

Stella held her breath.

Rack emptied the rifle into the air, then waved it above his head.

"Allahu Akbar! Allah is great!" The crowd erupted with cheers and joy shots. As they delved into the anonymous safety of the mob, Stella shouted as loudly as she could, "Allahu Akbar!"

This time, she meant it.

Date: 2015-12-13; view: 459; Нарушение авторских прав