The Second Saladin - Страница 60

“I think I got him.” He was breathing laboriously. “But he got me too. Oh, Virgin, forgive me. I want a priest. Virgin, forgive your sinning child.”

Trewitt heard the rifle land on the ground and begin to slide down the rocks.

The man with the automatic weapon sent another burst through the stones, kicking up dust and splinters. Trewitt shrank back.

“Hey,” shouted Ramirez, “come and kill us, abortions.”

“Mother. MOTHER!” shouted Trewitt, trying to jack-knife up.

Another burst ripped across the crest.

“I’m dying, oh fuck, I think I’m dying.”

“Here they come,” said Ramirez. “Here come our wonderful friends.” He was holding one bleeding arm awkwardly. He bled also from the scalp. “Oh, look at the whores. Whores. I spit on the whores. Soldiers. Look, Virgin, soldiers.”

They were quite brazen by this time. Six, it turned out. Six men, most with AK-47s and one with a Soviet Dragunov sniper’s rifle, coming up the slope. They wore tiger suits, baggy camouflage denim, and red berets. Professionals. Real commandos. Trewitt lay and watched them come.

“Hey, we fought them abortions pretty good, Mr. Crazy Gringo. Hey, I give you one hell of an adventure, one crazy hell of an adventure. We made ’em bleed some, we did. The whores. We took some whores with us. They had to bring in a fucking army to come take us away.”

The men were half up the slope, their assault rifles at the high port. They were not merry with triumph at all, but moved with vivid economy of line and gesture, impassive and implacable, hard-core military, in a hurry to be done with it.

“Whores,” Ramirez was saying. He was weeping too, and had fallen to his hands and knees but kept trying to stand. There was blood all over him. He kept trying to get a leg under himself but it would not work and he pitched forward. “They had to get an Army to get us. You whores! You bags of pus and shit. Virgin, I ask your forgiveness, for I have sinned. I seek to make a contrition. Accept your child Ramirez. You whores! Come ahead, whores, and be done. Ramirez is not frightned. I am so frightened. Lord Jesus, I am frightened. You BAGS OF SHIT!”

But his imprecations could not speed them — they came at the same grim pace, picking their way through the rocks.

Trewitt sat upright in a sudden spasm. He had the feeling of being in several worlds at once. His wound had opened and he bled profusely. He sat in a puddle and felt dirty. He wanted his mother. He mourned Miguel. A big bird flew overhead, its dark shadow skipping across him. It roared, a big flapping bird, huge as anything he’d ever seen in his life.

“Mother, OH, MOTHER, PLEASE!” he shouted.

The black bird hovered above him; it was a helicopter and it caught the assault team in the open. It had come from nowhere — from below the peak, hurtling up the sheer wall behind Trewitt and Ramirez. A Huey, painted black, no insignia, its roar like a bottle fly’s, slow-moving, insistent. Trewitt’s vision blurred and he could not track the details in the sudden commotion of dust and gunfire, but he saw a long burst cutting across the slope after the scattering commandos. Tracer bullets pursued the running men and took them down. The chopper swung after two who escaped the kill zone, pausing atop each to blow him away. The last man — he had the Dragunov — threw his weapon far and raised his hands. Above him the bird circled, then hung. The commando stood in an oval of whirring dust thirty feet beneath the stationary machine. Suddenly the helicopter shot skyward. It rose free of gravity, as though escaping the soldier beneath. The man detonated in a startling clap and flash.

“Jesus, Mary, he had a bomb,” Ramirez said.

The helicopter was above them now and then had settled a hundred feet away. Trewitt could not hear a thing but he twisted to watch as, out of it, sprang three men in blue uniforms and baseball caps with M-16s.

Trewitt raised his hand to greet his rescuers and recognized the first of them as Paul Chardy, who was pausing only to jam another banana clip into his weapon before racing to him.

Trewitt died somewhere in the air during the hop to the other side of the border. Chardy did not see the exact moment; perhaps there was no exact moment. Trewitt had never been fully conscious after the rescue. He lay blood-spattered and filthy on the floor — deck, in the patois — of the Huey. Chardy had been here before, a thousand times; in Vietnam in the ’60s, in Peru, and always it was the same: the huge roar, the wash of bright light and turbulent air from the open port, the vibrations, the stench of fuel, the stink of powder from recently fired weapons — and the dead man on the deck.

They’d thrown a sheet across his face and tried to tuck his limbs neatly, but an arm fell free in the airborne pounding and twisted the hand into delicate frieze. Trewitt: he sure didn’t look like the dreamy young man Chardy had seen in Rosslyn, in a suit, in an office, in the middle of a civilized afternoon. He looked like any grunt, a soldier, dirty and tired and dead. It occurred to Chardy that he knew so little about him.

And there was nobody to ask, for Trewitt had no friends among them — besides Chardy the two FBI special agents sitting across from him in the gloomy space, with impassive faces, really just police beef. And then that other curious treasure, a Mexican, huge and wounded and sullen, eyes insane, who said Jesus Mary, Jesus Mary over and over. Who could he be?

Chardy looked at him. The man’s arm was stiff in a U.S. government-issue gauze bandage and he leaned groggily against the quilting of the forward bulkhead.

Who are you? What’s in that stupid head of yours? What secrets, you pig?

With a suddenness the pitch of the engine dropped and Chardy felt the craft descending. A cascade of white light rushed in upon them as the bird finally settled dustily into the reflection of the sun off the desert floor, and seconds later, with a jolt, they had landed and the engine died.

Blearily, they got out. Men rushed over, numerous FBI special agents and Border Patrol officers. Chardy stood alone in the great heat as the activity swirled around him, men who knew what to do. He fished about in his pockets, came up with his sunglasses, and hooked them on to drive off the glare of the penetrating radiance of this latitude. They were at a Border Patrol installation astride the Camino del Diablo, the devil’s road, in southeastern Arizona, a freeway for illegal immigrants and dope traffickers, whose ease of transit this new installation had been built to impede. An American flag hung limp against a bright blue sky. Away from the Quonsets and cinderblock sprang brown sandy hills, a little spiny greenery, and rocks. Chardy had been here before too, a thousand times: a little jerry-built outpost where men occasionally died.

He looked back to Trewitt, now a form under a blanket on a stretcher beside the quiet helicopter.

“Coffee, Paul?” asked Leo Bennis. “Or iced tea? We’ve got some iced tea.”

“No.”

“Jesus, I don’t know how he lasted so long with a bullet through him there.”

“I guess he was a tough kid,” Chardy said.

“He did okay. He did fine.”

“Hey, mister?”

It was the Mexican.

“Hey, you cannot do this. Take me from my country. You must take me back.”

Chardy didn’t say anything to the man. Shouldn’t somebody be looking after him?

“You’ll be taken care of,” said Leo. “Don’t worry.”

“It’s going to cost plenty, I tell you that now. Plenty, huh?” He smiled. Then he said, “Hey, that boy, crazy boy, he don’t know nothing. You got to wipe his nose for him. I thought all gringos was big men. Ain’t you got no better guy than this?”

He smiled, showing his bright teeth.

Chardy smiled back, then hit him in the nose, feeling it smash as the man went heavily down into the dust. He would have killed him too, except that Bennis and ultimately several others held him back.

46

Lanahan’s moment of terror was approaching fast now. He ran a raspy tongue across leather lips; he looked at his watch, the water glass before him, then at Sam Melman’s water glass across the table. His mouth and throat begged his brain for water, but he had sworn to himself to yield nothing to the men in this room — all of them older by at least ten and more likely fifteen years, none particularly friendly, the Operations Directorate elect at the weekly division-head meeting at Langley — and so he would not take any more water than his mentor over there. But Melman had a notoriously high discomfort threshold and could do without water for hours. He had not touched his, not at all. The guy next to him must have blown a couple of networks to the Russians that very morning, because he’d already tossed away a glass and a half. And there had to be bad news due from Soviet Bloc too, because that man was really sucking the fluid down while looking about with a kind of abstracted horror seen only in meetings — a wash of pallor and a mad flittiness of the eyes, a radiant and all-encompassing fear.

But Sam, across the table, sat in calm splendor. He reached across the polished wood, showing a quarter-inch of cream-colored French cuff, and idly caressed the glass. Lanahan watched his fine fingers on the cool vessel, then diverted his gaze to his own glass, just a few inches from his fingers. It stood under a rectangular fluorescent light whose glow made the glass seem impossibly vivid.

Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink. The line rattled around in his skull idiotically, something remembered from parochial school; it would not go away. He concentrated to drive it out.