A moment after the explosion, the driver of the state car shifted it forward. He rammed through the open gate with his steel-reinforced fender, then pulled up beside the fallen Deputy Chief of Mission. Behind him came the DSA car. The driver swung it around sideways and emerged with a shotgun. Protected by the car, he stood and fired into the treetops. His shell cut a fat path through the branches, stripping them clean and causing a rain of damp green glitter.
Submachine-gun fire from the tree sent the agent ducking back down behind the car. The ski-masked gunman then turned his fire upon the Deputy Chief of Mission, stitching a bloody path across Eugenie's white blouse and jacket. She shuddered as the bullets struck, and then she stopped moving. The gunman ignored Mr. Bora, who was lying on his side and slowly clawing his way back toward the house. His butler had already run back and was crouched in the foyer, a phone pressed to his ear.
The DSA driver rose from behind the car. As he prepared to fire a second shot into the trees, he heard a clunk and looked down. A second hand grenade was rolling toward him. Only this one had come from behind. As he dove back into the car, he saw the motorcyclist standing down the road, behind a tree.
The grenade exploded; causing the car to leap slightly. But even before it had settled, the agent had grabbed the Uzi from the glove compartment. He needed rapid fire now, not just power. He rolled outside, lay low on the ground, and aimed at the motorcyclist. The man was already speeding toward him, coming around the cars and using them for protection.
The agent aimed to his side, shooting under the chassis. He nailed the tires and the motorcycle skidded toward the car, smacking into the other side. As he was about to crawl under the car to reach the biker, he heard a thunk on the roof. He looked up and saw the man who had been in the trees. He'd jumped down and was standing in a wide-legged horse stance, pointing a revolver down at him. Before he could fire, the driver of Eugenie's car pulled his own.45 and fired two shots from behind the gunman. One slug passed through each of the man's thighs and he dropped heavily to his side, slid onto the hood of the car, and tumbled onto the ground. Several hand grenades rolled from the deep pockets of his black sweater.
The DSA agent crawled under the open door of the car, stood next to the hood, and disarmed the moaning gunman. He scooped up the extra grenades and placed them all inside his car. Then he cautiously made his way to the man who had been on the motorcycle. The swarthy young man was lying on his back, a broken right arm and left leg bone jutting raggedly through his pants and jacket. Seven other hand grenades had spilled from his delivery bag.
One of them was in his left hand on his chest. He'd pulled the ring and let the safety lever pop off.
"Down!" the DSA agent yelled.
The driver hit the dirt behind his car, and the DSA agent jumped over the hood of his own vehicle. A instant later the first grenade exploded, taking the seven others with it in a series of loud, echoing bangs.
The car lurched and shook as sharpnel hit it, the tires screaming as they burst. The DSA agent was squatting behind one of them and he felt his feet go numb as a piece of metal tore through the heel. But he continued to squat, leaning against the car to present as shielded a profile as possible.
When the explosions were over, he rose painfully behind his Uzi.
The two assassins were dead, torn apart by their own hand grenades. The driver of Eugenie's car was holding the arm which was holding the gun, but at least he was standing. Mr. Bora had made it back to the house and was lying inside the foyer, his butler crouching behind him. The rest of the household staff was standing behind them, concealed in the shadows.
A moment later, sirens ripped through the sudden quiet. Four carloads of Turkish National Police arrived, their Smith & Wesson.38s drawn. Police swarmed around the grounds and through the house. The DSA agent set his Uzi on the car roof, just so the Turks would know he was one of the good guys. Then he limped over to his fallen colleague. He was dead, as was the Deputy Chief of Mission.
The driver walked over, still holding his gun and his bloody arm. He caught an officer's eye and pointed to the wound. The officer said an ambulance was coming.
Both men ducked into their cars to radio their superiors at the embassy. The reaction to the deaths was cool and economical. Emotions were always kept inside in situations like this. The press, and through them the enemy, couldn't be allowed to see how scared or upset you were.
When the men were finished, they met by the DSA agent's car.
"Thanks for tagging that guy on the roof," the agent said.
The driver nodded as he leaned carefully against the back door. "You know, Brian, there's nothing you could've done about any of this."
"Bull," he said. "We should've gone in to get her. I told Lee that, but he said the lady didn't like being crowded. Well, shit. Better crowded than what she got."
"And if we'd gone in we'd all be dead," the driver said. "They were expecting us to meet her in there. What'd they have, fifteen grenade's between them? It was household security that screwed up. I'm betting that guy was in the tree since last night waiting for Ms. Morris. The other asshole on the bike must've been following us."
Three ambulances arrived, and while several paramedics took care of the men's wounds before carrying them off, others ran inside to check on Mr. Bora. He was carried out on a gurney, moaning in Turkish how this never would have happened if he hadn't been such an internationalist.
"That's how they win," the DSA agent said as he was loaded into an ambulance beside the other American. "They scare guys like him into playing ball with just the home team."
"It doesn't take much to scare a guy like Mr. Bora," the driver replied as he looked from the agent to the IV in his arm. "Let's see what happens when they have to duke it out with the United States of America."
THIRTY-TWO
Paul Hood and Warner Bicking were met at Heathrow Airport by an official car and a DSA vehicle with three agents. The Americans had expected to spend the two hours between flights at the airport. However, an airport official met Hood at the gate with an urgent fax from Washington. Hood walked off to a corner to read it. Bob Herbert had arranged for them to ride with an embassy official to the U.S. Embassy at 24/31 Grosvenor Square in London. It was important, the fax said, for Hood to use the secure phone there. He and Bicking were shown to a secure area of the terminal where international dignitaries were hurried safely through customs.
The ride through the very light early morning traffic was swift. Hood was surprisingly alert. He'd managed to catch three hours' sleep on the plane, and he could still taste the weak coffee he'd swigged two cups of before deplaning. Together, it would be enough to keep him going for now. If he could grab three or four more hours of sleep on the next leg of the trip, he'd be fine when they hit Damascus. Hood was also alert in part because of his curiosity and concern about the mystery fax. If it had been good news, Herbert would have indicated that.
Bicking sat beside Hood, his legs crossed and his foot rocking eagerly. Though he had worked straight through the seven-hour flight, studying the various CARfare scenarios, he was more alert than Hood.
Bicking is young enough to do that, damn him, Hood thought as he watched an early morning mist begin to dissipate. There was a time when Hood could do that too, during his banking years. Breakfast in New York or Montreal, a late dinner in Stockholm or Helsinki, then breakfast the following morning in Athens or Rome. In those days he could go for forty-eight hours without sleep. He even disdained sleep as a waste of time. Now, there were times when he got into bed and he didn't even want his wife to touch him. He just wanted to lay down and savor the sleep he had earned.