Let them think that, Mahmoud thought. He was here to help in exactly the same way authorities had always helped his people, with murder and suppression.
The Jeeps rolled up to the west side of the palace. Mahmoud jumped out, followed by his soldiers. The ten men seemed imperious, braving the gunfire as they walked toward the ornate iron fence. They were ushered through the gate by a guard who had been crouching behind a decorative, half-sized marble camel. The guard was a city employee and not part of the presidential security force.
"What's going on?" Mahmoud asked as bullets chewed at the dark green grass around his feet. The Kurdish attackers knew who he was and wouldn't shoot him or his men.
The guard hovered behind the camel as a bullet flew by. "There was an explosion," he said. "It came from the receiving room in the eastern wing."
"Where was the President?"
"We believe the President was in the room."
"You believe?" barked Mahmoud.
"We've not had word from inside since before the explosion," said the guard. "That was when one of the security guards radioed another to say that the President was leaving his quarters to attend a meeting."
"One of the security guards radioed?" Mahmoud asked. "Not the President's personal guard?"
"It was one of the palace police," the sentry said.
Mahmoud was surprised. When the President moved anywhere, whether in the palace or the nation, all communications and security were handled by his own elite team. "Has an ambulance been sent for?"
"I've heard nothing," said the guard.
Mahmoud looked toward the palace. It had been over five minutes since the explosion. If the President had been hurt, his personal physician would have been sent for. He would have been here by now. Something was wrong.
Waving his pistol for his men to follow, Mahmoud jogged quickly toward the palace entrance.
FORTY-SIX
Martha Mackall awoke with a start as her pager beeped. She looked at the number. It was Curt Hardaway.
Martha had spent the night at Op-Center, napping in the spartan employee lounge. It had taken her until three a.m. to fall asleep. Martha admitted it herself: When something annoyed her, she was like a dog with a bone. And having to turn Op-Center over to Paul Hood's evening counterpart, Curt Hardaway, annoyed her. Events overseas were just too delicate to leave to his ham-fisted ways. When he'd come on duty, Martha had gone so far as to consult Lowell Coffey's deputy assistant, Aideen Marley, about who had decision-making authority if something happened during the night. Whenever Paul Hood remained at his desk after his shift was over, he still outranked the night crew. But according to the charter, an acting director did not. Until 7:30 a.m., Op-Center belonged to Hardaway.
Martha hoped that nothing had happened. Hardaway was a cousin and protege of CIA Director Larry Rachlin, and his appointment had been a necessary expedience. In order to keep Op-Center free of CIA influence, the President had wanted an outsider to run it. However, to appease the intelligence community, he was pressured to put in a veteran as Hood's backup. Though the Oklahoma-born Hardaway was an affable man with the intelligence skills necessary for the job, Martha found him to be uninspired and uninspiring. He also had a talent for speaking before thinking things through. Fortunately for Op-Center, the powerful Hood-Rodgers-Herbert triumvirate set very rigid policies during the day, and Hardaway had never been able to muck things up too badly.
Martha picked up the phone on the end table beside the couch. She called Hardaway. He picked up immediately.
"You'd better get on over," he said. "This mess is going to bleed into your shift."
"I'm coming," she said, and hung up. Hardaway was as tactful as ever.
The employee lounge was located near the Tank, a windowless conference room which sat within an electronic web. There wasn't a spy device on Earth that could hear what was discussed inside it. Turning left from the lounge and walking down the curving wall would have brought her past the Tank to the offices of Bob Herbert, Mike Rodgers, and Paul Hood in turn. Martha turned right. Walking briskly, she passed her own office, followed by the office of FBI and Interpol liaison Darrell McCaskey, Matt Stoll's computer area—"the orchestration pit," he called it — and the legal and environmental sections where Lowell Coffey and Phil Katzen worked. The psychological and medical divisions came next, followed by the radio room, the small Striker office for Brett August, and Ann Farris's two-person press department.
As hurried along, Bob Herbert came wheeling up behind her. "Did Curt tell you what's been going on?"
"No," she said. "Only that there's a mess and it's going to hemorrhage all over my desk."
"A little raw but true," Herbert said. "All hell's broken out in Damascus. I got a call from Warner. They had a suicide bomber at the Azem Palace. He killed the President's double."
"That cobbler?"
Herbert nodded.
"Then the President probably isn't even in Damascus," Martha said. "What about Ambassador Haveles?"
"He was at the palace," Herbert said. "He's shaken but unhurt. Now the palace is under siege. Unfortunately, Warner is still in the room where the bomb went off and can't tell us much. I switched him over to Curt. We're keeping that line open."
"And Paul" Martha asked.
"He left the room to look for the DSA guys who came with them."
"He should've stayed put," Martha said. "They may show up while he's gone and leave without him."
"I'm not so sure anyone's going anywhere," Herbert said "Not unless they know some shortcuts by heart. Israeli satellite recon shows fighting on all sides. Looks like about forty or fifty plainclothes attackers in the process of breaching the wall. Syrian Army regulars just showed up to defend the palace. Ten whole men."
"That's what they get for sending their troops north," Martha said. "What's it all mean?"
"Some of my people think it's a Turkish assault with Israeli support," Herbert said. "The Iranians are saying we're behind it. Larry Rachlin's wanted to take the President down for a long time because of Syria's involvement with terrorists. But he swears that CIA undercovers aren't at part of this."
"What do you think?" Martha asked as she knocked on Hardaway's door. It clicked open. She hesitated before opening it.
"I'm putting my money on the Kurds," Herbert said.
"Why?"
"Because they're the only ones who have anything to gain from all of this," he said. "Also, process of elimination. My Israeli and Turkish contacts seem as genuinely surprised by what's happening as we are."
Martha nodded as the two of them went inside.
Skinny, bearded Curtis Sean Hardaway was behind his desk looking at his computer. His eyes were circled with dark rings, and the trash can was filled with chewing-gum wrappers. Mike Rodgers's backup, natty young Lieutenant General William Abram, was seated in a wing chair. His laptop was open on his knees. His thick black eyebrows came together above his nose, and his eyes were alert beneath them. His thin-lipped mouth was relaxed between two ruddy cheeks.
Soft crackling and occasional pops came from the speaker phone on Hardaway's desk.
Hardaway snapped his gum and looked over. "Good morning, Martha. Bob, I haven't heard a word from Warner since you turned him over to me."
"Just gunfire," Abram said in a low monotone, "and static from military communications."
"So we don't know if Paul found the DSA operatives," Martha asked.
"We do not," said Hardaway. "The President wants extraction options by seven-fifteen, and frankly there aren't many. We've got the Marine guards at the embassy, but they've got no jurisdiction outside the embassy—"