by Unknown
He looked down the couch. Her black hair was tossed over the armrest, the open silken robe exposing her legs, and her toenails were freshly painted. His hand was slowly sliding up the exposed skin of her right leg when the apartment phone rang. Anyone who was worth answering knew to call his mobile, so he ignored the call and retreated to focus on Layla’s feet, her hand having playfully blocked his northward advances.
Then they heard a rap at the door. First one, then a rapid succession, followed by the sound of shouting in the hallway. At the door he saw through the peephole Mrs. Ghraoui, widow, next-door neighbor, and sole occupant of Apartment 46. Her hair was flung wildly about and her caky makeup was furrowed with tearstains. Ali motioned to Layla, who answered and ushered the woman inside. “He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone, they took him, took him somewhere,” was all she would say for the first several minutes. It took a cup of tea for Mrs. Ghraoui to finally get it out: her son had been arrested at a government checkpoint. Maybe yesterday, maybe the day before, she did not know. She had just now heard from a nephew on the police force, who saw the name on a list of recent arrests in Damascus. The Republican Guard had him, and that was all she knew.
Ali yearned for another cigarette as she sobbed. Even without any details, he knew that the boy would follow a common path through the system. First, he would be taken to an improvised detention center and accused of treason. Second, a rough interrogation, with the pain increasing as time spun into an infinite loop. Third, when the confession had been extracted, he would be packed off to Saydnaya, tortured for sport, then executed by hanging. They dumped the dead in mass graves outside the prison. Several backhoe operators had been permanently assigned from the Housing Ministry to support the grave-digging work.
Of course, there were two possible off-ramps. Either the detainee had the good fortune to encounter one of the few mukhabarat officers who was an actual criminal investigator capable of evaluating the evidence, or they knew someone with wasta, influence, who could vouch for them. This was why she had come. She understood Ali was a general and she certainly knew his brother, Rustum, was the powerful commander of the Republican Guard.
“Can you help, General?” she said. “I just want to know where he is.” She rubbed her eyes, smearing makeup onto her cheeks and nose.
Ali did not know why the boy had been arrested, but he could guess. His government-issued ID card would show that he had been born in a village north of Homs currently controlled by a rebel emir who claimed the town as his caliphate. Mix that with alcohol, or an aggressive Republican Guard lieutenant, and suddenly you were moving through the detention pipeline.
Not that Ali much cared why the boy had been taken. Ali had known him since he was five. He had played with the twins. He was no jihadist, criminal, or insurgent. Ali had also seen the inside of the makeshift prison his brother Rustum had built at the stadium: the wafer-thin bodies scrunching close to the barbed fencing, the faceless symphony of groans echoing through basement pipes, the antiseptic smell of the room—drain cut into the center and clogged with shapeless matter. He had been there before, to recover his doctor’s battered son. But even he was not so powerful that he could just waltz in and take the boy. He had been forced to submit to Rustum, which was its own torture. Eventually he’d been allowed to take the boy, whom he found chained to a drainpipe in a pool of stale blood. That night, Ali drank himself to sleep.
He nodded at her. “I will find him. Wait at home until I call you.”
She nodded, then glanced at Layla, who looked very tired. Ali thought she might ask to stay the night, but thankfully she stood to go, and Layla walked her out. Ali trotted to the living room, snatched his pack of Marlboros, and lit another, debating whether he could wait until morning to call Rustum. He decided to act. They could move the boy at any time, and he would be lost. He dialed the number. Three rings, then a voice that said: “Hello, little brother.”
Ali bit the inside of his mouth. “Big brother, how are you?”
“Finishing paperwork. What do you want?”
“You have a boy in custody. I’d like to check on him.”
Rustum loudly shuffled papers to register his agitation. “Not again, Ali. You must let the judicial system work things out, we can’t be intervening in every case.”
Ah yes, the same system that leashed my doctor’s son to a prison drainpipe for joining a Facebook group critical of the government? Ali wanted to say, but he bit his tongue. For to say what he thought would end the conversation and doom the boy. He chose his words carefully. “The detainee comes from a good family,” Ali said. “Layla and I know him well. I vouch for him.”
“You think too much like a detective,” Rustum said with exasperation. “A blanket of fear keeps things stable, and your detective work puts holes in that blanket. But, fine. I’m tired and it’s late. What’s his name?”
“Thank you, big brother. His name is Ghraoui.”
“I’ll call you back with the location in a few minutes and make the necessary arrangements.” A pause, the sound of shuffling papers. “Oh, and Ali? Has the traitor or the CIA woman given up a device yet?”
There had been endless questioning about the device Marwan Ghazali used to communicate with Valerie Owens. Ghazali had confessed that he had communicated with the CIA through secret websites. Ali knew that was true because it was how they’d caught him, after getting some help from his Iranian technical advisers. He also knew why Rustum wanted a CIA device because the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and Security technical lead had explained it to them both. The Persians believed they might be able to use a device to deploy a cyberweapon, not unlike Israel’s Stuxnet virus, onto one of the CIA’s satellite platforms. It could enable Damascus and Tehran to read covert communications and identify additional spies.
“Ghazali’s story has not changed on this point about the website.”
“How hard have you pressed?”
“Darkness, cold, starvation, cutting, he hasn’t changed his story, big brother,” Ali said. “The answer is disappointing, but the man is not lying. I am certain.”
“What has the CIA officer said?” Rustum asked.
“She still denies she is CIA. She has given nothing of value.”
“We should be rougher with her.”
“President’s orders, big brother. We keep the American out of it. Just questions for now. Nothing physical.”
“I’m working to change that, little brother. I would like a proper questioning for them both, the CIA woman and Ghazali. It is overdue.”
Ali scratched at his scar and opened the refrigerator for a snack. He saw a bag of carrots, and for the first time since returning home he thought of Marwan Ghazali’s left thumb and the risk he was taking holding a CIA officer at the President’s request. Empty-handed, he closed the refrigerator door.
“Why the sudden interest in finding more spies, big brother?” Ali said.
“You ask too many questions, Ali. Always a detective, never a soldier.”
“It’s my job to find the spies. What is going on, Rustum?” Ali asked again.
“This life is full of unanswerable questions,” Rustum said. “I will find the boy.” He hung up.
Layla emerged from the living room. “Are you going out tonight?”
He nodded. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, picked up her book, and vanished into the bedroom.
THE NEIGHBOR BOY WAS IN an old warehouse that had recently been converted into a holding center. Ali’s arrival was expected, thanks to Rustum, and the captain in charge of the facility immediately escorted him to the boy’s cell. An unspeakable smell escaped from the room as the captain opened the rusting door. As the guard stepped back, Ali looked into the room on the anguished eyes of what must have been seventy-five men crammed into a space the size of his living room. The officer called for the boy, and the mass of men shifted here and there until a bloodied youth limped forward. Ali nodded to the officer. “I’ll have my guards bring him out while we take c
are of the paperwork,” the officer said coldly, then closed the door.
In the captain’s office, Ali looked over the paperwork. He had been beaten and, according to the captain on duty, “examined.”
“What is the charge?” Ali asked the captain after he’d finished signing the paperwork.
“Anti-government sentiment.”
“What does that mean, Captain?”
The captain put his hands behind his back. “He was disrespectful to one of our officers.”
“I see,” said Ali. “Had he been drinking?”
“Yes.”
“Were you planning to release him after you taught him a lesson?” Ali said.
The captain said nothing.
“What did you examine?” Ali asked. “And why?”
“We completed a full-body examination to ensure he did not possess a weapon.” The captain gave a thin smile. “As a precaution.”
A Republican Guard colonel emerged from a back room holding the boy by the shoulder. His face was blue-black and reddened from tears. The smell of feces instantly filled the room.
“He shit his pants during the examination,” the colonel said with a shrug.
The colonel gestured to the boy’s puffy face as if unveiling a painting and yanked his collar to meet his eyes. “If we see you again, you’ll never get out. Understand?”
The boy nodded.
“He’s all yours,” the colonel said, tossing him toward Ali. He crumpled onto the floor.
Ali drove the boy back to the apartment building. They kept the car windows open to dilute the smell of excrement. They did not speak until he parked the car on the sidewalk. There were no other spots available.
“Say that you were robbed and beaten,” Ali said. “They took your wallet. Never go back to the place where they took you.”
The boy nodded, staring at the floor. The system had claimed another. “I won’t tell anyone about this,” Ali said.
The boy sank his head onto the dashboard and cried.
RUSTUM AND BASIL MAHKLUF, HIS brother’s favorite lieutenant, arrived at the Security Office early the next morning carrying papers embossed with the President’s wax quraysh hawk seal. Ali scanned the document and tossed the papers onto his desk after finishing the first few lines. “By presidential decree under the powers vested by the Emergency Law of 1963, the investigation into the traitor Marwan Ghazali will hereby and immediately be transferred from the Security Office to the Republican Guard . . .” Ali pushed more papers aside, sat down at the table, and lit a cigarette without offering one to his guests.
Basil, Rustum’s executioner—the little brother Ali was not and never would be—pulled up a chair next to Ali. Basil was wiry and his skin was ashy and pale. A swoop of thinning hair sat in opposition to his thick Saddam Hussein mustache, which he frequently and, Ali believed, unconsciously slathered with his tongue. His feet were gargantuan, out of all proportion to the rest of his body. But Basil was distinct for two features: the dishwater eyes and his low, scratchy voice. The former seemed the perfect reflection of a soulless inner void. The latter, the result of a shredded trachea courtesy of the Muslim Brotherhood during the last rebellion, in the winter of 1982.
Rustum entrusted Basil with his most sensitive tasks. Basil officially managed the Republican Guard’s Missile and Rocket Directorate. He was responsible for every strategic weapon in Assad’s arsenal.
Ali had also read the psychological reports on Basil drafted by the Republican Guard doctors. He’d had Kanaan steal them from Records. He is prone to fugues, Commander, the psychologist had written after one of Basil’s visits. There are periods in which he disassociates from his environment, perhaps reliving traumatic events. He speaks frequently of Hama, as though he is still there. Sometimes he speaks of himself in the third person. He calls himself a Comanche, Commander. A Native American tribe, apparently. He says this word in English during our visits.
Basil had earned the nickname Comanche during the winter in Hama. Ali had heard the stories, as had everyone else in the regime.
“Basil,” Ali said. “I’m glad to see you’re able to take some time away from managing our missile and rocket forces for a minor interrogation. You truly are a renaissance man.”
“The personal touch is important to me,” said Basil in his growl. He did not even crack a sardonic smile.
“Did you bring a transport van, or should I arrange one for the prisoner?” Ali said.
Rustum stood at the window, smiling. “We thought we’d do it here.”
“And make sure the room has a drain in the middle,” Basil said. “I don’t want to leave you with a mess.”
“Big brother, this is not—”
Rustum raised his hand. “I am in charge of this investigation now, little brother. Put Ghazali in the large interrogation room and ensure Basil has what he needs.”
“And bring in Valerie Owens,” Basil said. “I have questions for her as well.” He licked his mustache.
6
A JET-LAGGED SAM DROVE TO PARIS STATION DIRECTLY from Charles de Gaulle after a sleepless night in an economy-class middle seat—in-flight entertainment: nonfunctioning—sandwiched between a hefty Montanan and a toddler who had found it amusing to poke his arm throughout the flight. The taxi dropped him at the embassy, a cream-colored mansion standing in a leafy corner of the Place de la Concorde. Even at the early hour, Sam had to wait in line to flash his badge and black passport. He wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a morning nap in his hotel room, but he had to log on to the Agency network to see if any overnight cables had arrived on the Haddad recruitment operation.
A Station support officer met Sam as he cleared the line and escorted him up a four-flight, winding marble staircase. He put his phone in one of the cubbies and followed her inside the Station vault as she punched the code and the door clicked open.
“Windows, huh?” he said looking around the spacious room.
“In Europe our Stations have windows. We also have good coffee.” She gestured to the kitchenette. He grabbed a TDY—temporary duty—pack, jammed it into a computer, and began reading the cables. There was, thankfully, confirmation that the BANDITO surveillance team had arrived in Paris. They would meet him this afternoon to begin the dry runs. He reviewed maps showing the hotel housing the Syrian delegation and the likely routes they would take. He again studied the one picture of Mariam Haddad that the CIA possessed. It had been snapped for her Palace identification badge before the entire digital directory had been copied by a CIA document thief. He sat for a moment, transfixed by the picture.
“That,” said a voice behind him, “is quite the developmental.”
Sam swiveled around to see Peter Shipley, the Paris Station Chief, smiling. He had never met the Chief, but knew him by reputation and his friendship with Ed Bradley. Shipley had been Chief in Kabul in the early days of the war in Afghanistan and had saved the Afghan President from an assassination attempt during one of their meetings. As with many case officers, Shipley’s marriage fell apart, and his wife, French by birth, had left for Paris with the kids. He’d asked for the job to be near the family and try to set things right.
“Good to see you, Chief,” Sam said, shaking his hand. He noted with approval that Shipley drank his coffee black.
“That the Syrian case you’re working here?”
“It—she—is. Palace official. Mariam Haddad. Odds are low. I don’t think we’ve recruited a Syrian in about two years.”
“But we take our shots, don’t we?” Shipley nodded toward his office. “There is news from Damascus. NSA found Ali Hassan’s office landline.”
“When?”
“Last night. Bradley just approved the op. Procter’s making the call here in a few minutes. She asked that you sit in.”
Inside the Chief’s office, Sam looked out the window onto the Place de la Concorde as Shipley dialed. Procter’s distinctive voice answered. “Peter? He with you?” Shipley and Procter knew each other from Afghani
stan.
“He is indeed, Artemis. Fresh off a plane and looking like it.” Shipley motioned for Sam to sit at the table and handed him a single piece of paper. It was a printed ops cable from the NSA to Damascus Station containing the phone number.
“It’s just before lunch here in Damascus, so we’ll try to catch him now,” Procter said. “I’ve got one of the Station’s comms officers to monkey around with the call’s origin. If Hassan’s got caller ID it will look like another Palace number is calling. We’ll use some of those freaky robots so my voice sounds like a dude. Sam, you jump in if I screw up the Arabic. We’ll all sound the same, right, Stapp?
“Yes, Chief,” said Stapp, the comms officer. “We’ve essentially set this up as a conference call, but any speaking from our side will go out through a modulator. It will sound like a low male voice.”
“Draft script is attached to the cable,” Procter said.
“Artemis, there is no attachment on this cable,” Shipley said. “What script are you talking about?”
The phone had started ringing. Procter fell silent and did not answer.
The phone rang five times. “General Ali Hassan,” said a voice in Arabic.
“Listen up, General,” Procter said in the same language. “You get one warning.”
A MAN COULD NOT SUCCEED inside the Syrian regime without paranoia. Even the most well-adjusted, seemingly relaxed bureaucrats had it. That gnawing fear that a rival would supplant them. That a knock would come in the night. That their wives and children would be threatened. Ali did not consider himself overly paranoid for recording most of his conversations on the office phone. It was a matter of prudence and self-protection, even though he knew that Air Force intelligence had the phone monitored, a fact he had discovered, ironically, because his own organization had bugged several of their lines. A half second into the phone conversation, as soon as he’d heard that low robotic voice, Ali had turned on the recorder.