Acts of War oc-4

by Tom Clancy

  When the two cars returned at seven a.m. the following morning, Eugenie was waiting inside the foyer of the yali with Mr. Bora. A liveried butler opened the door for them and then followed, carrying the guest's overnight bag. One DSA agent waited outside the low iron gates of the mansion as the portly businessman walked her along the short, stone path. The other agents sat behind the wheel with the motor running. Behind the mansion, the Bosphorus sparkled whitely in the early morning sunlight. The leaves of the trees and the petals of the flowers in the garden also shone brightly.

  Eugenie stopped when her host did. He waved his hands at a hornet which seemed intent on nesting in his hooked nose. The DSA agent stood with his wrists crossed in front of him. His hands were inside his dark sports jacket, ready to draw his.38 if necessary. In the car, behind the nearly opaque bullet-proof windows, his companion had a sawed-off shotgun and an Uzi at his disposal.

  Mr. Bora ducked in an ungainly fashion, then watched with triumph as the hornet flew off toward the water. Eugenie applauded his maneuver, and they continued toward the gate.

  A motorcycle hummed in the distance. The DSA agent standing by the fence half turned to keep an eye on it as it approached. There was a boy sitting tall in the seat, wearing a black leather jacket and a white helmet. There was a canvas messenger's bag slung around his neck with the tops of envelopes sticking out. The DSA agent looked for telltale bulges under his jacket and in his pocket. The fact that the jacket was tightly zippered made it unlikely that he'd be reaching inside for a weapon. The agent kept an eye on the bag. The cyclist continued on past the cars without slowing.

  As the agent looked back toward the compound, something fell from the thick canopy of leaves. Both Eugenie and Mr. Bora stopped to look at it as it clunked on the stones at their feet.

  The DSA agent tried and failed to open the gate as he looked at the top of the tree. "Get back!" he shouted as the hand grenade exploded.

  Before the couple could move, a gray-white cloud erupted on the walk. At once, the boom of the grenade was followed by the dull thucks and metal clangs of shrapnel as it struck tree, iron, and flesh. The DSA agent fell away from the gate; his chest shattered. Eugenie and Mr. Bora went down as though they'd been cut down by a scythe. Both writhed on the walk where they fell.

  A moment after the explosion, the driver of the state car shifted it forward. He rammed through the open gate with his steel-reinforced fender, then pulled up beside the fallen Deputy Chief of Mission. Behind him came the DSA car. The driver swung it around sideways and emerged with a shotgun. Protected by the car, he stood and fired into the treetops. His shell cut a fat path through the branches, stripping them clean and causing a rain of damp green glitter.

  Submachine-gun fire from the tree sent the agent ducking back down behind the car. The ski-masked gunman then turned his fire upon the Deputy Chief of Mission, stitching a bloody path across Eugenie's white blouse and jacket. She shuddered as the bullets struck, and then she stopped moving. The gunman ignored Mr. Bora, who was lying on his side and slowly clawing his way back toward the house. His butler had already run back and was crouched in the foyer, a phone pressed to his ear.

  The DSA driver rose from behind the car. As he prepared to fire a second shot into the trees, he heard a clunk and looked down. A second hand grenade was rolling toward him. Only this one had come from behind. As he dove back into the car, he saw the motorcyclist standing down the road, behind a tree.

  The grenade exploded; causing the car to leap slightly. But even before it had settled, the agent had grabbed the Uzi from the glove compartment. He needed rapid fire now, not just power. He rolled outside, lay low on the ground, and aimed at the motorcyclist. The man was already speeding toward him, coming around the cars and using them for protection.

  The agent aimed to his side, shooting under the chassis. He nailed the tires and the motorcycle skidded toward the car, smacking into the other side. As he was about to crawl under the car to reach the biker, he heard a thunk on the roof. He looked up and saw the man who had been in the trees. He'd jumped down and was standing in a wide-legged horse stance, pointing a revolver down at him. Before he could fire, the driver of Eugenie's car pulled his own.45 and fired two shots from behind the gunman. One slug passed through each of the man's thighs and he dropped heavily to his side, slid onto the hood of the car, and tumbled onto the ground. Several hand grenades rolled from the deep pockets of his black sweater.

  The DSA agent crawled under the open door of the car, stood next to the hood, and disarmed the moaning gunman. He scooped up the extra grenades and placed them all inside his car. Then he cautiously made his way to the man who had been on the motorcycle. The swarthy young man was lying on his back, a broken right arm and left leg bone jutting raggedly through his pants and jacket. Seven other hand grenades had spilled from his delivery bag.

  One of them was in his left hand on his chest. He'd pulled the ring and let the safety lever pop off.

  "Down!" the DSA agent yelled.

  The driver hit the dirt behind his car, and the DSA agent jumped over the hood of his own vehicle. A instant later the first grenade exploded, taking the seven others with it in a series of loud, echoing bangs.

  The car lurched and shook as sharpnel hit it, the tires screaming as they burst. The DSA agent was squatting behind one of them and he felt his feet go numb as a piece of metal tore through the heel. But he continued to squat, leaning against the car to present as shielded a profile as possible.

  When the explosions were over, he rose painfully behind his Uzi.

  The two assassins were dead, torn apart by their own hand grenades. The driver of Eugenie's car was holding the arm which was holding the gun, but at least he was standing. Mr. Bora had made it back to the house and was lying inside the foyer, his butler crouching behind him. The rest of the household staff was standing behind them, concealed in the shadows.

  A moment later, sirens ripped through the sudden quiet. Four carloads of Turkish National Police arrived, their Smith & Wesson.38s drawn. Police swarmed around the grounds and through the house. The DSA agent set his Uzi on the car roof, just so the Turks would know he was one of the good guys. Then he limped over to his fallen colleague. He was dead, as was the Deputy Chief of Mission.

  The driver walked over, still holding his gun and his bloody arm. He caught an officer's eye and pointed to the wound. The officer said an ambulance was coming.

  Both men ducked into their cars to radio their superiors at the embassy. The reaction to the deaths was cool and economical. Emotions were always kept inside in situations like this. The press, and through them the enemy, couldn't be allowed to see how scared or upset you were.

  When the men were finished, they met by the DSA agent's car.

  "Thanks for tagging that guy on the roof," the agent said.

  The driver nodded as he leaned carefully against the back door. "You know, Brian, there's nothing you could've done about any of this."

  "Bull," he said. "We should've gone in to get her. I told Lee that, but he said the lady didn't like being crowded. Well, shit. Better crowded than what she got."

  "And if we'd gone in we'd all be dead," the driver said. "They were expecting us to meet her in there. What'd they have, fifteen grenade's between them? It was household security that screwed up. I'm betting that guy was in the tree since last night waiting for Ms. Morris. The other asshole on the bike must've been following us."

  Three ambulances arrived, and while several paramedics took care of the men's wounds before carrying them off, others ran inside to check on Mr. Bora. He was carried out on a gurney, moaning in Turkish how this never would have happened if he hadn't been such an internationalist.

  "That's how they win," the DSA agent said as he was loaded into an ambulance beside the other American. "They scare guys like him into playing ball with just the home team."

  "It doesn't take much to scare a guy like Mr. Bora," the driver replied as he looked from the agent to the IV in
his arm. "Let's see what happens when they have to duke it out with the United States of America."

  THIRTY-TWO

  Tuesday, 5:55 a.m.,

  London, England

  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 param
eters, 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.