Bicking nodded just as Dr. Nasr came crawling toward them from the settling smoke. There was blood on his neck and forehead. Hood crept over and examined his face and head. Nasr had been closer to the blast, but the blood wasn’t his. Hood indicated that his colleague should lie where he was. Then he turned and tapped Bicking on the top of his head.
“Come with me!” Hood said. He pointed to himself, to Bicking, and then to where the presidential party had been standing. Bicking nodded. Hood motioned with his hand that the younger man should stay low in case there was shooting for any reason. Bicking nodded again. Together they wormed their way toward the door.
As they neared the blast site, they were hit with the distinctive, acrid smell of nitrite—like the lingering smell of freshly ignited matches. A moment later, the carnage was visible through the rising smoke. There were sprays of blood on the marble walls and puddles on the floors. The first body they encountered was that of the terrorist. He had been blown over the others. His legs and hands were gone. Bicking had to stop and look away. Hood continued on. As he moved along on his elbows, sweeping aside particles of glass, Hood wondered why no one had come to investigate the explosion. He considered sending Bicking out for help, but decided against it. He didn’t want him running into overly anxious security forces who might gun him down.
Upon reaching the bodyguards, Hood found them all dead. The blast had dismembered and torn off the bulletproof vests of the two men nearest the explosion. Two other men were still tucked inside their vests, but their heads and limbs were riddled with two-inch nails and small ball bearings—the preferred projectiles of suicide bombers. Hood crawled around them to where the President and Azizi lay. The President was dead. Hood moved on to Azizi. He was alive but unconscious, bleeding from his chest and right side. Kneeling, Hood gently began pulling away the bloody fragments of clothing. He wanted to see if the bleeding could be stopped.
Azizi shuddered and moaned. “I knew—knew this would happen.”
“Lie still,” Hood said into his ear. “You’ve been injured.”
“The President—” he said.
“He’s dead,” Hood informed him.
Azizi opened his eyes. “No!”
“I’m sorry,” Hood said. Through the frustrating thickness in his ears he heard shots. It sounded as if they were coming from outside the palace. Were there more terrorists trying to get in or guards firing at fleeing accomplices? The gunfire grew louder with each new volley. Hood began to fear that the shots weren’t being directed away from the palace but toward it.
Azizi squirmed with pain. “He is not—” Azizi choked. “He is not the President.”
Hood continued to pull away blood-drenched pieces of the man’s jacket. “What do you mean?”
“He was… a double,” Azizi said. “To draw… his enemies out.”
Hood scowled as the words sunk in. Score one for paranoia, he thought. He patted Azizi’s shoulder. “Don’t exert yourself,” he said. “I’ll see if I can stop the bleeding and then call for an ambulance.”
“No!” said Azizi. “They must… come here.”
Hood looked at him.
“We have been waiting,” Azizi said weakly. “Watching… for them.”
“For who?”
“Many… more,” Azizi replied.
Hood winced as he cleared the last remnants of shirt from Azizi’s chest. Blood was pumping out in half-inch-high squirts. He didn’t know what to do for the man. Sitting back on his heels, he held Azizi’s hand.
“Why won’t you let me call for a doctor?” Hood asked.
“They have to… come in.”
“They,” Hood said. “You think there may be more terrorists?”
“Many,” Azizi wheezed. “The bomber… was Kurd. Many Kurds… missing. Still in Damascus—”
Suddenly but peacefully, almost as if he were moving in slow motion, the Syrian’s head rolled to the side. His breathing slowed as the spurts of blood continued. A moment later Azizi’s eyes closed. There was a long exhalation and then silence.
Hood released Azizi’s hand. He looked to his right as Nasr crept through the smoke. He was followed by the three ambassadors. The Russian looked stunned. Haveles was holding him by an elbow and leading him ahead. The Japanese Ambassador was walking behind him, a little unsteady. Their aides, most of them shell-shocked, walked a few paces behind.
“My God,” Haveles said. “The President—”
“No,” said Hood as his ears began to clear. “A look-alike. That’s why the President’s security forces haven’t come in yet. They used this man to smoke out a mole.”
“I sold the President short,” Haveles said. “He was expecting to win allies by having us dead and him alive.”
“He’d have gotten that too if the bomber hadn’t panicked,” Hood said.
“Panicked?” Haveles said. “What do you mean?”
Hood watched as the blood stopped pumping from Azizi’s chest. “The infiltrator counted on the other bodyguards looking ahead and not seeing him. But he didn’t count on someone inside noticing the static charge when he armed the electromagnetic fuse.” Hood indicated the shattered remains of the bomber. “He must have been put in place years ago to have gotten this kind of access.”
“Who was he?” Haveles asked.
“Azizi thinks—thought he was a Kurd,” Hood said. “I agree. There’s something going on here that’s larger than sending Syria and Turkey to war.”
“What?” asked Haveles.
“I honestly don’t know,” said Hood.
The shots from outside grew louder and closer.
“Where are our security agents?” the Russian ambassador yelled in English.
“I don’t know that either,” Hood said, more to himself than to the Russian. However, he feared the worst. He peered through the smoke. “Ambassador Andreyev, are all of your people all right?”
“Da,” he replied.
“Ambassador Serizawa!” Hood yelled. “Are you okay?”
“We are unhurt!” a member of the Japanese contingent yelled through the smoke.
Hood checked the other blast victims. They were all dead. A half-dozen people and one terrorist had given their lives to smoke out more terrorists. It was insane.
“Warner!” Hood yelled. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes!” came a muffled response from the right. Bicking was probably breathing through a handkerchief.
“Do you have your cellular?” Hood asked.
“Yes!”
“Call Op-Center,” Hood said. He listened as explosions popped in the distance. He thought about the Kurds that Herbert’s people had tracked to the palace. “Tell Bob Herbert what happened. Tell him we may be under siege here.” Then he ducked under the rising tester of smoke and, still stooping, walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Haveles asked.
“To try and find out whether we stand a chance of getting out of here.”
FORTY-FOUR
Tuesday, 2:53 p.m.,
the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon
Falah didn’t understand it. He was running quickly. Yet as fast as he ran, following a jagged course through the foothills, the Kurds stayed with him. It was almost as if they had a spotter in the mountains, telling them where he was going. But that was unlikely. The tree cover was thick here and he was under it more than he was out of it. Still, somehow they were managing to stay within thirty to fifty yards of him.
Finally, exhausted and curious, Falah stopped. He took off his sweat-soaked headdress, grabbed a stick, and found a patch of grass. Pitching a small tent with the fabric, he slid his head under it and pretended to settle in for a nap. Less than a minute later the Kurds arrived. They surrounded him in a wide circle, then tightened it slowly. He opened his eyes, sat up, and raised his hands.
“Ala malak!” he shouted. “Slow down!”
They kept coming, stomping through the low brush and moving around the trees. Only when the eight men were standing around him shoulder to shoulder, guns pointed down, did they stop.
“What are you doing?” Falah asked. “What do you want?”
One of the men told Falah to keep his hands behind him and rise slowly. He obeyed. He started to ask what they were doing. He was told to be quiet. He obeyed again. The man tied his hands together and slipped the other end of the rope around his throat. Then he patted Falah down. He removed his gun and passport and handed them to a soldier, who ran ahead. Then, with his faced pointed toward the sky, Falah was marched through the rocky foothills to the cave. As he was led up the dirt road he stepped as hard as he could. If Striker decided to move in, they might see his footprints and know where it was safe to walk.
He was led past the van. As he walked by he noticed what he hadn’t been able to tell from hiding. That the van was humming and lights were on inside. Either the commandos had been schooled enough in electronics to figure the computers out, which he doubted, or someone had talked under torture. In either case, he had a good idea how they’d been able to track him. He was glad he hadn’t been able to send a voice message to Tel Nef. The van would have picked that up for sure. The short, coded burst he’d managed to get out might have slipped through the cracks. Even if it hadn’t, it wouldn’t mean anything to them.