Thriller: Stories to Keep You Up All Night

Raely

Raely

Hillhouse loves cold war intrigue, but has recently been fascinated by how the war on terror has transformed modern espionage, adding new players, while decreasing the role of traditional ones. Her debut, Rift Zone, a cold war thriller, received widespread critical acclaim. Her next thriller, Outsourced, deals with a Pentagon operative who infiltrates a for-profit, private military corporation suspected of selling seized arms to terrorists. He becomes a target in the multi-billion-dollar war on terror, and the only one he can trust is his ex-fiancee. Unfortunately, she's been hired to kill him.

While researching Outsourced, Hillhouse came across a little-known event that kept nagging at her. She knew her main character, Stella, had somehow been involved in an incident that marked the first time the United States was targeted by fundamental Islamic terrorists. Two weeks after American hostages were seized in Iran in 1979, the U.S. embassy in Pakistan was overrun by Islamic extremists, razed, and two Americans and two foreign nationals lost their lives. This all-but-forgotten incident was actually a key event in the origins of modern terrorism, and was pivotal for Stella, whose life would become entangled in the complex struggle.

DIPLOMATIC CONSTRAINTS

Islamabad, Islamic Republic of Pakistan November 21, 1979

Khan heard the muezzin wail from the loudspeakers, calling the faithful to midday prayers, and he pedaled faster. Students streamed into the mosques. He counted a dozen men wearing the same dark green sweater vests, and smiled. The wardens had received their uniforms; after prayers, the weapons would be distributed. He wished he could personally give them their final instructions, but knew he was taking a risk being seen on the campus. But he couldn't deny himself prayers with his brothers. Not today. Not on the biggest day of his life. Khan jumped from the bicycle ru

Inside the American embassy compound, a waiting room afforded Stella not only a panorama of cows grazing on dry scrub, but also a view of the main gate. Several dozen young men loitered in the tree-lined street, apparently oblivious to the news of the siege in Mecca and the rumors that the U.S. and Israel were behind the capture of Islam's holiest site. She hoped that the pastoral scene didn't change after midday prayers.

The windowpane appeared too thin to be bulletproof and would shatter with the first brick. Either embassy architects hadn't given much thought to security or their local contractor had cheaper ideas. The antishatter laminate had small bubbles under the film. She couldn't get the hostages in Tehran out of her mind as her fingernail scraped at one corner of the laminate; it easily separated from the glass.

A man strolled over to her. He was taller than she had first guessed, someone used to concealing his height. Clean-cut, athletic build and a burn scar on his left forearm-a soldier or spy. He, too, was waiting on the CIA's deputy chief of station, so she guessed spook.

"Strange-looking critters, aren't they?" He pointed to the red, humpbacked cows and water buffalo. "You don't see Sahiwals back home. I knew an old boy in the Panhandle who tried to beat the drought with them. They're lean. Made some of the toughest steaks you ever ate."

"I'm a vegetarian."

"I'm Congressman Tom Rack." He extended his hand and looked her over as if admiring a prize heifer.

"Stella." She turned back toward the street. The number of people had grown to over one hundred and more were arriving every minute. Some carried signs, but kept them at their feet, turned away so she couldn't read them.

They're waiting for something.

Bernie Thompson walked into the waiting room and greeted Stella.

"Great to see you," Stella said, "but we'll have to make it another time. I want out of here before that crowd starts up. I don't want to get caught in a situation like Tehran."

"Welch and I just got back from driving around looking for demonstrations and everything was quiet."

"Take another look."

A half-dozen Punjab Transport Corporation buses pulled up. Passengers were smashed against the fogged windows. "I have to fire off a cable, but we need to talk," Thompson said. "Give me two minutes. Only two minutes."

The masses swelled around Khan, crunching every centimeter of space. Each breath was a struggle, but he kept shouting as loudly as he could, "Death to the American dogs." He shook his clenched fist in beat with the crowd, their anger pounding the embassy walls. "Death to the Americans." The words became a mantra, and thoughts of his mission, thoughts of his family, thoughts of everything, fell away. "Death to the Americans." Khan had only one thought. He and the mob were one.

Death to Americans.

"Death to America," he said, gasping. The multitude began to move, sweeping him along. He shuffled ahead, unable to see where he was going but sure he was moving toward the embassy, toward the Americans. As they passed through the gate, bodies squeezed tighter, pressing harder and harder, crushing against his chest. He struggled for breath but still he mouthed, "Death to America."

The furnishings in Thompson's office were American, although the workmanship was definitely local. Stella had long ago noticed that drywall wasn't a strength of Third World craftsmen who were accustomed to the single-wall construction of the tropics. Several blotches of spackle showed through the thin white paint, and in one corner the drywall didn't quite reach the ceiling. Thompson sat at his desk, but Stella stood and kept an eye on the uneasy streets below. She realized that she'd seen several men wearing hunter-green sweater vests. When she took a closer look, she saw one key a walkie-talkie. "Bernie, they've got a command-and-control structure. I'm out of here."

Thompson's phone rang. "Hold on a minute. Let me check the back gate for you," he answered, then paused. "That many. What about the service gate?" His face hardened, as if the muscles were assuming their own battle stations. "Send a man to the roof. I want to know what we're facing."

"Bernie-" Stella approached his desk, holding up a hand. "Some are carrying Enfields." The turn-of-the-century single-bolt action rifles had helped hold the British Empire together and they remained a powerful symbol among former subjects. In the right hands, they were highly accurate.

Thompson continued, "You copy that, Gu

They studied the swelling masses. So far, everyone remained behind the metal-piping barricade surrounding the compound. The crowd was focused upon a commotion at the gate, but two women seemed to be looking straight at them. Suddenly, one stepped aside. Metal glistened in the sun, and Stella understood.