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While we both agreed the helicopter was probably not good news, we also couldn't just blow it up. They weren't shooting at us, so they could be innocents, if not allies.
When the chopper landed, stirring up a minor sandstorm in the process, out jumped a little man who ducked his head and ran toward us, covering his mouth and nose with a scarf.
"Get on board!" He commanded over the noise of the big bird's rotors. I just stared.
It was Phil, Assad's miniature lackey. Phil the Pill. Humorless, unappetizing, sarcastic, smarty-pants Phil. Phil the insulting. Phil with the big mouth. Good old, bad old Phil. Talk about past sins coming back to haunt you.
It appeared Phil had the same thoughts about me. "Move it!" he shouted. I looked at Blake, who nodded.
"Go on. I'll explain later!" Blake yelled over the noise.
I did what I was told, ducking and running, while inhaling a couple of pounds of sand. There was another man in the helicopter -- the pilot -- whom I'd never seen before. He gave me a hand up and told me to strap myself in the back seat. Blake followed, still carrying the Molotov and the subgun. Phil brought up the rear and climbed into the front seat next to the pilot.
The bird lifted off and Blake leaned out of the side door, the subgun aimed at the vehicle we'd just abandoned. He fired a short burst and the jeep exploded, showering debris everywhere. We were way too high at that point to be affected by the explosion, but we could still feel the heat. Or maybe it was psychological. After all, I'd just gotten out of that jeep.
Blake said something to the pilot in Arabic. The man nodded and swung the helicopter around.
"Hey! Why are we gong back to Razzack's camp?" I asked. It didn't seem like a very good idea to me, but then, what do I know about world-class terrorists?
As we headed toward the camp, the pilot climbed -- though not nearly enough to suit my tastes. We could see the fire still blazing in the distance and the column of soldiers heading toward where we abandoned the jeep. Just as we came to the head of the column, Blake handed the Molotov to me.
"Your throwing arm still golden?" He asked. I nodded. "Here," he said, handing me the matches. "Light it and throw it at the convoy when I give the word."
I braced myself as the pilot dipped and moved into a tight turn over the procession below. A few bullets started flying our way. One pinged near my head.
"Now!" Blake yelled above the noise. I lit the match, touched it to the Molotov and threw it.
Roger Clemmons stand back! The woman is bad to the bone! The Molotov cocktail hit a troop transport about a third of the way in. The explosion was deafening, even as high up as we were. Then the pilot reversed his course, circling in the opposite direction, while Blake laid down some heavy fire from the subgun, aiming primarily at the gas tanks.
Before we took off, most of the column and the camp were in flames.
*********
It was impossible to do much talking during the helicopter ride, so we waited until the pilot finally brought it down in a small courtyard in what appeared to be a deserted village. It wasn't.
Phil led us from the chopper into a building adjoining the courtyard, down a set of narrow and rather musty stairs into the dark. Then he reached up, opened what looked like a decorative carving on the wall, pushed a few buttons, and Bingo! A door slid open.
We followed him through an incomprehensible maze until we finally came to another door that appeared to be made of thick reinforced steel. Phil did something I couldn't see and that door slid open. We stepped inside.
"Where are we?" I asked Blake.
"This is headquarters for Cairo's branch of the British Secret Service," he said.
"British Secret Service? Like in 'Bond, James Bond?' Wow!" We continued to trudge through the endless corridor. "Where are we going? Ethiopia?"
"Nah. Just feels like it."
A moment later we stopped at a door and waited. A minute or two passed and the door finally opened.
"What was that about?"
"We were bring scanned," Blake said.
"Like at the grocery store?"
"No. Just...scanned. We were analyzed by a computer. We passed, now we go into HQ itself."
"If this is HQ, what did we just walk through?" I asked, remembering the long walk.
Blake grinned. "That was just the outer perimeter. We still have four more checkpoints to go before we reach the central office."
*********
We were ushered inside a large, plush office. Behind a huge desk sat a very distinguished looking man. Before anyone else could make introductions, the man stood, shook my hand and introduced himself.
"You may call me Nine -- as in the number nine. And of course you two already know Phillip, our man on the inside," he said, nodding at Phil.
"Charmed," Phil said, although he sounded anything but.
I was very curious as to how Phil managed to show up in the desert right when we needed him and asked.
"No mystery at all. We followed your signal to the encampment," Phil said.
"Signal?" I asked, puzzled. Blake looked over at me and pointed to his mouth.
"Oh -- that signal! The transmitter in our molars!" I said. "But how did you pick up on it?"
"We've been working this case in partnership with British intelligence from the beginning," Blake said.
Nine nodded, then asked what we'd learned about Razzack's camp and Assad's operation. After we finished, he leaned back in his chair and carefully chewed on the end of a battered cigar, then handed me a newspaper, the London Times. The headline said: Pharaoh's Curse Strikes Again!
I read the first few paragraphs, then looked up. "They're trying to pin this on Madya! This says the Chandler expedition, backed by Madya's ruler Sheik Hamir, is rumored to have unleashed a curse -- like the one that plagued the opening of Tutankamen's tomb. What bunk!" I said.
"Yes, it certainly is bunk," Nine agreed.
"Wasn't Tut's curse finally identified as some kind of mold that attacks the respiratory system?" I asked.
"Something like that, yes. But many still believe in the curse. Others don't like the idea of opening old gravesites. They think the spirits of the dead will come back to get them," Blake said. "Razzack has terrorized a number of British embassies. They want him as bad as we do."
"I see. Obviously, Razzack's going after Sheik Hamir this time," I said.
Nine nodded his head in agreement. "What we have to do now is pinpoint how he's going to do that. Any ideas, Phillip?"
"I think they're going to sabotage the Mid Eastern Summit."
"Yes," Nine said, twisting around in his chair to face the Pill. "That's the obvious target."
"And that's why it's not the target," I said.
Phil rolled his eyes. "It has to be the summit. All the heads of state in this part of the world will be there, along with a few Western nations involved in brokering peace talks."
"But that's why it won't be the target," I said. They all looked at me.
"Look, while the summit was probably his original goal, Assad'll change it."
"And why, pray tell, would he do that?" Phil asked.
"Because he knows we know, that's why. And it's too obvious. He'll figure security'll be even tighter than usual now that we're on to them. He'll let us deploy all our strength at the summit and he'll hit someplace else." There was a silence in the room, then Nine smiled at me.
"I concur. There will be an alternate target -- or even targets. It's up to us to find them before Assad manages to outwit us. Phillip, get back into Assad's organization and keep your ears open. Go see Special Equipment and requisition a couple of those new bugs they've developed that can't be detected in a regular bug sweep. Blake, I would like to offer you and Eileen our hospitality. Then we'll arrange for you to be taken to your own headquarters."
I placed my hand on Blake's arm. "We can't go there, Blake."
"That's true," he said and filled Nine in on Assad's assertion he had a mole inside our organization. Nine looked thoughtful.
"If that's true, it could compromise the entire operation. I don't like to do this to a sister service, but it might be better if you two didn't check in. What do you propose?"
"That Eileen and I get ourselves to Madya as soon as possible so we can nose around. It would help if we could borrow a few things from your identity section," he said.
"Of course," Nine replied.
*********
Later that day, Blake and I found ourselves on a flight to Madya. I was now a blue-eyed blonde, thanks to contact lenses and peroxide. I wouldn't fool anyone who knew me, but at a distance, I was OK. My passport and other papers identified me as a British journalist. I had to remember my English accent, which I hadn't used since my high school play. Blake was similarly disguised and loaded with cameras and other equipment -- my photographer.
On the flight, I remembered to ask Blake who he thought the mole could be.
"I've given that a lot of thought. I don't know. And I hate to think one of ours could be playing on both sides of the street," he said and closed his eyes. "Think I'll take a short nap. Wake me when we get there."
"OK, but one more question. Nine? Where did he get that name?"
"Oh that. Nine's rumored to have nine lives -- like a cat. He's escaped certain death many times. Don't know them all, but I do know he's been shot a couple of times, someone once tried to drown him and there was a stabbing of some sort. When they brought him in from the field, he took the cover name of Nine."
"I'm glad I'm not his insurance carrier," I said and leaned back to catch a short nap myself.
We landed in Jilil-ayeh, Madya's largest city, and took a cab to the hotel. I couldn't wait to crawl into bed. Neither of us had had any sleep the past two days.
We were sharing a room -- two double beds and no, it wasn't a problem. It wasn't safe for us to split up at that point. We didn't know if the bad guys knew we were there. Or at least we didn't know at that point.
But we found out .
Blake was in the bathroom taking a shower. I could hear him singing away in a voice he thought sounded like Frank Sinatra, but was really more like someone parked a bus on his foot. I took the rare opportunity to call home. I had to admit, I was feeling a bit homesick and was disappointed when no one answered the phone. I let it ring a dozen times, then hung up. I could always try again tomorrow, if I lived that long. Tired, I flopped back on the bed nearest the window. I don't like to sleep by the door.
I stretched my arms out and shut my eyes.
Can't do this for long, I thought. I'll fall asleep. Then I felt it. Something slithered across my ankles. And stopped.
My self-preservation instincts kicked in. I fought the overwhelming urge to scream, jump out of bed and throw up. But every action hero I'd ever seen who ended up in bed with noxious creatures always laid stock still until the they crawled away. Right?
My respect for action heroes has gone up a couple of notches. It sounds a lot easier than it really is. I stayed still as a concrete block, while the snake draped itself across my lower legs and apparently found me so comfortable he, too, decided to take a nap. He froze. I froze. And Blake, the Frank Sinatra from hell, was in his third chorus of "New York, New York."
What, I wondered, would the snake do when Blake opened the bathroom door?
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