Lion, Tiger, Bear Brigadier McMaster had finally gotten his wish for a full-fledged training program back in England. The two men grabbed their rucksacks, ammo belts, and rifles from the back of the slow-moving cart; one Ml Garand, one Enfield carbine, cocked and ready. Dark blue plateau berets were donned, borrowed Portuguese uniforms creased and sharp. The four remaining nuns were women volunteers; a Portuguese, a Basque, and two Spanish. Bernie had chosen them personallyhandpicked, fit, trained well, all keen. Professionals from the Pyrenees. Bandits. Boinas in black. Over the wall, hissed Bernie quietly, opening his worn leather suitcase and removing his personal FBI standard-issue Thompson submachinegun from its tight fittings. He threw on an eight-magazine bandolier and inserted a stick clip into the action quietly. The two Brits pitched canvas-wrapped grappling hooks which caught on the reverse side; they scurried up and over in smart fashion, hushed boots to wall, landing on a monk tending to flowers and killing him, silently through the throat with their long triangular daggers. The gate cracked open. The women, equipped with rucksacks and sharp knives in their tall boots, stuck heavy .357 magnum Smith 8c Wesson revolvers each into their thick belts sewn with extra ammunition. Their silk scarves had a big knot tied in them, deadly garottes. Two well-dressed guards were dispatched in silence, their pistols falling to the stone floor as the women choked them with quick, determined strength. The women were dead silent. Black cats padding softly. Inside the luxuriously-decorated Moorish complex, one that Bernie thought may have been partly built millennia ago, he unfolded his three-nights-before-penned sketch of a map written on yellowed Marrakesh hotel stationary and stained with coffee. He quietly ordered: Just as we discussed last night. Most of the monks are out and about doing good deeds, I hope. One man, one woman, at each exit here…and here. Follow the colonnade to the main entrance, the big wood doors under the arch.They bolt everything, its that damn medieval craftsmanship, overdone. The locked cellar is directly below us. Set plastique, blow them, then stay low and enter guns blazing. Do it. Theyll have armed guards in the outer chambers that flank the inner, here and here. Hopefully their arrogance will be in our favor. Be damned quick about it. This fucking map cost me a lot ofmoney and favors. Better be on the level, he thought. Goddam Golden Square assholes… untrustworthy at best.