"Use me as a shield!" Pupshaw shouted.
Rodgers had no intention of doing so. But before he could shoot around the private, Ibrahim gunned the engine. Rodgers was thrown to the floor as the ROC raced forward. The passenger's door was still open with Pupshaw tied to the handle. The private was bucked off the running board and his lower body was dragged alongside, under the door, as the van sped ahead.
Mahmoud vaulted from the passenger's seat and threw himself on top of Rodgers. As the American tried to bring the gun around, the Syrian drew his knife. Rodgers was able to move Mahmoud's arm to the side. But with incredible speed the Syrian literally fed the knife to his finger tips, pinched the hilt between his thumb and index finger, turned the knife around, and grasped it facing the other way. Once again the knife was pointing down at Rodgers. He was forced to let go of the gun to concentrate on Mahmoud's knife hand. The general grabbed the wrist with one hand and tried to pry his fingers from the hilt with the other.
Suddenly, Ibrahim braked. Mahmoud and Rodgers were thrown against the prisoners who were tied to the base of the passenger's seat. The van's noisy advance became the deathly quiet of late night as Ibrahim drew his own weapon. Shouting at Mahmoud, he aimed at Rodgers's head.
Mary'Rose screamed.
Before Mahmoud could fire, the wail of a siren reached them from across the plain. A patrol must have heard the shot. Without hesitation, Ibrahim threw the van into reverse. When they reached Hasan's body, Mahmoud jumped out and pulled it in. He was dead. His eyes were wide and unseeing. Blood stained his shirt-front and was seeping into the fibers around the side.
There was more conversation, probably about whether to kill Rodgers. Though Ibrahim was shaking with rage, the Syrians obviously decided that a gunshot would only tell the Turks exactly where they were.
Mahmoud pulled the dazed and bloodied Pupshaw inside and tied him back to his chair, while Ibrahim kicked Rodgers in the head before tying him to the chair leg, his back on the floor. They drove off, Ibrahim leaning heavily on the gas pedal.
Mahmoud punched Rodgers several times as they drove. Each time he struck the American's jaw, Mahmoud spit in his face. He stopped only when they reached the fence. Grabbing the mitt and the shears, Mahmoud went out to cut them through. There was no longer any need to be secretive. He sliced the wire quickly, pulling each strand to the side and wrapping it around the post.
Rodgers looked up through bloodstained eyes. He saw Sondra struggling hard to get free.
"Don't," he said through his swollen jaw. He shook his head slowly. "You're going to have to survive to lead them."
When the last strand was cut, Ibrahim pressed on the gas and the van tore across the border. He stopped to let Mahmoud in. Evidently having had enough of punishing Rodgers, Mahmoud settled into his seat. As he sat in silence, picking pieces of bloody flesh from his ring, Ibrahim continued into the night.
* * *
TWENTY-NINE
Monday, 6:41 p.m.,
Washington, D. C.
"You don't have to tell me," Martha Mackall said as Bob Herbert wheeled into her office. "The ROC has gone into Syria."
Herbert's wheelchair was reflected over and over in the framed, hanging gold records Martha's father Mack Mackall had earned during his long singing career. He parked, frowning, in front of her desk. "We picked up the description from a radio broadcast by the Turkish border patrol. My expression tell you that?"
"No." She tapped a pencil eraser against her computer monitor. "This did. I've been watching the computer lines we hacked in Turkey and elsewhere. It reminds me of when the stock market started to fall in '87, all that computerized trading kicking in and making it worse."
"It is like computerized trading," Herbert said. "Only it's computerized warfare. CARfare, they're calling it."
"That's a new one on me," Martha said. She rubbed her tired eyes. "Care to translate?"
"It's Computerized Armed Response," Herbert said. "Every government is choosing the appropriate response based on its own simulation programs."
Martha made a face. "If that's CARfare, then I've got bumper-to-bumper traffic up here. The Turkish Security Forces say their border patrol crossed into Syria, lost the target, and retreated. As a result of the crossing, Syria's calling up its reserves and Turkey is mobilizing more troops and sending them toward the border. Israel has gone on maximum alert, Jordan is about to begin moving tanks toward its borders, and Iraq is shifting troops possessively toward Kuwait."
"Possessively?"
"They're geared for a long camp-out," Martha said, "just like before Desert Shield. And to top it off, Colon just notified us that the Department of Defense has ordered the U.S. carrier battle group into the Red Sea."
"Defcon?"
"Two," she said.
Herbert seemed relieved.
"Supply lines have already begun forming from the Indian Ocean, just in case they're needed. Publicly, we're showing support for our NATO ally. Privately, we're prepared to kick whatever ass is necessary to try and contain the whole damn thing in case it blows up. The President is determined not to let this spread into Turkey and Russia."
"Probably as determined as Syria and Iran will be to see it spread there," Herbert replied.
"They are an opportunistic bunch," Martha said, "but they don't want to see the region turned into a war zone. Don't forget, Syria sided with us during Desert Storm."
"They gave us a couple of jets and permission to get ourselves killed defending their water supplies," Herbert said. "Never mind them. What's so damn frustrating is that no one else wants to see this happen. And most of the players realize they've been snookered by a small band of Kurds."
"It's The House That Jack Built," Martha replied.
"What do you mean?"
"That's a little epigram from my side of the fence," she said. "These are the rats who tweaked the cat, who crossed the border and woke the dog, who engaged the cat and woke the menagerie that sent the fur flying in the House That Jack Built."
Herbert sighed. "It's more like The House on Haunted Hill," he said. "One nightmare after another."
"We move in very different cultural circles," Martha replied with an arched brow.
"Life would be boring otherwise," Herbert said. "Anyway, the good news is that my friend Captain Gunni Eliaz of the First Golani Infantry Brigade in Israel put me in touch with an operative who knows the Bekaa just about as well as anyone. He's already on his way there, posing as a Kurdish freedom fighter, to see what he can find out. I've got Matt working on geographical surveys of the region, looking for possible destinations for the ROC."
"What is he checking for?"
"Caves, mostly," Herbert said. "Ironically, in blacking out our satellite view, the Syrians left us with a clue to where the ROC is. We always know that it's within the ten-mile-wide window we can't see through. We'll collate all of that information with known PKK bases of operation and see if we can select the most likely spot. And we may still pick up some stray remark in a telephone or radio communication."
"Then it will be up to this Israeli of yours and Striker to get them out," Martha said. "Or it will be up to a Tomahawk to take them out."
As she was speaking, Herbert's phone beeped. He scooped it up. After a moment, he poked a finger in his other ear. "There's what?" he demanded. His eyes shifted absently from the floor to Martha to the ceiling. "What else? Did they find anything else there?" His eyes moved around again. "Nothing at all? Okay, Ahmet. Tessekur. Thanks very much." He hung up. "Shit."
"What?" Martha asked.
"There's a narrow zone between two barbed wire fences at the Turkish-Syrian border," Herbert said. "The Turkish border patrol heard a shot there and raced over. That was where the ROC crossed into Syria. The patrol found fresh blood beside six deep tire fans."
"Tire fans?"
"A tire rut with dirt blown out behind it like a paper fan," Herbert said. "It's caused by a fast, sudden start."
"I see," Martha said. "Six
tires. So it was the ROC."
Herbert nodded.
"And it was running from something."
"They weren't being chased yet," Herbert said. "The Turks say the ROC got past an electrified fence by setting up a diversionary arc. They were already through before the Turks heard a gunshot and realized that they were there. The ROC took off long before the border patrol arrived. Something else caused the ROC to bolt."
"Bob, I'm totally confused," Martha said impatiently. "First, who do they think was shot and why?"
"They don't know," Herbert said. He shut his eyes. "I don't know. I've got to think. Why would the ROC take off? Because they were afraid someone heard the gunshot? That's possible. That isn't what's important. The question is, who was shot? If one of the hostages had been killed, the Syrians probably would have dumped the body behind."
"And if they were wounded?" Martha asked.
"Unlikely," Herbert said.
"How can you be sure?"
"The Turks say the shot echoed," Herbert said. "The ROC is soundproofed. It would have swallowed most of the blast. In order to be wounded, a hostage probably would have been trying to run away in the dark. The gun would have fired, the hostage would have fallen, and the ROC would have driven to where he or she was. It didn't. It was right by the fence. No," Herbert said. "I know Mike Rodgers. My guess is that they were about to cross into Syria, so he decided to try and stop them."
"And failed," she stated flatly.
Herbert fired her a look. "Don't say it like he screwed up. The fact that he or someone else may have made the effort at all is a helluva thing. A helluva big thing."
"I didn't mean any disrespect," she said indignantly.
"Yeah, well, it sounded like that."
"Calm down, Bob," Martha said. "I'm sorry."
"Sure," he said. "The sideline generals are always sorry. I lost my wife and my legs to a military miscalculation. It's bad, but it's like everything else. Real easy to quarterback when you're watching the game tapes, not so easy when you're on the field."
"I never said any of this was easy," Martha said. She drummed her long, rounded nails on the desk. "Want to see if we can get back to fighting the enemy?"
"Yeah, okay." Herbert sucked down a breath. "I've gotta think this whole thing through."
"Let's start with some hypotheses," Martha said. "Suppose Mike hurt or killed one of his captors. There will be repercussions."
"Correct," Herbert said. "The question is, against who?"
"Would it be against one of the hostages?"
"Not necessarily," Herbert said. "There are three options. First of all, they won't kill Mike. Even if they don't know his military rank, they've got to know he's the leader. He's a valuable hostage and they'll want to hold onto him. Though they may torture him as an example to the others not to try to escape. That rarely works, though. You watch someone beat a fellow prisoner, it scares you into wanting to get away." Herbert laid his neck back on the barbershop-style headrest. "That leaves two other possibilities. If a terrorist was killed in the exchange, they may execute one of the hostages. They'd select the person by lot, the short straw drawing the bullet in the back of the head. Mike would be forbidden from participating, though he'd be forced to watch the murder."
"Jesus," Martha said.
"Yeah, that's a rough one," Herbert said. "But it also breeds a sense of resistance among hostages. Terrorists tend to use it only when they want to send a body back to someone, to show that they mean business. So far, no one but us has been notified that anyone's taken our team hostage."
"Then scenario number two is unlikely," Martha said hopefully.
Herbert nodded. "But the terrorists can't let an escape attempt go unpunished. So what do they do? They go to option three, which is an old favorite of Middle Eastern terrorists. They hit a target of equal importance to the hit they took. In other words, if a lieutenant was killed, they take out a lieutenant somewhere else. If a nonmilitary leader was killed, they go after a political figure."
Martha stopped drumming. "If the Kurds are behind this whole operation, they don't have many quick-strike options."
"Correct again," said Herbert. "We don't think they've infiltrated any of our bases overseas, and even if they had, they wouldn't show their hand. for something like this. They'd probably hit an embassy."
"They've got the greatest numbers of followers in Turkey, Syria, Germany, and Switzerland," Martha said. She looked sharply at Herbert. "Would they know about Paul's trip?"
"Damascus has been informed," Herbert said, "but it won't be announced publicly until he lands in London." Herbert began wheeling toward the door. "If Damascus knows, the Kurds may also know. I'm going to inform Paul and also warn our embassies in Europe and the Middle East."
"I'll handle the Middle Eastern embassies," Martha said. "And Bob? I'm sorry about before. I really didn't mean any disrespect to Mike."
"I know," Herbert said. "But that isn't the same as showing him respect."
He left, leaving Martha wondering why she'd bothered.
Because they put you in charge here, that's why, she told herself. Diplomacy wasn't supposed to be pleasant, just effective.
Calling her assistant Aurora, Martha put everything but the safety of American diplomats from her mind as she had the young woman begin placing overseas calls, beginning with Ankara and Istanbul.
* * *
THIRTY
Tuesday, 2:32 a.m.,
Membij, Syria
Ibrahim did not stop the van until he was ten miles within Syria. He wasn't sure whether the Turkish border patrol had followed him. He didn't hear them, but that didn't mean they weren't back there following the van's tracks. Even if the enemy were in pursuit, however, the Turks wouldn't dare come as far as Membij. It was the first sizable town on this side of the border, and even at this hour the unauthorized intrusion of foreigners would raise the citizens to resistance.
As it was, the arrival of the long, white van woke more than a few of the townspeople. They came to their windows and doors and gawked as the magnificent vehicle passed. Ibrahim didn't stop, but drove on to the south, past the town, wanting to attract as little attention as possible. His captives and the van weren't a Syrian trophy but a Kurdish prize. He intended to keep it that way.
Only when Ibrahim stopped, only when he looked down at Mahmoud, who was squatting protectively over the body of Hasan, did Ibrahim permit himself to cry for his fallen comrade. Mahmoud had already spoken a prayer, and now Ibrahim said his part from the Koran.
Kneeling and bowing his head low, Ibrahim offered softly, " 'He sends forth guardians who watch over you and carry away your souls without fail when death overtakes you. Then are all men restored to God, their true Lord.' "
And then Ibrahim's tear-filled eyes turned back to the man who had done this monstrous deed. The American was lying on his back on the floor of the van where Mahmoud had left him. His face was swollen where he had been beaten, but there was no sadness in his eyes. The accursed eyes were looking up, indignant and unmoved.
"Those eyes will not be defiant for very long," Ibrahim vowed. He reached for his knife. "I will cut them out, followed by his heart."
Mahmoud clasped a hand on his wrist. "Don't! Allah is watching us, judging us. Vengeance is not the best way now."
Ibrahim wrested his arm free. " 'Let evil be rewarded with like evil,' Mahmoud. The Koran knows best. The man must be punished."
"This man will submit to God's judgment soon enough," Mahmoud said. "We have other uses for him.
"What uses? We have hostages enough."
"There is much more to this van than we know. We need him to tell us of it."
Ibrahim spit on the floor. "He would sooner die. And I would sooner kill him, my brother."
"Someone will die for what happened to Hasan. But we are home now, my brother. We can radio the others. Tell them to seek out and strike down one of our enemies. This man must suffer by living. By watching his companions suffer. Yo
u saw how he broke before, when I threatened to cut the woman's fingers. Think of how much worse the days ahead can be for him."
Ibrahim continued to look back at Rodgers. The sight of him filled the Kurd with hate. "I would cut his eyes out just the same."
"In time," said Mahmoud. "But we're tired now, and in mourning. We're not thinking as clearly as we should. Let's contact the commander and have him decide how best to avenge the deaths of Hasan and Walid. Then we'll blindfold our prisoners, finish our journey, and rest. We've earned that much."
Ibrahim looked back at his brother, then at Rodgers. Reluctantly, he sheathed his knife.
For now.
* * *
THIRTY-ONE
Tuesday, 7:01 a.m.,
Istanbul, Turkey
Situated on the shimmering blue Bosphorus where Europe and Asia meet, Istanbul is the only city in the world which straddles two continents. Known as Byzantium in the early days of Christianity, when the city was built along seven great hills, and as Constantinople until 1930, Istanbul is the largest city and most prosperous port in Turkey. Its population of eight million people swells daily, as families migrate from rural regions looking for work. The new arrivals invariably come at night and erect shanties on the fringes of the city. These homes, known as gecekondu or "built at night," are protected by an ancient Ottoman law which declares that a roof raised during the darkness cannot be torn down. Eventually the shantytowns are razed, new housing blocks rise in their place, and new shanties are erected beyond them. These shacks stand in dramatic contrast to the wealthy apartments, chic restaurants, and fancy boutiques of the Taksim, Harbiye, and Nisantasi districts. The Istanbullus who live there drive BMWs, wear gold and diamond jewelry, and weekend in their yali, wooden mansions nestled on the shores of the Bosphorus.
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