which carted it in.'
When the files were loaded, Stoll accessed a graphics program. He pulled up a file and typed
'Where's the cave?' Herbert asked.
Stoll asked the computer to find the cave in its geography file. It took just a few seconds for the coordinates to come up.
Stoll held up his can of Tab. 'Here's dirt in your eye,' he said as he triumphantly slugged the rest of it down.
Herbert nodded quickly as he snapped up his cellular phone, put in a call to Major General Bar-Levi in Haifa, and told him about the map which was about to be modemed over.
THIRTY-SIX
Over the past twenty years, Paul Hood had been to dozens of crowded airports in many cities. Tokyo had been big but orderly, packed with businesspeople and tourists on a scale he'd never imagined. Vera Cruz, Mexico, had been small, jammed, outdated, and humid beyond imagining. The locals were too hot to fan themselves as they waited for departures and arrivals to be written on the blackboard.
But Hood had never seen anything like the sight which greeted him as he entered he terminal of the Damascus International Airport. Every foot of the terminal had people in it. Most of them were well dressed and well behaved. They held baggage on their heads because there wasn't room to keep it at their sides. Armed police stood at the gates of arriving aircraft to keep people out if necessary and help passengers get off planes and into the terminals. After the passengers deplaned, the doors of the gate were shut and they were on their own.
'Are all of these people coming or going?' Hood asked Nasr. He had to shout to be heard over persons who were crying for family members or yelling instructions to friends or assistants.
'They all appear to be going!' Nasr shouted back. 'But I've never seen it like this! Something must have happened—'
Hood elbowed sideways through the mob at the gate entrance. He thought he felt a hand reach for his inside jacket pocket. He stepped back against Nasr. His passport or wallet would both be valuable if people were trying to leave Syria. His arms tight at his sides, he got on his tiptoes. A white piece of cardboard with his name written in black was bobbing above heads about five yards away.
'Come on!' Hood shouted at Nasr and Bicking.
The men literally pushed their way to the black-suited young man who was holding the sign.
'I'm Paul Hood,' he said to the man. He wormed his arm behind him. 'This is Dr. Nasr and Mr. Bicking.'
'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
