Part 33 (1/2)
”It's one against five. You won't have a chance. If I stay, too, we can beat them.”
He glared at her. ”Better still for you to listen to someone who's done this sort of thing before. I can handle five. Besides, our first priority is getting out the alert-more important than my survival, or even yours.”
”You're an a.s.sa.s.sin. You kill people for a living. Why are you doing this?”
”I take pride in my work. That means I'm not a ma.s.s murderer.”
Eva nodded. ”Okay. what were those insults you promised me?”
”Stand up and yell as bitterly as you can, 'Ya khorg.'”
”What's it mean?”
”'a.s.shole.' Move!”
s.h.i.+mmying up the pole, Eva balanced on her feet. ”Hey, ya khorg!” she shouted.
The Iraqis looked at Eva, puzzled, then at one another. Two shrugged. All went back to work as if nothing had happened.
”Bidde neek immak,” whispered Morgan.
”Bidde neek immak!” The Iraqis looked at her again. ”Bidde neek immak!”
Morgan chuckled and whispered, ”That's 'f.u.c.k your mother.' You got their attention. Pick one of them and yell 'mos era' at him. That's 'suck a d.i.c.k.'”
She chose the nearest Iraqi and leaned toward him. ”Mos era!”
Staring at her, the man folded his arms across his chest as if summoning patience.
”Now try 'yebnen kelp,'” Morgan said. ”That means 'son of a dog.'”
”Yebnen kelp!” Eva spat at the man.
The man turned to the others, said something, and nodded at Eva. He started walking toward her.
”Tfoo ala wishak,” Morgan said, ”and spit again. That was a good idea, especially now. It means 'I spit in your face.'”
Eva bellowed tfoo ala wishak at the man. She spat.
That did it. The Iraqi's eyes narrowed to angry slits. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an automatic. Flipping it into the air, he caught it by the muzzle, ready to whack Eva. Head lowered, he paced toward her.
She spat one last time. This time some of her spittle splashed him.
She could see his face darken, his lips thin. He was seething. He was almost within striking distance. As he drew back his gun, he took one more step, and she braced, lifted her knee, and slammed her foot up into his crotch. It was a good, solid blow.
He groaned and sagged in pain, gripping himself. Smiling, Eva kicked him under his jaw. His head snapped back. Like a praying mantis, Morgan was on him. He slashed the man's jugular, spun around behind Eva, and cut the rope that bound her wrists. Reversing direction, Morgan returned to the shuddering body, crouched, grabbed the man's gun, thumbed the hammer back, and fired two rounds across the dying man at the men working on the mortars.
Eva dropped to her hands and knees and rifled through the man's pockets, searching for a cell.
Surprised by Morgan's sudden a.s.sault, al-Sabah's men were slow to reach for their weapons. Morgan's third shot hit one in the chest, slamming him down on his back. Morgan's next bullet got another one in the hip.
The men scattered, several scrambling aft toward the wheelhouse for cover. One sprinted starboard and dived among the chairs and tables, while another hit the deck, fumbling for his weapon. He was the closest. Morgan rushed him, firing twice before the man could train his pistol. The man's face exploded. Morgan rolled the corpse onto its side, revealing the man's automatic. Now Morgan had two pistols. He stretched out behind the corpse, using him for cover.
”Did you find a phone?” he shouted back at Eva.
”No!”
”Come here, I'll cover you.” He fired at the man hiding in the furniture, then at the first target he saw by the wheelhouse.
An instant later Eva was lying next to him.
”Take this and shoot anything that moves.” Morgan handed her one of the pistols.
The Iraqi hiding in the furniture fired wildly. One of his rounds shattered the railing behind Eva and Morgan, and a second buried itself in the deck.
Eva fired back as Morgan rolled the body, patting its pockets. She fired a second time, and her target dropped his gun and grabbed his thigh. She pivoted to her right and fired twice more, once at a man peering around the wheelhouse and once into the wheelhouse.
”Got it!” Morgan thrust a cell phone at Eva. ”Fully charged.”
”Good.” She took the phone and gave him the automatic.
He fired at a man moving toward one of the empty crates. Missing, he fired again directly at the crate the man had disappeared behind. ”Get the h.e.l.l out of here!”
Eva hesitated, putting a hand on his shoulder. Morgan was trembling. His skeletal face was covered with sweat. Her throat tightened with worry.
He swung his head around and frowned. ”No time for f.u.c.king sentiment. Run!” he bellowed.
Her heart in her throat, Eva scrambled up and zigzagged the twenty-five feet to the bow, bullets spitting into the deck and shooting up sharp slivers of wood. A hand on the railing, she vaulted overboard. She spread her left arm and legs wide and kept her right arm straight up, phone in hand. She hit the water hard, the cold swallowing her, pulling her under. Darkness engulfed her. And then she bobbed to the surface. She looked up at the phone and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving. It was dry.
She rolled onto her back and flutter-kicked under the bow. Treading water, she angled the phone to catch moonlight and saw the icons on this Arabic phone were identical to the American ones with which she was familiar. She dialed Judd's number. It rang twice, then went to voice mail. Frustrated, she waited for the beep signaling the end of the message. Automatic arms fire opened up above her, intermittent with the less-rapid fire of what she hoped was Morgan's weapon.
She spoke in a rushed voice: ”Judd, I'm on a yacht in the Tigris. Al-Sabah's men are setting up big-time mortars on the deck to attack the U.S. Emba.s.sy. Looks like they'll start shooting soon. Don't return my call.”
She thought for a moment. She had Gloria Feit's number, too. Tucker had insisted she memorize it. On the second ring, Gloria picked up.
”Gloria, it's Eva Blake. I'm in Baghdad. Actually, I'm under the bow of a yacht in the Tigris, treading water while I talk to you. Iraqi terrorists are getting ready to sh.e.l.l our emba.s.sy from the yacht. The man behind it is a local politician named Siraj al-Sabah.” She spelled the name. ”He's probably the a.s.sa.s.sin known as Seymour. Burleigh Morgan is on board, trying to stop them. If he can't, there's going to be a sh.e.l.ling.” As gunfire sounded above, she lifted the cell. Returning it to her ear, she said, ”Did you hear that?”
”Yes.” As expected, Gloria was quick to understand. ”How do I know it's you, Eva?”
”Judd Ryder and I got here this afternoon. Don't ask how. We left Tucker in a Maryland hospital with”-a burst of automatic weapons fire drowned her out-”a head wound. Judd's somewhere in Baghdad, but I can't reach him to get help.”