Clancy, Tom – Op Center 04 – Acts Of War

“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.

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