Acts of War

'Wouldn't they have told me?'

'Not on an open line,' Hood said. 'Security won't matter now.'

Mahmoud stopped talking. There was a very short silence, and then the Syrians suddenly fell back a few paces. They opened fire, shooting as one at the main body of Mahmoud's group.

'Shit!' Bicking screamed into the phone. 'Paul, I can't hear anything! Too much noise!'

Several of Mahmoud's men fell before they could returrn fire. Mahmoud himself was unable to shoot because his men were in the way. Instead, he motioned the surviving members of his group back. As they ran around him he covered their retreat, driving the Syrians back with a waist-high burst of fire. A few were knocked back, but must have been wearing bullet-proof vests. They got back up again. Mahmoud, however, was not wearing a vest. He appeared to take several bullets before turning and hobbling toward the reception room. As soon as he'd turned, the shooting stopped. The Syrians rushed forward again.

When it was quiet, Hood got back on the phone. 'Warner, forget about Op-Center. Get to cover. The Kurds'll be there in a second!'

There was no answer.

'Warner, do it now!' Hood said. 'Warner, do you hear me?'

'I hear you,' he said. 'But maybe there's something I can do—'

'There isn't,' Hood said, 'except to get your ass into hiding!'

Hood was still watching the monitor as five Kurds entered the reception room. They were followed by their wounded leader. Hood didn't say anything else. If Bicking had managed to hide somewhere, Hood's voice coming over the phone might give him away. He set the phone on its side and continued to stare at the monitor.

As Hood waited, he heard more shots just outside his door. He saw someone coming down the hall. He looked over just as the man who had been about to execute him slid past his door, lying on his back and arching like a worm. He turned onto his side, grimacing horribly for a moment, and then he curled into a tight ball. There were three bloody holes in his chest. His breathing was labored for a moment, and then stopped. His expression did hot relax as he died.

Hood felt sick.

A moment later one of the Syrians stepped over the body. He was a big man, about six-foot-five, with a white kaffiyeh and a full, black beard. The 9mm parabellum at his side was smoking slightly, and there were two bullet holes in the chest of his khaki jacket. He stood there, his frame filling the doorway on all sides.

'You are Hood?' he asked in stilted English. His gravelly voice seemed to come from a cave.

'Yes,' Hood said.

The man kicked over the gun that had belonged to the dead man. It spun over on a sheet of blood. 'Keep this,' he said as he pulled the bottom of his kaffiyeh across his face. 'Use it if you must.'

Hood picked it up. 'Who are you?'

'Mista'aravim,' he replied. 'You stay here.'

'I want to go with you,' Hood said.

The man shook his great head. 'I was told that Mr. Herbert will personally kick my ass if anything happens to you.' He pulled a fresh ammunition clip from the deep pockets of his pants and replaced the spent clip in his parabellum.

'What about the others?' Hood asked.

'Look for videotapes in here,' the big man said. 'If you find them, take them.'

'All right,' Hood said. 'But the ambassador, my associates—'

'I'll see to them,' the man said, 'and I'll be back for you.' With that, he turned and walked back along the corridor.

There was a sudden surge of gunfire in other parts of the palace. Save for the man's heavy footsteps, it was unnervingly quiet in this wing.

Hood returned to the monitor. He watched as the big man rejoined the others. The Mista'aravim were deep- cover Israeli Defense Force commandos who masquerade as Arabs. Herbert had very close contacts with the Israeli military, and had probably asked for help here. Their undercover nature was why the operative wanted Hood to look for tapes: There mustn't be a record of his face.

The five men stood along the wall on either side of the reception room door. They had divided into two groups and were putting something on the marble walls. Hood suspected that it was C-4. They'd use the plastic explosive to distract the Kurds while at the same time creating an opening through which they could fire.

Hood began searching for the tapes. He found two half-inch videotape machines in a cabinet under the console. He popped the tapes from each. Then he stopped and swore.

The tapes weren't the only records of the Mista'aravim. The Kurds had seen them too. For that, they would have to die. And to make absolutely certain that they did, the Israelis would probably pepper the room with gunfire before they went in. That was how the Israelis worked. Sometimes the good had to be sacrificed with the bad for the benefit of the rest.

But that wasn't how Hood worked. He picked up the phone.

'Warner,' he whispered, 'if you can hear me, stay put. I think all hell's about to—'

An instant later all hell did break loose. The alabaster walls exploded chest-high on both sides of the door and the masked Israelis stood at the openings. As the Kurds opened fire on them, the faster, more powerful Israeli rifles replied with one, deadly voice.

FIFTY-TWO

Tuesday, 3:43 p.m.,

the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon

When he saw the spray of blood, Phil Katzen screamed curses at Kurds. Oblivious to the sharp pains in his side, he tried to crawl up the slope to the roadway.

Falah laid his guns down. He put his arms around the American's waist and held him back. 'Wait!' he cried. 'Wait! Something is not right—'

Katzen pressed his forehead to the dry earth. 'They killed her. Shot her without a thought!' He pounded his fists slowly on either side.

'I don't think so,' Falah said. 'Shhh I think I hear her.'

Katzen quieted. He heard the grinding of gears as the ROC drove off. Then he heard whimpering from the ledge. 'Mary Rose?' Katzen wondered aloud. Other than the sobbing, there was absolute silence. Katzen glanced over at Falah. 'If she's alive, something must have happened to the man who was going to shoot her.'

'That is true,' Falah said. He retrieved his guns. 'It was probably his blood we saw.'

'But how?' Katzen asked. 'I don't see how any of the other prisoners could have escaped. There were iron grates on those pits.'

'No one escaped,' said Falah. 'If they had there would be shouts, running around. Just the opposite has happened. No one is moving.' He looked off to the south. He squinted. 'If it was the Kurd who was shot, he had to have been picked off. I shut down the radio an hour ago. That would have enough time for a quick 'go' decision and rapid-deployment ingress.'

Striker, Katzen thought. He followed Falah's gaze.

Before Katzen could scan the trees for movement, someone shouted from above. He was yelling in English, threatening to kill three hostages.

'He's not talking to us,' Falah said. 'Someone sniped the killer. He's talking to them.'

'If that's true,' Katzensaid, 'the ROC may spot whoever's out there.'

'We can't even take the ROC out,' Falah said. 'It seems the Kurds have moved it.' He climbed over Katzen and handed him one of the guns. 'You stay here. I'm going to try and find them, warn—'

Before he could move farther, there was a faint pop and then a whistle from the southeast. Katzen looked up as a small, black projectile rocketed toward the cave. Another came seconds later, followed by a third. They