Hood did not bother telling Herbert that he might be one of those targets close to the Syrian President.
The embassy car entered the southwest sector of the Old City. The walls had fallen along a five-hundred-yard stretch here, and security was extremely thick. Jeeps had been parked fender-to-fender along the edges of the wall, leaving only a fifty-yard gap in the middle. This area was lined with over a dozen soldiers, all of them armed with Makarov pistols and AKM assault rifles. Tourist passports were being checked, and locals had to show identification.
The ambassador’s car was stopped by a tough-looking corporal. He collected passports, then used his field phone to call the palace. After each passenger in the car had been okayed, they were sent through. Before proceeding to the palace, the driver waited for the DSA car behind them to be cleared. They took al-Amin Street northeast to Straight Street, and went left. They turned right on Souk al-Bazuriye and drove three hundred yards. They passed the oldest public baths in Damascus, the Hamam Nur al-Din, as well as the nine-domed Khan of Assad Pasha, a former residence of the builder of the palace.
The palace was located just southwest of the Great Mosque or the Umayyad Mosque. Named for the Muslims who renovated it early in the eighth century, the mosque is built on the ruins of an ancient Roman temple. Before that, three thousand years ago, a temple dedicated to Hadad, the Aramean god of the sun, stood on this spot. Though burned and attacked repeatedly over the years, the mosque still stands and is one of the holiest sites in Islam.
The palace is no less imposing than the Great Mosque. Three separate wings surrounded the great court, a quiet retreat with a large pond and abundant citrus trees. One wing was for the kitchen and domestics, another for receiving guests, and the third was the living quarters. On the south side of the palace was a spacious public receiving area with marble walls and floor and a large fountain.
The palace was typically open to the public, though the private apartments were shut when the President came here. Today, the entire palace was closed and the President’s personal security force patrolled the grounds.
After parking along the northwest side of the palace, the DSA agents were shown to a palace security room while the ambassador and his party were conducted to a large receiving room down the corridor. The heavy drapes were pulled and the crystal chandelier was brightly lit. The walls were covered with dark wood paneling, ornately carved with religious images. The room was appointed with richly inlaid furniture. In the center of the wall opposite the door was a large mahmal or pavilion which contained a centuries-old copy of the Koran. Designed to be carried on the back of a camel, the mahmal was covered with green velvet embroidered with silver. On top was a large gold ball with silver fringes. The gold was real.
Japanese Ambassador Akira Serizawa was already present, along with his aides Kiyoji Nakajima and Masaru Onaka. Gray-haired presidential aide Aziz Azizi was also present. The Japanese bowed politely when the American delegation entered. Azizi smiled broadly. Ambassador Haveles led his group over and shook each man’s hand. Then he introduced Hood, Dr. Nasr, and Warner Bicking in turn. After presenting his team to Azizi, Haveles took the Japanese ambassador aside. Still smiling, Azizi faced the rest of the American contingent. He had on black-rimmed glasses and a neatly clipped goatee. He also wore a white earphone with a wire which ran discreetly along his collar to the inside of his white jacket.
“I am delighted to meet you all,” Azizi said in very precise English. “However, I am familiar by reputation only with the distinguished Dr. Nasr. I have recently read your book Treasure and Sorrow about the old Mecca caravan.”
“You honor me,” Nasr replied with a slight incline of his head.
Azizi’s smile remained fixed. “Do you really believe that the Bedouin would have attacked the caravan and left twenty thousand people to die in the desert had they not been driven by despair and starvation?”
Nasr’s head rose slowly. “The Bedouin of that time and that place were barbarous and greedy. Cheir needs had little to do with their misdeeds.”
“If my eighteenth-century ancestors were barbarous and greedy, as you say,” Azizi replied, “it is because they were oppressed by the Ottomans. Oppression is a powerful motivator.”
Bicking had been chewing the inside of his cheek. He stopped and eyed Azizi. “How powerful?” he asked.
Azizi was still smiling. “The desire for freedom can cause frail grass to split a walk or a root to break stone. It is very powerful, Mr. Bicking.”
Hood wasn’t sure whether he was listening to an historical discussion, a foreshadowing of things to come, or both. Regardless, Azizi was like a cat on a fence, and Nasr looked like he wanted to find a shoe. Excusing himself as the Russian contingent arrived, the presidential aide withdrew.
“Anyone care to tell me what just happened?” Hood asked.
“Centuries of ethnic rivalry just clashed,” Bicking said. “Egyptian versus Bedouin. Mr. Azizi’s a Hamazrib, I’ll bet. Successful at adapting to host cultures but very, very proud.”
“Too proud,” Nasr grumbled. “Blind to the truth. His people do have a history of cruelty.”
“Certainly their enemies think so,” Bicking said with a snicker.
Hood stole a look at Azizi. He was walking the Russians over. He hadn’t done that when Haveles’s group entered.
“Could his little freedom speech have been a warning about the Kurds?” Hood asked quickly.
“The Bedouin and the Kurds are fierce rivals,” Bicking said. “They wouldn’t be helping each other, if that’s what you mean.”
“It isn’t what I mean,” Hood said. “You saw how he set up Dr. Nasr. Maybe Ambassador Haveles hit it on the head when he said we could be used as bait.”
“Maybe he was also being just a touch paranoid,” Bicking said.
“Ambassadors always are,” Nasr remarked.
After the Russian group of four was introduced, Azizi said that the President would be joining them shortly. Then he turned and motioned to a domestic who was standing in the doorway. The domestic motioned to someone who was standing to the side, out of sight. Hood had a photo-flash vision of camouflage-clad terrorists rushing in with semi-automatics and cutting them all down. He was relieved when liveried men in white walked in carrying trays.
That’s only because the President isn’t here yet, he thought. That was when the terrorists would arrive.
The Russian Ambassador had lit a cigarette and, with his translator, had joined the other two ambassadors in a corner of the room. Azizi walked over to the door and stood there while the rest of the men mingled and ate shawarma—finely cut pieces of lamb—or khubz—spicy, deep-fried chickpea paste on unleavened bread. As the men speculated on the nature of the bombing in Turkey and the ramifications of the troop movements, Hood noticed Azizi put an index finger to the earphone. The presidential aide listened for a moment, then looked into the room.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “The President of the Syrian Arab Republic.”
“So he really is going to show,” Bicking said, leaning close to Hood. “I’m surprised.”
“He had to,” said Nasr. “He has to show he is fearless.”
The men stopped talking. They turned to face the door as footsteps clattered smartly down the marble hallway. A moment later the aged President entered the room. He was tall and dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and black tie. His head was uncovered and his nearly white hair was slicked back. He was flanked by a quartet of bodyguards. Azizi fell in beside the presidential patty as they walked toward the group of ambassadors.
Standing between Bicking and Nasr, Hood frowned. “Hold on. That bodyguard on the left—his trousers are sticking to his legs.”
“So?” Bicking said.
The bodyguard looked at Hood as Hood looked at him.
“That’s static electricity,” Hood said. He began moving toward the bodyguard for a better look. “On the plane I read an Israeli E-mail bulletin. It said that electromagnetic fuses in pants pockets are being used to trigger bombs around the waist or—”
Suddenly, the bodyguard shouted something which Hood didn’t understand. Before the other bodyguards could close ranks, the man was engulfed in a fireball. The blast knocked everyone down and blew the crystal from the chandelier. Hood’s ears rang as black smoke rolled over him and shards of shattered glass rained down. He couldn’t hear his own coughs as he lay on the floor choking.
He felt a hand pull at his jacket sleeve. He looked to his right. Bicking was waving smoke away. He shouted something. Hood couldn’t hear him. Bicking nodded. He pointed at Hood and held his thumb up, then down.
Hood understood. He moved his legs and arms. Then he held up a thumb. “I’m okay!” he shouted.