The Kazak Guardians (7 page)

I'd found that being a Kazak was ninety-nine percent boredom and one percent panic. Well, I'd heard that anyway. I was still in the ninety-nine percent boredom phase. Then I heard a strange noise over the sound of the senator's pen on the document he was working on. I looked up, blinked twice, and took a second look. The wall just inside the door looked like I was peering at it through eyeglasses with a slightly wrong prescription.
Gun or knife?
Heaven knew what damage bullets would do, not to mention how foolish I would look if it turned out to be nothing. I rose and threw my knife. As it left my hand, a woman-a Ghost Assassin-materialized with a gun in her hand. The knife hit her in the side a split second before she fired. The shot hit me in the arm as I dove toward the floor. I hit the ground with my gun out, firing and rolling in my
signature
move. A staccato of gunfire followed. Abstractly, it reminded me of a contest where each person gets a turn. Bang he fires, bang she fires
...
I suddenly hit the wall. Everything was quiet. I wondered if she was dead, or if the senator was dead and she had fled the scene, or if I was dead. I knew I wasn't when the pain hit me. I was lying on my right arm, which was spurting blood, and my pant leg was soaked red. Looking around the room for more potential trouble, I saw the Assassin lying sprawled on the floor. Since she wasn't shooting at me any more, I sat up, stripped off my shirt, and ripped it into a couple of pieces. I tied one around my leg and used my knife to tighten it. Then I did the same for my arm. When I looked up, a man stood in the doorway staring at my naked chest.

"Haven't you seen tits before? Call for a medic, you idiot."

"Oh my God, is the senator hurt?" he shouted, while scanning the room.

"He's either dead and doesn't need a medic or hurt and also needs a medic. So call for a medic." People were screaming in the background and probably hiding under their desks-like the senator.

A few minutes later, the senator rose from behind his desk and shouted, "Call security!"

I guessed that meant he hadn't been hurt. As the panic settled down, two medics showed up. One went to check on the senator; the other bent down and examined the woman.

"She dead. Looks like several gunshot wounds," he said to the two security men standing in the doorway. After several minutes of talking to the senator, the medic wandered over to me. He applied new tourniquets. Afterward, they loaded me onto a stretcher and wheeled me into an ambulance. At the hospital they removed two bullets and pumped some more blood into me. As I lay there hooked up to an IV and other monitoring gadgets, Mr. Witton dropped in to tell me I had earned a citation.

"Nice work, Lynn. The senator had nothing but praise for you and the Kazaks."

"After he had lunch and remembered I saved his ass?"

"Dinner. And I think his secretary had to remind him. Take a few days off, while we find another VIP for you to guard." He suddenly looked serious. "Did you know you killed a Ghost Assassin? We think she's been responsible for several other recent killings. Congratulations. Killing an Assassin, especially a Ghost, has moved you into the rarified heights of the
Assassin Killers
ranks, which currently only includes about twenty-five of the one hundred plus Kazaks. That'll get your name engraved on the
Assassin Killers
board in the recreation room and on the Hill. I'll want a report on what happened, and you'll need to be debriefed by the available Kazaks in the area. It's beneficial for us to trade experiences, especially when it involves Assassins."

They let me out of the hospital the next day and I called Clare, the reporter who'd been my test client on the Hill. "Hi, Clare, how would you like a visitor for a couple of days?"

"Hi, Lynn, it's been a long time since we talked. I'd love to put you up for as long as you want. Maybe you'll let me interview you, as I'm your loyal friend and president of your fan club."

"Only if you keep my fans away from me." I couldn't help but smile. I only had two friends, having spent most of my last nine years on the top of a mountain. Clare and I had lived together, day and night, for six months and had become close friends. It was like we had known each other for years.

***

Clare had taken the day off to meet me at Denver International. She stood there waiting, looking like a typical healthy outdoorswoman with her rosy cheeks, short blond hair, and long slender body. She stood at least a head taller than me.

"You look terrible
...
You were in that Capitol Hill shoot-out!" she grabbed me by my shoulders and jumped up and down, laughing. "And you're here with me."

"I'm going to shoot you, if you don't stop shaking me." She stopped and stepped back, looking a bit pale.

"I'm sorry, Lynn. Are you hurt any place else? Why do you need a cane?" She came closer and started poking me in different spots, looking for more wounds. "Ouch." She had poked my underarm holster with its Glock.

"Let's go to your place before you get arrested for molesting me." I was glad I had come. I realized that I liked Clare a lot and enjoyed her company. On the way to her condo, I gave her an edited version of the incident. I probably should have waited until we got to her place, because we barely avoided three accidents with other cars. Only my screaming saved us.

"Clare, I don't need any more excitement or injuries." In spite of my doubts, we made it to her condo without incident.

"Lynn, you'll never believe it. My experience with the Kazaks turned into a series. I described the training the Kazaks received, the obstacles you had to overcome to be the only woman at the school, and the five challenges. The series was picked up nationally. Because of that, I received a promotion to editor of investigative reporting."

We talked late into the night. Over the next few days, she took me to fancy restaurants, theaters, and a Bronco's football game where she had somehow acquired reserved seats.

"Lynn, I know I'm taking advantage of a friendship
...
and I won't mind if you say no, but would you consent to giving me an exclusive interview? Please." She looked like a young girl asking for her first bra. I couldn't help but laugh.

"So you've been bribing me all week," I said with a frown. Before she could choke out a response, I smiled. "I'll do it for my one and only friend, who is the president of my fan club."

The next morning she took me into the main offices of the
Denver Post
and informed her boss I had agreed to an interview. The place came alive. Before I knew it Clare and I had a room full of spectators. I had told the managing editor that I agreed, on the condition that they took no pictures of me and I be
he
, not she
,
when referring to me. He understood my concerns and agreed. Clare conducted a tape recorded interview, which lasted for over an hour. She made me feel like a national celebrity.

"Thank you, Lynn. You're my best friend, and I'd love for you to visit more often. Although you've single-handedly propelled my career to new heights, I'd prefer seeing you when you're not recovering from job-related injuries. Maybe we can trade off? I'll come visit you next in Richmond."

I didn't have the heart to explain that I would seldom be sitting at home in Richmond, and while I was on the job, I couldn't take time off. But that was a problem for tomorrow.

I returned to Washington, D.C., after a week off and reported to Mr. Witton.

"That was a good interview you gave the
Denver Post
. It gave us lots of favorable press without disclosing the details about the Assassins, your technique, or identity. The Assassins probably already know you're a woman but not the rest. I'll let you recuperate for another week, but I need your incident report and a debriefing with the available Kazaks. They are interested in how you detected a Ghost Assassin."

I turned in my report two days later-I hate paperwork-received a physical from the agency's doctor, and was subsequently debriefed by a room full of Kazaks. It was an interesting experience, like being trapped by dozens of blood-sucking vampires. They pulled every last detail of the encounter and then went on to discuss my rules. I actually enjoyed it and got to meet fifteen of my fellow Kazaks. I had hoped Jessie and Cory would be there, but they were off on assignment somewhere in the west.

***

"Our doctor says you're fit for light duty. I've a senior diplomat in the Libyan government, Raifah al-Ayyubi, visiting the U.S. next week. A lot of people would like to see her removed from office, permanently. She's here for talks with key officials who would prefer to see her returned safely to Libya," Witton said, while looking at a paper on his desk. "Since you speak Arabic and she's an important woman, I thought it would be a good match. So did she. Somehow, she's heard about you and wants you to accompany her during her visit. Don't worry, the State Department is providing her main security. It should be an easy assignment while you recuperate."

He didn't even smile.
I wonder if he talked this over with the Assassins.
State Department security specializes in stopping thugs and wannabe assassins. That didn't give me a warm comfy feeling when it came to Assassins. The Bureau of Diplomatic Security would make sure the area where the VIP would be going was secure, would stay close to the VIP in case something happened, and had guns. They would, however, react slowly and in most cases after the fact. It took years of training to react before or simultaneously with the attacker. If they had been guarding the senator, he would be dead.

***

I stood on the tarmac scanning the area while waiting for Raifah al-Ayyubi to exit the Libyan aircraft. Her American detail stood with me staring at the plane. To their credit, they had secured the airport and had men inside and outside the terminal.

Raifah exited the plane with two guards behind her. She was a striking woman, tall with an olive complexion, midnight-black hair, green-gray eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. When she had cleared the steps, I stepped forward.

"
Assalaam Alaikum,
Raifah al-Ayyubi," I gave her the traditional greeting-peace be upon you-with a small bow.

"
Wa Alaikum assalaam,
" she responded-and peace be upon you-with a nod. Then she slipped easily into English.

"Are you a translator?"

"No, I'm the Kazak you requested."

"So, you are the Kazak Lynn," she said.

"Yes," I replied.

She nodded. "You're smaller than I had imagined. But then it isn't size, gender, or age that determines one's greatness. It teaches me again that assumptions are dangerous. I requested you because you're a woman and because of your previous experience. I had no idea you spoke Arabic. I am very pleased with my selection. It's good that you speak Arabic. You'll understand what people say to me in Arabic. It may warn you of their intentions and provide you an extra second to react. For now, we'll speak English. It'll avoid misinterpretations that can result from a translation. I'd rather you concentrate on keeping me alive. You can call me Raifah. It'll take less time to say and avoid slowing down the time it'll take me to react."

"As you wish
...
Raifah."
Actually it will be faster to knock you on your ass.

She turned to her reception party, which ironically included an interpreter. After a lot of bowing and scraping, we entered the second of several limousines. Her entourage included her two private guards, several State Department diplomatic security people, a variety of diplomats, and me. She entered the limo and waved her two private guards and me in next, then the two senior diplomats there to greet her.

We were driven to the Rayburn House Office Buildingwhere she spent the next several hours visiting various representatives. When she entered an office or room, she waved everyone off, except me. Even her guards remained outside. Since they didn't seem to mind, it must have been normal protocol. I stood off to the side, trying to imitate a Ghost Assassin. The meetings went on all day, continued through dinner, and at small parties well into the evening. When she started to get ready for bed, I got ready to leave.

"Lynn, I'd like you to stay the night, if that isn't too much of an imposition. The suite is large enough for you and my guards to find accommodations. I'll clear it with Mr. Witton."

"I don't mind, Raifah. It'll lessen the commute."
And lengthen the boredom
.

"Thank you. Jaffar and Nasser are excellent guards. I trust my life to them in Libya." She turned to her guards and smiled. They nodded. I detected a slight smile from both. "But this is America. It will take them more time to recognize and react to a threat."

I worked out a schedule with the two guards for sleeping. When my turn came, I walked to the second bedroom, stopped, and turned to her guards. "Shoot anything that comes through that door. We can determine who it was later."

They smiled, thinking it a joke. In fact, I was serious.

***

The routine was boring as usual. Raifah entertained a few Arabic officials in her suite, visited various senators and representatives, and attended multiple dinner functions held in her honor. She insisted her guards be stationed close and me closer. I would've bet that ninety percent of the guests didn't know who or what I was. Probably thought I was some kind of personal servant.

Five days after arriving, Raifah had been invited to talk with the secretary of state. She exited the hotel with her guards, several security people, and me. When she was only a few feet from the car, I grabbed her around the waist and slammed her to the ground. Pulling her close to me, I rolled over and over again, as fragments of cement from bullets hitting the sidewalk bombarded us. Within seconds, her security men joined us. Nasser lay on top of her while Jaffar stood with his gun out, but unsure of the assassin's location. Her diplomatic security detail now had their guns out. I managed to get my Glock free and began shooting at the roof of the building across the street. I was unlikely to hit the gunman, but at least it might keep his head down. If nothing else, it should alert everyone to the general location of the shooter. Several of my bullets sprayed cement from the ledge where he had been. A few cleared the ledge, but I doubted they hit him. I emptied my Glock, but couldn't get at another clip with Raifah pressed against me and Nasser's arms wrapped around both of us. Jaffar had begun shooting not too long after he saw the direction I was firing. The diplomatic security men had decided to cluster around Raifah.