Sahara (Dirk Pitt 11)

There was a stunned silence in the room. Kazim was in shock. As a virtual dictator for over a decade, his mind refused to accept insubordinate and contemptuous treatment. He was so used to p

eople quivering before him, he did riot know how to immediately react at being physically subdued. His breathing came quickly, his mouth a taut white line, his dark face crimson with anger. Only the eyes remained black and cold and empty.

Slowly, deliberately, he eased a gun from a holster at his side. An older automatic, Pitt observed with remote detachment, a 9-millimeter Beretta NATO model 92SB. Unhurriedly Kazim thumbed down one side of the ambidextrous safety and aimed the muzzle at Pitt. An icy smile curled beneath the heavy moustache.

Pitt flicked a side-glance at Giordino and noted that his friend was tensed to leap at Kazim. Then his gaze locked on Kazim's grip on the automatic, waiting for the slightest tightening of the hand, the tiniest flexing of the trigger finger, bracing his knees to dodge to his right. This could have been an opportunity for an escape attempt, but Pitt knew he had lost any advantage by pushing Kazim too far. His death would be slow and deliberate. It stood to reason Kazim was a good shot, and he would not miss at that close range. Pitt knew he might move fast enough to duck the first shot, but Kazim would quickly adjust his aim and shoot to maim, first one kneecap, then the next. The General's evil eyes did not reflect a quick kill.

Then, half an instant away from when the room would explode in gunfire and convulsive bodies, Massarde made a flourish in the air with his hand and spoke in a commanding voice.

"If you please, General, conduct your execution elsewhere, certainly not in my party room."

"This tall one is going to die," Kazim hissed, the black eyes gazing at Pitt.

"All in due time, my good comrade," said Massarde while casually pouring himself another cognac. "Do me the courtesy of refraining from bloodying up my rare Nazlini Navajo rug."

"I'll buy you a new one," Kazim growled.

"Did you consider the fact he might want a fast and easy way out? It's obvious he baited you, choosing a fast death rather than suffering the agony of long, drawn-out torture."

Very slowly the pistol dropped, and Kazim's deathly smile turned wolfish. "You read him. You knew exactly what he was about."

Massarde gave a Gallic shrug. "The Americans call it street smarts. These men have something to hide, something vital. We both might benefit if they could be persuaded to talk."

Kazim pushed himself from the chair, approached Giordino, and raised the automatic again, this time shoving the Berettas barrel against Giordino's right ear.

"Let's see if you are more talkative than you were on your boat."

Giordino didn't flinch. "What boat?" he asked, his tone as innocent as a priest at confession.

"The one you abandoned minutes before it blew up."

"Oh, that boat."

"What was your mission? Why did you come up the Niger to Mali?"

"We were researching the migratory habits of the fuzzwort fish by following a school of the slimy little devils upriver to their spawning grounds."

"And the weapons aboard your boat?"

"Weapons, weapons?" Giordino made a downward turn of his lips and raised his shoulders in ignorance. "We ain't got no weapons."

"Have you forgotten your run-in with the Benin naval patrol boats?"

Giordino shook his head. "Sorry, it doesn't ring a bell."

"A few hours in the interrogation chambers of my headquarters in Bamako might jog your memory."

"Not a healthy climate for uncooperative foreigners I assure you," said Massarde.

"Stop conning the man," said Pitt, looking at Giordino. "Tell him the truth."

Giordino turned and stared blankly at Pitt. "Are you crazy!"

"Maybe you can stand torture. I can't. The thought of pain makes me ill. If you won't tell General Kazim what he wants to know, I will."

"Your friend is a sensible man," said Kazim. "You would be wise to listen to him."

Just for a second Giordino's blank look slipped, then it was back again, only this time it was beaming with anger. "You dirty scum. You traitor--"