"Clancy, Tom - Op Center 4 - Acts of War (v4.0)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clancy Tom)

Ibrahim was asleep when the car eased to a stop. He awoke suddenly.

"Imshee… imshee---!" he cried as he looked around. Yousef and Ali were still playing cards in the backseat. Ibrahim's eyes settled on the round, dark face of his brother, which was sleek with sweat. Mahmoud was looking in the rearview mirror.

"Good afternoon," Mahmaud said dryly.

Ibrahim removed his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. "Mahmoud," he said with obvious relief.

"Yes," his brother said with a half-smile. "It's Mahmoud. Who was it that you wished would leave you alone?"

Ibrahim put his sunglasses on the dashboard. "I don't know. A man. I couldn't see his face. We were in a market and he wanted me to go somewhere."

"Probably to see a new automobile or an airplane or some other device," Mahmoud said. " 'Friend Ibrahim, I am the djinn of dreams and I will take you anywhere you want to go. Tell me. Would you like to meet a beautiful young woman who will be your wife?' 'Oh, thank you, djinn. You are most generous. But if you have a motorboat or a computer, I would very much enjoy making their acquaintance.' "

Ibrahim scowled. "Where is it written that one cannot enjoy speed and power and machines?"

"Nowhere, my brother," Mahmoud replied. He turned from his brother and looked up at the rearview mirror.

"I like women," Ibrahim said. "But women like children and I do not. So we are stalemated. Do you understand?"

"I do," said Mahmoud. "But you miss the point. I have a wife. I see her one night a week for an evening of fire. I kiss the sleeping children before I leave in the morning, then go off to do my work with Walid. I am content."

"That is you," Ibrahim said. "When it is time, I want to be more of a husband, more of a father than that."

"If you find a woman who wants that or needs it," said Mahmoud, "I will be very happy for you."

"Shukran," Ibrahim said. "Thank you." He yawned and vigorously dug his palms into his eyes.

"Afwan," replied Mahmoud. "You're welcome." He squinted into the rearview mirror for a moment and then opened the door. "Now, Ibrahim, if you've washed away the dust of sleep, our brothers are arriving."

Ibrahim looked ahead as two cars passed them and pulled off the road. Both were large, old cars, a Cadillac and a Dodge. Beyond the two vehicles, less than a quarter of a mile distant, were the first low-lying stone buildings of Qamishli. They were misty gray shapes rippled in the radiant heat of the burning afternoon.

Ibrahim, Mahmoud, and their two companions emerged from their car. As they walked ahead, a 707 came in low headed for a landing at the nearby airport. The noise of the engines rumbled loud and long across the flat wasteland.

As Ibrahim and his party approached, three men emerged from the Cadillac, four from the Dodge. All but one were clean-shaven and dressed in jeans and button-down shirts. The exception was Walid al-Nasri. Because the Prophet had worn a beard and a loose-fitting abaya, so did he. The seven men had come up from Raqqa, in the southwest corner of al-Gezira on the Euphrates. It was partly the desperate plight of their once-fertile city that had driven Walid to become active in the movement. And it was the strength and conviction of their newly chosen leader, Commander Kayahan Siriner, that kept Walid and the others active.

The seven Kurds welcomed the others with heartfelt hugs and smiles and the traditional greeting of Al-salaam aleikum, "Peace be upon you." Ibrahim and the others replied with a respectful Wa aleikum al-salaam, "And upon you be peace." They gave their confederates equally warm embraces. But the warmth quickly gave way to the business at hand.

The man in the robe spoke to Mahmoud. "Do you have everything?"

"We do, Walid."

Walid squinted at the Ford. As he did, Ibrahim regarded the revered leader of their band. His features were extremely dark, and the thick beard hid most of the lower half of his long face. The salt-and-pepper expanse was broken only by a long, diagonal scar that ran from the left corner of his mouth to just behind his chin. It was a memento of the June 1982 Israeli invasion of Lebanon, when his was one of over eighty Syrian planes shot down in the Bekaa Valley. Ibrahim felt humbled to be with him and deeply honored to be serving under him.

"The trunk of your automobile," Walid said. "It appears light."

"Aywa," Mahmoud said. "Yes. We put many of the weapons under the front and back seats. We did not want to be back-heavy."

"Why?"