The Eye of Shiva (8 page)

A
building to the right of the embassy housed numerous offices and living quarters. The Chancery complex was directly behind the original structure. Several more buildings were under construction on the embassy grounds. The U.S. presence in the Philippines was growing.

A growing crowd of d
emonstrators had already gathered in front of the gates. Selena showed her ID to the Marine guard and passed into the compound. Inside the embassy, a security desk manned by a Marine Corporal faced the double doors of the entrance. A second Marine manned a metal detector and x-ray machine by the doors, screening everyone who came into the building.

Selena
showed the Marine her credentials. Not many people had ever seen that particular badge with the presidential seal. She wore a light weight linen jacket. She lifted it away to show the Marine the pistol at her hip.

"I'm
armed," she said. She kept her hands where he could see them.

"You'll have to leave your weapon with me, Ma'am."

"I would prefer not to."

"I'm sorry, Ma'am. It's regulations."

Selena unclipped her holster and handed it to him.

"It's de cocked, loaded and ready to go," she said.

"I see that. I'll take good care of it for you," he said. He took the Sig and locked it in a small safe. "You can go through now."

"Thank you."

Selena looked around. The embassy had been built during America's colonial era, designed to impress visitors as the outpost of a nation on the rise as a world power. A stairway with a wide, mahogany railing led to the upper stories. Selena spotted an elevator to one side. A wide hall that doubled as a gallery ran to the back of the building and a large ballroom used for events.

Two
muscular Marines wearing spotless white hats with the globe and anchor, short-sleeved tan shirts and dress blue trousers stood at parade rest by the entrance, observing the crowd forming beyond the gates. They were armed with pistols and radiated alert tension. Selena had seen that look before, when Nick and Ronnie and Lamont expected trouble. She touched the radio transmitter in her ear that kept her connected to the rest of the team outside the embassy. It felt reassuring.

Like
other presidents before him, President Rice had rewarded generous donations to his political campaign with ambassadorships. But Rice wasn't a typical politician. When it came to posts he considered critical for the security of the United States, he picked qualified people he knew to be competent. Rice considered the Philippines too important to entrust to a rich amateur with no diplomatic experience.

Ambassador Margaret Cathwaite
was a career veteran of the State Department's diplomatic corps. Cathwaite looked out the windows of her office and wondered if the day would bring violence. It was nine o'clock in the morning. The main demonstration had not yet begun and protesters were already parading in front of the gates with signs denouncing the United States, President Rice and the Philippine government.

Today
wasn't the first time or the first country where she'd looked out an embassy window at angry people who blamed the United States for all their problems. America was the perfect scapegoat when foreign politicians with an agenda needed a distraction.

She
took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose, stretched in her chair and rotated her head from side to side, trying to free up the stiffness in her neck. She put her glasses back on and looked at a picture of her late husband, displayed in a prominent position on her desk. She wished he was here with her. The pain of his death would never go away, but after three years it had dulled somewhat. A second picture next to the first was of her daughter and two smiling children. Her daughter lived in Seattle and was happily married.

This was Margaret's last post. She
was sixty-two years old and had decided to leave the service at the end of the year. She was tired of the constant pressure that went with her job and dealing with the egos and turf wars within the State Department. Margaret Cathwaite looked forward to retirement and spending time with her grandchildren.

A knock interrupted her reverie. Her secretary entered the room.

Helen Martinson was the kind of woman people called
willowy.
She was
tall and supple, with straw colored hair pulled back in a tight bun, a pleasant looking woman in her late forties. Margaret thought she was one of the most efficient people she'd ever met.

"Doctor Connor is here to see you,"
Helen said. "She's your only appointment this morning. I haven't scheduled anyone else because of the demonstration."

"Wonderful. Send her
in. No, wait, I'll go out to meet her."

"Did you remember to take your
pills?" Helen asked. She'd been with Margaret a long time. Sometimes the ambassador thought she acted more like a mother hen than a secretary.

"Yes, Helen, thank you."
She got up out of her chair and went to meet Selena.

"Madam Ambassador," Selena said. She smiled. "Hello, Margaret. Thanks for seeing me."

"Selena, it's been too long. Come on into my office."

Selena followed her in,
feeling the absence of weight on her hip caused by her missing holster.

Across the street Nick stood in the shade of a
tall flame tree, watching the crowd and the Filipino police outside the embassy. Branches loaded with feathery green leaves and brilliant red flowers spread over his head, breaking up the heat of the sun. He wiped away a light coating of sweat from his forehead. It was already hot and humid. The weather forecast was for a scorcher.

Lamont
and Ronnie were with the crowd of demonstrators and speakers at the beginning of the march, some distance away down Roxas Boulevard. The color of their skin made it easier for them to blend into the mob than it was for Nick. No one would mistake him for a Filipino. So far there'd been no sign of unusual activity, unless you counted the gathering of thousands of people opposed to an American presence in the Philippines as unusual.

Nick's earpiece crackled. He heard Lamont's voice.

"The march is moving," Lamont said. "Lots of people and they all seem pissed off."

"Roger that," Nick said. "You and Ronnie stick together
. Try not to get separated."

Lamont said
, "There's going to be trouble."

"
Don't get caught in the crowd. Stay on the edges."

"
Roger. Out."

Nick
waited in the shade of the tree. Soon he heard a rumble of sound in the distance. As the crowd got closer the rumbling became distinct words.

USA OUT!! USA OUT!! USA OUT!! NO MORE BOMBS!! NO MORE BOMBS!!

Nick watched the march approach and felt his adrenaline kick in. The hair prickled on the back of his neck. There was something primal about mobs like this, an echo of a time before humans became civilized. It was more than a gathering of angry people. It was an entity unto itself, a force that could not be reasoned with. The chanting vibrated underfoot and echoed off the walls of the buildings.

Nick looked for Ronnie and Lamont and saw them on the outer fringe of the marchers, a few rows back from the front. They looked stressed. He held his hand over his ear.

"Ronnie, Lamont, I see you. I'm under that big tree with the red flowers across from the embassy. Break out and get over here." He saw them look his way.

They pushed through the protesters toward Nick. No one paid any attention. The march halted in front of the embassy. A double line of nervous national police in riot gear with helmets, clubs and shields blocked the front of the gates. The protesters ignored them and focused on the leaders
. A man took out a crude American flag and set it on fire. A man with a bullhorn began haranguing the crowd, waving his fist in the air and shouting out slogans.

Inside the embassy, Selena and the ambassador watched from Cathwaite's office.

"Does this happen often?" Selena said.

"Not on this scale. Every once in a while somebody sprays slogans over the embassy sign out front. There hasn't been a big demonstration like this for a year or two. This one seems well organized and larger than most."

There was a knock and the door of the office was opened by a Marine wearing Gunnery Sergeant's stripes.

"Ma'am, I'd like to break out weapons and lock down the building. I don't like the looks of what's happening out there."

"Sergeant Crowder," she said. "If you think it's necessary, go ahead."

"Yes, Ma'am." He saluted and turned away. Selena could hear him giving orders to his men.

"I'm afraid you're stuck in here for a while, Selena," Margaret said. "These things can last for hours."

"Your
sergeant looks competent," Selena said.

"He's a good man
, commander of the security detachment. He watches over the others as if they were his family. As far as I know, they're the only family he's got."

Cathwaite pressed a button on her intercom. "Helen, would you assemble everyone in the ballroom please?"

The speaker crackled. "Right away."

"Let's join the others," Margaret said.

She swept out of the room, very much the Ambassador.
You never know who someone is until things get difficult
, Selena thought. Margaret Cathwaite looked like she was up to the task, whatever it turned out to be.

CHAPTER 1
5

The Museum of the City of Manila was located to the Northeast of the American Embassy.
Ahmed settled himself comfortably in a sitting position on the roof of the museum. He placed the barrel of his Russian SV-98 rifle on the rampart, adjusted the bipod and peered through the telescopic sight. From the top of the four-story building, Ahmed had an unobstructed shot to the sentry tower on the back wall of the embassy. His rifle was chambered for the .338 Lapua Magnum. The range was about 1200 meters, well within the round's 1750 meter accuracy.

Ahmed was
the best marksman in Abu Sayyaf and proud to have this fine rifle. The SV-98 was an older design but it was still an effective sniper weapon, especially in the larger caliber. The rifle had a Russian PKS-07 scope with 7x magnification and a compact muzzle brake that acted to suppress the sound of the shot and reduce the powerful recoil. Even with a fiberglass stock, the SV-98 was heavy, weighing in at almost eight kilos.

Ahmed mentally calculated the breeze and the weight of the humid air and adjusted his sights accordingly. Shooting the way he did was an art, born of
a natural gift and countless hours spent practicing. He made a slight adjustment to the scope and watched the uniformed sentry in the tower come into sharp, clear focus.

Bang.
Ahmed pictured the man's head exploding. The heavy bullet would punch through the glass of the sentry tower as if it were paper.

Out on the
bay, the boat with the assault team had turned toward the sea wall. Ahmed looked at his watch. Once the sentry was down, the others would scale the wall on the water side and move through the embassy complex toward the main building. There was a construction site near the wall that was usually busy with workers, but today it was abandoned. The Chancery was a large building situated directly behind the embassy. There might be trouble there but with the protest scheduled, most of the workers had stayed home. The chances of reaching the embassy unseen were good. Plenty would be going on in front to distract everyone.

Ahmed
settled behind the scope. He took a breath and let part of it out, willing himself motionless, his mind focused on the head of the Marine in the sentry tower. He felt himself become one with the gun. His finger rested next to the hair trigger. The sentry was looking at the boat with Ahmed's comrades through a pair of binoculars.

Ahmed touched the trigger. The sound of the shot
rolled across the bay, sending dozens of gulls screeching into the air. The rifle jumped with the recoil. Ahmed saw the Marine's head turn into a fog of red mist. The binoculars flew through the air. The man fell out of sight.

The boat moved in close
, seconds after the shot. Grappling hooks and chain ladders locked onto the barrier wall. Men swarmed up the ladders and onto the grounds.

Inside the
embassy, Master Gunnery Sergeant Crowder wasn't having any luck raising the tower on his radio. Crowder had been a Marine for twenty-four years. He'd developed a fine sense for trouble, honed in Iraq, Kuwait, and Afghanistan. No one lasted long in the kinds of places he'd been if they didn't develop that sense. Now it was telling him there was more than a communications glitch behind the radio silence.

"Shit," he said. "Parker, Martinez, lock and load. Get your ass to the back of the building."

The two Marines carried M4A1's they'd taken from the arms locker. Crowder heard the metallic clacking of the bolts as his men charged their weapons on the run. One of his men came up carrying a rifle and handed it to him.