Beirut Incident

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The wind was hot and dry on my face, parching my lips in the 130-degree Saudi Arabian heat. For the third time I brushed my fingers reassuringly across the searing butt of Wilhelmina, my 9mm Luger. If I ever caught up with Hamid Raschid and the Dutchman, I wanted to make sure she hadn't been jolted out of the spring-loaded shoulder holster I wore under my bush jacket. The potholes on that two-lane strip of macadam that twisted across the desert were teeth-rattling.

I gripped the wheel harder and pressed the little Jeep accelerator to the floor. Reluctantly, the speedometer needle edged up toward seventy.

The shimmering desert heat waves distorted my vision, but I knew that somewhere down the highway ahead of me was the big SAMOCO truck I was chasing.

Hamid Raschid was a cunning Saudi, small, dark, thin-boned, a homosexual. He was also a sadistic killer. I remembered the mutilated body of one of the oil line guards we had found in the desert just three days before.

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