Tom Clancy's op-center_ acts of war - Tom Clancy [154]
The short man pulled the rear flap to one side. Then he motioned to the men at the gate.
As the men approached the truck, they were struck by the strong smell of fish. But that didn't stop them from boarding. Hood, Bicking, and Nasr climbed in first. They helped the giant man carry on his two wounded companions. Then the rest of the team got in. The wounded men lay on empty canvas sacks, while the other men sat on greasy wooden barrels which lined the back. In less than a minute the truck was on its way, headed southeast toward Straight Street. Turning left, the driver sped past the sixteen hundred year-old Roman Arch and the Church of the Virgin Mary. Straight Street became Bab Sharqi Street, and the truck continued northeast.
Nasr peeked out the back flap of the truck. "As I expected," said Nasr.
"What?" asked Hood.
Nasr shut the flap and leaned close to Hood. "We're avoiding the Jewish Quarter."
"I don't understand," Hood said. "What does that mean?"
Nasr bent even closer. "That we are almost certainly in the hands of the Mista'aravim. They would never operate out of that section of the city. If they were ever found out, the repercussions against the Jewish population would be severe."
Bicking had also leaned toward Hood. "And I'll bet everything I own that there's more than fish in these barrels. There's probably enough firepower in this truck to wage a small war."
The truck slowed as it made its way through the very narrow and twisted paths. Tall, white houses hung over the road at irregular distances and angles, their once-white walls burned an unhealthy yellow by the sun. Low dormers and even lower clotheslines rubbed the canvas top of the truck, while bicyclists and compact cars moved at their own unhurried pace and made it even more difficult to maneuver.
Eventually, the truck pulled into a dark, dead-end alley. The men got out and walked over to a wooden door on the driver's side of the alley. They were greeted by two women who helped carry the wounded men in to a dark, spare kitchen. The injured men were placed on blankets on the floor. The women removed their kaffiyehs and trousers, then washed the wounds.
"Is there anything we can do?" Hood asked.
No one answered.
"Don't take it personally," Nasr said quietly.
"I didn't," said Hood. "They've got other things on their minds."
"They'd be this way even if their men hadn't been shot," Nasr whispered. "They're paranoid about being seen."
"Understandably," said Bicking. "The Mista'aravim have infiltrated terrorists groups like Hamas and Hezbollah. They have safe houses like these when they need to work in absolute security. But if they were to be seen here it could cost them their lives and--much worse in their minds--compromise Israeli security. They certainly can't be very happy about having had to come out to save a bunch of Americans."
Even as the men spoke, the truck driver and the three masked men rose. While the short man made a telephone call, the others hugged the women. Then they left the dark room. Moments later the gears rattled and moaned as the truck backed from the alley.
One of the women continued to tend to the injured. The other woman stood and faced the three newcomers. She was in her middle-to-late twenties and stood about five feet-two. Her auburn hair was worn in a tight bun, and her thick eyebrows made her brown eyes seem even darker. She had a round face, full lips, and olive skin. She wore a blood-stained apron over her black dress.
"Who is Hood?" she asked.
Hood raised a finger. "I am. Will your men be all right?"
"We believe so," she said. "A doctor has been sent for. But your associate is correct. The men were not happy about going out. They are even less happy that two of their men have