Acts of War oc-4

by Tom Clancy

  "Where are you going?" Haveles asked.

  "To try and find out whether we stand a chance of getting out of here."

  FORTY-FOUR

  Tuesday, 2:53 p.m.,

  the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon

  Falah didn't understand it. He was running quickly. Yet as fast as he ran, following a jagged course through the foothills, the Kurds stayed with him. It was almost as if they had a spotter in the mountains, telling them where he was going. But that was unlikely. The tree cover was thick here and he was under it more than he was out of it. Still, somehow they were managing to stay within thirty to fifty yards of him.

  Finally, exhausted and curious, Falah stopped. He took off his sweat-soaked headdress, grabbed a stick, and found a patch of grass. Pitching a small tent with the fabric, he slid his head under it and pretended to settle in for a nap. Less than a minute later the Kurds arrived. They surrounded him in a wide circle, then tightened it slowly. He opened his eyes, sat up, and raised his hands.

  "Ala malak!" he shouted. "Slow down!"

  They kept coming, stomping through the low brush and moving around the trees. Only when the eight men were standing around him shoulder to shoulder, guns pointed down, did they stop.

  "What are you doing?" Falah asked. "What do you want?"

  One of the men told Falah to keep his hands behind him and rise slowly. He obeyed. He started to ask what they were doing. He was told to be quiet. He obeyed again. The man tied his hands together and slipped the other end of the rope around his throat. Then he patted Falah down. He removed his gun and passport and handed them to a soldier, who ran ahead. Then, with his faced pointed toward the sky, Falah was marched through the rocky foothills to the cave. As he was led up the dirt road he stepped as hard as he could. If Striker decided to move in, they might see his footprints and know where it was safe to walk.

  He was led past the van. As he walked by he noticed what he hadn't been able to tell from hiding. That the van was humming and lights were on inside. Either the commandos had been schooled enough in electronics to figure the computers out, which he doubted, or someone had talked under torture. In either case, he had a good idea how they'd been able to track him. He was glad he hadn't been able to send a voice message to Tel Nef. The van would have picked that up for sure. The short, coded burst he'd managed to get out might have slipped through the cracks. Even if it hadn't, it wouldn't mean anything to them.

  Falah was led into the cave.

  The young Israeli knew something about the groups that worked in this part of the world. The Palestinian groups Hamas and Hezbollah tended to set up shop in villages and on farms, where attacks against them would kill civilians. The Lebanese Freedom Front, devoted to the overthrow of Syrian rule in Lebanon, worked in small, mobile pockets. The PKK worked in somewhat larger groups, but they also tended to stay mobile. Straining to look straight ahead as he reached the cave, what Falah saw was not a mobile unit. There were sleeping quarters, electric lights, racks of weapons, and supplies. He also caught a quick glimpse of what they used to call "Satan's footsteps" in the Sayeret Ha'Druzim. The shallow pits that led from captivity directly to Hell, since no one ever came out of them alive. One thing Falah did not wonder was whether he'd be coming out of this cave alive. His Sayeret Ha'Druzim training didn't merely emphasize the positive. It demanded it.

  Still tied, Falah was led down a flight of stairs to what was clearly the group's command center. The finished quality of the room surprised him. These people were not expecting to be driven out. He wondered if this were where the Kurds hoped to make the heart of a new nation. Not in the eastern part of Turkey, where their nation had been located centuries before, but in the west. Down through Syria and Lebanon with access to the Mediterranean.

  There was a man seated at the desk reading documents. Another man was sitting behind him. He was squatting on a low stool, listening to a radio, and taking notes by hand. The man who had led Falah here saluted. The man at the desk returned his salute, then ignored Falah as he continued studying what looked like radio transcripts. After what seemed like two or three minutes, the man at the desk picked up Falah's passport. He opened it, studied it for a moment, then put it aside. He looked at the prisoner. A jagged red scar ran from the bridge of his nose to the center of his right cheek. His eyes were deathly pale.

  "Isayid Aram Tunas," said Commander Siriner. "Mr. Aram Tunas."

  "Aywa, akooya," Falah replied. "Yes, my brother."

  "Am I your brother?" Siriner asked.

  "Aywa," Falah answered. "We are both Kurds. "We are both freedom fighters."

  "Then that is why you came here," Siriner said. "To fight alongside us?"

  "Aywa," Falah replied. "I heard about the Ataturk Dam. There were rumors that the men behind it had come to a camp in the Bekaa. I thought I might seek them out and join their group."

  "I'm honored." Siriner picked up Falah's gun. "Where did you get this?"

  "It is mine, sir," Falah said proudly.

  "For how long has it been yours?"

  "I bought it on the black market in Semdinli two years ago," Falah replied. That was partly true. The weapon had been purchased on the black market two years before, though Faah hadn't been the one who bought it.

  Siriner put the gun back down. The radio operator put fresh transcriptions on Siriner's desk. The commander continued to look at Falah. "We detected someone in the foothills with a radio set," the commander said. "Did you happen to hear or see anyone?"

  "I saw no one, sir."

  "Why were you running?"

  "I, sir?" said Falah. "I wasn't running. I was at rest when your men surrounded me."

  "You were perspiring."

  "Because it was very hot," Falah said. "I prefer to travel when it's cool. Stupidly, I did not realize I was so near to my goal."

  Siriner regarded the captive. "So you wish to fight with us, Aram."

  "I do, sir. Very much."

  The commander glanced at the soldier standing beside Falah. "Cut him loose, Abdolah," he said.

  The soldier did as he was told. As soon as his head was free, Falah rolled it around. When his hands were loose, he flexed his fingers. Siriner pointed to Falah's gun. "Take it," he said.

  "Thank you," Falah said.

  "I have a great deal to do here," Siriner said. "If you serve under me, you will be required to follow orders without hesitation or question."

  "I understand," said Falah.

  "Tayib," Siriner said. "Fine. Abdolah, take him to the prisoners."

  "Yes, sir!" the soldier said.

  "Two of them are American soldiers, Aram," the commander said. "One man, one woman. I would like you to shoot them in the back of the head with your pistol. When you are finished, I'll have instructions as to the disposal of the bodies. Are there any questions?"

  "None, sir," Falah said. He looked at the pistol. Suddenly, he raised it. He aimed at the commander's head, and fired. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

  Siriner smiled. Falah felt a gun barrel pressed to the back of his neck.

  "We watched you from the American van," Siriner said. "It has a variety of electronic devices for watching one's enemies. We saw you run. We knew you were spying on us."

  Falah swore to himself. He'd seen the van there, the one the Americans were anxious to get back. He should have remembered it was operational. Those were the kinds of mistakes which cost lives. Including, it would seem, his own.

  "It's interesting, isn't it?" Siriner said. "Most spies would have gone so far as to commit the murders. You must be Druze or Bedouin. You have a more sensitive nature."

  Siriner was correct. Israeli operatives who went deep undercover for long periods of time had to do whatever it took to gain access. It was a sad but necessary sacrifice for the greater good. Druze and Bedouin reconnaissance agents and trackers did not work that way.

  Siriner smiled as he snatched the.44 from Falah. "Also, I sell these on the black market in Semdinli. Aram Tunas was a good custom
er of mine. You look nothing like him. You also think nothing like him. I only emptied one chamber so the gun would not seem to weigh less. You should have fired again."

  Falah felt like a fool. The man was correct. He should have fired again.

  Siriner looked at him a moment longer. "Would you mind telling me who Veeb is?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  Siriner reached down. He picked up Falah's radio, which had been sitting on the floor behind his desk. "Veeb. Whoever you were trying to contact with this."

  Falah had no idea what the man was talking about. But that didn't matter. If he said that, no one would believe him. So he didn't bother saying anything.

  "No matter," Siriner said as he called another man into the room. He handed the newcomer the.44. "Take this spy outside and execute him. See that his body is returned to the Israelis. Also, use the van to inform the Americans that the corpses of their people will follow if another rescue is attempted."

  With two guns pointed at the back of his head, Falah was led up the stairs. In the Sayeret Ha'Druzim he'd been trained to take out a gun pointed to his back. You turned clockwise if it were in the right hand, counterclockwise if it were in the left hand. You cocked the same-side elbow behind you, waist high. As you turned, you used your elbow to push the gun hand in the opposite direction. The turn left you facing your attacker with the gun pointing away from you.

  The maneuver worked even if your hands were tied. But it only worked with one gun. Siriner obviously knew it, which was why he had two guns trained on the prisoner. As he was led from the cave into the sunlight, Falah knew he had just one option. As soon as they were outside he'd try to "reap" the men. He'd drop to the ground, extend his leg back, and sweep it to the side. There was room for that out here, though Falah knew he probably wouldn't get both men before one was able to fire.

  While he had grown accustomed to living with death, he had never grown accustomed to failure. If he regretted anything, it was that. That and the fact that Sara, his, lovely Kiryat Shmonan bus driver, would never know what had happened to him. Even when the Israelis found his body — and they would; the Israelis will go to almost any length to recover the bodies of soldiers and spies — they wouldn't say anything about it. They couldn't admit he'd ever been in the Bekaa. Falah hated the idea that she might think he'd just left the village and her.

  The slanting, late-afternoon sun felt warm as Falah was marched into it. They stopped on the dirt road just outside the cave. A guard was stationed a few yards away, outside the van. He was holding a.38 at his side and watched the men dispassionately.

  Blessing his God and his parents, Falah was prepared to die as he had lived.

  Fighting.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Tuesday, 2:59 p.m.,

  Damascus, Syria

  The two Jeeps had sped up Straight Street toward Souk al-Bazuriye. As they approached, Mahmoud saw smoke rolling from windows on the southeast side of the palace. He smiled. To the northeast and southwest, Kurds were already taking up positions along the wall and firing at the police. Tourists and shoppers and Old City merchants were fleeing in every direction, adding to the chaos. The dozens of Kurds knew who their targets were. As far as the police were concerned, any one of the hundreds of people running, walking, or crawling by could be an enemy.

  Mahmoud stood in the passenger's seat. He wanted his people to see him, to see how proud he was. After decades of waiting, years of hoping, and months of planning, freedom was finally at hand. Listening to the Jeep radio he'd learned that even today, the dreaded Mukhabarat secret police had stopped suspected Kurdish rebels and searched them for arms. But the Kurds had hidden their weapons days before. Some of the firearms had been buried in the cemetery, while others had been placed in waterproof boxes in the river. Since late morning, the PKK fighters had stayed close to the weapons by posing as mourners or simply by lolling around the Barada. They didn't retrieve them until after the explosion that signaled the death of the tyrannical Syrian President and the start of a new era.

  Gunfire popped on all sides. Though Mahmoud and his infiltrators were supposed to have been right outside the palace when the attack began, he wasn't concerned. His people were fighting bravely and aggressively. Inside, loyal Akbar wouldn't have detonated the bomb unless he was sure he could at least get the President. Akbar was a Turkish officer who was Kurdish on his mother's side and secretly devoted to their cause. A suicide note left in his locker indicated that this was his way of avenging decades of genocide against the Kurds.

  Once Akbar made his move, the PKK man in the security office would have taken out any agents who had come with the foreign visitors. All that would remain for Mahmoud and his team to do was finish off any presidential security guards who were still alive and secure the palace.When that was done, Mahmoud would doff his Syrian disguise and notify Commander Siriner to come to Damascus. With Syria's forces gathered in the north along the Turkish border, and Iraq using the distraction to look longingly back at Kuwait, Kurds from three nations would make their way to the city. Many would be killed, but many would make it past the over-taxed military. Speaking in a voice tens of thousands strong, the Kurds would tell of the crimes of the Syrians, the Turks, and the Iraqis. With the eyes and ears of the world upon them, the Kurdish people would demand more than justice. They would demand a nation. Some countries would condemn the methods they'd used to get it. Yet from the time of the American Revolution through the birth of Israel, no nation had ever been born without violence. Ultimately, it was the justness of the cause and not the methods used to which other nations responded.

  Police jumped to the side of the road to let the Jeeps through. Officers saluted Mahmoud as he passed. The Syrian police probably thought he was standing up to give them hope and courage.

  Let them think that, Mahmoud thought. He was here to help in exactly the same way authorities had always helped his people, with murder and suppression.

  The Jeeps rolled up to the west side of the palace. Mahmoud jumped out, followed by his soldiers. The ten men seemed imperious, braving the gunfire as they walked toward the ornate iron fence. They were ushered through the gate by a guard who had been crouching behind a decorative, half-sized marble camel. The guard was a city employee and not part of the presidential security force.

  "What's going on?" Mahmoud asked as bullets chewed at the dark green grass around his feet. The Kurdish attackers knew who he was and wouldn't shoot him or his men.

  The guard hovered behind the camel as a bullet flew by. "There was an explosion," he said. "It came from the receiving room in the eastern wing."

  "Where was the President?"

  "We believe the President was in the room."

  "You believe?" barked Mahmoud.

  "We've not had word from inside since before the explosion," said the guard. "That was when one of the security guards radioed another to say that the President was leaving his quarters to attend a meeting."

  "One of the security guards radioed?" Mahmoud asked. "Not the President's personal guard?"

  "It was one of the palace police," the sentry said.

  Mahmoud was surprised. When the President moved anywhere, whether in the palace or the nation, all communications and security were handled by his own elite team. "Has an ambulance been sent for?"

  "I've heard nothing," said the guard.

  Mahmoud looked toward the palace. It had been over five minutes since the explosion. If the President had been hurt, his personal physician would have been sent for. He would have been here by now. Something was wrong.

  Waving his pistol for his men to follow, Mahmoud jogged quickly toward the palace entrance.

  FORTY-SIX

  Tuesday, 7:07 a.m.,

  Washington, D.C.

  Martha Mackall awoke with a start as her pager beeped. She looked at the number. It was Curt Hardaway.

  Martha had spent the night at Op-Center, napping in the spartan employee lounge. It had taken her until three a.m. to fall asleep. Martha
admitted it herself: When something annoyed her, she was like a dog with a bone. And having to turn Op-Center over to Paul Hood's evening counterpart, Curt Hardaway, annoyed her. Events overseas were just too delicate to leave to his ham-fisted ways. When he'd come on duty, Martha had gone so far as to consult Lowell Coffey's deputy assistant, Aideen Marley, about who had decision-making authority if something happened during the night. Whenever Paul Hood remained at his desk after his shift was over, he still outranked the night crew. But according to the charter, an acting director did not. Until 7:30 a.m., Op-Center belonged to Hardaway.

  Martha hoped that nothing had happened. Hardaway was a cousin and protege of CIA Director Larry Rachlin, and his appointment had been a necessary expedience. In order to keep Op-Center free of CIA influence, the President had wanted an outsider to run it. However, to appease the intelligence community, he was pressured to put in a veteran as Hood's backup. Though the Oklahoma-born Hardaway was an affable man with the intelligence skills necessary for the job, Martha found him to be uninspired and uninspiring. He also had a talent for speaking before thinking things through. Fortunately for Op-Center, the powerful Hood-Rodgers-Herbert triumvirate set very rigid policies during the day, and Hardaway had never been able to muck things up too badly.

  Martha picked up the phone on the end table beside the couch. She called Hardaway. He picked up immediately.

  "You'd better get on over," he said. "This mess is going to bleed into your shift."

  "I'm coming," she said, and hung up. Hardaway was as tactful as ever.

  The employee lounge was located near the Tank, a windowless conference room which sat within an electronic web. There wasn't a spy device on Earth that could hear what was discussed inside it. Turning left from the lounge and walking down the curving wall would have brought her past the Tank to the offices of Bob Herbert, Mike Rodgers, and Paul Hood in turn. Martha turned right. Walking briskly, she passed her own office, followed by the office of FBI and Interpol liaison Darrell McCaskey, Matt Stoll's computer area—"the orchestration pit," he called it — and the legal and environmental sections where Lowell Coffey and Phil Katzen worked. The psychological and medical divisions came next, followed by the radio room, the small Striker office for Brett August, and Ann Farris's two-person press department.