Jihad by Stephen Coonts Read Free Book Online Page B

to the side and grab onto the metal conduit protecting the power line and pull himself up—assuming it didn’t give way under his weight. But the spot there was exposed; while he hadn’t seen anyone yet, he’d be in easy view from any of the neighboring houses.
    Dean took another two steps back and bumped into something that moved. He swirled around, bowling over a boy six or seven years old. The kid’s soccer ball bounced from his hands, rolling away.
    “Sorry,” said Dean. “Affedersiniz,” he added immediately, remembering the Turkish word for excuse me. He grabbed the ball and held it out to the boy, who was seven or eight.
    The kid leaned forward, tilting his head—and then with a quick flick of his hand swatted it from Dean’s palm. He jumped up in time to rebound it off the top of his knee, settling it down on the ground with a grin.
    “Pretty good, kid,” said Dean. The translator gave Dean the phrase in Turkish, but Dean didn’t have time to use it—the boy kicked the ball to Dean, who caught it as if it were an American football.
    “How high can you kick it?” Dean asked the kid.
    “I can kick higher than the house,” said the boy, his English perfect.
    “What are you doing, Charlie?” Rockman asked.
    Dean pulled a ten-lira note from his pocket and showed it to the boy. “Yours if you get the ball on the roof.”
    He made it on the first try. Dean pulled the garbage can over; as he climbed on top of it the boy reappeared on the edge of the roof above him, laughing.
    “How’d you do that, you little monkey?” asked Dean. He grabbed hold of the pipe and pulled himself to the top of the roof. The kid was waiting, ball under his arm, smiling.
    Dean dug into his pocket and took out a bill.
    “You wanna play soccer, mister?”
    “You’d whip me ten ways to Sunday,” Dean told the boy. “Thanks, though ”
    The kid gave him a forced little smile, then popped the ball upwards off his head. It shot up about five feet; he headed it again. Dean’s heart leapt as the boy tottered near the edge of the roof. But he recovered his balance, tapped the ball upwards, then dropped and climbed down the side, landing on the ground just as the ball completed its third bounce in front of his feet.
    Dean planted the booster device between a gap in the bricks that formed a crown on the front part of the roof.
    “Working,” said Rockman. “Much better signal.”
    “I’m going to kick the ball around with this kid a bit before I go back to the car,” Dean said, starting down. “For cover.”
    “Since when are you nice to kids?” Rockman asked.
    “I’m always nice to kids.”

CHAPTER 17
     
    WILLIAM RUBENS WAS due at the White House at noon to brief the new national security advisor on the operation. With things running well, he decided to leave Crypto City early enough to stop and visit the old national security advisor, his friend and one-time teacher, George Hadash. But as he approached Hadash’s hospital room, he was suddenly filled with dread; it was only out of a sense of loyalty and duty that he forced himself to continue down the corridor. Two days before, Hadash had undergone an operation to remove a brain tumor. The doctors had pronounced the operation a great success, but Rubens, visiting him a few hours later, had a completely different impression.
    “Come,” said Hadash when he knocked on the door. Rubens was pleasantly surprised to find him sitting up in bed, the newest issue of Foreign Affairs in his hands. A pile of books sat on the bed next to him; two laptops sat on the rolling tray to the left.
    “William! How are you?” said Hadash, his voice as strong as ever.
    “I believe the question is how are you?” said Rubens. He shook Hadash’s hand—a good grip, though a little cold—and looked for a chair to sit down in. The nearest one was covered with books: all on the Civil War, Rubens noted as he piled them on the floor.
    “Have you read this?” Hadash held up the Foreign