That's only because the President isn't here yet, he thought. That was when the terrorists would arrive.
The Russian Ambassador had lit a cigarette and, with his translator, had joined the other two ambassadors in a corner of the room. Azizi walked over to the door and stood there while the rest of the men mingled and ate shawarma—finely cut pieces of lamb — or khubz—spicy, deep-fried chickpea paste on unleavened bread. As the men speculated on the nature of the bombing in Turkey and the ramifications of the troop movements, Hood noticed Azizi put an index finger to the earphone. The presidential aide listened for a moment, then looked into the room.
"Gentlemen," he said. "The President of the Syrian Arab Republic."
"So he really is going to show," Bicking said, leaning close to Hood. "I'm surprised."
"He had to," said Nasr. "He has to show he is fearless."
The men stopped talking. They turned to face the door as footsteps clattered smartly down the marble hallway. A moment later the aged President entered the room. He was tall and dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and black tie. His head was uncovered and his nearly white hair was slicked back. He was flanked by a quartet of bodyguards. Azizi fell in beside the presidential patty as they walked toward the group of ambassadors.
Standing between Bicking and Nasr, Hood frowned. "Hold on. That bodyguard on the left — his trousers are sticking to his legs."
"So?" Bicking said.
The bodyguard looked at Hood as Hood looked at him.
"That's static electricity," Hood said. He began moving toward the bodyguard for a better look. "On the plane I read an Israeli E-mail bulletin. It said that electromagnetic fuses in pants pockets are being used to trigger bombs around the waist or—"
Suddenly, the bodyguard shouted something which Hood didn't understand. Before the other bodyguards could close ranks, the man was engulfed in a fireball. The blast knocked everyone down and blew the crystal from the chandelier. Hood's ears rang as black smoke rolled over him and shards of shattered glass rained down. He couldn't hear his own coughs as he lay on the floor choking.
He felt a hand pull at his jacket sleeve. He looked to his right. Bicking was waving smoke away. He shouted something. Hood couldn't hear him. Bicking nodded. He pointed at Hood and held his thumb up, then down.
Hood understood. He moved his legs and arms. Then he held up a thumb. "I'm okay!" he shouted.
Bicking nodded just as Dr. Nasr came crawling toward them from the settling smoke. There was blood on his neck and forehead. Hood crept over and examined his face and head. Nasr had been closer to the blast, but the blood wasn't his. Hood indicated that his colleague should lie where he was. Then he turned and tapped Bicking on the top of his head.
"Come with me!" Hood said. He pointed to himself, to Bicking, and then to where the presidential party had been standing. Bicking nodded. Hood motioned with his hand that the younger man should stay low in case there was shooting for any reason. Bicking nodded again. Together they wormed their way toward the door.
As they neared the blast site, they were hit with the distinctive, acrid smell of nitrite — like the lingering smell of freshly ignited matches. A moment later, the carnage was visible through the rising smoke. There were sprays of blood on the marble walls and puddles on the floors. The first body they encountered was that of the terrorist. He had been blown over the others. His legs and hands were gone. Bicking had to stop and look away. Hood continued on. As he moved along on his elbows, sweeping aside particles of glass, Hood wondered why no one had come to investigate the explosion. He considered sending Bicking out for help, but decided against it. He didn't want him running into overly anxious security forces who might gun him down.
Upon reaching the bodyguards, Hood found them all dead. The blast had dismembered and torn off the bulletproof vests of the two men nearest the explosion. Two other men were still tucked inside their vests, but their heads and limbs were riddled with two-inch nails and small ball bearings — the preferred projectiles of suicide bombers. Hood crawled around them to where the President and Azizi lay. The President was dead. Hood moved on to Azizi. He was alive but unconscious, bleeding from his chest and right side. Kneeling, Hood gently began pulling away the bloody fragments of clothing. He wanted to see if the bleeding could be stopped.
Azizi shuddered and moaned. "I knew — knew this would happen."
"Lie still," Hood said into his ear. "You've been injured."
"The President—" he said.
"He's dead," Hood informed him.
Azizi opened his eyes. "No!"
"I'm sorry," Hood said. Through the frustrating thickness in his ears he heard shots. It sounded as if they were coming from outside the palace. Were there more terrorists trying to get in or guards firing at fleeing accomplices? The gunfire grew louder with each new volley. Hood began to fear that the shots weren't being directed away from the palace but toward it.
Azizi squirmed with pain. "He is not—" Azizi choked. "He is not the President."
Hood continued to pull away blood-drenched pieces of the man's jacket. "What do you mean?"
"He was a double," Azizi said. "To draw his enemies out."
Hood scowled as the words sunk in. Score one for paranoia, he thought. He patted Azizi's shoulder. "Don't exert yourself," he said. "I'll see if I can stop the bleeding and then call for an ambulance."
"No!" said Azizi. "They must come here."
Hood looked at him.
"We have been waiting," Azizi said weakly. "Watching for them."
"For who?"
"Many more," Azizi replied.
Hood winced as he cleared the last remnants of shirt from Azizi's chest. Blood was pumping out in half-inch-high squirts. He didn't know what to do for the man. Sitting back on his heels, he held Azizi's hand.
"Why won't you let me call for a doctor?" Hood asked.
"They have to come in."
"They," Hood said. "You think there may be more terrorists?"
"Many," Azizi wheezed. "The bomber was Kurd. Many Kurds missing. Still in Damascus—"
Suddenly but peacefully, almost as if he were moving in slow motion, the Syrian's head rolled to the side. His breathing slowed as the spurts of blood continued. A moment later Azizi's eyes closed. There was a long exhalation and then silence.
Hood released Azizi's hand. He looked to his right as Nasr crept through the smoke. He was followed by the three ambassadors. The Russian looked stunned. Haveles was holding him by an elbow and leading him ahead. The Japanese Ambassador was walking behind him, a little unsteady. Their aides, most of them shell-shocked, walked a few paces behind.
"My God," Haveles said. "The President—"
"No," said Hood as his ears began to clear. "A look-alike. That's why the President's security forces haven't come in yet. They used this man to smoke out a mole."
"I sold the President short," Haveles said. "He was expecting to win allies by having us dead and him alive."
"He'd have gotten that too if the bomber hadn't panicked," Hood said.
"Panicked?" Haveles said. "What do you mean?"
Hood watched as the blood stopped pumping from Azizi's chest. "The infiltrator counted on the other bodyguards looking ahead and not seeing him. But he didn't count on someone inside noticing the static charge when he armed the electromagnetic fuse." Hood indicated the shattered remains of the bomber. "He must have been put in place years ago to have gotten this kind of access."