Acts of War

'What?' Stoll said.

'And it's only been two weeks since the forward funding was uncovered. There are going to be a lot more defections.' Viens raised his eyebrows forlornly. 'It really sacks, Matt. I finally get my Conrad and I can't even enjoy it.'

The Conrads were an unofficial award given at a private dinner every year by the foremost figures in American intelligence. The dagger-like trophy was named after Joseph Conrad, whose 1907 novel, The Secret Agent, was one of the first great espionage tales. Viens had coveted the award for years, and had finally won it.

Stoll said, 'I think you're going to weather this thing. There won't be a real investigation. Too many secrets'll be made public. There'll be some wrist-slapping, the money will be found and returned to the treasury, and they'll watch your budget more closely for the next couple of years. Just like a personal audit.'

'Matt,' Viens said, 'there's something else.'

'There always is. Action followed by an equal and opposite reaction. What else are they planning?'

'I hear they're going to subpoena our diskettes.'

That got Stoll's attention. His round, beefy shoulders rose slowly. The diskettes were time- and destination- coded. They would show that Op-Center was getting a disproportionate amount of satellite time.

'How solid's your info?' Stoll asked.

'Very,' Viens said.

There was a sudden gurgling in Stoll's belly. 'You, uh — didn't get that yourself, did you?'

Stoll was asking Viens whether he'd ordered surveillance on Landwehr. He prayed that his friend had not.

'Please, Matt,' Viens said.

'Just making sure. Pressure can do funny things to sane people.'

'Not me,' Viens said. 'Thing is, I won't be able to do much for you during the rest of the shakedown. I've got to give the other bureaus whatever time they need.'

'I understand,' Stoll said. 'Don't sweat it.'

Viens smiled halfheartedly. 'My psych profile says I never sweat anything,' he said. 'Worst that happens is I follow the Hawk into the private sector.'

'Bull-do. You'd be as miserable as I was. Look,' Stoll said, 'let's not go counting Mother Carey's chickens before the storm hits. If the Hawk flies the coop, maybe that'll take some of the pressure off.'

'That's a slim maybe.'

'But it's a possibility,' Stoll said. He glanced at the clock in the lower right corner of the screen. 'I'm supposed to see the boss at seven-thirty to let him know how the ROC is working. Why don't we have dinner tonight? On Op-Center.'

'I promised the missus we'd go out.'

'Fine,' Stoll said. 'I'll pick you both up. What time?

'How's seven?' Viens asked.

'Perfect,' said Stoll.

'My wife was expecting candles and hand-holding. She'll kill me.'

'It'll save Landwehr the trouble,' Stoll pointed out. 'See you at seven.'

Stoll clicked off feeling miserable. Sure, Viens had given him access to the NRO, but Op-Center had had the crises to justify that access. And what did it matter whether Op-Center or the Secret Service or the NYPD needed assistance? They were all on the same team.

Stoll phoned Hood's executive assistant, 'Bugs' Benet, who said the chief had just arrived. Finishing his tea and engulfing the second half of his bagel, the portly young chief technical officer strode from his office.

FIVE

Monday, 2:30 p.m.,

Qamishli, Syria

Ibrahim was asleep when the car eased to a stop. He awoke suddenly.

'Imshee imshee—!' he cried as he looked around. Yousef and Ali were still playing cards in the backseat. Ibrahim's eyes settled on the round, dark face of his brother, which was sleek with sweat. Mahmoud was looking in the rearview mirror.

'Good afternoon,' Mahmaud said dryly.

Ibrahim removed his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. 'Mahmoud,' he said with obvious relief.

'Yes,' his brother said with a half-smile. 'It's Mahmoud. Who was it that you wished would leave you alone?'

Ibrahim put his sunglasses on the dashboard. 'I don't know. A man. I couldn't see his face. We were in a market and he wanted me to go somewhere.'

'Probably to see a new automobile or an airplane or some other device,' Mahmoud said. ' 'Friend Ibrahim, I am the djinn of dreams and I will take you anywhere you want to go. Tell me. Would you like to meet a beautiful young woman who will be your wife?' 'Oh, thank you, djinn. You are most generous. But if you have a motorboat or a computer, I would very much enjoy making their acquaintance.' '

Ibrahim scowled. 'Where is it written that one cannot enjoy speed and power and machines?'

'Nowhere, my brother,' Mahmoud replied. He turned from his brother and looked up at the rearview mirror.

'I like women,' Ibrahim said. 'But women like children and I do not. So we are stalemated. Do you understand?'

'I do,' said Mahmoud. 'But you miss the point. I have a wife. I see her one night a week for an evening of fire. I kiss the sleeping children before I leave in the morning, then go off to do my work with Walid. I am content.'

'That is you,' Ibrahim said. 'When it is time, I want to be more of a husband, more of a father than that.'

'If you find a woman who wants that or needs it,' said Mahmoud, 'I will be very happy for you.'

'Shukran,' Ibrahim said. 'Thank you.' He yawned and vigorously dug his palms into his eyes.

'Afwan,' replied Mahmoud. 'You're welcome.' He squinted into the rearview mirror for a moment and then opened the door. 'Now, Ibrahim, if you've washed away the dust of sleep, our brothers are arriving.'

Ibrahim looked ahead as two cars passed them and pulled off the road. Both were large, old cars, a Cadillac and a Dodge. Beyond the two vehicles, less than a quarter of a mile distant, were the first low-lying stone buildings of Qamishli. They were misty gray shapes rippled in the radiant heat of the burning afternoon.

Ibrahim, Mahmoud, and their two companions emerged from their car. As they walked ahead, a 707 came in low headed for a landing at the nearby airport. The noise of the engines rumbled loud and long across the flat wasteland.

As Ibrahim and his party approached, three men emerged from the Cadillac, four from the Dodge. All but one were clean-shaven and dressed in jeans and button-down shirts. The exception was Walid al-Nasri. Because the Prophet had worn a beard and a loose-fitting abaya, so did he. The seven men had come up from Raqqa, in the southwest corner of al-Gezira on the Euphrates. It was partly the desperate plight of their once-fertile city that had driven Walid to become active in the movement. And it was the strength and conviction of their newly chosen leader, Commander Kayahan Siriner, that kept Walid and the others active.

The seven Kurds welcomed the others with heartfelt hugs and smiles and the traditional greeting of Al-salaam aleikum, 'Peace be upon you.' Ibrahim and the others replied with a respectful Wa aleikum al-salaam, 'And upon you be peace.' They gave their confederates equally warm embraces. But the warmth quickly gave way to the business at hand.

The man in the robe spoke to Mahmoud. 'Do you have everything?'

'We do, Walid.'

Walid squinted at the Ford. As he did, Ibrahim regarded the revered leader of their band. His features were