Drexler moved up close behind the stack of men and shouted out, startling the gunmen. “Rima Halaby! If you are down there, you need to come up now! You have no chance!”
Malik looked back angrily at Drexler, but then a voice called out. “I’m coming up! I am unarmed!”
Drexler spoke to Malik now. “You are not to harm her if she complies with your orders.”
Malik reluctantly relayed this order to his men, and they stepped back into the kitchen but kept their weapons high on the doorway.
When Halaby did not appear at the top of the stairs after thirty seconds, Drexler called to her again. A few seconds later she did appear, however, and she shut the door behind her. She was grabbed by a Syrian, spun around, and pushed roughly up to a wall. She was frisked by a second man, while the rest of the unit re-formed at the door, ready to descend.
Malik spoke to her in Arabic. “Anyone else down there other than Medina?”
Rima spoke with her face against the wall. “I wish to make a statement.”
All eyes turned to her. Drexler said, “You can say whatever you want once we have Bianca. Is she still locked in the back room on the right?”
Rima shrugged off the hands on her and turned to face all the men in the room. With a brave gaze she looked to Drexler. “You are Eric.”
“I am.”
“And Monsieur Voland told you where Bianca was being held?”
“Yes.”
“My husband. Is he dead?”
“I am sorry. He resisted.” He added, “He was brave, but foolish. Don’t be the same.”
She looked on the kitchen floor now. There, lying near a heavy wooden table, was the body of Firas, her nephew. He had been the man who opened fire on the commandos as they breached the door from the hearth room, and he’d killed one of them before he himself was shot to death.
Malik said, “No time for this. Let’s go.”
The veins in Rima’s throat pulsated, and her face reddened, but she kept her shoulders back and her head high. “We have failed . . . but so have you.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Drexler.
Rima said, “You won’t be returning to Syria with Bianca Medina. I killed her.”
“You what?” He turned and looked at Malik, then gave him a nod, urging him to go down the stairs with his team.
Malik instantly gave the order in Arabic to his team. The door was opened, and one by one they headed down the stairs in a tactical train, their weapons’ lights probing the darkness below. Malik himself joined the rear of the stack.
He’d advanced just a few steps down before he smelled smoke.
The breacher—the first man in the line—was already at the bottom of the stairs in the wine cellar. His voice crackled over the radio.
“I’ve got smoke pouring out of both doors at the back of the—”
Malik shouted down the stairs, ignoring the radio. “Get in there and get her out!”
By the time the Syrian commandos arrived at the door on the right, the smoke in the wine cellar was choking them. The breacher put his hand on the iron door latch. Even through his gloves he felt the searing heat. He fought the pain, urged on again by his leader shouting from behind, and opened the door.
Flames launched out into the fresh air of the wine cellar, nearly enveloping the men there. The inside of the bedroom was completely ablaze.
Malik shouted over the radio, “Put the fire out! Find the woman! That’s an order!”
But the door to the storeroom on the left burst open now, and flames roared out and traced along the wooden ceiling of the wine cellar, above the heads of all the men standing there. Fire spread in seconds to the wall tapestries and area rugs and licked across the wooden wine racks along the walls. None of the commandos had anything with which to put out a fire so large, and no one dared penetrate deeper into the room to enter the servant’s quarters where Medina was supposedly being held. Clearly large amounts of flammables had been ignited in both rooms, and the men knew if they did not evacuate instantly they could all be consumed by smoke and fire.
Despite the direct orders to recover the woman, the commandos began pulling back to the stairwell. Malik himself tried to push past them and into the room, but in seconds, he, too, turned around and ran for the stairs.
* * *
? ? ?
Sebastian Drexler stood at the top of the stairwell, saw the flames and the smoke, and listened to the frantic transmissions over his radio.
While the men downstairs fought the outright terror that came with the realization that they’d failed their mission to recover the Spanish woman, Drexler fought the urge to grin from ear to ear because he could not believe his good fortune. Turning around into the kitchen, he met the stare of Rima Halaby.
In French she said, “You wanted her dead, didn’t you?” she asked.
Drexler had no idea if the Syrian holding Rima up against the wall spoke French, so he maintained his cover by saying, “Of course not!”
“Voland told me you did.”
“Voland has misjudged everything, and it has led to your husband’s death. But I will see that you are not harmed, as long as you do as I say.”
Rima smiled. In Arabic she said, “What will Ahmed Azzam do to all of you now when he finds out you failed?”
Malik was the last man up the stairs, smoke pouring from his clothing and gear. One of the commandos slammed the door shut, cutting off flames that had already swept to the top of the stairwell.
Malik dropped to his knees, coughing and hacking for several seconds, but once he recovered, he stood and staggered over to Rima Halaby. He wrapped his hand around her throat. “What did you do?”
Drexler turned to him. “Malik!”
Rima looked into the eyes of the dark-haired commando leader. She laughed wildly. “I slit her throat in bed, poured turpentine on her body, and set it alight.”
Malik shook his head. “Liar! You don’t have the stomach for—”
“I’ve been a heart surgeon for almost thirty years! You think cutting living flesh is beyond my abilities? Are you a fool? I did her a favor. She’s better off dead than having to return to that monster you work for!”
The man at the door to the wine cellar called out across the kitchen. “Sir! There is a lot of wood in this farmhouse. That fire is going to spread. We have to get out of here!”
Malik put his hands in his curly hair now, on the verge of panic. Drexler could see that the man knew Medina’s death meant his own death, as well. He paced the room for a moment, in full view of his men.
Then he looked at Rima again.
Drexler sensed the thinking of the Syrian. He said, “We need Dr. Halaby. We take her back to Damascus. She is the one person who can corroborate the story of what happened to Medina.”
As Drexler watched, Malik brushed his slung submachine gun behind his back, drew his pistol, and stormed over to Rima. He jammed the barrel of the weapon between her breasts.
“Think, Malik!” Drexler shouted. “Don’t do it!”
Rima whispered, “I die a proud daughter of Syria.”
Malik fired once into Dr. Rima Halaby’s chest, knocking her back against the wall. She slid slowly down to the floor.
Drexler shook his head in frustration. He didn’t care anything about the woman, but the Swiss operative wanted her to confirm to Shakira that Bianca was dead.
Just then, smoke began pouring out through fissures in the wooden door.
Malik stood over the dead woman on the wooden floor as he said, “I want two men with hoses spraying water on the fire to slow it. The rest of you, check upstairs for anything of intelligence value. You have fifteen minutes until exfiltration.” His men began following his orders, although it was clear they would all rather get the hell out of the burning building.
Drexler stood nearby and was still nearly euphoric about his good fortune, but he did his best to feign the same worry that Malik felt. He said, “You really think it will help to get intelligence on the FSEU?”
Malik shook his head. Softly to Drexler he said, “Not really. I think Azzam will have us all shot because Medina is dead. But I don’t want my men to know this, so I’ll give them some hope.”