Bingman picked up the weapons, took out the automatic's bullet clip, and tossed everything over a wall. Then he threw the bullet clip as far as he could in the other direction.
Murphy ran to Isis, who was wild-eyed and breathing hard. Yet she did not look afraid. She looked like a wild tiger waiting for her next victim. He pulled her in his arms. "Are you okay?"
"I am now," she whispered, hugging him tight.
Murphy was trying to process what had been said. The 317 man with the razor finger--obviously Talon -- works for a group of people called the Seven ... and they want me dead. Why?
As Jassim Amram drove up, he could see bodies lying in the alley. Three people were standing. They turned and looked into the lights of his Mercedes. He smiled and sighed with relief when he saw his American friends.
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FIFTY-FOUR
STEPHANIE KOVACS TOOK a deep breath before she opened the door. She was on another, likely futile, job interview. Pull it together girl. Head up. Put on the big smile.
Maybe this time she'd have more luck. After all, she had known Carlton Morris for years.
Kovacs grabbed a Newsweek magazine and sat down, waiting for her appointment. Five turndowns this week. I don't have many more options left , she thought morosely.
She was halfway through an article on terrorism when the office door opened.
"Stephanie Kovacs, how have you been?" Morris called out. With his bifocals perched on the tip of his nose, his untidy curly white hair, and his broad smile, he looked like Santa Claus without the beard.
"Thank you for seeing me, Carlton," Kovacs said soberly.
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The typical chitchat did not last long. Morris could see how upset Kovacs was.
"Carlton, I need some help," she began. "I'm out of a job right now, and I was wondering if you might have some openings here at Fox News."
"Yeah, I heard you were no longer working for Barrington Communications. The grapevine--" he broke off, grinning ruefully, then looking sympathetically into Kovacs's eyes. "Stephanie, we've been friends for how many years?"
"About thirteen."
"As your friend, I've got to be completely honest with you. The word is out on the street that Barrington's got it in for you. Last week the president called me into his office and told me if you showed up looking for a job, I was to tell you that nothing was available. My hands are tied. I have to be honest. You're been blackballed. You won't be able to get any job in the East Coast or West Coast markets. You might find a weather reporting job in some small Midwest town, but I doubt it. Shane Barrington is out to ruin you. I'm so sorry."
Kovacs sat there silently for a moment. She had feared something like this would happen when she left Barrington. Yet she had to try to find a job in the field that she loved--and in which she was good.
"I know, Carlton. I don't hold it against you. It's just discouraging. The thought of changing careers in midstream isn't welcome."
"I'm sorry, honey. I wish there was something I could do."
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It had not been easy for Kovacs to go to sleep. She had tossed and turned, worrying about her future, for hours. Finally the escape of sleep had come.
Suddenly her eyes popped open and she held her breath. All of her senses were alert. What was that noise? How long have I been asleep? She listened, taking only shallow breaths. All was quiet. She glanced over at her digital clock: 2:30 A.M.
She thought she had heard a creak coming from the wooden floor in her living room. But then it was silent. Is someone there? I locked the door and the windows. I must be having a bad dream.
She lay there for another ten minutes, listening intently, but she heard nothing. I've got to check or I'll never get to sleep. Carefully and quietly, she sat up and slowly opened the drawer of the nightstand next to her bed. She reached in and pulled out a .32 automatic.
Kovacs crept to her open bedroom door, leaned forward, and looked into the living room. It was empty and quiet. Carefully she crossed the living room to the window that looked out on the city. She opened the blinds and peered out into the night. She could see a few lights in the apartment building across the avenue. There was no traffic down in the street.
Maybe a cup of hot chocolate would help me go back to sleep.
She entered the kitchen and looked around. There was nothing out of the ordinary. You're just being foolish , she told herself.
Kovacs set the automatic down on the table and walked to the pantry. After a moment's hesitation, she returned to pick up the gun. Then she opened the door to
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the pantry. She wasn't quite sure what to expect: Would the pantry be empty, or would someone be standing there in the dark?
As she swung the door open, a broom fell out. She almost fired the gun in surprise, then she started laughing. She took the hot chocolate from the shelf, set the gun down on the counter, and started heating water. She then sat down at the table and thought, What am I going to do about work?
She didn't hear a sound. All she felt was an iron grip of a glove-covered hand over her mouth and a forearm choking her. His head and mouth were pressing against her right ear.
"I wasn't in the living room or the kitchen, Stephanie," a man's voice taunted. "I had already made it into your bedroom before you woke up. You walked right past me in the dark. Surprise."
Kovacs was terrified. Who is this? What does he want?
"I'll let go of you if you promise not to scream. If you do, it will be your last breath. Do you understand?"
Kovacs nodded her head. She didn't recognize the man's voice. It had no trace of emotion in it. Slowly his grip relaxed. She was looking at her automatic on the counter. Can I distract him enough to get to the gun?
"Turn around," the voice said.
Kovacs turned and faced a man with bone-white features, a neatly trimmed mustache, and blank eyes that made her shiver. He was thin, but there was no question that he was extremely strong.
"Who are you and what do you want?" she managed.
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A thin smile broke across his lips. "Very brave, aren't you? My name is Talon."
As he looked at her, he remembered the first time he had seen the feisty news reporter. It was on television. She had been reporting from Queens, New York, on the discovery of the home of the mastermind of a UN attack.
Talon remembered chuckling as he watched her. This woman is good , he thought. She may have more ice water in her veins than her boss, Barrington, has.
And now they were meeting face to face.
"You have been very brave in your news reporting, but not very smart. My employers think that you have been just a little too friendly with Dr. Michael Murphy. We've had your phone tapped for some time since you left Shane Barrington."
"What does Dr. Murphy have to do with all this?"
"You like to report the blunt facts in your commentaries. Let me give you the straight scoop. You have become a security leak for Mr. Barrington. We cannot tolerate your lack of loyalty. You have shared your last communication with Dr. Murphy."
Stephanie could tell she was in deep trouble.
"You see, Ms. Kovacs, it is no fun to stand behind people and choke them to death. Unless, perhaps, you are standing in front of a mirror. The real pleasure comes from looking people in the eye as they die. That way you get to enjoy all the terror and pain that comes into their faces. It makes all the effort worthwhile."
Kovacs had been in many difficult situations as a news reporter, but nothing like this. She could tell that he was deadly serious. She knew that she had to get to the gun to
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have any chance at all. That would be the only way she would survive.
Talon sensed her muscles tensing for motion. His hands surrounded her throat. He lifted her up to eye level and began to squeeze. Kovacs had no strength to try to fight back. He was squeezing the life out of her. Just as she felt herself drift towa
rd unconsciousness, the grip on her neck loosened and she started to cough.
Then Talon grabbed her hair with his left hand and tilted her head back. At the same time he used his teeth to pull the glove off his right hand. He readied his artificial finger with the razor tip. He would wait for Stephanie to open her eyes before he slit her throat.
"Mr. Barrington, Mr. Barrington, did you see the latest news flash?" Melissa shouted, rushing into his office.
Barrington didn't like to be interrupted when he was planning his morning schedule. "What are you talking about, Melissa?" he asked gruffly.
"Look, I'll turn on the news." Melissa hurried to turn on the television.
"This is Mark Hadley reporting for BNN. I am standing outside of the apartment building of Stephanie Kovacs, a former investigative reporter for Barrington Communications and Network News. Apparently she was murdered early this morning by an unknown assailant. We only have sketchy information at this time, but it looks like her throat was slit. Police investigators are questioning occupants of the apartment building. We will bring you an update on the six o'clock news. This is Mark
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Hadley bringing you this very sad report about one of our former BNN coworkers."
Barrington stared at the television in shock. His secretary knew it would be best not to say anything. She quietly turned off the television and left the office.
Barrington stared into space, totally confused. A wave of guilt flooded him. Then he began to think back to the good times he had had with Stephanie. He began to realize that he really did care for her ... maybe even loved her. Sorrow engulfed him as he thought of their last meeting, of how he had beaten her and thrown the suitcases at her. He buried his face in his hands. He had destroyed her career in news reporting and left her with nothing. The realization that the only person he had ever cared about had been murdered infuriated him.
What had the reporter said? "Her throat was slit"?
It took a few minutes before he realized that this could have been the work of only one person: Talon! And he gets his orders from the Seven , Barrington thought grimly.
A plan began to form in Barrington's mind.
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FIFTY-FIVE
CAPTAIN DRAKE ARRIVED at the hotel early the next morning. He brought desert fatigues for everyone along with bulletproof flack vests and helmets. While the team changed, he loaded all of their gear into a Hummer for the trip to Babylon.
Murphy saw Isis in the lobby in her military clothes. She whirled around in front of him. "What do you think?" she asked, grinning.
"You make anything you wear look great."
Murphy felt a strong desire to take her in his arms and kiss her. He knew that he'd like to take their relationship to a deeper level, and he thought she did too. He was also aware that the only thing holding him back was their different spiritual outlooks.
Isis looked at Murphy and smiled. "I didn't realize how tired and sore I was until the alarm went off this morning."
Murphy nodded. "I guess late-night battles in dark
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alleys do have a way of getting to you. I'm a little sore this morning too. I couldn't believe how you fought back last night. I'm just glad that nothing more serious happened. I wouldn't want to lose you."
Isis looked at Murphy and smiled. It was the kind of smile that would melt any man.
When the three Hummers pulled through the Green Zone security checkpoint, Murphy could see Jassim Amram standing on a corner next to his luggage.
"Captain Drake, that's the Egyptian friend I mentioned--Mr. Amram. The one wearing the white suit."
"I brought a change of clothes and protective gear for him also. He can change when we catch up with the convoy going to Babylon. All of the vehicles will be following a Buffalo."
"A water buffalo?" asked Isis.
Captain Drake laughed. "No, ma'am. I'm talking about an EOD."
"EOD?"
"Excuse me, ma'am. An explosive ordnance disposal vehicle. It's a special heavyweight armored vehicle that can withstand roadside bombs."
"Do you think we'll encounter a roadside bomb on the trip?" Isis couldn't keep the anxiety out of her voice.
"I certainly hope not. The Buffalo has been designed to go ahead of the troops and clear a safe path. Wait till you see it. It's about twenty-five feet long and stands almost nine feet high. It's covered with armor plate on all sides and on the top. It also has extra-thick steel on the bottom,
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where a blast might occur. It rides on six Michdin run-flat tires. They can keep driving even with damaged tires."
"Don't the explosions endanger the driver?" Isis asked.
"Actually there is more than just a driver. A Buffalo can hold up to ten soldiers. No one's been seriously injured yet. Because the vehicle is so high off the ground, the force of the explosion disperses to the sides. The front end sometimes lifts off the ground from the power of the explosion. Those riding inside say it's quite an experience to drive over IEDs--improvised explosive devices--and keep moving."
"I've heard about those vehicles," Murphy said. "Don't they have some kind of arm that can dig in the ground?"
"Yes, sir. It is called a spork. It's a remotely controlled hydraulic arm. The arm ends in a pitchfork type of instrument that incorporates a video camera. The spork is controlled by a joystick that allows for precise and accurate control. Sometimes a pitchfork gets blown off during an explosion. But they can be repaired, usually within forty-eight to seventy-two hours."
"At least men are not losing their lives."
"Yes, sir. If you look up ahead, you can see the Buffalo beginning to pull out and move ahead of the convoy. When we get to Babylon, I'll give you a tour of it."
Murphy looked over at Bingman, who seemed deep in thought. "What are you thinking about, Will?"
"I was thinking about Iraq and how much the Islamic
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faith plays a part in politics and daily life of the people. What do you think?"
"I think faith does play a large part. It's been estimated that one in every five people in the world is a Muslim. It's one of the fastest-growing religions on earth," Murphy explained. "Muslims are united on the Shahadah, the profession of faith. They all believe there is no God but Allah and that Mohammed is His prophet. They are also united when they build their mosques, which all face east, toward Mecca. After that, they aren't homogenous. Their daily practice and philosophical beliefs vary in different parts of the world."
"What about this talk of a jihad? What's that all about?" Bingman asked.
"Well, the Arabic meaning of the word is 'exerted effort.' It means exerting effort to change oneself for the better. It can also mean physically standing against or fighting oppressors, if necessary. It's the latter definition that has created quite a stir. It's not just fighting against an occupation army, it's fighting against what is perceived to be injustice and anything that might disagree with one's faith. Mohammed suggested to his followers, 'Do not obey the kafireen --those who reject the truth--but wage jihad with the Qur'an against them.' This is the concept that has many Westerners worried."
"Does that mean if I don't believe what they do, they want me dead?"
"Some in the Muslim faith have suggested that. They see themselves in a 'holy war' with nonbelievers. I've heard reports of many responding to the calls for jihad.
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For example, some men have left their homes and fought in Afghanistan, Iraq, and elsewhere."
"Do all Muslims believe that way?"
"No, but extremists and terrorists have taken the term 'jihad' and used it as a cry for all-out war against anyone who does not hold to their faith and beliefs. They've twisted the original Arabic meaning of 'fight only those who fight you' to justify terrorism against innocent civilians and children. They've put a spin on the text and used it for their own personal agendas," Murphy concluded grimly.
"That sounds scary. I wonder how many feel tha
t way."
"No one knows for sure. The problem is amplified whenever Muslim leaders do not speak out against terrorist activities. Their silence gives the impression that they may approve of them. This doesn't help their cause."
"Yeah, that bothered me too. When I drive by one of their mosques, I wonder what they're doing in there. Are they planning the overthrow of the United States? Do they want to destroy my family?"
"Many Muslims do not believe that way at all, Will," Murphy explained. "They love the United States and support it, but the average Westerner doesn't know this. They're not sure who they can trust. This lack of trust creates disharmony between groups. It causes the Muslims to draw away from non-Muslims and vice versa. It can have a devastating worldwide effect. It is a philosophical clash of societies and beliefs. This type of clash and distrust can foster war. Just like what's happening right here in Iraq."
Their conversation was interrupted by a loud explosion,
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a ball of flame, and a pillar of black smoke. The Hummer stopped abruptly. The Buffalo at the head of the convoy was bouncing up and down.
Soldiers were piling out of their vehicles with their weapons ready. There was yelling, and vehicles were repositioned in case of a firefight.
Captain Drake was the first to speak. "Well, that was a good example of what the Buffalo can do. There must have been a bomb in the car up ahead."
He spoke as if it were a casual, everyday event. The Buffalo backed out of the blazing inferno, stopped for a moment, then drove forward and lifted the car off the ground. It set the burning car to the side of the road then continued on toward Babylon.
Soldiers climbed back in their Hummers and the convey continued.
"It must take some special type of soldier to drive one of those Buffalos," Murphy said.