"Who was he?" Haveles asked.
"Azizi thinks — thought he was a Kurd," Hood said. "I agree. There's something going on here that's larger than sending Syria and Turkey to war."
"What?" asked Haveles.
"I honestly don't know," said Hood.
The shots from outside grew louder and closer.
"Where are our security agents?" the Russian ambassador yelled in English.
"I don't know that either," Hood said, more to himself than to the Russian. However, he feared the worst. He peered through the smoke. "Ambassador Andreyev, are all of your people all right?"
"Da," he replied.
"Ambassador Serizawa!" Hood yelled. "Are you okay?"
"We are unhurt!" a member of the Japanese contingent yelled through the smoke.
Hood checked the other blast victims. They were all dead. A half-dozen people and one terrorist had given their lives to smoke out more terrorists. It was insane.
"Warner!" Hood yelled. "Can you hear me?"
"Yes!" came a muffled response from the right. Bicking was probably breathing through a handkerchief.
"Do you have your cellular?" Hood asked.
"Yes!"
"Call Op-Center," Hood said. He listened as explosions popped in the distance. He thought about the Kurds that Herbert's people had tracked to the palace. "Tell Bob Herbert what happened. Tell him we may be under siege here." Then he ducked under the rising tester of smoke and, still stooping, walked toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Haveles asked.
"To try and find out whether we stand a chance of getting out of here."
FORTY-FOUR
Falah didn't understand it. He was running quickly. Yet as fast as he ran, following a jagged course through the foothills, the Kurds stayed with him. It was almost as if they had a spotter in the mountains, telling them where he was going. But that was unlikely. The tree cover was thick here and he was under it more than he was out of it. Still, somehow they were managing to stay within thirty to fifty yards of him.
Finally, exhausted and curious, Falah stopped. He took off his sweat-soaked headdress, grabbed a stick, and found a patch of grass. Pitching a small tent with the fabric, he slid his head under it and pretended to settle in for a nap. Less than a minute later the Kurds arrived. They surrounded him in a wide circle, then tightened it slowly. He opened his eyes, sat up, and raised his hands.
"Ala malak!" he shouted. "Slow down!"
They kept coming, stomping through the low brush and moving around the trees. Only when the eight men were standing around him shoulder to shoulder, guns pointed down, did they stop.
"What are you doing?" Falah asked. "What do you want?"
One of the men told Falah to keep his hands behind him and rise slowly. He obeyed. He started to ask what they were doing. He was told to be quiet. He obeyed again. The man tied his hands together and slipped the other end of the rope around his throat. Then he patted Falah down. He removed his gun and passport and handed them to a soldier, who ran ahead. Then, with his faced pointed toward the sky, Falah was marched through the rocky foothills to the cave. As he was led up the dirt road he stepped as hard as he could. If Striker decided to move in, they might see his footprints and know where it was safe to walk.
He was led past the van. As he walked by he noticed what he hadn't been able to tell from hiding. That the van was humming and lights were on inside. Either the commandos had been schooled enough in electronics to figure the computers out, which he doubted, or someone had talked under torture. In either case, he had a good idea how they'd been able to track him. He was glad he hadn't been able to send a voice message to Tel Nef. The van would have picked that up for sure. The short, coded burst he'd managed to get out might have slipped through the cracks. Even if it hadn't, it wouldn't mean anything to them.
Falah was led into the cave.
The young Israeli knew something about the groups that worked in this part of the world. The Palestinian groups Hamas and Hezbollah tended to set up shop in villages and on farms, where attacks against them would kill civilians. The Lebanese Freedom Front, devoted to the overthrow of Syrian rule in Lebanon, worked in small, mobile pockets. The PKK worked in somewhat larger groups, but they also tended to stay mobile. Straining to look straight ahead as he reached the cave, what Falah saw was not a mobile unit. There were sleeping quarters, electric lights, racks of weapons, and supplies. He also caught a quick glimpse of what they used to call "Satan's footsteps" in the Sayeret Ha'Druzim. The shallow pits that led from captivity directly to Hell, since no one ever came out of them alive. One thing Falah did not wonder was whether he'd be coming out of this cave alive. His Sayeret Ha'Druzim training didn't merely emphasize the positive. It demanded it.
Still tied, Falah was led down a flight of stairs to what was clearly the group's command center. The finished quality of the room surprised him. These people were not expecting to be driven out. He wondered if this were where the Kurds hoped to make the heart of a new nation. Not in the eastern part of Turkey, where their nation had been located centuries before, but in the west. Down through Syria and Lebanon with access to the Mediterranean.
There was a man seated at the desk reading documents. Another man was sitting behind him. He was squatting on a low stool, listening to a radio, and taking notes by hand. The man who had led Falah here saluted. The man at the desk returned his salute, then ignored Falah as he continued studying what looked like radio transcripts. After what seemed like two or three minutes, the man at the desk picked up Falah's passport. He opened it, studied it for a moment, then put it aside. He looked at the prisoner. A jagged red scar ran from the bridge of his nose to the center of his right cheek. His eyes were deathly pale.
"Isayid Aram Tunas," said Commander Siriner. "Mr. Aram Tunas."
"Aywa, akooya," Falah replied. "Yes, my brother."
"Am I your brother?" Siriner asked.
"Aywa," Falah answered. "We are both Kurds. "We are both freedom fighters."
"Then that is why you came here," Siriner said. "To fight alongside us?"
"Aywa," Falah replied. "I heard about the Ataturk Dam. There were rumors that the men behind it had come to a camp in the Bekaa. I thought I might seek them out and join their group."
"I'm honored." Siriner picked up Falah's gun. "Where did you get this?"
"It is mine, sir," Falah said proudly.
"For how long has it been yours?"
"I bought it on the black market in Semdinli two years ago," Falah replied. That was partly true. The weapon had been purchased on the black market two years before, though Faah hadn't been the one who bought it.
Siriner put the gun back down. The radio operator put fresh transcriptions on Siriner's desk. The commander continued to look at Falah. "We detected someone in the foothills with a radio set," the commander said. "Did you happen to hear or see anyone?"
"I saw no one, sir."
"Why were you running?"
"I, sir?" said Falah. "I wasn't running. I was at rest when your men surrounded me."
"You were perspiring."
"Because it was very hot," Falah said. "I prefer to travel when it's cool. Stupidly, I did not realize I was so near to my goal."
Siriner regarded the captive. "So you wish to fight with us, Aram."
"I do, sir. Very much."
The commander glanced at the soldier standing beside Falah. "Cut him loose, Abdolah," he said.