Acts of War

FORTY-THREE

Paul Hood's impression of Damascus was that it was a gold mine.

Perhaps he'd been Mayor of tourist-friendly Los Angeles for too long, or perhaps he'd become jaded. The mosques and minarets, the courtyards and fountains were all spectacular, with their ornate facades and meticulous mosaics. The gray and white walls surrounding the Old City in the southeast section of Damascus were at once battered and majestic. They had helped protect the city from attacks by the Crusaders in the thirteenth century, and they still bore signs of those ancient sieges. Long stretches of wall had been destroyed or breached, and had been left in historic disrepair.

But as he looked at the sights from the darkened window of the embassy limousine, Hood wasn't thinking about the past. His one thought was that if this region of the world were at peace, if this nation were not a sponsor of terrorism, if all people could come and go freely here, Damascus would be a more popular tourist destination. With that money Syria could find ways to desalinize water from the Mediterranean and irrigate the desert. They could build more schools or create jobs or even invest in poorer Arab nations.

But that isn't the way of things, Hood told himself. Though this was an international city, it was still a city whose leaders had an agenda. And that agenda was to carry Syrian rule into neighboring nations.

The meeting with the President was going to take place in the heart of the Old City, at the palace built by Governor Assad Pasha al-Azem in 1749. This was partly for security reasons. It was easier to guard the President behind the still-formidable walls of the Old City. It was also to remind the citizens that whether they agreed or disagreed with their President, a Syrian ruled in a palace which had been built by an Ottoman governor. Foreigners were their enemies.

For the most part, that was propaganda and paranoia. Ironically, today it was true. As Bob Herbert had put it when Hood called Op-Center from the embassy, "It's like the broken watch that's right twice a day. Today, the Turkish and Syrian Kurds are the enemy."

Herbert told Hood that operatives in Damascus had reported movement among the Kurdish underground. That morning, beginning at 8:30, most of them had begun leaving their five safe houses scattered around the city. These were houses Syria allowed them to keep to plot against the Turks. Shortly before noon, when Syrian security forces realized there might be a plot involving the unified Kurds, they went to the safe houses. All of them were deserted. Herbert's people had managed to keep up with a handful of the forty-eight Kurds. They were all in the vicinity of the Old City. Some of them were sitting along the banks of the Barada River, which flowed along the northeastern wall. Others were visiting the Muslim cemetery along the southwest wall. None of the Kurds had gone inside the walls.

Herbert said that he had not passed this information on to the Syrians for two reasons. First, it could very well expose his own intelligence sources in Damascus. Second, it might cause the Kurds to panic. If there were a plot against the President, then only the President and those close to him would be targets. If the Kurds were forced to act prematurely, a firelight might erupt in the streets. There was no telling how many Damascenes might be killed.

Hood did not bother telling Herbert that he might be one of those targets close to the Syrian President.

The embassy car entered the southwest sector of the Old City. The walls had fallen along a five-hundred-yard stretch here, and security was extremely thick. Jeeps had been parked fender-to-fender along the edges of the wall, leaving only a fifty-yard gap in the middle. This area was lined with over a dozen soldiers, all of them armed with Makarov pistols and AKM assault rifles. Tourist passports were being checked, and locals had to show identification.

The ambassador's car was stopped by a tough-looking corporal. He collected passports, then used his field phone to call the palace. After each passenger in the car had been okayed, they were sent through. Before proceeding to the palace, the driver waited for the DSA car behind them to be cleared. They took al-Amin Street northeast to Straight Street, and went left. They turned right on Souk al-Bazuriye and drove three hundred yards. They passed the oldest public baths in Damascus, the Hamam Nur al-Din, as well as the nine-domed Khan of Assad Pasha, a former residence of the builder of the palace.

The palace was located just southwest of the Great Mosque or the Umayyad Mosque. Named for the Muslims who renovated it early in the eighth century, the mosque is built on the ruins of an ancient Roman temple. Before that, three thousand years ago, a temple dedicated to Hadad, the Aramean god of the sun, stood on this spot. Though burned and attacked repeatedly over the years, the mosque still stands and is one of the holiest sites in Islam.

The palace is no less imposing than the Great Mosque. Three separate wings surrounded the great court, a quiet retreat with a large pond and abundant citrus trees. One wing was for the kitchen and domestics, another for receiving guests, and the third was the living quarters. On the south side of the palace was a spacious public receiving area with marble walls and floor and a large fountain.

The palace was typically open to the public, though the private apartments were shut when the President came here. Today, the entire palace was closed and the President's personal security force patrolled the grounds.

After parking along the northwest side of the palace, the DSA agents were shown to a palace security room while the ambassador and his party were conducted to a large receiving room down the corridor. The heavy drapes were pulled and the crystal chandelier was brightly lit. The walls were covered with dark wood paneling, ornately carved with religious images. The room was appointed with richly inlaid furniture. In the center of the wall opposite the door was a large mahmal or pavilion which contained a centuries-old copy of the Koran. Designed to be carried on the back of a camel, the mahmal was covered with green velvet embroidered with silver. On top was a large gold ball with silver fringes. The gold was real.

Japanese Ambassador Akira Serizawa was already present, along with his aides Kiyoji Nakajima and Masaru Onaka. Gray-haired presidential aide Aziz Azizi was also present. The Japanese bowed politely when the American delegation entered. Azizi smiled broadly. Ambassador Haveles led his group over and shook each man's hand. Then he introduced Hood, Dr. Nasr, and Warner Bicking in turn. After presenting his team to Azizi, Haveles took the Japanese ambassador aside. Still smiling, Azizi faced the rest of the American contingent. He had on black-rimmed glasses and a neatly clipped goatee. He also wore a white earphone with a wire which ran discreetly along his collar to the inside of his white jacket.

"I am delighted to meet you all," Azizi said in very precise English. "However, I am familiar by reputation only with the distinguished Dr. Nasr. I have recently read your book Treasure and Sorrow about the old Mecca caravan."

"You honor me," Nasr replied with a slight incline of his head.

Azizi's smile remained fixed. "Do you really believe that the Bedouin would have attacked the caravan and left twenty thousand people to die in the desert had they not been driven by despair and starvation?"

Nasr's head rose slowly. "The Bedouin of that time and that place were barbarous and greedy. Cheir needs had little to do with their misdeeds."

"If my eighteenth-century ancestors were barbarous and greedy, as you say," Azizi replied, "it is because they were oppressed by the Ottomans. Oppression is a powerful motivator."

Bicking had been chewing the inside of his cheek. He stopped and eyed Azizi. "How powerful?" he asked.

Azizi was still smiling. "The desire for freedom can cause frail grass to split a walk or a root to break stone. It is very powerful, Mr. Bicking."

Hood wasn't sure whether he was listening to an historical discussion, a foreshadowing of things to come, or both. Regardless, Azizi was like a cat on a fence, and Nasr looked like he wanted to find a shoe. Excusing himself as the Russian contingent arrived, the presidential aide withdrew.

"Anyone care to tell me what just happened?" Hood asked.

"Centuries of ethnic rivalry just clashed," Bicking said. "Egyptian versus Bedouin. Mr. Azizi's a Hamazrib, I'll bet. Successful at adapting to host cultures but very, very proud."

"Too proud," Nasr grumbled. "Blind to the truth. His people do have a history of cruelty."

"Certainly their enemies think so," Bicking said with a snicker.

Hood stole a look at Azizi. He was walking the Russians over. He hadn't done that when Haveles's group entered.

"Could his little freedom speech have been a warning about the Kurds?" Hood asked quickly.

"The Bedouin and the Kurds are fierce rivals," Bicking said. "They wouldn't be helping each other, if that's what you mean."

"It isn't what I mean," Hood said. "You saw how he set up Dr. Nasr. Maybe Ambassador Haveles hit it on the head when he said we could be used as bait."

"Maybe he was also being just a touch paranoid," Bicking said.

"Ambassadors always are," Nasr remarked.

After the Russian group of four was introduced, Azizi said that the President would be joining them shortly. Then he turned and motioned to a domestic who was standing in the doorway. The domestic motioned to someone who was standing to the side, out of sight. Hood had a photo-flash vision of camouflage-clad terrorists rushing in with semi-automatics and cutting them all down. He was relieved when liveried men in white walked in carrying trays.

That's only because the President isn't here yet, he thought. That was when the terrorists would arrive.

The Russian Ambassador had lit a cigarette and, with his translator, had joined the other two ambassadors in a corner of the room. Azizi walked over to the door and stood there while the rest of the men mingled and ate shawarma—finely cut pieces of lamb — or khubz—spicy, deep-fried chickpea paste on unleavened bread. As the men speculated on the nature of the bombing in Turkey and the ramifications of the troop movements, Hood noticed Azizi put an index finger to the earphone. The presidential aide listened for a moment, then looked into the room.

"Gentlemen," he said. "The President of the Syrian Arab Republic."

"So he really is going to show," Bicking said, leaning close to Hood. "I'm surprised."

"He had to," said Nasr. "He has to show he is fearless."

The men stopped talking. They turned to face the door as footsteps clattered smartly down the marble hallway. A moment later the aged President entered the room. He was tall and dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and black tie. His head was uncovered and his nearly white hair was slicked back. He was flanked by a quartet of bodyguards. Azizi fell in beside the presidential patty as they walked toward the group of ambassadors.

Standing between Bicking and Nasr, Hood frowned. "Hold on. That bodyguard on the left — his trousers are sticking to his legs."

"So?" Bicking said.

The bodyguard looked at Hood as Hood looked at him.

"That's static electricity," Hood said. He began moving toward the bodyguard for a better look. "On the plane I read an Israeli E-mail bulletin. It said that electromagnetic fuses in pants pockets are being used to trigger bombs around the waist or—"

Suddenly, the bodyguard shouted something which Hood didn't understand. Before the other bodyguards could close ranks, the man was engulfed in a fireball. The blast knocked everyone down and blew the crystal from the chandelier. Hood's ears rang as black smoke rolled over him and shards of shattered glass rained down. He couldn't hear his own coughs as he lay on the floor choking.

He felt a hand pull at his jacket sleeve. He looked to his right. Bicking was waving smoke away. He shouted something. Hood couldn't hear him. Bicking nodded. He pointed at Hood and held his thumb up, then down.

Hood understood. He moved his legs and arms. Then he held up a thumb. "I'm okay!" he shouted.

Bicking nodded just as Dr. Nasr came crawling toward them from the settling smoke. There was blood on his neck and forehead. Hood crept over and examined his face and head. Nasr had been closer to the blast, but the blood wasn't his. Hood indicated that his colleague should lie where he was. Then he turned and tapped Bicking on the top of his head.

"Come with me!" Hood said. He pointed to himself, to Bicking, and then to where the presidential party had been standing. Bicking nodded. Hood motioned with his hand that the younger man should stay low in case there was shooting for any reason. Bicking nodded again. Together they wormed their way toward the door.

As they neared the blast site, they were hit with the distinctive, acrid smell of nitrite — like the lingering smell of freshly ignited matches. A moment later, the carnage was visible through the rising smoke. There were sprays of blood on the marble walls and puddles on the floors. The first body they encountered was that of the terrorist. He had been blown over the others. His legs and hands were gone. Bicking had to stop and look away. Hood continued on. As he moved along on his elbows, sweeping aside particles of glass, Hood wondered why no one had come to investigate the explosion. He considered sending Bicking out for help, but decided against it. He didn't want him running into overly anxious security forces who might gun him down.

Upon reaching the bodyguards, Hood found them all dead. The blast had dismembered and torn off the bulletproof vests of the two men nearest the explosion. Two other men were still tucked inside their vests, but their heads and limbs were riddled with two-inch nails and small ball bearings — the preferred projectiles of suicide bombers. Hood crawled around them to where the President and Azizi lay. The President was dead. Hood moved on to Azizi. He was alive but unconscious, bleeding from his chest and right side. Kneeling, Hood gently began pulling away the bloody fragments of clothing. He wanted to see if the bleeding could be stopped.

Azizi shuddered and moaned. "I knew — knew this would happen."

"Lie still," Hood said into his ear. "You've been injured."

"The President—" he said.

"He's dead," Hood informed him.

Azizi opened his eyes. "No!"

"I'm sorry," Hood said. Through the frustrating thickness in his ears he heard shots. It sounded as if they were coming from outside the palace. Were there more terrorists trying to get in or guards firing at fleeing accomplices? The gunfire grew louder with each new volley. Hood began to fear that the shots weren't being directed away from the palace but toward it.

Azizi squirmed with pain. "He is not—" Azizi choked. "He is not the President."

Hood continued to pull away blood-drenched pieces of the man's jacket. "What do you mean?"

"He was a double," Azizi said. "To draw his enemies out."

Hood scowled as the words sunk in. Score one for paranoia, he thought. He patted Azizi's shoulder. "Don't exert yourself," he said. "I'll see if I can stop the bleeding and then call for an ambulance."

"No!" said Azizi. "They must come here."

Hood looked at him.

"We have been waiting," Azizi said weakly. "Watching for them."

"For who?"

"Many more," Azizi replied.

Hood winced as he cleared the last remnants of shirt from Azizi's chest. Blood was pumping out in half-inch-high squirts. He didn't know what to do for the man. Sitting back on his heels, he held Azizi's hand.

"Why won't you let me call for a doctor?" Hood asked.

"They have to come in."

"They," Hood said. "You think there may be more terrorists?"

"Many," Azizi wheezed. "The bomber was Kurd. Many Kurds missing. Still in Damascus—"

Suddenly but peacefully, almost as if he were moving in slow motion, the Syrian's head rolled to the side. His breathing slowed as the spurts of blood continued. A moment later Azizi's eyes closed. There was a long exhalation and then silence.

Hood released Azizi's hand. He looked to his right as Nasr crept through the smoke. He was followed by the three ambassadors. The Russian looked stunned. Haveles was holding him by an elbow and leading him ahead. The Japanese Ambassador was walking behind him, a little unsteady. Their aides, most of them shell-shocked, walked a few paces behind.

"My God," Haveles said. "The President—"

"No," said Hood as his ears began to clear. "A look-alike. That's why the President's security forces haven't come in yet. They used this man to smoke out a mole."

"I sold the President short," Haveles said. "He was expecting to win allies by having us dead and him alive."

"He'd have gotten that too if the bomber hadn't panicked," Hood said.

"Panicked?" Haveles said. "What do you mean?"

Hood watched as the blood stopped pumping from Azizi's chest. "The infiltrator counted on the other bodyguards looking ahead and not seeing him. But he didn't count on someone inside noticing the static charge when he armed the electromagnetic fuse." Hood indicated the shattered remains of the bomber. "He must have been put in place years ago to have gotten this kind of access."

"Who was he?" Haveles asked.

"Azizi thinks — thought he was a Kurd," Hood said. "I agree. There's something going on here that's larger than sending Syria and Turkey to war."

"What?" asked Haveles.

"I honestly don't know," said Hood.

The shots from outside grew louder and closer.

"Where are our security agents?" the Russian ambassador yelled in English.

"I don't know that either," Hood said, more to himself than to the Russian. However, he feared the worst. He peered through the smoke. "Ambassador Andreyev, are all of your people all right?"

"Da," he replied.

"Ambassador Serizawa!" Hood yelled. "Are you okay?"

"We are unhurt!" a member of the Japanese contingent yelled through the smoke.

Hood checked the other blast victims. They were all dead. A half-dozen people and one terrorist had given their lives to smoke out more terrorists. It was insane.

"Warner!" Hood yelled. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes!" came a muffled response from the right. Bicking was probably breathing through a handkerchief.

"Do you have your cellular?" Hood asked.

"Yes!"

"Call Op-Center," Hood said. He listened as explosions popped in the distance. He thought about the Kurds that Herbert's people had tracked to the palace. "Tell Bob Herbert what happened. Tell him we may be under siege here." Then he ducked under the rising tester of smoke and, still stooping, walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Haveles asked.

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