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They found someone here.
There were two of them. A casually dressed white man and an older, almost tiny
Oriental. Neither seemed to be armed.
"Look, Little Father," the taller one said conversationally. "Visitors."
"Shall I make tea?" asked the Oriental, just as casually.
"Let's see how many lumps of sugar they want, first."
"I will let you ask them, for I am an old man, frail in health, and I do not
wish to tax myself walking down this long corridor to converse with them.
Besides, you need the exercise and not I. "
Rafik decided to take them alive. They would tell where the American leader
could be found and save him valuable search time.
"Stand where you are," Rafik ordered, pointing his weapon. In spite of the
warning, the American walked toward him, while the Oriental disappeared
through a side door.
"I said stop," Rafik repeated.
"Do we shoot him?" asked Ismat.
"No," hissed Rafik. "He is unarmed. We will take him easily. "
"How do you folks like your tea?" asked the American. His smile was cruel,
almost arrogant in his wide-cheekboned face.
Rafik decided to shoot him once in the leg. That would cool his bravado. And
get him talking. He snapped off a low shot.
A long rip appeared in the hall runner between the man's shoes.
"You missed," Ismat hissed. "I will not miss again."
And he did not, because even though the white American had been at the other
end of the hall, suddenly he was in Rafik's face. It was as if Rafik had been
looking at him through a camera and accidentally tripped the zoom lens.
Rafik knew he could not miss at this range. He pulled the trigger. And felt
himself being turned in place. When he felt the recoil of the Uzi, he was no
longer looking at the dead eyes of the white American but into Ismat's shocked
face.
"You . . . shot . . . me," Ismat moaned. He fell to the floor, twitching.
"You made me shoot my comrade," Rafik spat at the white.
"There are worse things," the American said casually. In his hand he had
Rakik's own Uzi and was methodically field-stripping it. The trouble was, he
obviously did not know how to take apart a fine weapon like the Uzi because he
removed whole sections without disengaging them properly. The Uzi made strange
cracking sounds and then fell in pieces onto the rug.
Rafik knew that he was no match for hands that could dismember a pistol like
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that. He plucked a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin with his strong
teeth, and yelled the words that usually quashed all resistance during
airliner hijackings: "If I die, we will all die!"
Rafik had no intention of dying. He had not let go of the safety spoon. The
grenade would not explode until he did. He expected the mere threat of the
grenade to trick the man into letting him back out of the building to the
car.
But before he could edge away, the man's hands clutched his upraised wrist.
The other hand twisted his thumb in its socket. The safety spoon fell to the
floor.
Rafik tried to let go of the grenade. He could not. His hand was frozen around
it. Then the man slapped him down onto the floor. Rafik fell still clutching
the grenade under him.
He tried to push himself up, but the man was standing on his back, holding him
on the ground. The grenade dug into his stomach.
Then the grenade went off.
Under Remo's feet, the terrorist jumped. When he settled back on the rug, Remo
stepped off the body. The man lay limp, but there was a pool of blood seeping
from under him. His body had absorbed the force of the explosion.
The Master of Sinanju stepped out into the hall. "How many lumps?" he asked.
"None. They're not thirsty," said Remo. "That one is ruining the rug."
"Not my fault. He pulled a grenade. If I'd handled it any other way, the
shrapnel would have ruined the hall, not just the rug."
Chiun approached. "Did he say who hired him?"
"No. He didn't have time."
"Then you bungled. Never dispatch a source of information until the source
gives up what he knows."
"Yeah, well, if you're so smart, why didn't you handle it? I'm just along for
the scenery this time out."
''I was making tea," Chiun said haughtily.
Jalid Kumquatti waited until Rafik and Ismat went in the front door before he
came out of hiding in the car's back seat.
The street was empty of life. He vaulted the antiterrorist barriers and went
around the back. There were no guards there. He had not expected to find any.
They had all been drawn to the street, where his Hezbollahi brothers had
eliminated them.
Jalid had waited long enough. When Rafik and Ismat did not return to the car,
he knew that either they had run into trouble or the search for the
Vice-President had taken longer than expected. He decided the situation needed
his fine hand. He wondered if Rafik and Ismat were dead. If they were, it
would mean more money for him.
Jalid went in through a window. He wrapped the tail of his kaffiyeh around his
eyes to protect them from splintering glass and took a running jump. He went
in headfirst. He rolled as he hit the floor and landed on his feet. He sprang
for the door.
There was a tiny elevator immediately outside the hall. He leapt for it, and
luckily the rickety doors opened when he touched the button. He rode the cage
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