The soldier did as he was told. As soon as his head was free, Falah rolled it around. When his hands were loose, he flexed his fingers. Siriner pointed to Falah's gun. "Take it," he said.
"Thank you," Falah said.
"I have a great deal to do here," Siriner said. "If you serve under me, you will be required to follow orders without hesitation or question."
"I understand," said Falah.
"Tayib," Siriner said. "Fine. Abdolah, take him to the prisoners."
"Yes, sir!" the soldier said.
"Two of them are American soldiers, Aram," the commander said. "One man, one woman. I would like you to shoot them in the back of the head with your pistol. When you are finished, I'll have instructions as to the disposal of the bodies. Are there any questions?"
"None, sir," Falah said. He looked at the pistol. Suddenly, he raised it. He aimed at the commander's head, and fired. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
Siriner smiled. Falah felt a gun barrel pressed to the back of his neck.
"We watched you from the American van," Siriner said. "It has a variety of electronic devices for watching one's enemies. We saw you run. We knew you were spying on us."
Falah swore to himself. He'd seen the van there, the one the Americans were anxious to get back. He should have remembered it was operational. Those were the kinds of mistakes which cost lives. Including, it would seem, his own.
"It's interesting, isn't it?" Siriner said. "Most spies would have gone so far as to commit the murders. You must be Druze or Bedouin. You have a more sensitive nature."
Siriner was correct. Israeli operatives who went deep undercover for long periods of time had to do whatever it took to gain access. It was a sad but necessary sacrifice for the greater good. Druze and Bedouin reconnaissance agents and trackers did not work that way.
Siriner smiled as he snatched the.44 from Falah. "Also, I sell these on the black market in Semdinli. Aram Tunas was a good customer of mine. You look nothing like him. You also think nothing like him. I only emptied one chamber so the gun would not seem to weigh less. You should have fired again."
Falah felt like a fool. The man was correct. He should have fired again.
Siriner looked at him a moment longer. "Would you mind telling me who Veeb is?"
"I'm sorry?"
Siriner reached down. He picked up Falah's radio, which had been sitting on the floor behind his desk. "Veeb. Whoever you were trying to contact with this."
Falah had no idea what the man was talking about. But that didn't matter. If he said that, no one would believe him. So he didn't bother saying anything.
"No matter," Siriner said as he called another man into the room. He handed the newcomer the.44. "Take this spy outside and execute him. See that his body is returned to the Israelis. Also, use the van to inform the Americans that the corpses of their people will follow if another rescue is attempted."
With two guns pointed at the back of his head, Falah was led up the stairs. In the Sayeret Ha'Druzim he'd been trained to take out a gun pointed to his back. You turned clockwise if it were in the right hand, counterclockwise if it were in the left hand. You cocked the same-side elbow behind you, waist high. As you turned, you used your elbow to push the gun hand in the opposite direction. The turn left you facing your attacker with the gun pointing away from you.
The maneuver worked even if your hands were tied. But it only worked with one gun. Siriner obviously knew it, which was why he had two guns trained on the prisoner. As he was led from the cave into the sunlight, Falah knew he had just one option. As soon as they were outside he'd try to "reap" the men. He'd drop to the ground, extend his leg back, and sweep it to the side. There was room for that out here, though Falah knew he probably wouldn't get both men before one was able to fire.
While he had grown accustomed to living with death, he had never grown accustomed to failure. If he regretted anything, it was that. That and the fact that Sara, his, lovely Kiryat Shmonan bus driver, would never know what had happened to him. Even when the Israelis found his body — and they would; the Israelis will go to almost any length to recover the bodies of soldiers and spies — they wouldn't say anything about it. They couldn't admit he'd ever been in the Bekaa. Falah hated the idea that she might think he'd just left the village and her.
The slanting, late-afternoon sun felt warm as Falah was marched into it. They stopped on the dirt road just outside the cave. A guard was stationed a few yards away, outside the van. He was holding a.38 at his side and watched the men dispassionately.
Blessing his God and his parents, Falah was prepared to die as he had lived.
Fighting.
FORTY-FIVE
The two Jeeps had sped up Straight Street toward Souk al-Bazuriye. As they approached, Mahmoud saw smoke rolling from windows on the southeast side of the palace. He smiled. To the northeast and southwest, Kurds were already taking up positions along the wall and firing at the police. Tourists and shoppers and Old City merchants were fleeing in every direction, adding to the chaos. The dozens of Kurds knew who their targets were. As far as the police were concerned, any one of the hundreds of people running, walking, or crawling by could be an enemy.
Mahmoud stood in the passenger's seat. He wanted his people to see him, to see how proud he was. After decades of waiting, years of hoping, and months of planning, freedom was finally at hand. Listening to the Jeep radio he'd learned that even today, the dreaded Mukhabarat secret police had stopped suspected Kurdish rebels and searched them for arms. But the Kurds had hidden their weapons days before. Some of the firearms had been buried in the cemetery, while others had been placed in waterproof boxes in the river. Since late morning, the PKK fighters had stayed close to the weapons by posing as mourners or simply by lolling around the Barada. They didn't retrieve them until after the explosion that signaled the death of the tyrannical Syrian President and the start of a new era.
Gunfire popped on all sides. Though Mahmoud and his infiltrators were supposed to have been right outside the palace when the attack began, he wasn't concerned. His people were fighting bravely and aggressively. Inside, loyal Akbar wouldn't have detonated the bomb unless he was sure he could at least get the President. Akbar was a Turkish officer who was Kurdish on his mother's side and secretly devoted to their cause. A suicide note left in his locker indicated that this was his way of avenging decades of genocide against the Kurds.
Once Akbar made his move, the PKK man in the security office would have taken out any agents who had come with the foreign visitors. All that would remain for Mahmoud and his team to do was finish off any presidential security guards who were still alive and secure the palace.When that was done, Mahmoud would doff his Syrian disguise and notify Commander Siriner to come to Damascus. With Syria's forces gathered in the north along the Turkish border, and Iraq using the distraction to look longingly back at Kuwait, Kurds from three nations would make their way to the city. Many would be killed, but many would make it past the over-taxed military. Speaking in a voice tens of thousands strong, the Kurds would tell of the crimes of the Syrians, the Turks, and the Iraqis. With the eyes and ears of the world upon them, the Kurdish people would demand more than justice. They would demand a nation. Some countries would condemn the methods they'd used to get it. Yet from the time of the American Revolution through the birth of Israel, no nation had ever been born without violence. Ultimately, it was the justness of the cause and not the methods used to which other nations responded.
Police jumped to the side of the road to let the Jeeps through. Officers saluted Mahmoud as he passed. The Syrian police probably thought he was standing up to give them hope and courage.