Beirut Incident Read Free Page A

interval for the standard end-over-end flip, it would be a haft-throw, straight down, three feet, right between the shoulders.
    Some sixth sense must have warned the Dutchman. He suddenly rolled over on his back and stared up at me, his AK-47 arcing toward me as his finger began the trigger squeeze.
    I snapped my left arm forward and down.
    The needle point of the stiletto pierced the Dutchman's staring right eyeball and drove its three-sided razor-sharp blade into his brain.
    Death twitched the saboteur's finger, but the shot echoed harmlessly in
the
desert sand.
    For a moment I hung on with both hands to the top slat of the truck, my forehead pressed against the back of my knuckles. My knees suddenly felt very shaky. I'm fine in action, well-trained, never hesitant. But after it's all over, I always get a very shaky, nauseated feeling.
    In one way I'm very normal. I don't want to die. And each time there's the flood of relief that I got them and it wasn't the other way around. I took a deep breath and went back to my work. It was just routine now. The job was over.
    I retrieved my knife, wiped it clean, and returned it to its forearm sheath. Then I examined the Dutchman. I had hit him in that wild shooting charge down the hill, all right. The bullet had ranged along the right-hand rib cage. He had lost a lot of blood and it roust have been painful, but it was hardly a crippling wound.
    It didn't really matter, I thought to myself. What did matter was that he was dead and the job was over.
    There was nothing of importance on the Dutchman, but I transferred his wallet to my pocket. The boys in the lab might learn something interesting from it.
    Then I turned my attention to what was left of Hamid Raschid. I held my breath while I made a distasteful search of his clothes, but found nothing.
    I stood up, fished one of my gold-tipped filter cigarettes out of my bush jacket pocket and lit it, figuring out my next move. Just leave things as they were, I finally decided, inhaling the smoke gratefully despite the parched condition of my mouth and throat, I could send a
sadiki
crew back to pick up the truck and the two bodies once I returned to Dhahran.
    Raschid's red checked
kaffryeh
caught my eye and I kicked at it with the toe of my shoe, flipping it over in the sand. Something gleamed, and I leaned over to examine it more carefully.
    It was a long, thin metal tube, much like the sort of thing that expensive cigars are packed in. I took off the cap and peered at it. Looked like granulated sugar. Wetting the end of my little finger, I tasted the powder. Heroin.
    I replaced the cap and balanced the tube in my palm thoughtfully. About eight ounces. It had been, undoubtedly, Raschid's payoff from the Dutchman. Eight ounces of pure heroin could go a long way toward making an
emir
out of a' beggar in the Middle East. I stuck it in my hip pocket and wondered how many of those tubes the Arab had received in the past. I'd send it back to AXE. They could do what they wanted with it.
    I found Raschid's canteen in the front seat of the truck and drank it dry before tossing it aside. Then I climbed into the Jeep and headed back down the highway to Dhahran.
* * *
    Dhahran hung low on the horizon, a dark green silhouette about eight miles down the road. I pressed harder on the accelerator. Dhahran meant cold showers, clean clothes, a tall, cool brandy and soda.
    I licked dry lips with a parched tongue. A day or two more to get my reports in order and I'd be out of this hellhole. Back to the States. The fastest route would be by way of Cairo, Casablanca, the Azores, and finally, Washington.
    Not one of those cities would rank with the garden spots of the world, but I had plenty of time coming to me if David Hawk didn't have an assignment ready and waiting. He usually did, but if I took my vacation in bits and pieces all along the route home, there wouldn't be much he could do about it. I just had to make sure I didn't accept any telegrams or