Chapter 1
Chet Bentley lay bleeding on the cold marble Beirut hotel floor. He shook his head, trying to shake the searing pain from a clubbed blow above his right ear.
He'd been savoring a stroll along Ras Beirut and poking around the Paris coutures for a present for his girl friend; the American had settled on a pair of lacey silk tap pants and matching camisole, paid for it, stuck the sales slip in his back pocket and headed into the navy blue night. After a few drinks at the Dolce Vita, he'd staggered back towards the St. George Hotel, musing at the poster-splattered walls chipped with gun fire from which Khomeini, Nasser and Arafat stared at him with militaristic daring.
None of the terror of anarchy and confusion of guerilla warfare filled this American's veins! A veteran of the Special Forces of Viet Nam, the tall, muscular blond documentary filmmaker was in prize condition . . . except when he was drunk.
like now. . . .
He remembered twisting the key in the lock, dumping the Milady lingerie bag onto the chair, and swinging open the door. Had his senses been more lucid, he would have noticed the three dark figures crouching in waiting at the stairway. He'd heard a blur of movement behind him, but before his senses could react, they'd shoved him forward into his hotel room, kicked shut the door and clubbed him with a sickening crack alongside the skull.
Beaten to his knees under a hail of blows, it took a moment to gather the strength to fight back. Punching blind blows into the dark, the second try landed a balled up fist into a fragile cheekbone. The attacker grunted out pain and crumbled to the floor.
Chefs blood was running hot. Hunching down like a cat, his Special Forces Marine training surfaced like a cork in choppy waters. He slunk behind the chair and grabbed it by the back legs. The Milady shopping bag gave way his position as it rustled to the floor. With a murderous grunt, he caught one attacker across the back. Chet stood panting, confident he'd gotten them both. But the unaccounted for third, slammed a bolt of lightning pain into his ribs, cracking it brittley.
Gritting his teeth, Bentley lashed into the dark with fists and feet. Harsh breathing gasped tauntingly in the blackness. Abruptly a looping roundhouse crashed into his cheekbone, sending him wind milling against the wall. The world had erupted into a crimson splatter of agony.
The American regained consciousness moments later and lay panting on the cold marble floor, the blood singing in his ears below the background noise of heels bumping down marble steps. Seconds later, screaming and a blast of gunfire echoed from the hotel lobby below.
Now Chet stood swaying in the dark, his head pounding cruelly. He dragged himself to the bathroom, pulled the light switch, gagged into the toilet, turned on the basin faucet and wedged his head into the cold porcelain bowl. The cold water's pressure diluted the coagulating globules of blood which dripped down his cheekbone onto his white shirt. His collar was soaked with blood. Chet shook his head, wincing as pain throbbed in his skull and the dancing light cord created a Frankensteinian monster in the mirror.
The left eyelid had swollen shut and purpled; a cut above his left ear left an egg-sized lump and his chest was rivered with blood.
The attack didn't make sense from a political standpoint or a mugging. If they'd wanted his wallet and Travelers Cheques, the street would have been the perfect stage for a robbery. Who listened to gunfire in war torn Lebanon, anyway?
Bentley switched on all the lights and checked the hotel room. Minutes later, he sat propped up on the bed, sipping from a bottle of whiskey he'd taken from the airplane, and raked his fingers through his hair. None of this made sense!
His camera equipment in the silver Halliburton case sat behind the dresser where he'd put it. The leather satchel and suitcase hadn't been opened. Wearily, he dabbed at the coagulating wounds with the cool washcloth and staggered toward the door. The hotel owner's foreign chatter from the lobby below filtered up the staircase. Chet was in no mood to involve himself with foreign police and, about to close the door, he noticed the white Milady lingerie bag on the third marble step below.
Who in hell would want to steal women's underwear?
Why had they attacked him? His assignment from CBS Network to take footage of petrochemical plants, offshore oil tankers, and recently constructed pipeline networks in the Strait of Hormuz was hardly an undercover assignment. If he'd been attacked in Abadan, Kuwait or even Baghdad, his stopover, he could have conjured up a few quick theories. What the hell had women's panties to do with the Iranian/Iraquian war, anyway?
Tossing the crinkling Milady bag onto the chair, he stripped naked and decided to get some rest. Tomorrow morning's eight o'clock flight to Baghdad would come soon enough, and with the way his head was feeling.. . . If he were late to meet Karen, his documentary editor and lover, all hell would break loose!
"Redheads," he snickered. Better he get his bags packed now, though. He braced his palm against the dresser and hauled out the Halliburton case and checked the movie camera for damage. That Halliburton case had followed him around the world-Uganda to cover the Idi Amin case, Tehran for attempted shots of the hostages, now back to the Middle East for the renowned Strait of Hormuz, the most powerful stretch of water in the world these days.
From beside the bed on the marble floor, he plucked a handful of dirty socks and pajamas and stuffed them into his satchel, wishing to God he hadn't had that last Singapore Sling at the Dolce Vita.
He zipped up the satchel and stood upright, swaying a bit from the pounding above his left temple. Scanning the room, his eyes fell on the Milady bag which he hastily stuffed into the satchel after pulling out the customer's receipt from his pocket and stuffing it in as well. His roundtrip ticket had Beirut scheduled as a stopover and if the sexy plaything didn't fit Karen, he could exchange it. Buying clothes for a woman, he mused, was the damnedest job in the world. If you bought it too big, they berated you for thinking them fat; if it was too small, they thought they had no bust at all.. . .
Right now he'd better get some rest and pack ice on that eye.
The hotel clerk at St. George's didn't so much as blink an eye when the American filmmaker checked out of the hotel on a sun-bursting morning at six o'clock. In route to the airport, the bomb shattered walls plastered with Khomeini's bearded face seemed to follow him, haunting him. The recent squirmishes over the coveted Strait of Hormuz were intensifying, but strangely enough, that disturbed him less than the attempted robbery of his hotel room the night before. One was personal, one was not.
Right now there was something personal he'd like to get into: Karen O'Malley, five feet four inches of luscious flesh with a brain to match. Daring little bitch, he thought, the creepy feeling that a bomb could detonate any second and blow him to smithereens crawling up his spine. The Arabs were a strange bunch, and with the Israelis choking them out of their home lands, Mohammed only knew what destruction they would wreak on each other! Blowing up schools, hospitals . . . this land couldn't be trusted.
These thoughts and a thousand others rambled through the American's brain as the taxi driver let him off at Beirut's airport. The concourse of the airport terminal was clogged, but he picked out the flaming red hair and the fresh Irish skin instantly. Looking officiously elegant, Karen was wearing a beige gabardine suit with an emerald green silk blouse that matched her eyes. Flames of hair tumbled about her shoulders, and the tight vest nipped in her waist and did nothing to hide the rich swells of her full, young breasts. Christ! Bentley shouldered his way through the crowd. Harry Goodfellow didn't know what a favor he was doing me, when he assigned Karen as my assistant!
Karen stood near the check-in counter, checking her wristwatch every few seconds and glancing around impatiently. Her patent leather heels tapped impatiently and it was obvious her Irish temper was short fusing.
Chet snuck up behind her, let his bags drop to the floor, and cupped her shoulders, swinging her around to face him.
"CHET! You promised you'd.. . . "A tiny fist flew to her mouth, and she winced. "God, what in the world happened to you?" Her emerald eyes traced the purpled eye, up over the swell of his ear to his temple.
The filmmaker's hand rose to his face and a crooked grin creased his lips; he shrugged defensively. "Had a little tussle last night in Beirut. Some thugs got me in the hotel room. Don't worry, the camera's safe.. . they didn't get anything."
"You look terrible! Have you seen a doctor?"
"Nothing a little kiss couldn't fix up.. . " he grinned, leaning down to kiss her soft, warm forehead.
"Please, Chet . . . we don't have time." She pulled away and shot an anxious glance at the overhead clock. "Our plane is due to leave in a few minutes, and you know how Harry is about missing connections.. . . "
They'd handed their airline tickets to the black -haired, doe eyed Lebanese airline employee who, eyeing their names and destination, paused a moment before drawing out a telegram.
"This just came in over the teletype," she announced, handing him the blue envelope which he ripped open with a thumbnail.
Chet frowned. "Now what the hell?" he grumbled.
FIGHTING BROKE OUT IN STRAIT OF HORMUZ. STOP. IRANIAN TERRORISTS SUSPECTED OF POSSIBLE SABOTAGE. STOP. GO TO KARBALA AND WAIT INSTRUCTIONS. STOP. HARRY. BE CAREFUL.
Chet handed the telegram to his assistant. She bit her lip. "I knew this sounded too easy . . . but gosh, I had no idea the war was so close. Terrorists?" she wrinkled up her perky, freckled nose and searched Chefs eyes for an answer. "This part of the world makes Harlam look like Forty-Second Avenue. Now what?"
"Looks like we spend a vacation in Karbala, hon.. . might as well make the most of it."
The next flight out to Karbala wouldn't be departing for three hours. "We'd like to cancel our reservations to Baghdad," he informed the Lebanese lovely. "Change it to Karbala."
He guided Karen by the elbow and plucked the luggage from the floor. "We might as well head for a lounge and relax," he suggested. Changes of plans were customary when one's business was filming network news. He recalled with a shiver, almost being captured in Tehran by a gang of Iranian terrorists who'd eyed his camera with CBS's logo and wanted him for the fifty-first hostage. A vacation would do him good . . . and what the hell, a free vacation with Karen was nothing to sniff at! Maybe he'd have some time to do some independent filming.. . of Karen in a variety of sexy poses.
Shivering with anticipation, he visualized the warmly clinging sleekness of her naked voluptuousness stretched out against his lean body, and the mere thought made the gabardine of his pants tighten against his thigh as the familiar tingling feeling crawled from his belly to his penis, feeding it with anticipation.
The Beirut airport had suffered a few attacks of its own, but hastily rebuilt to show the world its recuperative powers against Israeli attacks, none of it showed from the inside. They found a table next to the glassed-in wall and contented themselves over wine as they stared wordlessly out over the concrete expanse of the runways. The morning sunlight glinted off the silver jets, their needled noses all pointing straight ahead like so many giant bullets.
The baggage loaders were crawling toward a 747 jetliner, looking like a couple of mechanically operated Mattel toys from where the Americans sat. The tractor pulled away and the mellifluous voice of the Lebanese announcer hummed the flight departure to Baghdad.
"I was looking forward to Baghdad," sighed Karen, resting her dimpled chin in the palm of her hand. "This is the first war time assignment Harry's trusted me with. Really," she said, turning her eyes to his, "I wouldn't have minded going to Tehran with you . . . but you know how Harry is about women and the military."
They clinked glasses to that and idly turned their gaze to the jet's pivot for take off. Slowly it rumbled down the runway, the vibrations of its power felt in a slight tingle of lips to drink glass. The tail end rose from the ground, the wheels started to pull up . . . away to Baghdad.
Suddenly, the sky turned into a ball of fire. Everyone in the lounge was on their feet screaming. Bomb? Air crash? The truth made itself known as an explosion showered fragments of wings, and metallic shrapnel into the air. The body of the plane, a ball of shriveled metal, plundered to the ground, shaking the foundation of Beirut's International Airport.
The American filmmakers stood paralyzed in the chaos of hysterical friends and relatives, terrified observers and distraught officials. The morning freshness turned into a holocaust of sirens . . . ambulances, military always on guard in the Middle East, and fire trucks screaming toward what was left of the wreckage.
Karen heaved a sigh of distress and rested her head on Chefs shoulder. "We.. . we were supposed to be on that flight.. . " she shuddered, and buried her face in his chest.
Chet heaved back a sigh of acknowledgement. "I'm fully aware of that, darling.. . fully aware!" His voice was shaky, his body preened for survival. The Special Forces had done that to him-taught him the key to survival was a clear head.
"Do . . . do you think anybody.. . ? "
"Survived?" He shook his head and stroked her satiny hair comfortingly. "It blew up too fast. They would never know what hit 'em . . . thank God."
"B-b-but what happened?"
He shrugged and shook his head. "In this part of the world, it could easily have been sabotage."
"Oh.. . " she sobbed. "Oh, Chet, this scares me, and I thought I was so strong!" she whimpered miserably.
"Don't give it another thought." Bentley patted her shoulder and cogitated for a moment, recalling the telegram's message. How many other planes were scheduled for blow up? Crazy Arabs . . . don't give a damn who they blow up!
"Let's have another drink," he announced, searching for a bartender in the emptied lounge, and finding none, slipping behind the bar to refill their glasses with healthy splashes of whiskey. They clinked glasses.
"Let's put this out of our minds," he said as much to himself as to Karen. "And whiskey is the best antidote for that!"
Two drinks later, he glanced at his digital wrist-watch through his one un-puffed eye. "If it would make you feel better, we could take a train to Karbala." He studied her expression of relief. "It would only take twenty-four hours, and after seeing what we just did, I think I'd feel safer on the ground."
Karen sniffled in relief. "At least you have a chance that way . . . yes, yes, darling, let's do that!"
After a quick, reassuring hug, he patted her cajolingly on the shoulders and announced he needed to take a quick trip to the men's room. "After I come back, we'll check out the train schedule and take a taxi to the train depot." He grabbed his satchel and left her standing alone.
With everyone plastering their noses to watch the futile rescue attempt, the bathrooms were deserted. Wanting to dab antiseptic Neosporin on his healing cuts, Chet set down the satchel and ran the basin full of warm water. He was lowering his head toward the basin when he caught surreptitious movement in the mirror.
The second attack took place.
Two men, swarthy, black -haired young men wearing black shirts and pants and berets had been hiding in the deserted stalls. Simultaneously, they emerged from the stalls, like two dark demons of death. Lanky, panther-like bodies with strong Persian features set determinedly.
For a second Chet panicked. A steely hand had gripped the nape of his neck and forced his face below the water. Taken by surprise, he'd automatically sucked in his breath. Now his mouth and nose and throat were burning from the hot water. His lungs felt as if they would burst for lack of air! His ears pounded and for a second, he knew how Houdini felt in the escape tank. They'd pinned his left hand behind his back; his other hand was pinioned between the sink and the second assailant's strong thigh. He heard the rustle of a paper bag next to his feet where the man behind him rummaged through his satchel.
Chet thought wildly of dunking his head lower and pulling the plug free with his teeth, but his nose and chin, thrust down against the bowl of the basin would prevent drainage.
Frantic, he bucked and heaved, trying to force his head up and back to break the grip on his aching neck. The blood sang in his temples; another few seconds and he'd be dead.
Special Forces training in the Marines had saved his life more than once, and by God it had to work again. Struggling backwards would do no good. He must use his leverage in a surprise attack coming from the front of him. With the little strength remaining him, he lifted his feet from the floor and pressured down on the sink with his one hundred and ninety pounds of muscle. The effect crackled as the screws and bolts tore away from the poorly plastered wall (too many times repaired from small bomb blasts) and the basin tilted forward, separating from the wall.
It crashed to the floor, pulling Bentley free of his assailants' grasp. Taken by surprise the Persian thugs reacted slowly, relying as was their practice on knives and guns and bombs instead of human innovation. By the time they'd scrambled to their feet to face him, he had sucked enough air into his burning lungs to regain strength.
Crouchingly menacingly, arms outstretched, the two men advanced. Now Bentley got his first look at the attackers. The taller, leaner one sported a fresh wound over his right cheekbone . . . about as old as the one purpling Bentley's eye. Ah ha, so these were the same men who'd messed him up last night!
A cold fury bordering on insolence piqued a rush of hot-blooded adrenalin in Chefs veins. After being attacked from behind by sneaky Vietnamese guerillas, he wasn't about to let a couple of Persian thugs do him in!
His upper lip curling, breath hissing from his lungs, he grabbed the first man by the collar and tossed him against the wall, but not before he'd drawn back his arm and crunched into his jaw from below. The man dropped to the floor, a tooth flying from his mouth amidst a river of fresh blood.
Behind him Bentley's ears sang with the hissed threats of the second assailant. Wincing, Chet staggered as a blow caught him in the rib cage. He careened against the wall until cold fury sparked instinct and he drove a balled up fist into the Persian's groin. The man fell to the floor in a heap of bawling pain. Chefs foot drew back for a swift kick in the belly which sent the swarthy terrorist sliding over the wet floor to bang his head against the sink's rim. Joyfully, Chet grabbed the first assailant by the hair and hammered a few blows into his broken nose before wiping his bloody hands on his pants, grabbing his satchel and making a hasty exit.
As they headed for the Information Booth to inquire about the train schedule, he told Karen about the attack.
"This doesn't make sense.. . first you're attacked in your hotel room, then the airplane crash, now this." She stared at him cautiously. "That makes three, Chet . . . and you know what they say about that."
"Christ, I'm not a foreign agent, I'm just another schlep cameraman, that's what bothers me. If I had footage on the Strait of Hormuz, I could understand the attack . . . but I have nothing."
Karen shook her head tragically. "You have one messed up face, my dear, that you have."