'I'm sorry?'
Siriner reached down. He picked up Falah's radio, which had been sitting on the floor behind his desk. 'Veeb. Whoever you were trying to contact with this.'
Falah had no idea what the man was talking about. But that didn't matter. If he said that, no one would believe him. So he didn't bother saying anything.
'No matter,' Siriner said as he called another man into the room. He handed the newcomer the.44. 'Take this spy outside and execute him. See that his body is returned to the Israelis. Also, use the van to inform the Americans that the corpses of their people will follow if another rescue is attempted.'
With two guns pointed at the back of his head, Falah was led up the stairs. In the Sayeret Ha'Druzim he'd been trained to take out a gun pointed to his back. You turned clockwise if it were in the right hand, counterclockwise if it were in the left hand. You cocked the same-side elbow behind you, waist high. As you turned, you used your elbow to push the gun hand in the opposite direction. The turn left you facing your attacker with the gun pointing away from you.
The maneuver worked even if your hands were tied. But it only worked with one gun. Siriner obviously knew it, which was why he had two guns trained on the prisoner. As he was led from the cave into the sunlight, Falah knew he had just one option. As soon as they were outside he'd try to 'reap' the men. He'd drop to the ground, extend his leg back, and sweep it to the side. There was room for that out here, though Falah knew he probably wouldn't get both men before one was able to fire.
While he had grown accustomed to living with death, he had never grown accustomed to failure. If he regretted anything, it was that. That and the fact that Sara, his, lovely Kiryat Shmonan bus driver, would never know what had happened to him. Even when the Israelis found his body — and they would; the Israelis will go to almost any length to recover the bodies of soldiers and spies — they wouldn't say anything about it. They couldn't admit he'd ever been in the Bekaa. Falah hated the idea that she might think he'd just left the village and her.
The slanting, late-afternoon sun felt warm as Falah was marched into it. They stopped on the dirt road just outside the cave. A guard was stationed a few yards away, outside the van. He was holding a.38 at his side and watched the men dispassionately.
Blessing his God and his parents, Falah was prepared to die as he had lived.
Fighting.
FORTY-FIVE
The two Jeeps had sped up Straight Street toward Souk al-Bazuriye. As they approached, Mahmoud saw smoke rolling from windows on the southeast side of the palace. He smiled. To the northeast and southwest, Kurds were already taking up positions along the wall and firing at the police. Tourists and shoppers and Old City merchants were fleeing in every direction, adding to the chaos. The dozens of Kurds knew who their targets were. As far as the police were concerned, any one of the hundreds of people running, walking, or crawling by could be an enemy.
Mahmoud stood in the passenger's seat. He wanted his people to see him, to see how proud he was. After decades of waiting, years of hoping, and months of planning, freedom was finally at hand. Listening to the Jeep radio he'd learned that even today, the dreaded Mukhabarat secret police had stopped suspected Kurdish rebels and searched them for arms. But the Kurds had hidden their weapons days before. Some of the firearms had been buried in the cemetery, while others had been placed in waterproof boxes in the river. Since late morning, the PKK fighters had stayed close to the weapons by posing as mourners or simply by lolling around the Barada. They didn't retrieve them until after the explosion that signaled the death of the tyrannical Syrian President and the start of a new era.
Gunfire popped on all sides. Though Mahmoud and his infiltrators were supposed to have been right outside the palace when the attack began, he wasn't concerned. His people were fighting bravely and aggressively. Inside, loyal Akbar wouldn't have detonated the bomb unless he was sure he could at least get the President. Akbar was a Turkish officer who was Kurdish on his mother's side and secretly devoted to their cause. A suicide note left in his locker indicated that this was his way of avenging decades of genocide against the Kurds.
Once Akbar made his move, the PKK man in the security office would have taken out any agents who had come with the foreign visitors. All that would remain for Mahmoud and his team to do was finish off any presidential security guards who were still alive and secure the palace.When that was done, Mahmoud would doff his Syrian disguise and notify Commander Siriner to come to Damascus. With Syria's forces gathered in the north along the Turkish border, and Iraq using the distraction to look longingly back at Kuwait, Kurds from three nations would make their way to the city. Many would be killed, but many would make it past the over-taxed military. Speaking in a voice tens of thousands strong, the Kurds would tell of the crimes of the Syrians, the Turks, and the Iraqis. With the eyes and ears of the world upon them, the Kurdish people would demand more than justice. They would demand a nation. Some countries would condemn the methods they'd used to get it. Yet from the time of the American Revolution through the birth of Israel, no nation had ever been born without violence. Ultimately, it was the justness of the cause and not the methods used to which other nations responded.
Police jumped to the side of the road to let the Jeeps through. Officers saluted Mahmoud as he passed. The Syrian police probably thought he was standing up to give them hope and courage.
Let them think that, Mahmoud thought. He was here to help in exactly the same way authorities had always helped his people, with murder and suppression.
The Jeeps rolled up to the west side of the palace. Mahmoud jumped out, followed by his soldiers. The ten men seemed imperious, braving the gunfire as they walked toward the ornate iron fence. They were ushered through the gate by a guard who had been crouching behind a decorative, half-sized marble camel. The guard was a city employee and not part of the presidential security force.
'What's going on?' Mahmoud asked as bullets chewed at the dark green grass around his feet. The Kurdish attackers knew who he was and wouldn't shoot him or his men.
The guard hovered behind the camel as a bullet flew by. 'There was an explosion,' he said. 'It came from the receiving room in the eastern wing.'
'Where was the President?'
'We believe the President was in the room.'
'You
'We've not had word from inside since before the explosion,' said the guard. 'That was when one of the security guards radioed another to say that the President was leaving his quarters to attend a meeting.'
'One of the security guards radioed?' Mahmoud asked. 'Not the President's personal guard?'
'It was one of the palace police,' the sentry said.
Mahmoud was surprised. When the President moved anywhere, whether in the palace or the nation, all communications and security were handled by his own elite team. 'Has an ambulance been sent for?'
'I've heard nothing,' said the guard.
Mahmoud looked toward the palace. It had been over five minutes since the explosion. If the President had been hurt, his personal physician would have been sent for. He would have been here by now. Something was wrong.
Waving his pistol for his men to follow, Mahmoud jogged quickly toward the palace entrance.
FORTY-SIX
Martha Mackall awoke with a start as her pager beeped. She looked at the number. It was Curt
