Katzen looked at Falah to make sure he was all right. He looked up. Broken bark was sticking off the tree at odd, ugly angles. Katzen couldn’t help but think that that was the first time a tree had ever saved an environmentalist.
But for how long? he wondered.
Falah brought both guns around. Still lying flat, he held them in front of him, pointing them up the slope. There were more footsteps, followed by silence. And then a horrifying thought hit Katzen. He’d left the goddamn infrared imaging system on in the ROC. It was still running at Mike Rodgers’s station. Even though the men who had been taught how to run some of the ROC equipment were dead, anyone could go inside and have a look at the monitor. And anyone who was within two hundred yards of the cave would show up as a red figure on the screen. Bodies hit by gunfire would leak warm, detectable blood.
He and Falah weren’t bleeding and the Kurds would know it.
Katzen leaned over so his mouth was right beside Falah’s ear. “We’re in trouble,” he said. “The van can see us the way they saw you. The infrared—they know we’re not dead.”
After a short silence there were more footsteps. There was a high-pitched whimper. Katzen twisted his face so he could look up. A moment later he saw Mary Rose standing at the edge of the slope.
Someone was standing behind her. All Katzen could see were his legs through hers.
“You men down there!” shouted a voice from above. “You have a count of five to surrender. If you don’t come up your people will be shot in turn, beginning with this woman. One!”
“He’ll do it,” Falah whispered to Katzen.
“Two!”
“I know,” Katzen replied. “I’ve seen how they work this drill. I’ve got to give myself up.”
“Three!”
Falah put a hand on his arm. “They’ll kill you!”
“Four!”
“Maybe not,” Katzen said. He got up slowly, painfully. “They still need me.” He looked up. They were doing a fast count, the bastards. “I’m hurt!” he shouted. “I’m coming as fast as I can!”
“Five!”
“No, wait!” Katzen screamed. “I said—”
Suddenly, blood exploded from the top of the slope and sprayed darkly across the blue sky.
“No!” Katzen screamed, his face distorted as Mary Rose fell to her knees and the blood rained toward them. “God, no!”
FORTY-NINE
Tuesday, 3:35 p.m.,
Damascus, Syria
The floor of the palace security office was slippery with blood.
The Diplomatic Security Agents were dead. So were the two- and three-agent security forces for the Japanese and Russian ambassadors respectively. They had been gunned down in the small office, a dark and windowless room with two stools and a large, slanting console consisting of twenty small black-and-white television monitors. The images showed bedlam at nearly every entrance, every room.
The man who presumably had shot them, a blue-uniformed palace guard whose station this must have been, was also dead. There was an automatic rifle on the floor beside him and a pair of bullet holes in his forehead. One of the Russians had been able to draw his own pistol. Apparently, the head shots were his.
Paul Hood did not want to linger in the security office. He checked the men for signs of life. Finding none, he remained on his hands and knees and poked his head into the hallway. The sounds of gunfire were all around him. They were no longer distant. The reception room, though only about two dozen yards away, seemed incredibly far. In the other direction, the outside door was much closer. But he wouldn’t leave without the others. Tactically, it would make more sense if he could get them here.
Then he remembered Warner Bicking’s cellular phone.
Hood turned back into the room. The DSA agents both had cellular phones. One had been shattered by gunfire. The other had been busted when the man fell. None of the other agents had phones. Hood sat back on his heels. He looked around.
This is a security office, goddammit! he told himself. They have to have a telephone.
He ran his hands along the console. They did have one. It was in a lidded recess to the right of the lowest right-hand monitor. Hood lifted the receiver. The lighted numbers were on the handset. He held it in his trembling palm and punched in Bicking’s number. Bicking was probably still on the line with Op-Center. Hood wondered if anyone else in history had ever used call waiting in the middle of a firelight.
Hood went back to watching the monitors as the phone range. It beeped twice before Bicking picked up.
“Warner, it’s Paul.”
“Jesus God,” Bicking laughed nervously, “I’d hoped it wasn’t a wrong number. What’d you find?”
“They’re all dead in here,” Hood said. “Anything from Op-Center?”
“They’ve got me on hold while they try to get someone to us,” he said. “Last I heard was from Bob. He told me something’s up but couldn’t tell me what.”
“He was probably afraid the lines are being monitoned.” Hood shook his head. “I’m looking at the monitors, though, and I don’t see how anyone’s going to—hold it.”
Hood watched as what looked like a contingent of Syrian Army troops made their way through one of the corridors.
“What’s going on?” Bicking asked.
“I’m not sure,” Hood said, “but the cavalry may have arrived.”
“Where?”
“Looks like it’s the other end of the corridor from where I am,” Hood said.
“Closer to us?”
“Yes.”
“Should I go out and try to meet them?” Bicking asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Hood. “Seems like they’re headed right toward you.”
“They probably have orders to get the ambassadors out,” Bicking said. “Maybe you’d better come back.”
“Maybe,” Hood agreed.
The gunfire was growing louder at the other end of the hall, away from the reception room. It wouldn’t be long before the rebels reached the security office.
Hood continued to watch the monitors. The troops weren’t checking other rooms, nor had they set up any kind of flank watch. They were moving ahead with surprising confidence. Either they had courage or they didn’t have a clue as to how bad things were.
Or, Hood thought, they aren’t afraid of being attacked.
It was part of Hood’s job to do what he called the “PC thing,” to presume conspiracies. Part of Op-Center’s mission was constantly to ask “What if?” when faced with a murder by a lone assassin or a rebellion by a hitherto underarmed faction. Hood was not obsessed with conspiracies, but he wasn’t naive.
The soldiers continued to move ahead purposefully. Hood watched as coverage shifted to another monitor.
“Paul?” Warner said. “Are you coming?”
“Hold the line,” Hood said.
“I’ve got Op-Center still holding—”
“Stay on the line!” Hood ordered.
He bent lower to the monitors. A few seconds later he saw two men with black kaffiyehs, brandishing what looked like Makarov pistols, cross the hall behind them. One of the soldiers looked back briefly. He didn’t even break his stride.
“Warner,” Hood said urgently, “get out of there.”
“What? Why?”
“Get everyone together and move!” he said. “Bring them here. I don’t think the cavalry is on our side.”
“Okay,” Bicking said, “I’m moving.”
“And if they won’t leave, don’t argue with them. Just get out.”
“Understood,” Bicking said.
Hood squeezed the phone. More attackers passed with impunity behind the troops. Either the Syrian military was in on this, or these men were only masquerading as Syrian Army regulars. In either case, the situation had just gone from dangerous to deadly.
“Shit!” Hood said as the soldiers turned down the last corridor. “Warner, stay put!”
“What?”
“Stay where you are!” Hood shouted. He’d no longer have to watch the attackers on the monitor. To see them, all he’d have to do was stick his head out the door. His head or—
Hood looked down at the blood-soaked marble. The Russian guard’s pistol was there along with the Syrian killer’s automatic rifle. All that Hood knew about firing guns was what he’d been taught in the required courses at Op-Center. And he hadn’t done terribly well at those. Not with Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert casually ticking off bull’s-eyes at the firing stations on either side of him. But what Hood knew might be enough. If he could drive the Syrians back, that might buy Warner and the others enough time to get out of the reception room.
“Warner,” Hood whispered loudly into the phone, “there are soldiers coming toward you. Probably hostile. Hunker down until you hear from me. Acknowledge.”
“Hunkering down,” Bicking said.
Hood let the phone drop. He lifted the automatic rifle from the thin layer of blood carpeting the marble floor. He got up quickly and felt dizzy. He wasn’t sure if it was because he’d gotten up too fast or because his hands and the soles of his shoes were sticky with someone’s blood. It was probably a little of both. Moving quickly, Hood stepped over the outstretched arm of one of the DSA men. He stood just behind the doorjamb.