Nasr bent even closer. 'That we are almost certainly in the hands of the Mista'aravim. They would never operate out of that section of the city. If they were ever found out, the repercussions against the Jewish population would be severe.'
Bicking had also leaned toward Hood. 'And I'll bet everything I own that there's more than fish in these barrels. There's probably enough firepower in this truck to wage a small war.'
The truck slowed as it made its way through the very narrow and twisted paths. Tall, white houses hung over the road at irregular distances and angles, their once-white walls burned an unhealthy yellow by the sun. Low dormers and even lower clotheslines rubbed the canvas top of the truck, while bicyclists and compact cars moved at their own unhurried pace and made it even more difficult to maneuver.
Eventually, the truck pulled into a dark, dead-end alley. The men got out and walked over to a wooden door on the driver's side of the alley. They were greeted by two women who helped carry the wounded men in to a dark, spare kitchen. The injured men were placed on blankets on the floor. The women removed their
'Is there anything we can do?' Hood asked.
No one answered.
'Don't take it personally,' Nasr said quietly.
'I didn't,' said Hood. 'They've got other things on their minds.'
'They'd be this way even if their men hadn't been shot,' Nasr whispered. 'They're paranoid about being seen.'
'Understandably,' said Bicking. 'The Mista'aravim have infiltrated terrorists groups like Hamas and Hezbollah. They have safe houses like these when they need to work in absolute security. But if they were to be seen here it could cost them their lives and — much worse in their minds — compromise Israeli security. They certainly can't be very happy about having had to come out to save a bunch of Americans.'
Even as the men spoke, the truck driver and the three masked men rose. While the short man made a telephone call, the others hugged the women. Then they left the dark room. Moments later the gears rattled and moaned as the truck backed from the alley.
One of the women continued to tend to the injured. The other woman stood and faced the three newcomers. She was in her middle-to-late twenties and stood about five feet-two. Her auburn hair was worn in a tight bun, and her thick eyebrows made her brown eyes seem even darker. She had a round face, full lips, and olive skin. She wore a blood-stained apron over her black dress.
'Who is Hood?' she asked.
Hood raised a finger. 'I am. Will your men be all right?'
'We believe so,' she said. 'A doctor has been sent for. But your associate is correct. The men were not happy about going out. They are even less happy that two of their men have been hurt. Their absence and their wounds will not be easy to explain.'
'I understand,' Hood said.
'You are in my cafe,' the woman said. 'You were a delivery of fish. In other words, you cannot be seen outside this room. We will get you to the embassy when we close for the day. I can't spare the people until then.'
'I understand that as well.'
'In the meantime,' she said, 'you've been asked to telephone a Mr. Herbert when you arrive. If you don't have your own telephone I'll have to get you one. The call cannot appear on our bill here.'
Bicking reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellular phone. 'Let's see if this one's still working,' he said as he flipped it open. He turned it on, listened for a moment, then handed the phone to Hood. 'Made in America and good as new.'
'Also not secure,' Hood said. 'But it will have to do.'
Hood walked over to a corner and called Op-Center. He was put through to Martha's office, where she, Herbert, and members of their staff had been waiting for word about the operation. Because it was an open line, he would only use first names.
'Martha — Bob,' Hood said, 'it's Paul. I'm on a cellular but I wanted you to know that Ahmed, Warner and I are fine. Thanks for everything you did.'
Even standing a few yards away Bicking could hear the cheers rising from the telephone. His eyes moistened as he thought of the incredible relief they all must be feeling.
'What about Mike?' Hood asked, being as discreet as possible.
'He's been found,' Herbert said, 'and Brett is there. We're still waiting to hear.'
'I'm on the cellular,' Hood said: 'Call me the instant you hear anything.'
Hood hung up. As he briefed the others, the doctor arrived. The three men stepped to a corner, well out of the way. Then they watched in silence as the doctor gave the wounded men injections of local anesthetics. The woman who had spoken to them knelt beside one man. She lay a wooden spoon between his teeth, then held his arms pressed to his chest to keep him from flailing. When she nodded, the doctor began cutting the bullet from his leg. The other woman used a washcloth and a basin of water to wipe away the blood.
The man began to wriggle from the pain.
'I've always found that the toughest part about being a diplomat is when you have to say and do nothing,' Bicking said softly to Hood.
Hood shook his head. 'That isn't the toughest part,' he whispered. 'What's tough is knowing that compared to the people in the front lines, what you do
At the doctor's request, the woman stopped cleaning the wound to hold the man's leg still. Without asking, Hood handed Bicking the phone, then hurried over. He picked up the cloth, maneuvered his arm between the three bodies, and dabbed at the blood, as deftly, as possible.
'Thank you,' said the woman who had spoken to them.
Hood said nothing, and Bicking could see that it was very, very easy.
FIFTY-FIVE
The Strikers had taken only what they needed from the FAVs. They were wearing their Kevlar vests beneath their uniforms and their gas masks. Their equipment sacks were packed with neo-phosgene grenades, flares, and several bricks of C-4. They were armed with Beretta 9mm pistols with extended magazines and Heckler & Koch MP5 SD3 9mm submachine guns with additional ammunition. They were also carrying plastic thumbcuffs. These small, lightweight cuffs incapacitated individuals by locking them thumb-to-thumb, knuckle facing knuckle. The cuffs could also be used to create a daisy chain of prisoners.
The team had its orders, which had been given to them during the flight from Andrews Air Force Base. Since they knew that the target was going to be a cave or a base rather than a moving target, they would separate into two teams. The first team would muscle its way inside and incapacitate the enemy. The second team would back them up. The second team would also be responsible for preventing enemy troops from escaping or reinforcements from getting in.
If there were a difference between Colonel August and his predecessor, Lieutenant Colonel Squires, it was that August advocated team play. Squires invariably broke his unit into heavily armed pairs or individuals, each of which had specific goals in a master plan. If any of the tactical goals were not met, one of three things happened. An alternate plan was shifted into place, a backup team went in, or the mission was aborted. In his years of strike force command, Squires had never had to abort a mission. His infiltration techniques were unobtrusive, effective, and always left the target naked and surprised. But August was different. He preferred to hit hard and keep up the pressure. Instead of causing dominoes to fall in succession, he believed in shaking the table.
Corporal Prementine's A-Team, eight soldiers strong, quickly made their way up the dirt road toward the mouth of the cave. They moved single file behind their submachine guns with orders to shoot first and never mind the questions. By the time they reached the slab of coppery neo-phosgene, it had sunk from waist-high to just
