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.”