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"Why?"

"Because it means that the Kurds wanted to pay him back without hurting him directly," Herbert said. "You know who used to do that all the time?"

"Yeah, I do," Hood said. "Cecil B. DeMille. If he wanted to put the fear of God in an actress, he yelled at her makeup person or costumer. Scared her without leaving any bruises."

"Very good, Paul." Herbert said. "I'm impressed."

"You hear things like that running L.A.," Hood said. He looked at his watch and got annoyed with himself. He'd looked at it less than a minute before. "I'm going to have to get going, Bob. I'm meeting Dr. Nasr back at the airport. And you know how I attract traffic."

"Like Job attracts afflictions."

"Right. On top of which, I feel goddamned useless."

"No more useless than I feel," Herbert said. "I put out a warning to all our embassies as soon as I figured out about the ROC border incident. Got to the DSAs in all of 'em, but Ms. Morns slipped through the net. The bastards knew our M.O. and went after the stray lamb."

"Not your fault," Hood said. "You responded quickly and correctly."

"And predictably," Herbert said, "which is something we've gotta change. When the enemy knows where your people are and how to get to them, and you don't, you've got problems."

"Twenty-twenty hindsight--"

"Yeah," said Herbert. "I know. Most businesses you learnt your lessons by losing money. In our business we learn by losing lives. It stinks, but that's the way it goes."

Hood wished there were something else he could say. But Herbert was right. They discussed some of the Striker parameters, including the fact that the team would be on the ground in Israel before Congress was back for the day. And that it might well be necessary for Striker to move before the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee had a chance to okay their actions. Hood told Herbert he'd sign a Director's Order taking full legal responsibility for any Striker activities. He had no intention of letting Striker sit in the desert if they had a chance to rescue Rodgers and the team.

Herbert wished Hood well on his mission to Damascus and hung up. Sitting alone in the dark, quiet room, Hood took a moment to consider what he was prepared to do. To save six people they only hoped were still alive, he was committed to risking the lives of eighteen young commandos. The math didn't make sense, so why did it seem right? Because that was the job Striker was trained for, the job they wanted to do? Because national honor demanded it, as well as loyalty to one's colleagues? There were many excellent reasons, though none of them neutralized the terrible burdens of command and the execution of those commands.

Where is Mike Rodgers, the walking Bartlett's, when you need him? Hood mused as he rose from the heavy lacquered chair.

Hood's footsteps were swallowed by the Persian rug as he crossed the room and rejoined Warner Bicking, who was waiting for him in the outer office. An embassy secretary offered Hood coffee, which he accepted gratefully. Then Hood, Bicking, and a young official chatted about the developments in Turkey as they waited for Dr. Nasr.

Nasr arrived at five minutes to seven. He entered the main hallway and approached briskly. The native Egyptian stood a few inches over five feet tall, but he walked like a giant. His head and shoulders were pulled back, and his sharp salt-and-pepper goatee was pointed ahead like a lance. Nasr's eyes were also sharp behind his thick-lensed glasses, and his crisp, light gray suit was nearly the same shade as his wavy hair. He smiled generously when he saw Hood and extended his small, thick hand from half a room away. The gesture made him seem paternal now rather than self-impressed.

"My friend Paul," he said as Hood rose. Their hands locked tightly, and Nasr reached up to pat Hood on the back. "It's so good to see you again."

"You're looking very well, Doctor," Hood said. "How's your family?"

"My dear wife is fine and getting ready for