by Eric Meyer
He muttered something in Arabic, clearly a string of curses, and turned into yet another side street. Nolan was about to point out they’d be on their tail, and they couldn’t outrun them in this jalopy, when he suddenly spun the wheel. The tires screamed as he drove through an open gateway. He stopped the car, leapt out, and ran to close the solid timber gates, just as two cruisers sped past. He grinned at Nolan.
“We’ve lost them.”
He didn’t share the joke. “Sure, we’ve lost them, but we can’t stay here. Sooner or later, we have to get back to my people with the gas.”
“Of course. While we’re waiting for them to give up the search, I’ll fix the tailpipe.”
“How long will it take?”
“The tailpipe?”
“To give up the search.”
A shrug. “Perhaps a day, maybe two. You shot one of their men and assaulted the other. They won’t give up easily.”
He though back to the cop Stern had shot at the checkpoint.
No, they won’t give up, not in a day, perhaps not in a week. They’ll call in reinforcements and intensify the search. We have to get out of here before then. Or wait for them to smash through the gates into the courtyard, machine guns blazing.
* * *
Waverley reached the outskirts of Damascus and breathed a sigh of relief. Inside the huge city, he knew he’d find what he needed to stay safe, and almost as important to keep his money safe. He already regarded it as his property. After all, hadn’t he gone through hell to try to deliver it to the Kurds? Well, almost. He sniggered to himself. That journey in the C-17 had been cold and uncomfortable, and he deserved some compensation.
He thought about the woman he’d killed in Washington. The stupid bitch, she was only on secondment to the State Department, and she should have listened to an experienced officer like himself. If they’d given him the post she occupied instead of her, it never would have happened. Still, he’d done everything right, and he’d got away from those two irritating SEALs. A pity about the girl, Rachel Dayan, but with the amount of money he had in that flight case, he could buy himself a hundred like her.
The hotel looked promising, close to the Presidential Palace, and he assumed the security would be enough to keep him safe. Although he had ideas to make certain those two thugs from the U.S. Navy didn’t get close, always assuming they’d survived, which in this hellhole of a country was by no means certain. He checked into the hotel and went up to his room. He counted out some petty cash, enough to keep him in funds for now, giggling to himself. Fifty thousand dollars was a tidy sum of petty cash. Then he carried the flight case back down to the lobby and watched while they placed it inside a safe that looked secure enough to store the nation’s gold reserves.
A word with the desk clerk, and he followed his directions to a nearby bar. What distinguished this place and from others was the number of soldiers sitting inside drinking. He ordered a cold beer and leaned with his back to the bar, sipping at his drink, and looking around. He spotted them almost immediately. Two Syrians, both with sergeant stripes on their sleeves, and they had that look. Perhaps it was something he recognized in himself, the look of men who will do most things for money. He walked over and spoke to them in Arabic.
“I’m looking for some men.”
They stared up at him. “Fuck off.”
“No, no, it’s not like that. I want to hire two bodyguards.”
“We’re busy.”
“The pay is five thousand dollars for each man. One week.”
They stared at each other, and back at him. The shorter man opened his mouth to speak, and Waverley noticed he was missing several teeth. “When do we start?”
“Now, if that’s convenient.”
“For five thousand dollars it’s convenient. You did say each?”
“That’s correct. I’m staying in nearby hotel, and I’ll book you a room next door to mine. Your job is to shadow me everywhere I go while I’m in Damascus, and then escort me while I travel across the border to Lebanon.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” A sly look appeared on his face, “We’d need a down payment.”
“One thousand dollars each.”
“Done. Follow me.”
He led them back to the hotel and checked them into the room next to his. He arranged to meet them in the bar where he told them he had a further proposition. “How would you feel about killing a man?”
“We’re soldiers. That’s what we do. Who is it, a Kurd, a Jew, or what?”
“Actually, it’s two men. Both Americans.”
“Soldiers?”
“They’re dressed as civilians. But they do have military experience.”
He looked thoughtful. “We may need more men. What are you paying?”
“I’ll double your money.”
“Make it twenty thousand. Each. For that money, we can recruit more men. Another six men, and we can guarantee success.”
“These men, who are they?”
“Soldiers, or rather former soldiers. They’ve been working for a local trafficker. He went out of business several weeks back when his rival shot him dead in an ambush. They’re looking for work, and they’re not frightened of pulling the trigger.”
“These men are good?”
A chuckle. “Better than good, they have a reputation. They never miss a target. Never.”
He smiled. “Gentlemen, I will source a photo of these two men so there are no mistakes. We have a deal.”
They followed him into the elevator, watched him enter his room, and stood guard outside.
Good, they’re taking the job seriously.
He showered and changed into a fresh shirt and underwear. He felt better and strolled out into the teeming Damascus streets, with his bodyguards following. He felt good, a real VIP. Money could so that; could buy anything. The Internet café had everything he wanted, and he found a quiet booth and logged on to his State Department account. A quick search located the photos of the two men assigned to escort him, and he paid for color prints of both. He handed them to his two bodyguards, whose names were Abbas and Mohammed.
“These are the men. Kyle Nolan and John-Wesley Ryder.”
Abbas took them. “Mr. Waverley, they’re as good as dead. You believe these men will come to Damascus?”
“If they’re still alive, yes. They’ll be here in the next day or two. I want them dead by then, and we leave for Lebanon. Does that present you with any problems?”
“Nossir, we’ll get right on it. Mohammed, stay with Mr. Waverley. I’ll find our men, give them the good news, and get them staked out to watch the approaches to Damascus. You said they’d be on the M5 from Aleppo?”
“Yes.”
“Good, we have watchers along that road who will look out for them. Don’t worry about a thing. Relax and enjoy yourself, Mr. Waverley.”
He glanced around the street, seeing the shell damage, the heaps of rubbish uncleared since the war had raged, and the frightened faces of the pedestrians. “Thank you, Abbas. One thing I need. The address of the best brothel in the city.”
A smile. “Mohammed will take you there.”
Chapter Seven
The work was backbreaking, carrying the heavy jerry cans out of the city, across the open ground, and up the slope. There was no alternative if they wanted to avoid the inevitable house-to-house searches. Misha carried one jerry can, and he was as tough as they come. Never complaining, although several times he reminded Nolan of the fare he still owed him.
They slipped away when darkness fell, and the old man led the way through the shadows and narrow streets until they were clear of the town. He strode uphill like he was a beast of burden, and Nolan, who was very physically fit, felt exhausted after the first two hours. Somehow, Misha went straight to the Nissan, and they were almost there when the challenge rang out.
"Who is it? Advance and be recognized."
"If I advance another step carrying this damned jerry can, I swear I'll
collapse with heart failure."
"Boss!"
“Ryder, thank Christ. How’re things up here?”
“Quiet. You?”
“We had some trouble. Fill the tank with gas, and we can get on our way while it’s still dark.”
“What’s with the old guy? Isn’t he the cab driver?”
“He is. He’s now the Nissan driver. He’ll take us into Damascus, and the vehicle becomes his. That’s the price I agreed.”
“A bit steep.”
“We got it for nothing, don’t forget. And when we reach the city, the Toyota won’t be far away. When we find it, we’re mobile again.”
“And Waverley? Nothing’s changed?”
“Nope. One way or the other, we’ll get the money to the Kurds, and all bets are off. Unless anything goes wrong on the way, and he stops a bullet.”
“Or the blade of a knife.”
“Try to hold back until we’ve handed over the cash.”
“Copy that.”
Stern helped them fill the tanks, and Nolan looked everywhere for her.
“Where’s Rachel?”
“She climbed up there to keep watch.” He pointed to a narrow path, “Follow that, and you’ll reach her.”
He climbed the steep, narrow path and found her bathed in moonlight, sitting on the edge of a sheer drop. She turned her head, saw him, and sprang to her feet.
“Kyle! You made it back."
"We had a little trouble, but nothing we couldn't handle."
A pause. “I was worried. I thought you were…” She flung herself into his arms, “I thought you were dead.”
He held her tight, not believing this was happening to him. “Not until we've done what we came here to do. Find Waverley, deliver the cash, and then…”
He felt her tense. “You're going to kill him?”
“It’ll be hard stopping Ryder from killing him, so I doubt I'll get a look in.”
“But why are you so determined to kill him?”
He explained about the girl in Washington, Helen Shapiro. Her eyes flashed as she heard the name, and he wondered why. “Rachel, did you know Helen?”
She looked away. “There are many girls in Israel with that name.”
“I guess there are. When it’s done, we’ll go back to the States.”
They were still holding each other, and she looked up at him. “What about us?”
He couldn't believe he’d heard it right. “Us?”
“What happens to us? After Damascus, where do we go?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“With you.”
He kissed her, and it was long and passionate. After the long months of loneliness, he felt something warm stir inside him, something passionate toward this wonderful girl. Apart from his kids, living outside Sacramento with their grandparents since the death of his wife, he was alone. He rarely saw them because of his work. Except now there was Rachel. Maybe.
He kept his voice gentle, not wanting to spoil the moment. “When it's all over, we'll make plans. But we have a long way to go yet. Anything could happen.”
“Yes, we have.” Her voice became a whisper, “I want to ask you a special favor, Kyle. Waverley, don't kill him, and don't let Ryder kill him.”
“Why not?”
“He isn't worth it. He'll get what's coming to him, sooner or later. You’re not murderers or vigilantes.”
Her request puzzled him, but he found himself agreeing. She was that kind of girl. “For you, Rachel, I’ll talk to Ryder.”
He didn’t like it. “If we don’t deal with him, he could get away with it. The murder, the money, leaving the Kurds in the shit, and you want to take that chance, all because a girl asked you?”
“She’s not any girl, John-Wesley.”
He grimaced. “I remember you saying the relationships were finished, and it was strictly one-night stands in the future.”
Nolan winced, remembering what he’d said. But that was before he met Rachel Dayan.
Am I being stupid, acting like a lovesick schoolboy? I don’t know. But what I do know is I have a lot of thinking to do.
Ryder wasn’t happy, and he had to accept that, and live with it. And hope agreeing to Rachel’s strange request wouldn’t backfire. Misha took the wheel, and they bumped down the slope in the darkness. They couldn’t use lights, and the journey was hair-raising. Yet he seemed to have the night vision of an owl, and he made his way unerringly to the bottom of the slope, circled around Hama, bumping onto the main highway that led toward Homs and then to Damascus. They stopped once, to pick up ice-cold bottles of Coke from a roadside stall, with a hand written sign in Arabic and English. ‘Ice Cold Coke.’ And it was, a real taste of home in a land as alien as the surface of Mars.
The road was quiet, and only twice they had to drive off into the darkness and wait while military convoys sped past. Homs was also empty, and he began to think they might even make it all the way to Damascus. Finding Waverley and recovering the cash was another matter. He was thinking things through when he decided the obvious answer was to speak to Admiral Jacks, back at Coronado. He took out his cellphone and made the call.
“Jacks.” The voice was frosty, very frosty.
“Sir, this is Nolan. We have a problem.”
“I have a problem, too, Lieutenant. Do know what time of night it is?”
“Nossir.”
“Neither do I, you just woke me from a deep sleep. As it happens, you may be able to do something useful. But first, why did you call?”
He explained about Waverley, the problem at Aleppo, and Waverley driving off in the Land Cruiser. “We believe he’s heading for Damascus, Sir, so we’re following in a borrowed SUV.”
“Borrowed?”
“Kind of. We wanted to give you a heads up about Waverley. It’s obvious he’s planning to steal the money and disappear. Our only chance is to reach him before he leaves Damascus, and we need some idea of where he may have gone. Does he have any connections in the city, any contacts, any addresses that may help us?”
“Lieutenant Nolan, I don’t have the faintest idea. That kind of information would be held at State, and it would take months to claw it out of them. You’re on your own with Waverley, but you’d better make damn sure you find him and deliver the cash.”
“Sir, we…”
“Before you go on, there’s another matter. It’s about Bravo.”
He had a bad feeling in his guts. “What about Bravo?”
He explained how they were also on a mission inside Syria, in Damascus. He didn’t say what the mission involved, but when Nolan heard the rest of it, his feeling of unease felt like a knife twisting his guts.
“They’ve disappeared. No contact, nothing. They were due to meet with the Syrian Minister of Defense, General Youssef. I’ve tried to contact him several times, but each time his aides tell me he’s unavailable. There’s something going on, Nolan, and it stinks.”
“What can we do, Sir?”
“Make a note of this address. It’s General Youssef’s villa on the outskirts of the city. That’s where they were due to meet up with him. Go there, find Youssef, and make sure you get some answers.”
“Do you think something’s wrong, Sir?”
“I know something’s wrong. Talk to General Youssef, and locate my men. That’s a priority, Nolan. And when you’ve found them, get after Waverley, and make sure that money goes to the right people. Not some thieving State Department bureaucrat.”
“Finding him could be difficult, Admiral.”
“You find the bastard, and I don’t care how long it takes. As for getting him out of the country, there are other ways of dealing with him. I’ll leave that up to you.”
It was as close to a kill order as Jacks dared to give. A government official, employed by the State Department, Nolan realized Rachel had a point when she’d asked him not to kill him.
“An accident, maybe?”
The voice at the other end was a low growl. �
��These things happen, Lieutenant. Now find those men, no matter what else you do, that’s priority one.”
“Yessir.”
They continued on their journey toward Damascus, and Misha opined they were likely to make it before dawn. Soon, the lights of the city showed in the distance, and he switched on the vehicle lights so they didn’t look strange when they began to encounter traffic. He was thinking about Team Bravo.
There has to be a damn good reason for them losing contact, and I suspect Bryce has everything sorted. They’re probably holed up somewhere, forced to go to ground, and no cell masts in the vicinity. That has to be it. Custer’s the weak link, but Bryce will take care of things. When we reach Youssef’s villa, we’ll find out more. It’ll be good to meet up with my Team. Things are looking up, and everything’s going to work out fine.
* * *
“It’s not looking good, Lieutenant. It’s taking too long.”
Merano was working hard at the concrete around the hinges on the door with a steel nail they’d found discarded on the floor. Custer was crouched on the floor, his head down in despair. “Can’t you make it go faster?”
“I’m working as fast as possible, but even though the cement around the hinges is the usual Arab crap, it’s still a long job. I don’t think we’re going to make it. Not in a day.”
Custer looked as if he didn’t care, but Zeke Murray was walking around the room, using the faint illumination on his radiation meter to monitor the levels.
“We may not have a day. I’ve been monitoring this for the last half hour, and first I wasn’t sure, but now I am. The level is rising.”