Tom Clancy's op-center_ acts of war - Tom Clancy [133]
"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
Tuesday, 2:59 p.m.,
Damascus, Syria
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