Acts of War

satellite.'

Rodgers shook his head. 'We don't have that capaci—'

Mahmoud turned and kicked Sondra in the face. She had seen the boot coming and rolled with it, lessening the impact. It spilled her onto her side, but she sat up again quickly, defiantly.

Rodgers felt the kick as well. It had punted logic into a remote end zone. He looked at Hasan. 'You tell Mahmoud that if he touches one of my people again, he will get nothing, ever.'

Mahmoud spoke hurriedly to Hasan.

'Mahmoud says he will beat her to death unless you obtain the capacity we requested,' Hasan replied.

'You are on United States property,' Rodgers said. 'Tell Mahmoud that we don't obey dictators, whatever the price.' Rodgers glared at Hasan. 'Tell him, damn you.'

Hasan obliged. When he had finished, Mahmoud went to kick Sondra again. Since her hands were free, she was able to cross her forearms and block the blow. At the same time she turned her hands inward, facing one another, and caught his shin. Holding it, she pushed his leg up and he stumbled back.

'Atta way, Private,' Coffey said under his breath.

Screaming with fury, Mahmoud stomped down on the woman's right kneecap then kicked her in the chin. She wasn't fast enough to react to the blows and sprawled back against the wall. Mahmoud walked over and stomped her belly. Her arms slipped to her sides and she gasped for breath.

'For Christ's sake, stop!' Katzen said.

Mahmoud kicked Sondra twice in the chest, and this time she moaned. Then he kicked her in the mouth. With each blow Katzen's eyes burned with greater anger, first at the Syrians and finally at Rodgers.

'He's going to kill her,' Katzen said. 'Jesus, do something!'

Rodgers was proud of his Striker. She was ready to give it all for her country. But he couldn't allow it. Despite what he'd said about dictators, democracy would be better served by the likes of Sondra DeVonne living, not dying.

'All right,' Rodgers said. 'I'll do what you ask.'

Mahmoud stopped, and Sondra tried to pull herself into a sitting position. There was blood on her cheek and mouth. She opened her eyes and looked at Katzen, who exhaled tremulously.

Rodgers held on to the table and swung himself into the empty chair. He put his hands on the keyboard. He hesitated again. If it were just himself and Pupshaw, maybe even Katzen and Coffey, he could tell the Syrians to go to hell. But by giving in to their first demand, he'd shown that his skin could be penetrated. By attacking Hasan, Rodgers had lost the ability to divide the terrorists. That had been stupid. But he'd been tired and afraid for Mary Rose, and it was over and done. Now he had only two assets left: his life and surprise. As long as he could work the ROC for these men, he would stay alive. And as long as he stayed alive, he could always surprise them.

Provided you keep your wits, Rodgers reminded himself. No more temper.

Mahmoud spoke. Hasan nodded.

'We want to see Ibrahim in the picture,' Hasan told Rodgers. 'Be certain you show him.'

As Hasan and Mahmoud both looked over his shoulder, Rodgers opened the NRO software. He followed the on-screen prompts, typed in the coordinates, and asked for a visual of the site. He held his breath when the computer indicated that his request was 'already working.'

Dammit, Rodgers thought. Godammit. The Syrian could also read English.

'Already working,' Hasan said. He translated for Mahmoud, then said, 'This means that someone else has already asked for this information. Who?'

'It could be any military or intelligence office in Washington,' Rodgers answered truthfully.

Less than twenty seconds later they were looking down at themselves from space. The image was a quarter mile across, standard surveillance distance.

Mahmoud seemed pleased. He said something to Hasan.

'Mahmoud wishes you to find out who else is looking at us.'

There was no point in lying anymore. They'd only beat Sondra to death, then turn on someone else. Rodgers hit a flashing satellite icon, and a short list of image-share outlets appeared. The National Reconnaissance Office and Op-Center were the only names on it.

Hasan explained what they said, and then Mahmoud Spoke.

'You are to shut the eye of the satellite,' Hasan said.

Rodgers didn't hesitate. One of the keys to the hostage game was knowing when to up the ante and knowing when to fold. It was time to fold this hand.

The ROC could not shut down the 30-45-3. That command would have to come from the NRO. However, he could send up a steady stream of digital noise which would cover an area some ten miles across. That would make the ROC invisible to every form of electronic reconnaissance, from normal light to electromagnetic.

Rodgers accessed the software which had been designed to protect the ROC from being seen by enemy satellites. After loading it and removing the safeguards built into the system, all that remained was for him to push 'Enter.'

'It's ready,' Rodgers said.

Hasan translated. Mahmoud nodded. Rodgers pressed the button.

The three men watched as the monitor grew thick with color static until the image broke up. Hasan leaned over Rodgers and clicked the satellite icon. The NRO and Op-Center both disappeared from the image-share list.

Mahmoud stood back and smiled. He spoke to Hasan at length, then turned and pulled his tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket.

Hasan regarded Rodgers. 'Mahmoud wishes me to make certain that you have done what you promised.'

'I have,' said Rodgers. 'You can see that.'

'I saw an image vanish,' Hasan said. He pointed toward Rodgers's shirt pocket. 'Use your telephone. Call your headquarters. I will speak with them.'

Rodgers felt nervous, but he had to appear calm. Maybe Hasan had just been pointing at him, not at the pocket where he'd placed the phone. Rodgers nodded and casually reached for the telephone on the side of the computer. He lifted it from the cradle and immediately tried to work his thumb onto the stop button. The last thing he wanted was for the Syrians to hear the pulsing of the numbers he'd sent out.

Hasan's hand flashed out. He grabbed Rodgers's wrist. He hadn't hit the button yet.

'What are you doing?' Hasan asked. 'Where is your telephone?'

'I lost it somewhere,' Rodgers said.

'Lost it where?' Hasan asked.

'I don't know,' Rodgers replied. 'Outside, I suppose. Or on the floor here. It could have happened any one of the times I was tripped or pushed or knocked around.'

Hasan's brows came together. 'What's that?'

'What?' Rodgers asked.

Hasan looked at the phone. 'It is dialing.'

'No, it isn't.' Rodgers smiled benignly. He had to make Hasan feel foolish if he continued this line of questioning. 'It's clicking because of the static we're sending up to the satellite. If it were a number, someone would have picked up. Watch. When we put in a new number, it will be fine.'

Hasan didn't appear to be buying that. But he was distracted when Mahmoud spoke sharply. It sounded to Rodgers as if he were pressing Hasan, and Hasan answered testily.

Hasan exhaled loudly, then glared at Rodgers. 'Dial the number and then introduce me,' he said. 'I will do the rest.'

Rodgers waited while Hasan released his wrist. Then he clicked the stop button, waited for the dial tone, and punched in Bob Herbert's number. Since the main dish on the driver's side of the van was being used to create the digital noise, the 'mirror' dish on the passenger's side would create the uplink with the communications satellite Op-Center used.

Within ten seconds, Bob Herbert's startled assistant was summoning the intelligence chief to the phone.