Clancy, Tom - Op Center 04 - Acts Of War

by Acts Of War [lit]

  Lying with his cheek on the cold tile, Mahmoud listened as the gunfire died along with his troops. Unhurt in the latest fusillade, he left his eyes open just a crack. He stared across the floor covered with shattered crystal and broken bodies. He watched as a face appeared in each of the wall-openings. The bottom of their kaffiyehs had been pulled across the nose and mouth of each man. Mahmoud had suspected that these were not the President's elite bodyguard. Now he was certain. These men did not wish to be identified. Also, the President's bodyguards didn't shoot to kill. They used gas to debilitate foes so they could capture and torture them. The Syrian President liked to know about possible conspiracies and his inquisitors couldn't question a dead man. Finally, these men had shot blindly into a room containing the holy mahmal. No Muslim would have dared commit such sacrilege.

  No, these men were not Syrians. Mahmoud suspected that they were Mista'aravim, Israelis who masqueraded as Syrians.

  Mahmoud's gun was lying beside him in the dark. He picked it up. He could still help to make the goal a reality. His fingers tensed around the butt. His index finger slid through the trigger guard. There were still Syrian Kurds in the building and they were fighting on. So would he.

  The men strode into the reception room. One man remained behind to watch the corridor while the others fanned out. Two men moved along the northern wall, two along the southern wall. They were all walking toward him as they peered through the dark, quickly checking the bodies as they made their way to the rear wall. They seemed to be looking for someone.

  Mahmoud was dizzy from the loss of blood, but he fought to stay alert. The men were about twenty feet away. The two walking along the southern wall were making toward an alcove in the rear. The men moving along the northern wall passed a pair of ottomans. The backs of the divans had been splintered by their rifle fire. There were two small cedars in ceramic planters, one on either side of the ottomans. The trees had been chewed nearly in half.

  Suddenly, something stirred behind the farthest tree.

  "'Watch out!" a voice cried in Syrian.

  The voice was drowned out as Mahmoud opened fire on the two men near the planters. He put two rounds into the leg of the man nearest him. Then he shot at the second man, who fell, a bullet in his thigh. But as Mahmoud turned to fire at the men on the other side of the room, a dark form descended on him. A strong hand pinned Mahmoud's gun hand to the floor while a fist struck his jaw.

  "Get back!" a different voice yelled.

  The dark form jumped away. Mahmoud saw two rifles swing toward him. A moment later a shower of 9mm shells ripped into his body. His eyes closed reflexively as bullets punched his right shoulder, his back, his neck, his jaw, and his side. But there was no pain. When the shooting ended there was no sensation of any kind. Mahmoud was unable to move or breathe or even open his eyes.

  Allah, I've failed, he thought as he was overcome by sadness. But then consciousness gave way to oblivion and failure, like success, no longer mattered.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Tuesday, 3:51 p.m.,

  Damascus, Syria

  Warner Bicking rose. He held up his hands, one of which was bloodied from the punch he'd delivered to the Kurd's prominent jaw.

  "I'm on your side," Bicking said in Syrian. "Do you understand?"

  A short man with a high, scarred forehead hoisted his rifle into his armpit. As he walked toward Bicking, he motioned for his companion, a giant of a man, to go to the others. Bicking stole a glance to the right as the big man effortlessly picked up one of the men who'd been shot in the leg. He tossed the man over his shoulder, then lifted up the second.

  "I'm an American," Bicking went on, "and these men are my colleagues." He cocked his head toward the planter, where Haveles and Nasr had also sought refuge. They rose.

  The man standing watch at the door turned suddenly. "People are coming!"

  The short man looked at his big companion. "Can you manage?"

  The giant nodded as he shifted the weight of the man on his right shoulder. Then he held his rifle so it was pointing straight ahead, between the man's legs.

  The short man turned to Bicking. "Come with us."

  "Who are you people?" Haveles asked. The ambassador stepped forward unsteadily. He reminded Bicking of a car-crash victim who was in glassy-eyed shock but still insisted that he was okay.

  "We were sent to collect you," the short man said. "You must come now or remain here."

  "The representatives of Japan and Russia are in the room as well," Haveles said. "They're in the alcove over---"

  "Only you," the short man said. He turned toward the door and motioned to the man standing who was there. The man nodded and headed left down the corridor. The short man turned back. "Now!"

  Bicking took the ambassador by the arm. "Let's go. The palace guard will have to handle the rest of this."

  "No," said Haveles. "I'll stay with the others."

  "Mr. Ambassador, there's still fighting---"

  "I'll stay," he insisted.

  Bicking saw that there was no point arguing. "All right," he said. "We'll see you later at the embassy."

  Haveles turned and took stiff, mechanical steps toward the dark alcove which doubled as a bar area. He joined the other men who had sought safety in the shadows.

  The big man headed to the door, followed by the smaller man.

  "Our train is pulling out," Nasr said as he walked past Bicking.

  Bicking nodded and joined him.

  The man who'd gone down the hall returned with Paul Hood. Hood handed the videotapes to the short man, and the group started down the hall. Two of the masked men were in front and the giant was in the rear.

  "Where are the ambassadors?" Hood asked. "Is everyone all right?"

  Bicking nodded. He glanced at his red knuckles. He hadn't punched anyone in six years. "Almost everyone," he said, thinking about the Kurd.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The Kurds are all dead and Ambassador Haveles is slightly shaken up," Bicking said. "But he decided to stay. Our escorts here were pretty specific about who they were willing to take."

  "Only our group," Hood said.

  "Right."

  "And it probably cost Bob Herbert a lot of chits to get that."

  "I'm sure," Bicking said. "Well, diplomatically, it's probably the smart thing for the ambassador to have done. There'd be a major international shitstorm if a rescue attempt favored Washington. Not that Japan or Russia would spit on an American diplomat if he were burning."

  "You're wrong," Hood said. "I think they would."

  The men continued down the corridor to a gold door. It was locked. The man in front shot off the knob and kicked the door in. They entered, the man in the rear closed the door, and the man in front turned on a flashlight. The group proceeded quickly through a grand ballroom. Even in the near-dark Bicking could feel the weight of the gold drapes, smell their long history.

  There was a sudden clattering of boots outside the door. The three men of the Mista'aravim froze, their weapons turned toward the hallway. The flashlight was doused and the short man hurried back to the gold door.

  "Continue straight ahead and wait by the kitchen," the giant man whispered to Hood, Nasi, and Bicking.

  They did as they were told. As they walked, Hood looked back. The small man peeked through the hole where the knob used to be. When no one entered, the masked men rejoined them.

  The small man said something to the others in Syrian.

  "Presidential guards," Bicking translated for Hood as they ran through the enormous kitchen.

  "Then this whole thing was a kabuki, as the ambassador suggested," said Nasr. He pushed back his wavy gray hair, which had become disheveled in the excitement. It immediately fell back over his forehead.

  "What do you mean?" asked Hood.

  "The Syrian President expected this to happen," Nasr said, "just as Ambassador Haveles predicted. He allowed his stand-in and the foreign ambassadors to take the heart of the attack, protected
only by palace guards---"

  "Who are like museum or bank security personnel in the U.S.," Bicking interjected. "They're trained for one-on-one response. If there's big trouble they have to call for help."

  "Correct," said Nasr. "When the President was certain the Kurds had sent in the bulk of their force, he had his elite guards close the door on them."

  "The President uses other nations as a buffer against his enemies," Bicking said. "He uses Lebanon to throw terrorists against Israel, Greece to fight Turkey, and helps Iran to create trouble around the world. We should have been prepared for him to do the same with people."

  The sounds of gunfire increased. Hood imagined phalanxes of well-armed soldiers moving through the corridors, gunning down any and all opposition. Though wounded Kurds would be captured, he couldn't imagine any of them surrendering. Most would find death preferable to incarceration.

  The men stopped at another door. The short leader told the others to wait. After withdrawing a small slab of C-4 from his pocket along with a timed detonator, he opened the door and exited. These people might not be the most personable men Bicking had ever met, but he was impressed by how prepared they were.

  "Is Ambassador Haveles going to be safe?" Hood asked.

  "That's difficult to say," Nasr admitted. "Whatever happens is a win-win situation for the Syrian President. If Haveles dies, it's the Kurds' fault and the U.S. declines to support them in the future. If he lives, then the elite guards are heroes and the President gets concessions from the U.S."

  The short man returned and motioned the others ahead. The group passed through a large pantry to a door which led to a small outdoor garden. It was surrounded by a ten-foot-high stone fence with a ten-foot-high iron gate at the south end. They walked along a slate path through an immaculately manicured waist-high hedge. When they reached the end of the path, the short man stopped them. They waited some twenty feet from the gate. A moment later the lock exploded, blowing a hole in the gate and in the fence. Almost at once, a large truck with a canvas back pulled up to the curb. The short man ran ahead of the others.

  The street was free of pedestrians. Either the fighting or the local police had chased them away. The street was also clear of news crews, which could not go anywhere without the government's consent. Though as Bicking thought about it, he realized that the government might have sent undercover operatives to the scene. That was probably why the group had taken the long way around. The men didn't want to be photographed.

  The short man pulled the rear flap to one side. Then he motioned to the men at the gate.

  As the men approached the truck, they were struck by the strong smell of fish. But that didn't stop them from boarding. Hood, Bicking, and Nasr climbed in first. They helped the giant man carry on his two wounded companions. Then the rest of the team got in. The wounded men lay on empty canvas sacks, while the other men sat on greasy wooden barrels which lined the back. In less than a minute the truck was on its way, headed southeast toward Straight Street. Turning left, the driver sped past the sixteen hundred year-old Roman Arch and the Church of the Virgin Mary. Straight Street became Bab Sharqi Street, and the truck continued northeast.

  Nasr peeked out the back flap of the truck. "As I expected," said Nasr.

  "What?" asked Hood.

  Nasr shut the flap and leaned close to Hood. "We're avoiding the Jewish Quarter."

  "I don't understand," Hood said. "What does that mean?"

  Nasr bent even closer. "That we are almost certainly in the hands of the Mista'aravim. They would never operate out of that section of the city. If they were ever found out, the repercussions against the Jewish population would be severe."

  Bicking had also leaned toward Hood. "And I'll bet everything I own that there's more than fish in these barrels. There's probably enough firepower in this truck to wage a small war."

  The truck slowed as it made its way through the very narrow and twisted paths. Tall, white houses hung over the road at irregular distances and angles, their once-white walls burned an unhealthy yellow by the sun. Low dormers and even lower clotheslines rubbed the canvas top of the truck, while bicyclists and compact cars moved at their own unhurried pace and made it even more difficult to maneuver.

  Eventually, the truck pulled into a dark, dead-end alley. The men got out and walked over to a wooden door on the driver's side of the alley. They were greeted by two women who helped carry the wounded men in to a dark, spare kitchen. The injured men were placed on blankets on the floor. The women removed their kaffiyehs and trousers, then washed the wounds.

  "Is there anything we can do?" Hood asked.

  No one answered.

  "Don't take it personally," Nasr said quietly.

  "I didn't," said Hood. "They've got other things on their minds."

  "They'd be this way even if their men hadn't been shot," Nasr whispered. "They're paranoid about being seen."

  "Understandably," said Bicking. "The Mista'aravim have infiltrated terrorists groups like Hamas and Hezbollah. They have safe houses like these when they need to work in absolute security. But if they were to be seen here it could cost them their lives and---much worse in their minds---compromise Israeli security. They certainly can't be very happy about having had to come out to save a bunch of Americans."

  Even as the men spoke, the truck driver and the three masked men rose. While the short man made a telephone call, the others hugged the women. Then they left the dark room. Moments later the gears rattled and moaned as the truck backed from the alley.

  One of the women continued to tend to the injured. The other woman stood and faced the three newcomers. She was in her middle-to-late twenties and stood about five feet-two. Her auburn hair was worn in a tight bun, and her thick eyebrows made her brown eyes seem even darker. She had a round face, full lips, and olive skin. She wore a blood-stained apron over her black dress.

  "Who is Hood?" she asked.

  Hood raised a finger. "I am. Will your men be all right?"

  "We believe so," she said. "A doctor has been sent for. But your associate is correct. The men were not happy about going out. They are even less happy that two of their men have been hurt. Their absence and their wounds will not be easy to explain."

  "I understand," Hood said.

  "You are in my cafe," the woman said. "You were a delivery of fish. In other words, you cannot be seen outside this room. We will get you to the embassy when we close for the day. I can't spare the people until then."

  "I understand that as well."

  "In the meantime," she said, "you've been asked to telephone a Mr. Herbert when you arrive. If you don't have your own telephone I'll have to get you one. The call cannot appear on our bill here."

  Bicking reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellular phone. "Let's see if this one's still working," he said as he flipped it open. He turned it on, listened for a moment, then handed the phone to Hood. "Made in America and good as new."

  "Also not secure," Hood said. "But it will have to do."

  Hood walked over to a corner and called Op-Center. He was put through to Martha's office, where she, Herbert, and members of their staff had been waiting for word about the operation. Because it was an open line, he would only use first names.

  "Martha---Bob," Hood said, "it's Paul. I'm on a cellular but I wanted you to know that Ahmed, Warner and I are fine. Thanks for everything you did."

  Even standing a few yards away Bicking could hear the cheers rising from the telephone. His eyes moistened as he thought of the incredible relief they all must be feeling.

  "What about Mike?" Hood asked, being as discreet as possible.

  "He's been found," Herbert said, "and Brett is there. We're still waiting to hear."

  "I'm on the cellular," Hood said: "Call me the instant you hear anything."

  Hood hung up. As he briefed the others, the doctor arrived. The three men stepped to a corner, well out of the way. Then they watched in silence as the doctor gave the wounded men injectio
ns of local anesthetics. The woman who had spoken to them knelt beside one man. She lay a wooden spoon between his teeth, then held his arms pressed to his chest to keep him from flailing. When she nodded, the doctor began cutting the bullet from his leg. The other woman used a washcloth and a basin of water to wipe away the blood.

  The man began to wriggle from the pain.

  "I've always found that the toughest part about being a diplomat is when you have to say and do nothing," Bicking said softly to Hood.

  Hood shook his head. "That isn't the toughest part," he whispered. "What's tough is knowing that compared to the people in the front lines, what you do is nothing."

  At the doctor's request, the woman stopped cleaning the wound to hold the man's leg still. Without asking, Hood handed Bicking the phone, then hurried over. He picked up the cloth, maneuvered his arm between the three bodies, and dabbed at the blood, as deftly, as possible.