An excerpt from Embassy Down
© 1999 Mark Seymour

Embassy Down

Undressing inside the old barracks, Mackenzie had wondered how her hands'd feel on him. Rolling into bed and turning out the light, he'd wondered how she'd feel, smooth and warm beneath his hands. Punching pillows and fiddling with covers before drifting off, his dreams were mixed, unpleasant ones of his past disturbing pleasant ones of Pascaline; in one, they were lying in the desert when the dry wind off the erg died, replaced by a sodden gale from the Caribbean. In the distance, the howling Ton Ton Macoute coming closer, armed with machine guns and machetes, their screams becoming more terrifying when replaced by...

...silence. Mackenzie's eyes opened, heart pounding in his chest, and the nightmare slid away. Lying in the dark, muscles rigid with the memory of Cap-Haïtien, he realized he was safe in his own bed, awaiting a beautiful woman's arrival, not curled in the mud awaiting a burst of automatic fire. Checking his watch, he found he had four hours to sleep before he heard her knock on the door, before he heard...

...another burst, M16 by the sound of it, echoing across the compound. Suddenly he was pressed against the wall of his billet, knees and elbows stinging where they'd grazed the concrete floor, hoping it was still part of the dream, hoping to wake to her knock and the sound of her voice, not...

...an answering burst, AK47 this time, then more, coming closer. Knowing how he'd take the embassy, Mackenzie thought the building would be searched well behind the four floors and basement of the chancery. Knowing it was better to be taken clothed, he lurched across the floor to the chest. Awaiting the thud of boots and the lock splintering, the flash and blast and the whang of ricochets off the stone walls, he hurriedly struggled into a shirt and trousers, then scrabbled under the bed for boots. There was still firing outside, but all he could hear in his head was the little girl's grating voice from that horror movie: they're here...

...

Waiting was the hard part; Mackenzie wasn't sure whether to take his chances in the open, or risk a random burst by staying. After the firing died down nothing happened, just shouts in Arabic echoing across the compound, but from within the room, with its windows facing into the courtyard, there was no way to know what was going on. Finally, hearing nothing, he crept to the chest and eased his box of secrets out of the drawer. The plastic bag from his trash can scarcely rustled as he knotted the box carefully inside, praying there were no holes. Prepared an excuse, Mackenzie unzipped his pants on the way into the toilet. The bag afloat inside the cistern, he gritted the lid back into place. With his past safely secured, he zipped up and ventured into his dangerous future.

Dropping down by the front door, he listened intently, then turned the knob, its parts squeaked from sand blown by the storms. As the crack widened, he peered out. Nothing to the right. He opened it another inch. Nothing straight ahead, toward the chancery and the garden. The iron hinges groaning, he eased the door open and checked to the left. Nothing except... The muzzle of the rifle was at eye level and a voice spoke, in unfamiliar English, from the darkness beyond. "Please come out, hands past head."

It was never like it was in the movies. Standing slowly, Mackenzie eased the door open. As he stepped through the doorway a dark-haired man backed away; perhaps he'd seen the same movies. "What now?"

"Mackenzie goes to embassy." He closed his eyes, hiding the shock; if they knew his name, this was no 'I-know-let's-take-the-American-embassy' stunt by university students. This was a professional job, which meant plans and a political agenda. As he opened his eyes, the man gestured with the barrel. "Now, please. That way."

'That way' turned out to be through the side door, up the back stairs, and down the hall to the ballroom. En route there were few signs of struggle and no blood trails, which was good. At the stairs to the basement, however, he'd heard heavy pounding sounds; that was bad. His escort had followed far enough away to prevent any heroics. Reaching the heavy doors, the man motioned for Mackenzie to open them. That revealed the diplomats, officially hostages now, cowering on a line of chairs. Frantically searching the faces, Mackenzie caught a glimpse of a terrified Leclerc; heart pounding with relief, he stepped through, urged on by the gunman.

A man turned, and Mackenzie thought he recognized him. "Ah, come in, come in!" He Who Speaks smiled. "Glad you could join us, Mister Mackenzie."

Mackenzie nodded, certain now. "Mister Shaban." He shot a hard look at Lawyer.

"You recognize me so easily?" He Who Speaks shook his head. "Truly, I must work on my disguises."

Mackenzie shrugged. "It's the voice."

He Who Speaks nodded. "The hardest thing to change." He understood the question in Mackenzie's glance down the line. "The two gentlemen from your CIA are unable to be with us. Mister Reed will be along shortly, once we are able to unlock his hiding place." He Who Speaks smiled briefly, then his face hardened. "Mister Jones, I regret to report, is very dead."

The ambassador stood, a proud lady from Texas still. "I protest this invasion of the sovereign territory of the United States, the killing of my staff, the..."

Indicating her with his chin, He Who Speaks addressed a tough-faced man. "Asfal." After the spluttering Phillips was roughly reseated, He Who Speaks surveyed the chairs, face stiff, voice harsh. "You can longer demand anything, any of you. Your very existence is now at the pleasure of the Mahdi. Until the embassy is secured..." He cocked his head toward the pounding, felt more than heard, behind the double doors. "...completely secured, you will remain seated. You will not speak. You will not stand. If you do, they will shoot." An odd smile flicked across his face. "They will shoot you, believe me." He stared at the captured Marines. "They have dead friends, and long memories."

Turning on his heel, He Who Speaks pushed open the doors, but Mackenzie figured him for the big exit. Proving him right, He Who Speaks suddenly turned, a chilling smile back on his face. "I suggest you get comfortable. You may be here for awhile." Then he was gone.

In the brittle silence, Mackenzie checked the others. On the far end was Mrs. Phillips, looking as if she was ready to either cry or skin someone alive. Next to the ambassador, with her robe pulled tight and bare feet evidence they'd rousted her out of bed, Pascaline looked unharmed. Beside her Fred Wells, the ambassador's driver, with bruises on his cheek. Lawyer was next, flanked by a frightened Woburn, then three Marines: Carlson, the sergeant, shot in the side but patched up by someone competent; Corporal Alvarez, face buried in her hands, silently weeping; and Tessay, a lance corporal. To Mackenzie's left two more: PFCs Davies and Peaches; the sweetly-named Nelson Peaches was, like his friend Tessay, an Apache off a reservation in New Mexico. Beyond Peaches a single empty chair, then a dark-haired, dark-skinned man Mackenzie didn't recognize.

Missing were Reed and Jones, whose whereabouts he knew, Staff Sergeant Bradley the NCOIC, and three Marines from the night detachment. Given the lineup so carefully prepared by He Who Speaks, Mackenzie assumed that meant there were five dead, maybe more, nearly all of them Marines.

 

By dawn things seemed less hopeless, though the diplomats were still forced to sit in a long line, not able to communicate with each other. At first light a terrorist they hadn't seen before brought water, each of them getting a cupful from a plastic jerrican. After a muttered conversation among their captors, too fast and idiomatic to follow, the hostages were allowed to use a toilet down the hall. Going first, the dark man Mackenzie didn't recognize panicked a bit, as if they were taking him out to be executed. The look on his face when they brought him back reassured the rest of the line; by the time Mackenzie got back, nodding at Corporal Tessay's dark-eyed gaze as they passed in the doorway, one of the guards, called Ahmed by his buddies, was cleaning and rebandaging Carlson. Though a nasty through-and-through wound at the side of the abdomen, the bullet seemed to have missed organs and arteries, and Mackenzie thought he might survive.

After a meager meal, two men brought Monroe Reed into the room. Dragged him in, actually, each with one of his arms over their neck; Reed was clearly in no shape to walk, his legs churning feebly under him and his head, swollen and purple, lolling on their shoulders. The hostages stiffened in their chairs, but only Alvarez leapt to her feet. Several of the guards aimed their rifles, but eased off at a barked command from someone near the windows. As they let Reed slip to the floor Alvarez moved to his side and knelt down, feeling for broken bones. Ahmed, the apparent medic, dragged over the plastic jerrican and began to pull away his blood-soaked clothing. Reed had his eyes closed, breathing heavily, and Mackenzie wasn't sure if he was conscious. But as Alvarez dabbed a wet cloth across Reed's forehead, searching for a wound, he opened his eyes. He seemed uncertain of where he was, glancing from her face to Ahmed's, but then smiled. "Hello, gorgeous."

Whispering, Alvarez stroked his face as she would a sick child. "You should rest."

"What?" Reed cocked his head. "I can't hear you."

"You need to be quiet."

Reed chuckled. "Quiet?" Alvarez nodded. "All I hear are those damn hammers."

"Hammers?" Alvarez wrinkled her eyebrows. "What hammers?"

"Enough." The voice from behind moved closer to them. "Shut up, fix him."

Pushing Alvarez aside, Ahmed bent over Reed. "Naam, Raki." A quick look revealed 'Rocky' as the sonofabitch who'd manhandled the ambassador; that was a face Mackenzie'd remember for later.

Reed was finally able to sit up, if woozily, and putting him into the empty chair took Alvarez and Ahmed plus Mackenzie and the stranger from the end of the row. Groaning once when they set him down, Reed forced himself upright, slumping against Mackenzie.

"You all right?"

Reed nodded; when there was no reaction from the guards, he squeezed out syllables between painful breaths. "They... know... about... us."

"Langley?"

Reed only nodded before the doors opened and He Who Speaks came in. "Ah, Mister Reed... At last you're here." His smile was brittle. "We missed your company." He chuckled at the pun. "Your company..." Turning, he faced the group. "Now you are all here, we can begin." His smile vanished. "As guests of the Mahdi, you are protected by the Qur'an. Under those laws, women are not ambassadors. Therefore you, I believe..." A finger pointed at a shaken Charles Lawyer. "...are the senior man present. You may address me as He Who Speaks for the Mahdi, as I have been chosen to speak for the Mahdi in his absence. These men, with many more you do not see, are members of the Faithful of the Mahdi." He glared at Lawyer. "Stand when addressing me. Do you understand?"

Lawyer's voice quavered. "Yes, sir."

"Stand when you address me!" His voice thundered off the windows.

Standing, Lawyer nodded. "Yes, sir."

Striding close, He Who Speaks smacked the DCM across the face. "You will not speak until I permit you to address me!"

Half spun around, Lawyer opened his mouth to answer, seemed at first to think better of it, but, taking a big breath, continued. "He Who Speaks for the Mahdi, I demand that you and your terrorists put down your arms, leave the embassy, and surrender to the appropriate authorities immediately."

He Who Speaks began to laugh. "Mister Lawyer, you are aptly named."

"I also demand..."

He Who Speaks put up a hand, and Lawyer stopped. "You grow tiresome. That is a dangerous thing, just now." His smile made the blood run cold. "Sit down." Lawyer sat.

Mackenzie raised his hand. When He Who Speaks nodded he stood up, speaking softly and carefully. "He Who Speaks for the Mahdi, why have you taken us hostage?"

"You are not hostages." He Who Speaks smiled. "You are guests of the Mahdi."

Now Mackenzie knew better what sort of psychopath he was: the intelligent and well-spoken but scary kind. "As guests of the Mahdi, when might we meet with him?"

He Who Speaks shook his head. "You speak as if you are of any concern to the Mahdi. You are not." Smile fading, he pointed and Mackenzie sat down. "You are guests because it is his pleasure that you be so. You will meet with him when, and if, it pleases him. Until then, you will speak with me."

"When can we get some clothes?"

Fearing the worst, Mackenzie winced at Leclerc's question. But He Who Speaks merely shook his head, turning to Lawyer. "Make up a list of items your people require. Indicate exactly where they can be found in their quarters, and the Faithful will find them." He glared at Lawyer. "This must wait, of course, until our security precautions are completed. Your people will have to make do until much later, I suspect." He glanced down the line. "Any questions?" Though there were none now, Mackenzie knew they'd eventually spill out; whether there'd be any answers was a different matter.

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