by Don Mann
“Oh yes,” Mr. Talab boasted. “We won the President’s Cup last year. The Brazilian striker Grafite scored the winning goal.”
He wished Jared was present to give him the skinny on these two. Anders, though highly intelligent, clearly didn’t know them that well and operated more on a need-to-know basis.
Janice passed a silver tray with cookies. She had a thin gold bracelet on her wrist with a name engraved on it that he couldn’t make out.
Crocker handed the cookies across to Fatima, who selected a round shortbread with raspberry jam in the middle. She craned her long neck left toward Talab, bit into it, and smiled.
He caught a whiff of her rosewater-scented perfume and wondered what her real relationship to Talab was. He knew that the role of women in this part of the world was fraught with compromise and religious restriction. The ones he had encountered in his many travels throughout the region almost never made eye contact with men they weren’t related to.
This lady knew her way around and understood her effect on men.
Anders mentioned the mysterious disappearance of the Malaysia Airlines 777 over the Indian Ocean and the continuing search for wreckage.
Mr. Talab, who claimed to have a great deal of knowledge about flying Boeing aircraft, said he believed that the autopilot on the plane had been interrupted via satellite signal from a foreign government. He noted that this system had been installed in all advanced Boeing passenger aircraft after 9/11 to foil terrorists should they gain control of the flight deck.
He came across as a consummate businessman—confident, prosperous, and pleased with himself. Crocker thought his theory about Flight 370 was wack.
Anders cleared his throat and, pointing to Crocker and Akil, said, “Mr. Talab, these are two of the men from our special ops team. Perhaps you’d like to tell them a little about the situation inside Syria.”
As Crocker sat up he felt Fatima’s warm eyes looking him over.
“Yes.” Talab shifted his long frame in the chair and recrossed his legs. “I can tell you that my family is part Lebanese, part Syrian, and we have done business in Syria for years. Damascus was my father’s favorite city. We have investments there and many friends, which is why I travel there often.”
Anders turned to Crocker and said, “Mr. Talab and President Bashar al-Assad went to school together.”
They had Crocker’s full attention.
“Yes. Yes, we did,” Mr. Talab responded. “For two years we were classmates at the al-Hurriya School in Damascus. Bashar went on to study medicine. In those days he wanted to be an ophthalmologist. I traveled to London to get a business degree.”
Crocker noted the familiar tone in which he talked about Assad.
“Interesting,” Janice said. “How well do you know him?”
“Well, we don’t travel in the same circles, but anybody who does business in Syria has to deal with the Assad family.”
“I would imagine. Yes,” Janice responded.
“They can be extremely charming one minute and cutthroat and brutal the next, especially when you cross them. It’s also a family with a history of mental problems.”
“I’ve heard.”
The muscles around Talab’s jaw tightened as he continued. “My younger brother Hamid found this out when he entered into a dispute with the president’s cousin Fawwaz al-Assad over the ownership of a horse ranch outside Damascus. Fawwaz is an avowed thug, who later founded the death squads known as the Shabiha, who hunt down and kill opponents of the regime. He wanted the farm, but my brother didn’t want to sell it.”
Crocker had heard of the notorious Shabiha and wondered if they ever operated outside the borders of Syria. Maybe they were the assassins he had encountered earlier.
“What happened?” Janice asked.
“A week after my brother turned down Fawwaz’s offer, he was pulled out of his bed one night, tortured, and brutally murdered. This happened in September 2009.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“I say all this, my friends, so you and your people understand my motivation, which is pure and simple—revenge. I hate the Assad dictatorship and deplore its arrogance and brutality, which now all the world can see.”
Makes sense, Crocker thought, though he wasn’t completely buying it.
“So do we,” Anders said.
“That gives us the same goal.”
Like other urbane, educated Middle Eastern men Crocker had met, Talab was hard to read, and Crocker wondered whether his motivation really was that simple.
Again he was momentarily distracted by Fatima, who sipped her tea quietly and listened. She seemed to have a personal agenda, too, which she was keeping to herself.
“I waited,” Mr. Talab continued. “When anti-Assad demonstrations started in early 2011 as part of the Arab Spring, I saw little chance that they would succeed. But we have a large Sunni Muslim majority in our country that has been oppressed by the small Alawite Shiite elite for many years. Some small groups of these men took up arms. The Assad regime responded with customary brutality. Rebels were soon joined by thousands of defectors from the Syrian military.”
“That happened at the end of 2011,” Anders said.
“Yes. The rebels formed what is called the Free Syrian Army. By early 2012, they boasted twenty thousand members. That’s when the civil war really began.”
Anders nodded. “Yes.”
Crocker remembered. The Arab Spring had come as a sudden outburst of anger, frustration, and hope sweeping across North Africa into the Middle East. It caught everyone by surprise, including the United States, which had seemed unsure how to respond.
“The FSA captured territory and the Assad military responded with cluster bombings, artillery, and rocket attacks,” continued Talab. “Civilians fled to the borders of Turkey, Jordan, and Lebanon. And other Sunni governments in the area started to take notice. They hated the Assad regime, too, so they wanted to help the FSA. Because of my connections inside Syria, I was approached by some of their intel services. I started to pass money and arms to rebel leaders. I also started to raise money myself.”
If Talab had done half of what he claimed, he was playing a very dangerous game. The Assad regime had a terrifying reputation for dealing with dissidents and enemies. Its military intelligence service, the Mukhabarat, was aggressive and deadly, trained and supported by Russia’s SVR.
“Throughout 2012, the expectation was that the U.S. and its European allies would establish a no-fly zone in Syria and aid the FSA, which would bring about the fall of the Assad regime,” Talab continued. “But we waited, and it never happened. For whatever reason, your president was more concerned with Afghanistan.”
“True,” Anders added with a bitter note in his voice.
“Absent U.S. leadership, different Arab governments started to act on their own,” Talab continued. “They supported various leaders from various rebel groups. Also, other foreign terrorist organizations saw an opportunity to extend their influence. These included al-Qaeda–linked groups like Ahrar ash-Sham, the Suquor al-Sham Brigade, the al-Nusra Front, and the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS). Their stated goal is to impose a government in Syria based on Sharia law.”
Crocker knew that ISIS had become a major concern of the Turkish government because of its control of territory near that country’s southern border. Just last week ISIS insurgents had surrounded the Suleyman Shah tomb, just fifteen miles from Turkey.
Maybe it was ISIS that had ordered the hit on Jared. Given the complicated rivalries within Syria, it was hard to tell.
“As you know, by the beginning of 2013, the Assad regime seemed about to fall, despite the support it was getting from Russia, China, and Hezbollah,” Talab continued. “That’s when its main ally, Iran, jumped into the ring.”
They had done so full-scale, according to the intel reports Crocker had read. The Iranian security and intelligence services were not only advising and assisting the Syrian military, they had a
lso deployed Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps (IRGC) ground forces, the Qods Force, intelligence services, and law enforcement forces to fight the anti-Assad rebels. Major General Qassem Suleimani—the leader of Qods Force and a man Crocker and his team had tried to kill in early 2013—was personally leading and directing the Iranian military effort in Syria. Crocker thought that he’d love to run into him and silence the bastard once and for all.
“Now the situation is a mess, with all sides and groups controlling different parts of the country,” Mr. Talab continued. “If I were to predict an outcome, I would say that Syria will eventually split into fiefdoms—Iran controlling the south, radical Sunni groups like ISIS sharing territory and towns to the north and west with more moderate FSA militias, and Assad and his Alawite allies keeping Damascus and the territory to the east.”
The horror of all this, of course, was the impact on the Syrian people. Rockets, cluster bombs, even chemical weapons had killed almost one hundred thousand of them so far. Another million or so had become refugees.
“This is a regime armed with chemical and possibly nuclear weapons,” Janice pointed out. “They’re heavily armed, desperate and dangerous. What’s even more alarming is the danger of some of the more advanced weapons falling into other undesirables’ hands.”
“Yes.” Talab nodded.
“I know the Russians have promised to monitor the WMDs. But they can’t be trusted. Besides, the Assads listen to no one.”
“No, they don’t.”
Anders, who seemed to have grown uneasy with the direction of the conversation, cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mr. Talab. I know you’ve got something to leave with us and must go shortly. So we won’t waste any more of your time.”
Talab nodded to Fatima, who snapped open the black briefcase by her high-heeled shoe. “I leave you this, gentlemen,” Mr. Talab said. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate its dire importance. I thank you for your time and wish you good fortune.”
Fatima handed him a DVD disk in a plastic case. Talab stood, flattened the hem of his jacket, and passed it to Anders.
“Thank you, Mr. Talab. We greatly appreciate all you’ve done.”
At the door, Crocker saw Anders hand Talab a white envelope stuffed with what he assumed were U.S. dollars. Under circumstances like these, where the American side had very limited access, intel could be worth a lot of money.
Money, he reminded himself, invited treachery. And treachery, he understood, often resulted in death.
Chapter Three
I go on working for the same reason that a hen goes on laying eggs.
—H. L. Mencken
Hours after he got the order to deploy to Istanbul, Crocker took Holly out to her favorite restaurant, Il Giardino. They sat in the atrium under a giant ficus tree wrapped in tiny white lights. A fire danced in the wood-burning pizza oven in the corner. As they sipped fresh Frascati wine and Andrea Bocelli sang “Con te partirò” over the stereo, Crocker gently broached the subject.
“How’s work?” he asked.
“Busy,” she answered quietly. “We’re completing a cybersecurity assessment of the embassy in Kiev.”
Holly’s job title was security threat analyst at the Bureau of Diplomatic Security (DS). DS played a vital role in protecting 275 U.S. diplomatic missions and their personnel overseas, securing critical information systems, investigating passport and visa fraud, and protecting the high-ranking foreign dignitaries and officials visiting the United States.
“The Russians can’t help snooping, right?” Crocker asked.
“With Putin in charge, you know it.” She glanced around to make sure no one was listening and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Everything in and out of there is heavily encrypted. But we’re constantly updating security. It’s a very high-tech game of cat and mouse.”
Because of the analytic nature of her job, Holly was able to work remotely and spend only a few days a month in D.C. When in the capital she stayed with her colleague and occasional rowing partner, Lena. Lena’s husband, a young navy ensign, had died when al-Qaeda hijackers crashed American Airlines Flight 77 into the Pentagon on 9/11.
Crocker was proud of Holly and the work she did. He was about to say something to that effect when the waiter arrived to announce the specials. Holly ordered the pollo alla Sorentina; Crocker chose the veal piccata.
She looked radiant in the gentle overhead light, and emotionally fragile.
He winced slightly and said, “Jenny’s back in school and seems to be doing well. You’re back at work handling important assignments. And I’m sitting on my butt feeling useless.”
Holly’s mouth tightened. “You’ve been training nonstop and working out.”
“Yeah, but it’s not the same. You know that.”
“Tom…” She bit her bottom lip as if she knew what was coming, and reached for her glass.
He plunged in. “I’ve talked to the guys on my team, and they feel the same. It’s been three long months.”
“Manny, too?” She was referring to his right-hand man, Joseph Mancini, whose brother had died from a cartel assassin’s bullet.
“Yes.”
“And Davis?”
John Davis, the team’s comms expert, had been badly wounded in Mexico. He’d spent the better part of the past three months convalescing at home.
“He says he’s tired of playing daddy and real antsy to get back.”
“Playing daddy, Tom? Really? So, what are you trying to say?”
“It’s time for us to go out again.”
She ran a finger along the rim of her wineglass and sighed deeply. “When?”
“We leave in the morning.”
“How early?”
“0400.”
She nodded solemnly, but he could see that she was steaming inside. “Okay.”
Throughout dinner she’d remained uncharacteristically quiet as he talked about possible vacation spots for the summer and plans to build a new house. Even when they returned to the bedroom of their temporary apartment and made love, her mind seemed elsewhere.
Part of him wanted her to get mad at him and tell him what she was really feeling. But they both knew, and understood, that there was no middle ground. He did what he did, and that wasn’t going to change until he got too old to do it, or dropped dead.
He awoke at three, quickly showered and dressed. He thought Holly was still sleeping when he kissed her goodbye.
When she turned and looked up, he saw that she had been crying.
He leaned over and said, “I’ll call you when I can. The security team will keep a constant eye on you and Jenny. So there’s no reason to worry.”
“I know, Tom.”
“I love you.” He kissed her again.
She nodded sadly and said, “I love you, too. Be safe.”
The four Americans pulled their chairs into a semicircle around the TV to watch the video Mr. Talab and his assistant had left behind. Before slipping it into the VCR, Anders explained that it had been shot outside the city of Idlib by a twenty-two-year-old Syrian engineering student named Hassan.
“When?” Crocker asked.
“When what?”
“When was it shot?”
“About a week ago,” Janice answered.
“Where’s Idlib?”
“Northern Syria, about 120 kilometers from the Turkish border.”
“Any more questions before we start?” Anders asked.
“Yeah,” Akil said as he bit into an apple. “Why are you showing us this?”
“You’re about to find out.”
Filmed at night using an infrared filter, the video showed a half-dozen uniformed men carefully offloading five-foot-long stainless-steel canisters from a truck and carrying them down concrete steps into a tunnel. The video was grainy and jerky, and lasted about two and a half minutes.
When it ended Crocker asked, “What did we just watch?”
“Those were members of the Syrian National Defense Force, the Quwat
al-Difa al-Watani,” answered Anders. “It was formed in 2012, following massive defections from the army and air force, and is made up of Assad loyalists. It’s a special militia filled with members of the country’s minorities—Alawites, Druzes, Armenians, and Christians—and modeled after the Basij militia in Iran.”
“What were they carrying?”
“We believe the canisters contain sarin gas.”
As the former WMD officer on ST-6, Crocker knew more about sarin than he cared to. He’d searched for it in Libya after the fall of Gaddafi and in Iraq after the ouster of Saddam Hussein. He knew that it remained in an odorless, tasteless liquid state below temperatures of 150ºC. In order to maximize its potential as a weapon, it was usually dispersed from a canister attached to a rocket or missile into droplets fine enough to be inhaled into the lungs. The sarin that reached the ground would eventually evaporate into vapor. Once it entered the body through the eyes or skin, it shut off the nervous system, causing involuntary muscles like the diaphragm to stop functioning. It had been discovered by Nazi scientists, who dubbed it Substance 146 and found it to be hundreds of times more deadly than cyanide. A variation of insecticides using organophosphate compounds, sarin could be made relatively easily using more than a dozen recipes. One recipe used isopropanol, known as rubbing alcohol. Another involved mixing methylphosphonyl dichloride with hydrogen or sodium fluoride.
In 2012 the United States and other countries had tried to block sales to Syria of the chemicals used in the manufacture of sarin. By that time, however, the Assad regime had already stockpiled large amounts of them.
A lethal dose could cause death in a minute. Iraqi strongman Saddam Hussein discovered this in 1988, when he directed a sarin attack against the Kurdish village of Halabja that killed five thousand people. More recently, UN inspectors discovered that the Assad regime had used sarin against rebels occupying the Ghouta suburb of Damascus.
Janice said, “Assad’s military has been stockpiling the stuff for years. As military bases are overrun, there’s a very good chance of it falling into the hands of rebels, particularly ISIS and those groups allied with al-Qaeda.”