The Gamma Option (25 page)

First off, there was the blood splattered over the front of her gown to consider. She had to get back to the supply closet in the bathroom and redon her maid’s uniform. Her only chance of survival under the circumstances seemed to lie in getting out of the palace in much the same way she had gotten in. If she were spotted by anyone as she was now she was finished.

She followed this set of steps as far as they went, to a basement area, she guessed, which ran directly beneath the first level. She passed through a doorway into a musty damp space built as a vast play area for the royal children. The sole light came from the meager rays shed from the area of the stairway, and with this well behind her, Evira embraced the darkness. She knew it would hinder pursuit, and she flirted with the notion of hiding down here until a better strategy availed itself. If only she had committed to memory the underground escape tunnel Kourosh had alluded to. If only …

Evira slid on through the darkness as quickly as she could, having to feel her way now. At last a light shining dimly from beneath a door grabbed her attention and she passed inside to find a storage room lined with various food supplies and assorted kitchen necessities. A pungent smell she recognized from her initial entry into the kitchen found her nose and she realized this storeroom must have been located directly beneath the kitchen. She was on the wrong side of the palace to reclaim her servant’s uniform, and there was no way she could make it back unseen to the bathroom from this vantage point anyway. It was also possible the woman she had gagged and bound had been found by now so the Revolutionary Guardsmen knew just what to look for.

What then?

Make use of what you have,
would be the advice of Blaine McCracken. And what she had was the kitchen directly above her.

The stairs upward led into the vestibule that permitted access to the dining room as well as the kitchen and ballroom. She chose to enter the dining room straightaway in the hope of finding a single servant to overcome. But the room was deserted, the first course of
dolmas,
or grape leaves, and cheese portioned out at the individual settings. That left her with only the kitchen as an alternative, and she eased toward the swinging doors that led directly into it from the dining room. She eased one open enough to see chefs arguing with guardsmen over the fate of the meal being prepared. As near as she could tell, the kitchen’s orders were to proceed with the preparations.

That was crazy! The anomaly made no sense. A festive meal with the bullet-ravaged corpse of the nation’s leader upstairs? What was going on?

Evira turned her attention back to escaping. She moved through the door, careful to still its swinging, and concealed herself between parallel stacks of pots and pans, eyeing the kitchen before her. The stoves were of the gas variety, many of them cluttered with simmering food which emanated sharp, pungent odors. The smoke rising formed her next strategy.

Though the gas stoves were safe, open flames could mean extreme danger if the proper conditions were created. Evira eased herself a little forward. On a shelf just before her rested two glass jugs full of cooking oil and a box of wooden matches.

She emerged from her hiding place for the brief moment it took to jump up and grab one of the jugs of cooking oil and the matches from the shelf, all in the same motion. The jug was heavier than expected, and nearly toppled from her grasp as she brought it down with her next to the nearest stove, all its burners busy with pots.

She twisted the top of the jug off and eased it over until the thick oil began to ooze out. She poured it under and around the hot stove and then slid back away from the stove with a trail of the oil left before her. Watching its thick shine begin to widen, she struck a single match and tossed it slightly ahead.

The flames caught instantly and spread in a fast, straight line toward the pool of oil collected under the stove. There was a
poof!
followed by an expulsion of black smoke as the burners caught fire and flames reached out from the stove. Pots spewed their boiling contents about in all directions and the flames engulfed the white frame of the stove, spreading in bursts to the ones on either side of it.

One of the kitchen workers pulled the fire alarm and old-fashioned bells chimed through the palace. A pair of chefs came forward with fire extinguishers in hand but were blown back when flames spurted outward. The sprinkler system was activated by then, but another explosion rocketed more flames into another section of the kitchen and quickly the fire spread beyond the ability of the sprinklers to contain it. The bells continued to sound and Evira saw the kitchen workers rushing toward the nearest emergency exit. But the Revolutionary Guard had closed them off with the killer still at large, which forced the throng to head for the ballroom instead.

In the darkness and smoke Evira stalked toward a servant whose coughs had slowed her down. Evira grabbed her from behind, and before she could scream for help Evira had knocked her out and dragged her unconscious form into the shadows.

Evira struggled to remove the uniform from the woman, then removed her own gown. She donned the uniform in its place and moved into the vestibule that led into the ballroom.

She entered it among a host of coughing kitchen personnel who were collectively struggling for breath or wiping grime from their faces. Around her all was bedlam. The Revolutionary Guards had closed off all exits in a concerted attempt to keep those present inside until order was restored. No one was allowed to leave. But in the next moment there was a huge gas explosion in the kitchen that shook the palace walls. A secondary explosion immediately afterward was punctuated by thick black smoke filling the first floor.

Pandemonium ensued. Instantly all the main doors were jammed with desperate shapes fleeing into the night, guests mixing with servants as they passed out of the palace onto the sprawling grounds. To the commoners gathered in the streets beyond the royal palace, it made for entertaining viewing indeed, the sight of all those in charred formal dress reduced to a desperate mass. A few of the commoners cheered. Others jeered. There were few guardsmen about to silence them.

The main gates had to be opened to allow the fire apparatus to pass into the complex, and it was through these in the confusion that Evira managed to slide off unseen into the night.

A pair of men dressed as commoners viewed the fire raging from within the palace with as much confusion as delight.

“What do you think?” the bearded one asked of the other, who was clean shaven. In times like this they always resorted to Hebrew, keeping their voices soft.

“It’s not us,” the clean shaven one replied. “It couldn’t be.”

“Unless there’s something the old men didn’t tell us. Unless this was a part of the operation we were not made privy to.”

“Relax. It’s just coincidence. Nothing more.”

But the bearded one continued to watch as the black smoke billowed from the windows ruptured by the blasts or by firemen.

“I’m just worried Firestorm may have started without us.”

“How could it, my friend? After all, we and the others
are
Firestorm.”

“Three days?” the bearded one asked.

“Three days,” the other acknowledged.

Kourosh was waiting for Evira in the small room that had become her home and refuge. He grabbed her arms when she entered, bouncing buoyantly about.

“I saw the flames from around the corner. I ran when I heard the sirens coming. I knew it was you! I knew it!”

“I got lucky,” Evira said, tussling his hair.

“Did you do it? Did you kill him?”

The hate in his voice disturbed her, but she nodded.

“How? Gun? Knife? The fire?”

His morbid curiosity should have revolted her but didn’t. She had come to understand that he had grown up knowing no different. Besides, he had a right to know.

“Gun,” was all she said.

“Are they chasing you? Might they come here?”

“I don’t think so.”

He gripped her arms tighter, the perpetual grime on his cheeks seeming darker than ever. “I know other places we can hide. They’ll never find us. You’ll see!”

Evira shook her head. “Don’t worry. There’s an escape route. You need only get me to the airport tomorrow.”

“Escape route?”

“Yes.”

“For … you?”

She nodded. “And you, my young friend. You saved my life. I could never leave this country without you.”

The boy threw himself into her arms and Evira hugged him tight, never remembering a time when an embrace felt more special.

Evira approached the Iran Air ticket counter at six o’clock the next morning. Since many of the international flights originating in Tehran departed even before this, she would have preferred to have come earlier. But the contact who would get her on her way with tickets on the first available flight out of the country didn’t come on duty until six. Evira got in line at her station and resigned herself to waiting. Strangely, none of the newspapers or the state television station had said anything about Hassani’s assassination. There was mention of the fire and a statement supposedly from the general was read. She wondered how and when the news of his death would be announced and why it was being concealed.

Evira never considered for a second leaving Kourosh in Tehran. She realized there would be a problem since the original escape plan was for one, not two, and Kourosh had no passport in any event. Still she remained adamant. He would come with her or she would stay until she could come up with a way to get him out as well. She clung to the hope her contact would be able to resolve the problem in a matter of minutes.

At last her turn came and she stepped up to the counter. The woman smiled at her perfunctorily and Evira handed her over a passport. The clerk reached under the counter and came up with an envelope.

“Cairo,” she said simply. “Gate fifteen.”

“Complications,” Evira returned. “I’ll need two.”

The clerk’s expression changed a bit. “It will take time.”

“I have it.”

“A passport?”

“My problem. Just get me another ticket.”

The woman disappeared through a door behind the long service counter and Evira had settled herself to waiting patiently when she heard a commotion behind her. Turning, she saw a half-dozen Revolutionary Guardsmen making their way through the terminal in her general direction. Evira turned back, heart leaping in her chest. But such appearances were not uncommon. She needed only to remain calm. The clerk would take care of her.

“Cairo is much too hot this time of year, I’m afraid,” came a voice from almost directly behind her, a voice she recognized but realized couldn’t be. “Yes, Evira, I’m talking to you.”

She turned at that and froze. There, standing slightly ahead of six Revolutionary Guardsmen, with bystanders clustering about, was General Amir Hassani, alive and in the flesh. Another pair of soldiers closed in on her from either side, rifles at the ready.

You’re dead!
Evira wanted to scream at Hassani but her eyes locked on the boy who stood transfixed in rage behind the soldiers.

“Run!” she screamed at him. “Run!”

And to distract the soldiers she made a feeble lunge toward Hassani, Evira feeling the rifle blow to the back of her head only briefly before oblivion welcomed her.

Chapter 22

“WELL, INDIAN, FOR BETTER
or for worse, here we are,” McCracken said, easing their car off to the shoulder.

Wareagle nodded in the direction of a sign ahead which stated its message with crystal clarity.

WARNING!
AIR FORCE GUNNERY
RANGE AREA
ROAD ENDS 1 MILE AHEAD

Hank Belgrade had explained it all to Blaine on the phone the previous evening, how the gunnery range which ran between Arizona’s Sierra Estrella and Maricopa Mountains was an elaborate hoax meant to disguise the existence of the O.K. Corral. Belgrade couldn’t be much more specific in his directions than to say the retirement community for aging government personnel was situated between Phoenix and Casa Grande, before Route 85 reached the southern part of the state.

After obtaining that information, Blaine and Johnny had driven to Boston’s Logan Airport and taken the next flight out bound for Phoenix. There were two stopovers and a long delay en route. The Thursday morning dawn was breaking by the time they finally landed.

“What now, Blainey?” Wareagle wondered, with the letters of the warning sign before them seeming to slide in the sun.

“We drive on like we’re not supposed to and see what we find. It’s tough country. Can’t be the first time somebody strayed off the road and got themselves stuck.”

“You plan to drive straight up to their front door?”

“That’s the idea for now, Indian. Just make sure those spirits of yours fasten their seatbelts.”

“They’ve been quiet today, Blainey.”

“Too busy watching us maybe.”

“Too busy laughing more likely.”

The area they were crossing was basically desert, and Blaine was forced to turn the rental car’s air conditioning off when the temperature needle flirted dangerously with the high zone. They opened all four windows in the sedan, which proved a blessing when they were perhaps five miles in.

“I hear something, Blainey,” Wareagle said suddenly.

“Not me.”

“Coming from the west, a little more than a mile off.”

“What is it, a chopper?”

Wareagle tilted his head from the window as if the air might tell him. “Hughes Thunderhawk, overhauled from its time in the hellfire.”

“Kind of like us, eh, Indian?”

“It’s closing, Blainey.”

“I figured they’d spot us before long. Must have sensors laid through the ground. Or maybe it’s just a routine patrol.”

“Too fast for routine.”

“Then what do you say we meet them on our own terms?”

McCracken had the sedan pulled over, the hood popped and his head beneath it, when his ears finally picked up what Johnny Wareagle’s had well ahead of him. The steady
wop-wop-wop
sifted through the wind at an ever-increasing volume until the dust started to kick up around him announcing the chopper’s arrival. Blaine gazed upward and feigned absolute shock over the black chopper’s appearance. He began to wave his arms frantically to signal it, as a motorist in grave trouble would have.