Clancy, Tom - Op Center 04 - Acts Of War

by Acts Of War [lit]

  "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. You 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.

  American Deputy Chief of Mission Eugenie Morris had been the overnight house guest of charismatic Turkish automobile magnate Izak Bora. Because the U.S. consulate in Istanbul was secondary to the embassy in Ankara, commercial as well as political interests were dealt with here in a less formal, less bureaucratic manner. The forty-seven-year-old diplomat had gone to a dinner party at Mr. Bora's yali with American business representatives, and had stayed until all the other guests had left. Then she had dismissed her driver and a second car carrying two members of the Diplomatic Security Agency. These men literally rode shotgun for any official who went out on government or private business. DSA agents were authorized to use appropriate force to protect their charges. And because they were attached to an embassy or consulate, they were immune from prosecution for their actions.

  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.