Tom Clancy's op-center_ acts of war - Tom Clancy [78]
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TWENTY-THREE
Monday, 10:34 p.m.,
Oguzeli, Turkey
Ibrahim sat in the driver's seat watching the power gauge as each battery was replaced. As the digital numbers increased incrementally, he tried various buttons to see how the lights, air-conditioning, and other devices worked. There were many panels and buttons he didn't understand.
Mahmoud stood beside him, leaning against the dashboard and smoking a cigarette. The Kurd's arms were crossed and his tired eyes never left the Americans in the rear of the van. Hasan was back there with them, holding a flashlight and watching what they were doing.
The other prisoners were all awake. They were sitting silently where the Kurds had left them. Katzen, Coffey, Mary Rose, and Colonel Seden were tied to the base of the passenger's side seat. Private Pupshaw was still draped over the chair at the computer station. Neither food nor water had been offered, nor had it been requested. No one had asked to go to the bathroom.
Ibrahim looked out the window. As soon as power had begun returning to the controls, he'd opened the window to let out Mahmoud's cigarette smoke. The Bedouin-grown tobacco he favored was sickly-sweet, like insect repellent. Ibrahim didn't understand how his brother could enjoy it.
But then, he didn't understand how his brother could enjoy a lot of things. Confrontations, for example. Mahmoud had genuinely liked the showdown with the American. They had both lost a little stature during that, and Ibrahim could tell that his brother was looking forward to the next one.
For his part, Ibrahim knew that this work was necessary, yet he did not enjoy it. He caught his reflection in the sideview mirror. He studied it with a curious blend of satisfaction and hatred. They had done a good job today, but what right did he have to be alive? Walid had fought so long and so diligently. Tonight he should have been thanking Allah in prayer, not in person.
As he stood looking at himself, Ibrahim noticed for the first time the side mirror itself. It was dish-like, curved to provide a wide view of the road. But the setting was also curved, far more than style would seem to dictate. Curious, he took his knife and worked it behind the mirror.
The American leader, the one called Kuhnigit, stopped what he was doing and said something to Ibrahim. Hasan said something back. The American spoke again. Ibrahim glanced back. Kuhnigit did not look as confident as he had before, and Ibrahim wondered if he was on to something. Hasan pointed back to the opening in the floor and said something in English. The American bent down and went back to work. Ibrahim kept working on the mirror.
The glass came free at the sides, but remained attached in the center. Only it wasn't glass, it was something much lighter. Almost like silvery cellophane. Ibrahim leaned out the window and had a look at it. There was something behind it--a horn of some kind. It looked like a transmitter.
No, he thought, not a transmitter. A radio dish like the big ones they used in the Air Force.
Ibrahim replaced the mirror and looked back. The American had stopped replacing the batteries and was glaring at him. Hasan was saying, "Work--work!"
The American stood unsteadily on his bound feet for just a moment, then leaned against one of the dark computer stations. Hasan walked over, grabbed him by the shoulder, and pulled him back to the pit.
Ibrahim climbed from the seat. He tapped his knife in his open palm. "There's something wrong here," he said to Mahmoud.
Mahmoud sucked on his cigarette, then ground it out on the floor. "What could be wrong, other than the worm's pace of the American?"
"I don't know," said Ibrahim. "If I were to let my imagination go, I would say that the frame of that mirror appears to be a very small radio transmitter." He swept the knife point across the van. "And there are all of these computers and monitors. Suppose they are not used for finding buried cities. Suppose these people are not scientists and guards. Suppose all of this is a disguise."
Mahmoud stood