The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

merchant. He had the intelligence to succeed at anything his mind selected as
worthy of himself – but no, he had chosen the most difficult of paths. His goal
was to build a new nation, to make a home for his people, to give them the human
dignity they deserved. To lead his people. To defeat the invaders.
To be remembered.
That was what he craved. Anyone could recognize injustice, but to remedy it
would have allowed him to be remembered as a man who had changed the course of
human history, if only in a small way, if only for a small nation . . .
That wasn't true, Qati admitted to himself. To accomplish his task meant defying
the great nations, the Americans and Europeans who had inflicted their
prejudices on his ancient homeland, and men who did that were not remembered as
small men. Were he successful, he would be remembered among the great, for great
deeds define great men, and the great men were those whom history remembered.
But whose deeds would be remembered now? Who had conquered what – or whom?
It was not possible, the Commander told himself. Yet his stomach told him
something else as he read over the treaty text with its dry, precise words. The
Palestinian people, his noble, courageous people, could they possibly be seduced
by this infamy?
Qati stood and walked back to his private bathroom to retch again. That, part of
his brain said, even as he bent over the bowl, was the answer to his question.
After a time, he stood and drank a glass of water to remove the vile taste from
his mouth, but there was another taste that was not so easily removed.
***
Across the street, in another safe house run by the organization, Günther Bock
was listening to Deutsche Welle's German overseas radio service. Despite his
politics and his location, Bock would never stop thinking of himself as a
German. A German revolutionary-socialist, to be sure, but a German. It had been
another warm day in his true home, the radio reported, with clear skies, a fine
day to walk along the Rhein holding Petra's hand, and . . .
The brief news report stopped his heart. 'Convicted murderess Petra Hassler-Bock
was found hanged in her prison cell this afternoon, the victim of an apparent
suicide. The wife of escaped terrorist Günther Bock, Petra Hassler-Bock was
convicted of the brutal murder of Wilhelm Manstein after her arrest in Berlin,
and sentenced to life imprisonment. Petra Hassler-Bock was thirty-eight years of
age.
'The resurgence of the Dresden football club has surprised many observers. Led
by star forward Willi Scheer . . .'
Bock's eyes went wide in the unlit darkness of his room. Unable even to look at
the lit radio dial, his eyes found the open window and stared at the stars of
evening.
Petra, dead?
He knew it was true, knew better than to tell himself it was impossible. It was
all too possible . . . inevitable, in fact. Apparent suicide! Of course, just as
all the Baader-Meinhof members had apparently committed suicide, one having
reportedly shot himself in the head . . . three times. 'A real death-grip on the
gun,' had been the joke of the West German police community of the time.
They'd murdered his wife, Bock knew. His beautiful Petra was dead. His best