Acts of War oc-4 Read online

  "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 a new series of recitals," he replied. "All Liszt and Chopin. To hear the Funeral Procession of Gondolas No. 2 is to weep. Her recitando is glorious. And her Revolutionary Etude—superb. She'll be playing in Washington later in the year. You will be our special guests, of course."

  "Thank you," Hood said.

  "Tell me," Nasr said. "How are Mrs. Hood and your little ones?"

  "Last time I checked, everyone was happy and not so little," Hood said guiltily. He turned to where Warner Bicking was standing behind him. "Dr. Nasr, I don't believe you've ever met Mr. Bicking."

  "I have not," Nasr said. "However, I did read your paper on the increasing defensive democratization of Jordan. We'll talk on the plane."

  "It will be my very great pleasure," Bicking replied as the men shook hands.

  As they walked to the car, Nasr between the other two, Hood quickly briefed them on the latest developments. They climbed into the sedan, Bicking taking a seat up front. As the car started out, Nasr lightly stroked the tip of his beard between the thumb and index finger of his right hand.

  "I believe you are correct," said Nasr. "The Kurds want and require their own nation. The question is not how far they're prepared to go to get it."

  "Then what's the question?" Hood asked.

  Nasr stopped playing with his beard. "The question, my friend, is whether the blowing up of the dam was their big gun, or whether they have something even bigger in store."

  THIRTY-THREE

  Tuesday, 11:08 a.m.,

  the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon

  The Bekaa Valley is an upland valley which runs through Lebanon and Syria. Also known as El Bika and Al Biqa, the Bekaa is situated between the Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon mountain ranges. Seventy five miles long and ranging between five and nine miles wide, it's a continuation of Africa's Great Rift Valley, and is one of the most fertile farming regions in the Middle East. "Coele Syria," the Romans called it: "Hollow Syria." Since the beginning of recorded history, wars have been fought for the control of the wheatfields and vineyards, the apricot, mulberry, and walnut trees.

  In spite of the valley's lushness, fewer and fewer farmers work its most remote and fertile areas. These regions are bordered by the tallest peaks and thickest woods. Despite the presence of the Beirut-Damascus highway, the mountains and trees create a very real sense of isolation. From the ground, many of these places can only be reached by a single road. From the air or from the peaks, these same places are hidden by ledges and year-round foliage.

  For centuries, these hidden places have given sanctuary to religious sects and cabals. In the modern era, the first group known to have hidden here were the men who helped to plot the the assassination of General Bake Sidqi, the oppressive leader of Iraq, who was slain in August of 1937. In their wake, Palestinian and Lebanese guerrillas came to the valley to train and plot against the formation of Israel and then against the state itself. They came to conspire against the Iran of the Shah, against Jordan and Saudi Arabia and other governments which embraced the infidels of the West. Though archaeologists rarely come to the valley to dig for Greek and Roman ruins anymore, the soldiers have uncovered more caves than the archaeologists ever found. They sell antiquities they discover to raise money, and use the caves as headquarters from which to mount their military and propaganda campaigns. Arms and printing presses, bottled water and gas-powered generators sit side by side in the cool caverns.

  With the blessings of the Syrians, the PKK has operated in the Bekaa Valley for nearly twenty years. Though the Syrians are opposed to the idea of a Kurdish homeland, the Syrian Kurds have spent much of their time and efforts helping their Turkish and Iraqi brothers survive the forces sent against them. In fighting Ankara and Baghdad, the Syrian Kurds strengthened Damascus by default. By the time Damascus realized that it might finally be a target as well, the Kurds were too well hidden, too well entrenched in the Bekaa to be easily evicted. And so the Syrian leaders took a wait-and-see position, hoping that the brunt of any assaults would be turned north or east.

  Ironically, it was United Nations pressure on Ankara and Baghdad to relax attacks on the Kurds that only recently allowed them, to focus on mounting a unified offensive. A series of meetings at Base Deir in the deepest caves of the northern Bekaa followed. After eight months, representatives of the Iraqi, Syrian, and Turkish Kurds devised Operation Yarmuk, a plan to use water and surgical military activity to throw the Middle East into disorder. In command of the base and its operation was a fifty-seven-year-old Southern California-educated Turkish Kurd named Kayahan Siriner. Siriner's longtime Syrian friend Walid al-Nasri was one of his most trusted lieutenants.

  Mahmoud had used Hasan's radio to let Base Deir know that they were coming in. They used the same frequency used by the more prosperous farmers in the region to keep in touch with their shepherds, and referred to themselves by code names. Anyone who was eavesdropping electronically would not suspect their real identities. Mahmoud had informed Siriner that they were coming in with several oxen — enemies who were unmanned. Had he told them that he was bringing in bulls, it would have meant that the enemies were armed and the Kurds were the hostages. Still, Siriner knew that Mahmoud could have been coerced into making the broadcast. The Kurd leader would not take any chances.

  The appearance of the ROC was preceded by over a minute by the sound of it crawling up the gentle slope. Stones and dead branches cracked thickly beneath its tires, the engine hummed and echoed, and finally it was visible through the trees. The ROC made its circuitous way toward the cave, avoiding the land mines and stopping when the trees became too thick. When the passenger's door opened, four armed Kurds ran out of the cave, each wearing a black kaffiyeh and camouflage fatigues and carrying an old NATO Model 1968 submachine gun. Before they could deploy, one man on each side, Ibrahim shut the van down and Mahmoud stepped from inside. He raised his pistol and fired three shots into the air. Had he been a hostage, he would not have been carrying a loaded gun. Shouting his thanks to God and His Prophet, Mahmoud holstered his pistol and walked toward the nearest man. As Mahmoud embraced him, and whispered to him of the loss of Hasan, the other three guards went to the open passenger's door. Ibrahim did not hug the men. His attention was on the blindfolded prisoners, and he didn't relax until they'd been led one by one into the cave. Only when they had been tied up inside did Ibrahim walk over to Mahmoud, who was standing alone beside the van. The guards had returned with earth-colored tarps. They quickly began throwing them over the van.

  Ibrahim hugged his brother. "We paid dearly for this one," Ibrahim sobbed.

  "I know," Mahmoud said into his ear. "But it was God's will, and Walid and Hasan are with Him now."

  "I'd rather they were still with us."

  "So do I," Mahmoud said. "Now come. Siriner will want to hear about the mission."

  Mahmoud kept his arm around his brother's shoulder as the two of them walked toward the cave. It was the first time Ibrahim had been to the sanctuary of the unified Kurdish freedom fighters. He had always hoped that his coming would have been under different circumstances. Humbly, almost invisibly, as an observer. A witness to history. Not as a hero who felt like a blunderer.

  Base Deir was named after the Syrian word for monastery. It was Kayahan Siriner's way of acknowledging the lonely, sacrificial life he and his people led here. The command headquarters was located in an underground section of the cave. A tunnel had been dug in the floor, and cinderblocks had been used to make steps. The tunnel was covered by a trapdoor which, when shut, could not be seen in the floor of the dark cave. The door had been weighted with heavy strips of rubber. If anyone walked on it, their footsteps wouldn't sound hollow. Beyond the trapdoor the cave continued to the north. There, the doz
ens of PKK soldiers slept on cots and ate around a picnic table. Just past their sleeping quarters the cavern forked. The eastern fork was nearly a straight continuation of the north-running tunnel. Daylight was visible from one end to the other. A dead-end dry gallery, this fork contained the militia's arms and gas-powered generators. The group's field commander, Kenan Arkin, had a station here and in the command headquarters. The tall, gaunt Turk remained in constant contact with the PKK's many factions. The natural cave had ended there, but the soldiers had broken through to a small gorge beyond. Cliffs overhung the gorge on either side, hiding it from the air and making it ideal for training. In the western fork of the cavern were ten small, dark pits. They were lined with wire mesh and covered with circular iron grates. The grates were held in place by iron bars which lay across the center. Each end of the bar was fitted into an iron upright. The eight-foot-deep holes were used as jail cells and held two people each. Sanitation consisted of larger mesh openings on the bottom.

  Electric lights had been strung along the roof of the narrow passageway, and Siriner's bunker was protected by an iron door. The door had been made from the hatch and armored plate of a Syrian tank destroyed by the Israelis. It was cool ten feet below the surface of the cave, and within the bunker itself a pair of large fans stirred the musty air. The room was nearly square and roughly the size of a large freight elevator. The walls were naked, and the low ceiling had been covered with a clear plastic tarp. The plastic was pulled tight and bolted in the corner to protect the room in the event of artillery shelling. There were rugs on the dirt floor, a small metal desk, and folding chairs with embroidered cushions. Beside the desk was a shredder. Behind it there was a radio with a headset and stool.

  Commander Kayahan Siriner was standing behind his desk when Mahmoud and Ibrahim entered. He was dressed in a drab-green uniform and a white kaffiyeh with a red band. He wore a.38 in a holster on his belt. Siriner was of medium height and build, with dark skin and pale eyes. He had a very thin pencil moustache on his upper lip and a ring on his left index finger. The gold band sported two large silver daggers crossed beneath a star. Like Walid, Commander Siriner bore a scar. This one was a deep, jagged scar which ran from the bridge of his nose to the middle of his right cheek. He had obtained the wound as the leader of the Kurdish food parties in Turkey. It was his job to lead small bands against non-Kurdish villages to obtain food. If the villagers didn't give it willingly, the Kurds took it by force. Turkish soldiers were killed out of hand whether they resisted or not.

  Commander Siriner did not leave the cave unless it was necessary. Even at night, there was the fear that he might be assassinated by Turkish or Iraqi snipers positioned in the peaks around the base.

  It was both a relief and an honor that Siriner was standing. An honor because the commander was showing the men respect for what they'd accomplished. A relief because he attached no blame to them for the loss of Walid and Hasan.

  "I thank Allah for your safe return and for the success of your mission," said Siriner, his deep, resonant voice filling the room. "You have come with a trophy, I understand."

  "Yes, Commander," said Mahmoud. "A vehicle of some kind which the Americans use to spy."

  Siriner nodded. "And you are certain that in bringing it here, you yourselves were not spied upon?"

  "We used it to blind the satellite, Commander," said Ibrahim. "There is no doubt that they cannot see us."

  Siriner smiled. "As their flyovers of the region suggest." He looked at Mahmoud. "Tell me what happened to Walid's ring and to Hasan."

  Mahmoud took a step forward. Hasan had radioed the base about Walid's death, and the guard had just informed Siriner of Hasan's death. Now, Mahmoud gave their commander the details. The commander remained standing as he spoke. When Mahmoud was finished, Siriner sat down.

  "The American is here, in captivity?"

  "He is," said Mahmoud.

  "He knows how to work the equipment you've captured?"

  "He does," said Mahmoud. "Several of the captives appear to know something of its operation."

  Siriner thought for a long moment, and then called for a soldier who served as his master-at-arms. The brawny young man hurried into the office and saluted. Military formalities were strictly observed among the twenty-five soldiers who were permanently stationed at the base.

  The commander returned the salute. "Sadik," he said, "I want the American leader tortured where the others can hear."

  Ibrahim wasn't convinced that the American would break. However, he didn't offer his unsolicited opinion. The only answers Siriner accepted from his people were "Yes, sir," and "I'm sorry, sir."

  "Yes, sir," the master-at-arms said.

  "Mahmoud," said Siriner, "I've heard that there are women prisoners as well?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Siriner looked back at Sadik. "Select a woman to watch the torture. She will go second. I want this vehicle working for the next part of our operation. It may help us guide the infiltrators."

  "Yes, sir."

  Siriner dismissed his master-at-arms. He turned back to Mahmoud and Ibrahim. "Mahmoud. I see you wear Walid's ring."

  "Yes, sir. He gave it to me before he — left us."

  "He was my oldest friend," said Siriner. "He will not die unavenged."

  Siriner walked from behind the desk. His expression was a strange mix of grief and pride. Ibrahim had seen the expression before in the faces of people who had lost friends or brothers, husbands or sons to a cause that was equally close to them.

  "As we expected, Syrian Army troops have begun moving to the north. Mahmoud. You're acquainted with the role that Walid was to have played in the second phase of our operation?"

  "I am, sir," Mahmoud replied. "Upon his return he was going to relieve Field Commander Kenan. Kenan is going to lead the raid upon the Syrian Army outpost in Quteife."

  Siriner stood in front of Mahmoud and peered into his eyes. "The raid is vital to our plan. However, Allah is merciful. He has returned you to us. I see in that a sign, Mahmoud al-Rashid. A sign that you and not Kenan are to take Walid's part."

  Mahmoud's tired eyelids raised slightly. "Commander?"

  "I would like you to lead the Base Deir group to Quteife and then Damascus. Our man there awaits the signal. Set out with the others and I will give it."

  Mahmoud was still surprised. He bowed his head. "Of course, Commander. I am honored."

  Siriner embraced Mahmoud. He patted his back. "I know you must be tired. But it is important that I be represented in Damascus by a hero of our cause. Go and see Kenan. He will give you your instructions. You can sleep while you wait for the Syrians."

  "Again, sir, I am honored."

  Siriner moved over to Ibrahim. "I am equally proud of you, Ibrahim."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Because of your role in the day's victory, I have special need of you," Siriner said. "I wish for you to remain with me."

  Ibrahim's mouth fell at the edges. "Sir! I would like to be allowed to go with my brother!"

  "That is understandable," Siriner said as he hugged Ibrahim. "But I need a man who has dealt with the Americans and their van. This is not a question of courage but of efficiency."

  "But commander. It was Hasan who spoke—"

  "You will remain here," Siriner said firmly. He stepped back. "You drove the van from Turkey. You may have seen something that will prove helpful. And you have experience with machines. That in itself is more than many of my soldiers have."

  "I understand, sir," Ibrahim said. He looked narrowly at his brother without moving his head. He fought hard to conceal his disappointment.

  "I will have a talk with the Americans," Siriner told him. "For now I want you to rest. You've earned it."

  "Thank you, sir," Ibrahim replied.

  Siriner looked at Mahmoud. "Good luck," he said, and then went back to his desk. The men had been dismissed

  Ibrahim and Mahmoud turned smartly, then returned to the tunnel. They stood there facing o
ne another.

  "I'm sorry," Ibrahim said. "I belong at your side."

  "You will be even closer," Mahmoud said. He touched his chest. "You'll be in here. Make me proud of you, little brother."

  "I will," Ibrahim said. "And you be careful."

  The men hugged for a long minute, after which Mahmoud walked deeper into the cave to meet with the field commander.

  Ibrahim walked toward the makeshift barracks, where he sat on an empty cot and removed his boots. He lay back slowly, stretching toes and leg muscles which were happy to be free of their burden. He shut his eyes. Ibrahim was aware of the soldiers trooping past him, toward the cells.

  Siriner would have a "talk" with the Americans. He would torture them. They would break. And then their leader would have nothing to do but help the other Kurds run the computers and drive the van.

  It wasn't glorious. He wasn't even convinced that it was useful. But he was tired and perhaps he wasn't thinking clearly.

  In any case, he hoped the American did break. He wanted him to capitulate, to cry out. What right did any foreigner have to interfere with the fight for Kurdish freedom? And to take the life of a fighter who had displayed compassion as well as heroism was unforgivable.

  He listened as the grates creaked open, as two prisoners were pulled out, as the others shouted from their cells. Their cries were like a campfire on a cold night, warming him. Then his mind drifted to the events of the past day and visions of the storm they would unleash before this day was through. He thought of his brother and the pride he felt for what he was about to do. And the warmth settled over him like a blanket.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Tuesday, 11:43 a.m.,

  the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon

  When she was a young girl, Sondra DeVonne used to help her father Carl as he worked in the kitchen of their South Norwalk, Connecticut, apartment. By day, he managed a fast-food hamburger restaurant on the heavily traveled Post Road. By night, he mixed ingredients by the bowlful looking for a custard recipe which would taste better than anything else on the market. After two years, he came up with a soft ice cream which his wife sold on weekends at Little League games and carnivals. A year after that, he quit his job and opened an ice cream stand on Route 7 in Wilton, Connecticut. Two years later, he opened his second stand. A few months before Sondra joined the United States Air Force, he opened his twelfth Carl's Custard and was hailed as Connecticut African-American Businessperson of the Year.