Acts of War

THIRTY-TWO

Paul Hood and Warner Bicking were met at Heathrow Airport by an official car and a DSA vehicle with three agents. The Americans had expected to spend the two hours between flights at the airport. However, an airport official met Hood at the gate with an urgent fax from Washington. Hood walked off to a corner to read it. Bob Herbert had arranged for them to ride with an embassy official to the U.S. Embassy at 24/31 Grosvenor Square in London. It was important, the fax said, for Hood to use the secure phone there. He and Bicking were shown to a secure area of the terminal where international dignitaries were hurried safely through customs.

The ride through the very light early morning traffic was swift. Hood was surprisingly alert. He'd managed to catch three hours' sleep on the plane, and he could still taste the weak coffee he'd swigged two cups of before deplaning. Together, it would be enough to keep him going for now. If he could grab three or four more hours of sleep on the next leg of the trip, he'd be fine when they hit Damascus. Hood was also alert in part because of his curiosity and concern about the mystery fax. If it had been good news, Herbert would have indicated that.

Bicking sat beside Hood, his legs crossed and his foot rocking eagerly. Though he had worked straight through the seven-hour flight, studying the various CARfare scenarios, he was more alert than Hood.

Bicking is young enough to do that, damn him, Hood thought as he watched an early morning mist begin to dissipate. There was a time when Hood could do that too, during his banking years. Breakfast in New York or Montreal, a late dinner in Stockholm or Helsinki, then breakfast the following morning in Athens or Rome. In those days he could go for forty-eight hours without sleep. He even disdained sleep as a waste of time. Now, there were times when he got into bed and he didn't even want his wife to touch him. He just wanted to lay down and savor the sleep he had earned.

Shortly after the car had gotten underway, the driver handed Hood a sealed envelope from the ambassador. It contained their local itinerary and indicated that Dr. Nasr would be meeting them at the embassy at 7:00 am.

Ordinarily, Hood savored London. His great grandparents were born in the Kensington section, and he responded in an almost spiritual way to the city's history and character. But as the car drove by the centuries-old buildings, still charmed or haunted by the ghosts of the courageous and the nefarious, all Hood could think about was Herbert, the ROC, and why the DSA car was so tight on their tail. Usually, the diplomatic security teams traveled with the length of a car or two between them. He also wondered why there were three agents in the car instead of two. That was all their companion, an embassy assistant, should have merited.

Hood's questions were answered when he was shown to an office in the stately old embassy building and he was able to place his call to Herbert. The intelligence chief told him about the assassination in Turkey and what appeared to be a failed attempt by hostages to escape when the ROC crossed into Syria. He also speculated that the assassination may have been a response to that. When Hood asked why, Herbert briefed him on a few facts which wouldn't be making their way into the press just yet.

"One of Mr. Bora's household domestics is a Turkish Kurd," Herbert said. "He let the assassin in."

Hood looked at his watch. "It happened less than an hour ago. How do they know for certain who did what?"

"The Turks asked a lot of questions with rubber hoses and choke holds," Herbert replied. "The servant admitted his orders came from Syria. But except for the code name Yarmuk, he didn't know from who or where. We're running checks on Yarmuk. So far the only thing that's come up besides a river is a battle from 636 A.D., when the Arabs defeated the Byzantines and recaptured Damascus."

"Sounds like someone's tipping their hand," Hood said.

"My thoughts exactly," Herbert said. "Only we can't let Damascus know because for one thing, they might not believe us. And for another, if they did believe us, they might throw in with the Kurds just to keep the peace there."

"What about the motorcyclist?" Hood asked. "Was he a Kurd or was he a freelancer?"

"Oh, he was one of them," Herbert replied "Up to his chin. He'd been living in a shack on the outskirts of Istanbul for four weeks. Our guess is that he'd been sent from the eastern Turkish combat zones as part of a team designed to hit targets in Istanbul after the initial dam strike. His fingerprints were on file in Ankara, Jerusalem, and Paris. He's got a helluva record for a twenty-three-year-old. All of it as a Kurdish freedom fighter. And the grenades he was carrying were the kind the Kurds have been using in eastern Turkey. Old style, without safety caps. East German."

"The Kurds probably have fifth columnists ready to act in other cities as well," Hood said.

"Undoubtedly," Herbert replied. "Though the ones in Ankara have probably scattered like cockroaches by now. I've notified the President. My feeling is that the Kurds probably intend to turn Ankara, Istanbul, and Damascus into killing grounds as part of their overall plan."

"To stir up a war that'll give them a homeland as part of the peace settlement," Hood said. "That was something we talked about at the White House."

"I think that assessment is dead-on," Herbert said. "The only good news I've got is that we've managed to put an Israeli Druze soldier inside the Bekaa Valley to look for the ROC. Though we've got a ten-mile-wide stick in our eye, our Sayeret Ha'Druzim veteran should be able to pinpoint the location for us. Striker should be arriving in Israel in another five hours or so. They can link up in the Bekaa then."

"What are you hearing from Ankara and Damascus?" Hood asked.

"Ankara is scrambling for information like we are, but Damascus is starting to get tense. Major General Bar-Levi in Haifa has been in touch with his deep undercover Mista'aravim personnel in the Jewish Quarter."

"Those are the Arab impersonators?"

"Right," Herbert said. "Actually, they're trained special forces operatives who see and hear damn near everything. They say there's been an unprecedented crackdown on Kurds. Arrests, reports of beatings, real hardball. I've got a feeling that's going to get worse very quickly." Herbert paused. "You know, Paul, about Mike. If he did spill blood trying to retake the ROC, I'm hoping the attack on Deputy Chief of Mission Morris was in response to that."

"Why?"

"Because it means that the Kurds wanted to pay him back without hurting him directly," Herbert said. "You know who used to do that all the time?"

"Yeah, I do," Hood said. "Cecil B. DeMille. If he wanted to put the fear of God in an actress, he yelled at her makeup person or costumer. Scared her without leaving any bruises."

"Very good, Paul." Herbert said. "I'm impressed."

"You hear things like that running L.A.," Hood said. He looked at his watch and got annoyed with himself. He'd looked at it less than a minute before. "I'm going to have to get going, Bob. I'm meeting Dr. Nasr back at the airport. And you know how I attract traffic."

"Like Job attracts afflictions."

"Right. On top of which, I feel goddamned useless."

"No more useless than I feel," Herbert said. "I put out a warning to all our embassies as soon as I figured out about the ROC border incident. Got to the DSAs in all of 'em, but Ms. Morns slipped through the net. The bastards knew our M.O. and went after the stray lamb."

"Not your fault," Hood said. "You responded quickly and correctly."

"And predictably," Herbert said, "which is something we've gotta change. When the enemy knows where your people are and how to get to them, and you don't, you've got problems."

"Twenty-twenty hindsight—"

"Yeah," said Herbert. "I know. Most businesses you learnt your lessons by losing money. In our business we learn by losing lives. It stinks, but that's the way it goes."

Hood wished there were something else he could say. But Herbert was right. They discussed some of the Striker parameters, including the fact that the team would be on the ground in Israel before Congress was back for the day. And that it might well be necessary for Striker to move before the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee had a chance to okay their actions. Hood told Herbert he'd sign a Director's Order taking full legal responsibility for any Striker activities. He had no intention of letting Striker sit in the desert if they had a chance to rescue Rodgers and the team.

Herbert wished Hood well on his mission to Damascus and hung up. Sitting alone in the dark, quiet room, Hood took a moment to consider what he was prepared to do. To save six people they only hoped were still alive, he was committed to risking the lives of eighteen young commandos. The math didn't make sense, so why did it seem right? Because that was the job Striker was trained for, the job they wanted to do? Because national honor demanded it, as well as loyalty to one's colleagues? There were many excellent reasons, though none of them neutralized the terrible burdens of command and the execution of those commands.

Where is Mike Rodgers, the walking Bartlett's, when you need him? Hood mused as he rose from the heavy lacquered chair.

Hood's footsteps were swallowed by the Persian rug as he crossed the room and rejoined Warner Bicking, who was waiting for him in the outer office. An embassy secretary offered Hood coffee, which he accepted gratefully. Then Hood, Bicking, and a young official chatted about the developments in Turkey as they waited for Dr. Nasr.

Nasr arrived at five minutes to seven. He entered the main hallway and approached briskly. The native Egyptian stood a few inches over five feet tall, but he walked like a giant. His head and shoulders were pulled back, and his sharp salt-and-pepper goatee was pointed ahead like a lance. Nasr's eyes were also sharp behind his thick-lensed glasses, and his crisp, light gray suit was nearly the same shade as his wavy hair. He smiled generously when he saw Hood and extended his small, thick hand from half a room away. The gesture made him seem paternal now rather than self-impressed.

"My friend Paul," he said as Hood rose. Their hands locked tightly, and Nasr reached up to pat Hood on the back. "It's so good to see you again."

"You're looking very well, Doctor," Hood said. "How's your family?"

"My dear wife is fine and getting ready for a new series of recitals," he replied. "All Liszt and Chopin. To hear the Funeral Procession of Gondolas No. 2 is to weep. Her recitando is glorious. And her Revolutionary Etude—superb. She'll be playing in Washington later in the year. You will be our special guests, of course."

"Thank you," Hood said.

"Tell me," Nasr said. "How are Mrs. Hood and your little ones?"

"Last time I checked, everyone was happy and not so little," Hood said guiltily. He turned to where Warner Bicking was standing behind him. "Dr. Nasr, I don't believe you've ever met Mr. Bicking."

"I have not," Nasr said. "However, I did read your paper on the increasing defensive democratization of Jordan. We'll talk on the plane."

"It will be my very great pleasure," Bicking replied as the men shook hands.

As they walked to the car, Nasr between the other two, Hood quickly briefed them on the latest developments. They climbed into the sedan, Bicking taking a seat up front. As the car started out, Nasr lightly stroked the tip of his beard between the thumb and index finger of his right hand.

"I believe you are correct," said Nasr. "The Kurds want and require their own nation. The question is not how far they're prepared to go to get it."

"Then what's the question?" Hood asked.

Nasr stopped playing with his beard. "The question, my friend, is whether the blowing up of the dam was their big gun, or whether they have something even bigger in store."