The Shroud of Heaven (33 page)

Hussein’s shirt, and the flesh beneath it, tore free of the metal spur that had held him in place. He emitted a harsh cry, suddenly coming alert, and then was gone, pulled through the hole in Marie’s grasp. Kismet didn’t wait for encouragement. He plunged head first into the opening, his arms extended above his head like a diver, and pushed off with his feet. By wriggling his shoulders, he was able to squirm through the narrow gap, but it was nevertheless like escaping from a fiery womb. The torn metal sheets and the crumbled rock of the cavern wall formed a rough circle that tore through his shirt and dug long furrows into his flesh, but through it all, he felt Marie’s grip, stronger than he would have imagined, around his wrists, drawing him relentlessly on. As soon as his upper body was clear, he pulled free of her grip and scrambled clear of the hole.

It was like diving into a mountain lake. He hungrily gasped fresh air into his tortured lungs, and as he lay on his back, all he could do was savor the touch of cool stone against his skin. Marie huddled at his side. Her hands were bright red and blistered from second degree contact burns, and her face was similarly suffused with scarlet beneath a cap of lank, distressed hair, but she appeared otherwise intact. Hussein, though on his feet, did not appear to be doing quite that well. His gaze was unfocused as he meandered away from the blasted laboratory. Kismet tried to call to him but his starved lungs refused to yield the breath necessary to utter a sound. Looking into Marie’s grateful eyes, he decided that it could probably wait a few minutes. After the hellish struggle to survive the laboratory, his relief at being alive overwhelmed even his desire to comprehend Chiron’s betrayal. That too could wait, at least until they were done rejoicing.

Suddenly a noise like a string of firecrackers bursting in rapid succession rattled between the walls, and he knew the celebration was over. Marie gasped in alarm and instinctively pressed close to the wall of the cavern, intuiting that the sound was indeed gunfire. The young Iraqi stood frozen in place out in the open, neither looking nor moving in any purposeful way, but Kismet noticed that he had his hands pressed to his abdomen in a vain attempt to staunch a deluge of crimson. Then another burst erupted from the unseen sniper’s weapon, and nearly tore Hussein Hamallah in half.

For a fleeting instant, he thought that Rebecca must have left some of her force behind to ensure that no one would escape to tell the tale of Chiron’s vile betrayal. But the throaty roar of an AK-47 was an unmistakable sound, and he figured Rebecca and her cohorts for something with a little more finesse. Who did that leave?

The shots had come from the direction of the tunnel leading to the cavern where the helicopter was hangared, but from his vantage, the mouth of that passage was eclipsed by a protruding section of cavern wall. If he could not see the shooter, then it stood to reason…

“Stay here,” he whispered. “I’ll try to draw their fire.”

Before Marie could protest, he was on his feet and sprinting for the center of the chamber, not far from where Hussein lay spread-eagled like a sacrifice. He had barely gone three steps when the assault rifle roared again, only this time it was in concert with a second. He was vaguely aware of the 7.62-millimeter rounds drilling through the still air all around. The snipers were firing fully automatic, the spray and pray technique. There was a skill to leading a target, and he was betting his life that these shooters had skipped that lesson. Still, all it took was one lucky shot. He dove the last two meters like a baseball player stealing second, and hunkered down behind the control box for the tram.

He barely had time to catch his breath when the first of several rounds punched clear through the thin metal frame and exited dangerously close to where he was crouching. Twisting around, he scrambled for the more substantial cover of the bumper at the end of the tracks. The heavy steel frame rang with each impact, but the rounds did not penetrate.

When a break in the assault came, he risked a quick look around the edge of his shield. There were three of them now, Arab men wearing ragged civilian clothes, and curiously bareheaded. He couldn’t begin to guess how they had discovered the complex. Maybe they were loyalist insurgents, checking a known resupply base, or maybe they were local hoodlums, hired by Rebecca or Chiron to eliminate all witnesses to their treachery. He didn’t have time to wrestle with the question, but filed it away behind a curtain, along with the overwhelming sense of guilt at having brought young Hussein to his ignominious demise.

The shooters saw him a moment later and unleashed another volley. That was all the motivation he needed. He burst from behind the bumper and sprinted for the opposite side of the complex, toward the open maw of Laboratory Two. They chased him with bullets, and it wasn’t until the lead started blasting into the stacked munitions containers that he realized just how close they were coming. Then he was gone, vanished into the maze of crates that had camouflaged the lab where Saddam’s scientists had labored to develop a nuclear weapon.

The barrage ceased almost immediately and the gunmen began warily advancing. Kismet did not try to monitor their approach. If they even caught a glimpse of him, his only plan would fail. One of the Arabs unleashed a short, random burst into the lab, but his comrades chastised him, telling him not to waste his ammunition shooting at shadows, or at least that was Kismet’s best approximation. He could hear their steps, their breathing, and the sound of crates being moved as the men pressed deeper into the lab.

There was a loud bang as one of the shipping containers was upended only a few steps away from where Kismet was concealed. Too close. They were checking the crates to see if he was hiding in one.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

The men stayed close together, careful not to flag each other with their weapons, but keeping vigil in different directions. One of them kept checking to their rear to make sure that they had not already passed by their prey. They knew enough not to separate, dashing Kismet’s hopes of subduing one and seizing his weapon.

The trio left the cluster of empty boxes behind and pressed deeper into the lab. When they reached the table with the detonators, the leader of the group stopped so suddenly he almost dropped his rifle.

Kismet made his move. From his perch, prone and pressed flat atop the wall of stacked crates, he rolled toward the exit. But as his weight shifted, the box beneath him slid and all the cartons, like some toddler’s creation with building blocks, crashed outward. Kismet hit the stone floor hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. He gasped for air, surrounded by the chaos his movements had triggered. The three gunmen were staring right at him.

The leader moved first, swinging the muzzle of his Kalashnikov toward Kismet. Breathing or not, he knew he had to move. As he ducked, bullets started shredding the wood and plastic containers that were now his only source of concealment. Packing foam showered down like confetti, but while none of the rounds found his flesh, a shard of wood lodged in the ravaged fabric of his shirt and pierced the skin of his back.

He caught a breath, which was a good thing, and reached the right doorpost of the lab. The gunmen were randomly spraying the area, but most of their fire was concentrated on the center of the jumbled cartons. Kismet spied his goal and waited for a break in fire. When the gunmen on his right paused to reload, Kismet sprang up.

“Nice knowing you, fellows.” He slammed his hand against the red button.

There was a crack as the stays were blown out of the way, followed by an ear-splitting shriek. The large metal guillotine gate dropped so quickly that Kismet jumped back, startled. The heavy panel smashed into the cluttered crates, blasting them to splinters as it fell relentlessly, unstoppably downward.

And then it stopped.

There was about half a meter of space above the groove in the floor, where the panel ought to have firmly settled after its brief one-way journey, and the bottom of the door itself. The smashed debris of the crates, though individually flimsy, were in concert just enough to hold open the door.

Kismet breathed an oath as he stared in disbelief at the opening. He swore again as a rifle muzzle peeked out from beneath the barrier and swung in his direction. But instead of ducking away from the weapon, he leaped forward. His foot stamped down on the exposed end of the gun, and the force of the blow rolled the front sight post at the business end of the weapon, causing it to twist in the man’s grip just as the trigger was pulled.

It was like stepping on a live wire. Flame jetted from the barrel as an explosion of gases and solid projectiles exploded into the stone floor. The close proximity of the discharge caused the weapon to slam back into the gunman’s forehead and Kismet almost stumbled again, but caught himself when the weapon fell silent. He immediately snatched the rifle up, shifting his grip from the scorching hot barrel to the wooden stock, and then put it to his shoulder. As he did, another AK-47 peeked out from under the door.

Kismet fanned the trigger, unleashing a burst at the opening. One of the bullets might have hit its target, but the rest found something even luckier. The lead projectiles smashed into the fragments that were bracing the doors, perforating them just enough that the constant pressure of the door caused them to finally explode outward. The door crunched down the remaining distance, decapitating the Kalashnikov and trapping the three gunmen inside a laboratory that was already starting to grow uncomfortably warm.

Kismet sagged against the steel barrier and let the muzzle of his captured rifle drop. Marie wasn’t where he had left her, but a movement in the shadows near the doorway to Laboratory Four, the only one in the complex he had not actually seen, caught his attention. Why was she moving? He took a step in that direction, but a burst of gunfire from the tunnel mouth drove him back.

“Damn it!”
How many more of these guys are there
?

He didn’t linger where he was. No sooner was the oath past his lips than he was running for the opening to Laboratory One. After all that had happened since Chiron’s betrayal, the sight of the fermentation tanks was strangely welcoming. He hastened behind the foremost one and with a great heave, rolled it over on its side. The noise of the hollow metal receptacle hitting the floor reverberated like a gong throughout the complex.
Guess they’ll know where I am now
.

He stood alongside the fermenter, near the double-thickness of metal that formed its base, and rolled it forward like an enormous wheel, out into the open. Rifle fire instantly hammered into the tank. The bullets punched right through its wall and slammed against the interior surface hard enough to create bulging dents in the exterior. A few of the rounds went completely through, missing Kismet by scant centimeters. As a shield, the fermentation tank left a lot to be desired. He decided to give his enemies something else to worry about. With one hand still steadying still turning the base, he held the AK-47 high and fired a burst left then right. Over the thunderous din he heard a shriek of agony, and knew that at least one effort to flank his position had been thwarted.

Protected behind the gradually crumbling mobile wall of aluminum, he traversed the open area to where Marie was concealed. From the moment he made eye contact with her, she began flashing hand signals to warn him of further advancements, and each time he turned them back with a barrage from the captured rifle. Nevertheless, his defensive response was chewing through his very limited supply of ammunition. Then he saw something that took him completely by surprise. Marie raised her hand and pointed, and a jet of flame leaped from her fingertip.

She’s got a gun
?

Marie snapped off several carefully aimed shots, laying down enough covering fire for him to finish the crossing. Up close, he saw that her weapon was a small .25 caliber automatic, easily enough concealed. Maybe that was why he hadn’t seen it. It was standard operating protocol for GHC personnel to be armed in a potentially hostile environment, but the sight of her with the firearm struck him as odd.

Still, she couldn’t have picked a better moment to come out of her shell
, he thought. He jerked a thumb toward Laboratory Four. “Anything useful in there?”

“It’s mostly storage.” She leaned out for a split-second, and then ducked back as another volley of automatic rifle fire hammered into the fermenter. “But I did find this.”

In her hands was a misshapen gray cube. “Semtex?”

She nodded. “I cut this from a larger piece. This whole place has been wired.”

He rolled the block between his fingers. With enough time and the right material, it might be possible to fashion some kind of weapon from the chunk of polymer-bonded high explosives. The problem with Semtex, and most other plasticized blasting agents, was that they were too safe. The only effective way to set them off was with det cord or a blasting cap. He stuffed the cube in his pocket. Maybe it would come in handy later. “We’ve got to get out of here. It’s a sure bet we’ll run out of ammo before they do.”

“The trolley is gone.”

“Pierre and his new friends took it.” He ignored her inquisitive look. “It’ll be a good half hour before it comes back, provided they don’t sabotage it at the other end. That’s too long to wait.”

“So what can we do?”

He gave her a grim smile. “Plan B.”

When the fermentation tank began rolling again, trundling toward the center of the complex near the controls for the tram, the five surviving gunmen unleashed a brutal assault. While three of them maintained a withering barrage directly onto the aluminum tank, virtually shredding it in the process, two of their confederates circled wide in order to catch their prey from the side. One of them fell from a single rifle shot, but the other took cover behind the control panel and waited for the tank to get a little closer.

But Kismet and Marie were no longer using the tank as a shield. Crouched in the shadows inside the lab, they waited until the attention of their foes was firmly fixed on the rolling barrier before making their move. Kismet had taken the sniper shot that killed one of the flanking team because the man was about to discover their deception. None of the others noticed that the shot had not come from behind the fermenter.