“Good afternoon, sir. I’m DSA Agent Davies and this is Agent Fernette,” the young man yelled, cocking his head toward a woman standing to his right. “Stay close behind us. We’ll take you through customs.”
The two agents turned and walked side by side. Hood and the others fell in, following closely as their escorts alternately shouldered, elbowed, and pushed their way through the crowd. Hood wasn’t surprised they didn’t have a Syrian security contingent. He wasn’t high-ranking enough to merit one. Still, he was surprised that there were so few police here. He was dying to know what had happened, but he didn’t want to distract their escorts.
It took nearly ten minutes to push through the main terminal. The baggage area was relatively empty. While they waited for their luggage, Hood asked the agents what had happened.
“There’s been a confrontation at the border, Mr. Hood,” Agent Fernette replied. She had short brown hair and a clipped voice, and looked about twenty-two.
“How bad?” Hood asked.
“Very bad. Syrian troops surrounded Turkish troops which had crossed the border looking for the terrorists. The Syrians were fired upon and fired back. Three Turkish soldiers were killed before the rest of the border patrol managed to work their way back into Turkey.”
“There’s been worse,” Nasr said. “This panic is for that?”
Fernette turned her dark eyes on him. “No, sir,” she said. “For what followed. The Syrian commander pursued the Turks into Turkey and wiped them out. Executed the soldiers who surrendered.”
“My God!” Bicking cried.
“What is his background?” Nasr asked.
“He’s a Kurd,” Fernette replied.
“What happened after that?” asked Hood.
“The commander was dismissed and the Syrians withdrew,” the woman said. “But not before the Turks moved some of their regular army troops and tanks to the border. That’s where it sits the last we heard.”
“So everyone’s trying to get out,” Hood said.
“Actually, not everyone,” said Fernette. “Most of the people here are Jordanians, Saudis, and Egyptians. Their governments are sending in planes to evacuate them. They’re afraid that their countries may come in on the side of the Turks and they don’t want to be here if they do.”
After gathering their bags, Hood and the others were led to a small room on the far northern side of the terminal. There, they were hurried through customs and taken to a waiting car. As he climbed into the stretch limousine with its American driver, Hood smiled to himself. The President had to fly him to the other side of the world to get him into one of these.
The ride north into the city was quick and easy. Traffic on the highway was light, and the driver came in around the city to Shafik al-Mouaed Street. He turned west and drove toward Mansour Street. The U.S. Embassy was located at Number Two. Both roads were deserted.
Nasr shook his head as they headed down the narrow road. “I’ve been coming here all my life.” There was a catch in his voice. “I’ve never seen the city so deserted. Damascus and Aleppo are the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world. To see it like this is terrible.”
“I understand it’s even worse in the north, Dr. Nasr,” said Agent Fernette.
“Has everyone left the city or are they indoors?” Hood asked.
“A little of both,” said Fernette. “The President has ordered the streets to be kept clear in case the army or his own palace guards have to move around.”
“I don’t understand,” Hood said. “All the activity is taking place one hundred and fifty miles north of here. The Turks wouldn’t be reckless enough to attack the capital.”
“They’re not,” said Bicking. “I’ll bet the Syrians are afraid of their own people. Kurds, like the officer who led the attack at the border.”
“Exactly,” said Fernette. “There’s a five p.m. curfew. If you’re out after,that, you’re going to prison.”
“Which is someplace you don’t want to be in Damascus,” Agent Davies said. “People are treated rather harshly there.”
Upon reaching the embassy, Hood was greeted by Ambassador L. Peter Haveles. Hood had met the career foreign service man once, at a reception at the White House. Haveles was balding and wore thick glasses. He stood a few inches under six feet, though his rounded shoulders made him seem even shorter. He’d gotten this post, it was said, because he was a friend of the Vice President. At the time, Haveles’s predecessor had remarked that a man would only give this post to his worst enemy.
“Welcome, Paul,” Haveles said from halfway down the corridor.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador,”‘ Hood replied.
“Was the flight pleasant?” Haveles asked.
“I listened to oldies on audio channel four and slept,” Hood said. “That, Mr. Ambassador, is pretty much my definition of pleasant.”
“Sounds good to me,” Haveles said unconvincingly. Even as the ambassador shook hands with Hood, his eyes had already moved to Nasr. “It’s an honor to have you here, Dr. Nasr,” Haveles said.
“It’s an honor to be here,” Nasr replied, “though I wish the circumstances were not so grim.”
Haveles shook Bicking’s hand, but his eyes returned quickly to Nasr. “They are grimmer than you know,” Haveles said. “Come. We’ll talk in my office. Would any of you care for something to drink?”
The men shook their heads, after which Haveles turned and extended a hand down the corridor. The men began walking slowly, Haveles between Hood and Nasr and Bicking beside Hood. Their footsteps echoed down the corridor as the ambassador talked about the ancient vases on display. They were top-lit, and looked quite dramatic in front of nineteenth-century murals showing events from the reign of the Umayyad Caliphs, during the first century A.D.
Haveles’s round office was at the far end of the embassy. It was small but ornate, with marble columns on all sides and a central drum ceiling reminiscent of the cathedral at Bosra. Light came through a large skylight in the top of the dome. There were no other windows. The guests sat in thickly padded brown armchairs. Haveles shut the door, then sat behind his massive desk. He seemed dwarfed by it.
“We have our sources in the Presidential Palace,” he said with a smile, “and we suspect they have sources here. It’s best to speak in private.”
“Of course,” said Hood.
Haveles folded his hands in front of him. “The palace believes that there is a death squad in Damascus. The best information they have is that the team will strike late this afternoon.”
“Do we have corroboration?” Hood asked.
“I was hoping you could help us there,” Haveles said. “At least, that your people could. You see, I’ve been invited to visit the palace this afternoon.” He looked at the antique ivory clock on his desk. “In ninety minutes, in fact. I’ve been invited to remain there for the rest of the day, talking things over with the President. Our chat is to be followed by dinner—”
“This is the same President who once kept our Secretary of State waiting for two days before granting him an audience,” Dr. Nasr interrupted.
“And kept the French President sitting in an ante-chamber for four hours,” Bicking added. “The President still doesn’t get it.”
“Get what?” Hood asked.
“The lessons of his ancestors,” said Bicking. “Through most of the nineteenth century, they used to invite enemies to their tents and seduce them with kindness. Pillows and perfume won more wars out here than swords and bloodshed.”
“Yet those victories still left the Arabs in disunity,” Dr. Nasr said. “The President does not seek to seduce us with kindness. He abuses foreigners in an effort to seduce his Arab brothers.”
“Actually,” said Haveles, “I think you’re both missing the point. If I may finish, the President has also invited the Russian and Japanese ambassadors to this meeting. I suspect that we will be with him until the crisis has passed.”
“Of course,” Hood nodded. “If anything happens to him, it’ll happen to you and the others.”
“Assuming the President even shows up,” Bicking pointed out. “He may not even be in Damascus.”
“That’s possible,” Haveles admitted.
“If an attack occurs,” said Dr. Nasr, “even with the President away from the palace, Washington, Moscow, and Tokyo will find it impossible to support whoever staged the attack, whether it’s the Kurds or Turks.”
“Exactly,” said Haveles.
“They could even be Syrian soldiers masquerading as Kurds,” said Bicking. “They conveniently kill everyone except the President. He survives and becomes a hero to millions of Arabs who dislike the Kurds.”
“That’s also possible,” Haveles said. He looked at Hood. “Which is why, Paul, any intelligence you can come up with will be helpful.”
“I’ll get in touch with Op-Center right away,” Hood said. “In the meantime, what about my meeting with the President?”
Haveles looked at Hood. “It’s all been arranged, Paul.”
Hood didn’t like the smooth way the ambassador had said that. “When?” he asked.