The Second Saladin
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A second chance...
In the windswept sands of the Middle East, Paul Chardy fought side by side with Ulu Beg: one, a charismatic, high-strung CIA covert warrior, the other a ferocious freedom fighter. Then Chardy fell into the hands of the enemy, and Beg was betrayed. Now the two men are about to meet again.
A second gun...
Beg has come over the Mexican border under a hail of bullets--determined to assassinate a leading American political figure and avenge his people's betrayal. The CIA wants Chardy to stop the hit. Chardy wants to save Beg's life.
Between the two men is a tragic past, a failed mission, and a woman who knew them in war--and who knows their secrets now. Around both men is a conspiracy of lies and violence that reaches back to the Cold War. But as Beg moves in for his kill and as Chardy breaks loose from his handlers, a terrible truth begins to emerge: somewhere, someone wants both men to die.
alloy. If you wander into the wrong section, the sensors will pick you up and off go the alarms.” The prospect of alarms did not fill Miles with joy. He smiled weakly as he dipped to accept the new jewelry and turned to face a double set of doors, which opened with a lazy pneumatic gush to reveal another long corridor down which he now propelled himself. The walls were blank; he knew he walked the tunnel adjacent to the pit. Then at last he came to the entrance, which had not changed since his
dead on the slope, the brave American, dead on the slope, his men, his tribe, dead on the slope. But Jardi rose. He was not hit at all. He rose, sheathed in the dust he’d fallen through, and stood, one leg cocked insolently on a stone. A wind came and his jacket billowed. From down the slope they could hear Jardi cursing loudly, almost—the man was crazy—laughing. The tank turret swung to him again. But Ulu Beg saw that Jardi was close enough now and that the big gun would never reach him in
Hosepipe Nine. We copy.” “What’s that near?” Lanahan asked. “State Department. Lincoln Memorial. Watergate. Kennedy Center. It’s right in the middle of—” “Kennedy Center!” shrieked Miles. “It’s an Agency safe-house—the lower floor of the parking garage. You got a siren on this thing? Come on, hit it.” The siren began to wail and a portable flasher was clamped atop the sedan as it began to accelerate down M Street. “Come on, hurry,” Lanahan urged them again, and licked his lips out of fear.
“Tell him to kill the pig Ramirez who let my brother die in the desert.” “It’s done,” said Trewitt, spinning to race out. Ramirez! He was so charged with ideas he was shaking. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. “Okay,” he said, “I think we ought to bump something back to Ver Steeg. The hell with cables. I think we can call it in. Then we can open a link to Mexican Intelligence—I’m sure we have some guys in Mexico City who are in tight with them—and get a license to do some nosing around over
body. They hatch in odd places, Paul. They hatch in your lungs, in your toes, in your genitals, in your heart, in your brain. Paul, all those little insects in you, eating you up. All that corruption and filth spreading through your body, devouring you, absorbing you.” Her breasts. He tried to imagine their heft and weight, the size of the nipples. He concentrated desperately. “Paul, a little antibiotic and the problem is instantly taken care of. It’s just a pill, a shot, and modern medicine