What surprised Fannie was the reaction of Major Severov. He looked on quietly with a pleasant smile on his face as if none of it was any of his business. She liked that. He had treated her with respect and kept his mission in mind during their short time together. If they weren’t eating, they were surveying roads. He was a soldier, not an ideologue like Amir. The hairy little jerk truly believed everything that was spewed at him by his imams, and he truly believed that a woman like Fannie was mainly needed to cook food and pop children out on a regular basis. That attitude had no place in their jihad. She was working to change it, but it was frustrating.
Amir said, “I have no idea why you would keep talking to an American soldier. They are our enemies. One day we might have to fight them in our own lands.”
Fannie said, “You mean France?”
“Of course I don’t mean France. I mean Iran or maybe one of the Arab lands. They have not hidden their lust for our oil. They cannot keep from exporting their Western goods and attitudes. Everyone is not the same. We wish to live apart from them.”
Now it was Severov’s turn to tweak the little Iranian dope. “Then why is it that your country insists on butting heads with the United States? You take their people hostage, you export terror, and you make no secret of your desire to become a nuclear power in such an unstable region. You constantly threaten their ally Israel. If you really wanted to be left alone, I would think you would try to live a little more quietly. It seems like every time I turn on the TV some crazy little Iranian is complaining about the Great Satan, the United States.”
Amir eyed him silently with a scowl darkening his face. “Russia could just as easily be considered a Great Satan. You are infidels who believe in nothing but your military power. Right now you are looking at the innocent people in Estonia and trying to figure out how to get your tanks as far as possible into the country. Please don’t be a hypocrite.”
“On the contrary. I am a soldier and know my duty. I follow my orders. But I would not walk into this town’s marketplace with a bomb strapped to me.”
“No, but you have no problem dropping a missile on it or having your tanks roll through the square.”
It was starting to get heated, so Fannie decided to intervene. “That’s right, Amir. We are here to help him with his assignment. Russia is our ally for now. You don’t have to trust the country, you just have to help this man.” She took a moment to let that sink in, then answered his earlier question. “I am speaking with an American military officer because at some point soon he might be useful in delaying the American forces when they try to stop the Russian attack. If he and his unit are placed on alert, I can pass on that information. There is much more to fighting the Great Satan than spewing the same chants in protests.”
Amir flushed red, his dark skin a mask of fury. “Do not talk to me like I am a schoolchild. I know exactly what my mission is and how to accomplish it.” He moved his chair closer to her and brought his right hand up as if about to slap her.
Fannie didn’t wince. Then, with startling speed, Major Severov reached across the table to grasp Amir’s wrist. He jerked once and pulled the little man off the chair onto the cobblestones on the outdoor café’s sidewalk where the table was set up. The Russian didn’t say a word as he looked down at the confused Iranian.
Fannie liked this handsome major more and more.
Major Bill Shepherd almost rolled the Humvee as he turned the corner and screeched to a stop. The crowd outside the gate had pushed in around a car that had crashed through the barriers and hit the gate, causing a gap people could squeeze through. His marines had done an excellent job of closing in tight around the gap, with several of them holding back with rifles in case there was a problem.
The army personnel made up the secondary defense and ringed the marines. The captain in charge had done an excellent job of keeping a lid on things. Their goal was to keep the protesters from entering the base, not to disperse them. If it came to that, the German police would have to act. The fact that there were only a dozen or so uniformed officers for a crowd of nearly five hundred told Shepherd that they didn’t want to be viewed as instigators or oppressors. It was a familiar reaction since some of the riots in the United States several years earlier. The media tended to blame the police presence for the violence, and as a result there was pressure to have fewer police on scene. That led to more disruption to everyone’s lives and the endangerment of innocent people who happened to be near some of the riots.
The crowd looked angry, and a few younger men tried to squeeze through the opening in the gate, only to be poked hard with a long baton by one of the marines. At least it wasn’t a bayonet like the Russians would’ve used. No shots had been fired, which was probably the most important thing at this point.
Then Shepherd caught a peek of someone running into the center of the crowd. A moment later there was a blinding flash and a concussion that knocked the marines closest to the gate to the ground. It stunned Shepherd even though he was forty yards away. As he got to his feet, his head cleared, and he realized it had to be a suicide bomber.
There were screams in the crowd, and any organization they had dissolved in an instant. He yelled to the captain to pull the men back from the gate and rescue the wounded marines. Outside, the German police were scurrying around and calling for assistance. There were dozens of people on the ground, and most of them looked beyond help.
Then he heard someone from the crowd shout in English, “The marines threw a grenade.” The same voice repeated the phrase in German several times, then again in English, until everyone was saying it.
Shepherd moved forward, wondering if it would help to rebut the lie. But by the time he was near the gate, things were out of control.
He had the sinking feeling this whole string of events wasn’t going to end anytime soon.
Derek Walsh realized any one of the young FBI agents would notice him in a moment, and if he waited, Tonya Stratford would be able to point him out. His new look only went so far. She was a professional and had picked him out of the crowd. If he ran, he’d immediately be identified, and he had no doubt these men could run him down. He didn’t even want to think about using the pistol in his waistband. He might have been out of his mind with fear over what had happened, but he wasn’t stupid. Shooting someone would make him a real criminal, and he couldn’t justify that in his own mind.
He looked up quickly to see that Stratford and her little group of people were more than halfway across the courtyard and would reach his crowd of spectators in less than twenty seconds. The men in the back had worked their way up and were now stationed almost behind him.
Walsh glanced around the crowd, sweat starting to build on his forehead and under his arms, his breathing picking up speed as he tried to figure a way out of this. A few feet to his right, a young reporter was scribbling notes on a narrow pad that fit in his hand. Earlier, Walsh had noticed a small clip-on badge that said NEW YORK TIMES. It wasn’t clearly displayed, but the short young man with black hair and thick glasses had been standing there as long as Walsh had. There had also been a man with a camera talking to him and taking photographs he pointed out. The young man fit Walsh’s needs nicely. He didn’t like what he was about to do, but the fact that the man was casually dressed and had shaggy black hair made him the perfect target.
Just as the uniformed policemen who had a K-9 on a leash turned and started to walk back to the crowd, Walsh stole a glance to gauge how much time he had. He let the dog come forward, and just as it was next to the young reporter Walsh screamed out, “That guy has a bomb.”