Damascus Station

by Unknown

  He punched them into a cell phone he’d purchased in cash. Then he sent a text message.

  SAM’S PHONE BEEPED. THE SOUND was unnecessary; he’d been staring at the damn thing all night anyway. He read the Arabic text: Leaving. He showed it to Procter, who nodded and said: “Fuckin’ hell, let’s do this.”

  Sam watched as the camera operator focused on the Security Office entrance. Basil walked past the guardhouse onto the sidewalk, weaving between the parked cars.

  “Susan?” said Procter.

  “Working it, ma’am.” Susan watched Elias’s livestream video while a second set of videos rolled on another screen beside it. “Damascus, can you zoom in a bit more?”

  Elias focused the lens on his face.

  “Thanks.” Several seconds passed. “Just sent judgment to OGC.”

  “Copy. I have Susan’s and MOLLY’s results,” said Gartner. “We’re a go. It’s him. It’s Basil.”

  “Street and sidewalk remain clear,” said Elias.

  “I’m arming it,” Sam said.

  “He’s walking faster than Ali did with that special stroll,” Procter said.

  Sam watched as Basil walked past the Pajero’s trunk. Procter muttered something to herself, like an incantation.

  “Val. Zelda. In honor,” Sam said as Basil crossed the passenger-side door.

  The blast tore open the Pajero’s door, rocketing a barrage of molten plastic and aluminum fragments through Basil’s head and body into the concrete wall. The feed showed a puff of smoke trailing away from a small fire that had started inside the car. Elias focused the camera on the blast zone, capturing the gore-soaked wall, a large black shoe, and a bushy pelt.

  It looked like the top of his head.

  VILLEFRANCHE-SUR-MER TWINKLED IN THE DISTANCE as the woman shimmied into a red dress, hair pulled up to her neck. The windows were open, and the drapes flowed in the night breeze. The muffled revelry of horns and sirens rang from the streets below. He zipped up Mariam’s dress and she let her hair fall down her back as he pressed his lips into her neck. He wound a bunch of her long hair in his hand and inhaled.

  Maybe when we are old we can live like this.

  Sam woke up to the sound of the call to prayer. He felt strange, and it was not until he had picked up the crutches and shuffled back and forth across his room for ten minutes, as the Langley doctors had recommended, that he realized what it was. He was at peace. For the first time since Damascus.

  He made some coffee and turned on the television and saw a report on another U.S. missile strike on Damascus and a chyron reading, U.S. Special Forces operating throughout Syria. He flicked it off.

  Sam stayed in Amman for another day. He slept. He read. He drank more coffee. He wondered when he would feel his foot again.

  Mostly, he thought of her.

  Procter came to his hotel room at sundown, a single piece of folded paper in her outstretched hand. “I know you’ve lost your accesses and privileges, Jaggers, but I have a special delivery from a dead drop in our old stomping ground,” she said. “BANDITOs still making the rounds. I smuggled this out of the Station, breaking numerous regulations and laws in the process. But fuck it. It’s addressed to you, after all.”

  Sam eyed her suspiciously.

  “Maternal instinct, you could say.” She winked as she turned to leave, not quite getting it right.

  Sam took the paper to the balcony, unfolding it as a sandstorm kicked up across the reddening southern sky.

  56

  MARIAM WALKED UP THE MOUNTAIN IN A FOG OF PAIN.

  She held her right side, gasping for breath, as she looked across her ravaged city. It was her first long walk since the doctors had let her out of the hospital. She had been lucky, they’d said. The blade had found its way between her ribs and punctured a lung. But they’d stopped the bleeding quickly. She would make a full recovery. Now she wanted air. Her doctor had agreed it would do her good.

  THAT MORNING RAZAN HAD COME to her room early, well before daybreak. Mariam, sleepless, saw her enter through the shadows. She carried an old backpack. “Come with me, habibti,” Razan said. Mariam had known this day would come. Since her release from Ali Hassan’s prison and Uncle Daoud’s disappearance during the bombing, Razan had been quiet. But it was not the pouty, sulking Razan of the days following the initial mukhabarat attack. She was focused. She was preparing. She was ready to be a refugee. Mariam sat up in bed and pulled her cousin in tight. “I cannot go with you, habibti. I wish I could.” They cried, and Razan ran her hands over Mariam’s fingers.

  “They look better, habibti,” Razan said. They lay on the bed. Mariam ran her hands through Razan’s hair and they both slipped in and out of sleep as the clockless hours drifted toward dawn. Once, Mariam got up from the bed and went into her closet. She kept the door open to let in the moonlight. She found a robe and pulled it on. If Ali had installed cameras in her bedroom, she would be able to explain the trip. Sitting on the floor, she pulled a paper-filled box out from underneath a chaotic heap of clothes. It overflowed with old photos, letters, junk mail, magazines she had not bothered to throw away. She found the envelope that had arrived earlier that day, the one with the French postage that had made her stomach twist when she first saw it. She had waited all day. Razan had been shuffling around the apartment and she wanted to be alone when she opened it. Quietly and carefully, she separated paper from glue and began leafing through the flyers. She saw the Èze chateau. She stared at it for a moment until she realized she had stopped breathing. She closed her eyes and took in a long, full breath. He had signaled that he was safe on the other side of Ali’s prison. Now it was her turn.

  She went back to the bed, curling up into Razan.

  “UNCLE VISITED ME BEFORE HE disappeared,” Mariam said at last, as the sun rose. Razan sat up, looking confused.

  “He gave me a list of the sites the Republican Guard had planned to use during the chemical attack.”

  Razan looked away from Mariam in disbelief. She stared out the window in silence.

  “He wanted me to give the information to some friends.”

  “Friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “He asked you to do this?”

  “He did. He insisted. Even though he knew what it would mean for him.”

  “And you gave it to them?”

  “I did.”

  Razan sat quietly for a moment. “Then the bombs came,” she whispered. “And killed Papa.”

  Mariam lay back down on the bed and cried. Razan snuggled next to her. They lay in silence until two honks came from the street outside. Then a third, longer in duration. Razan pulled a hijab from her backpack and put it on.

  “You have arranged everything?” Mariam asked, wiping her eyes. “Papers, passport, money?”

  “Yes, okhti. I have been careful.”

  Mariam’s legs felt very weak as they hugged. She took in her cousin, trying to capture as many mental photographs as she could: the long hair, the spindly legs, the wicked smile, the fiery eyes—though she imagined the patch gone and both eyes working again. Razan pulled away and slung the backpack over her shoulder.

  “I love you, okhti,” Razan said. “And I understand why you must stay.”

  “And I know why you must leave, okhti,” Mariam said. “But I love you more.”

  Razan had started toward the door. “Wait,” Mariam said. “I don’t want to know where you are going, but I need something to hold on to. To picture you in your new life in case we do not see each other for . . . for . . . a long time.” Mariam clenched her jaw tight to keep from crying. Razan’s face was also tight. “How about your new name, the one you will use to escape?” Mariam asked.

  Her face brightened. “Umm Abiha,” she said.

  Then Razan turned and left.

  NOW, ON THE MOUNTAIN, EVENING air humming on her skin, Mariam made for the summit. Girl’s got the fire, they said after she destroyed sparring opponents in the Paris salad days. Hard blows, tight angles, vic
ious energy. Vengeance burning in her eyes. Each knock, each strike reclaiming herself, hacking away at the cage.

  She pressed on, looking over the city. Syria, her uncle had said, is the heart of the world. Ancient blood flows through this place. Its cities have stood since creation and will stand until the end. And here, he would say, pointing his finger toward the ground, it is here that the world will end.

  She saw the lights glowing in central Damascus as towers of smoke rose over the city’s embattled suburbs.

  The shiny glare from the Palace, where the President managed his chattel.

  The black banners of jihad unfurling in the darkness of Douma.

  She remembered a protest, her cousin’s cry, and felt the hope now dashed, replaced by a war between rival gods.

  And I will destroy you both.

  She was close now, huffing, sweating, straining for the top with each step. She could not drive Sam from her mind. They were fellow travelers, and her partner was gone. She knew this feeling’s name and forced herself, finally, to whisper it aloud for the first time as she marched up the mountain.

  Mariam reached the summit as the last fingers of light receded behind Damascus’s western horizon. She clutched her side. Keep moving. Keep fighting. Keep going. She sat on a stone wall and looked down at her ancient home. She scanned to make sure she was alone. She removed the note from her shoe.

  She spoke to him over the paper, all the things she could not write.

  Mariam knelt and put the note in the can. Then she stood up and began to walk down the mountain.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WRITING A NOVEL IS A LONELY TEAM SPORT. MOST DAYS during the writing season I sat in front of a computer, alone, creating a fictional world populated by fictional characters. The writing is, by its nature, a solitary undertaking. But, in the end, a book requires that family, friends, and supporters come alongside to midwife it into the real world. And this novel had them in spades.

  I am supremely grateful to my editor at Norton, Star Lawrence, who invested in me and in this story and whose rounds of lively feedback taught me invaluable lessons about writing and storytelling. Thank you for betting on me.

  My agent, Rafe Sagalyn, read (very rough) early treatments and chapters, sharpened it all, and encouraged me to keep going. He helped lead this project through the wilderness of the first drafts to the promised land of an actual book deal, and for that I will be forever grateful.

  Don Hepburn graciously served as a key adviser and confidant during the writing process. He provided an invaluable fount of expertise, war stories, and operational lessons that litter this novel. All breaches of proper tradecraft are, of course, my own.

  Dave Michael, college friend and occasional prank victim, rose to the occasion and, while editing the book, also taught me how to write good. Thank you for giving this novel such a hard time. It is better for it.

  My dad, an author in his own right, read multiple versions of the manuscript, provided insightful feedback, and encouraged me onward each step of the way. Thank you, Dad, for always being there.

  Kent Woodyard, dear friend and above-average human, offered advice and ideas through the earliest treatments, when the concept was little more than chicken-scratch on a napkin. Years earlier, he also gritted through my first attempt at writing, which was very bad. Thank you for continuing to read things when I send them to you and for occasionally picking up my phone calls.

  Alex Holstein offered prescient, farsighted, and candid feedback along with encouragement and humor each step of the way. The moral support and camaraderie made all the difference.

  Tim Grimmett made sure I didn’t screw up the scenes in Damascus too badly, and saved me from several embarrassing errors.

  It is hugely satisfying to watch a team form behind the story. And the team at Norton, ICM, and Curtis Brown rallied in a big way. Nneoma Amadi-obi kept everything moving. Dave Cole saved me from error and made it all better. Rory Walsh had the answers. Stephanie Thwaites and Helen Manders, at Curtis Brown, championed the book around the world. José Prata at Lua de Papel in Portugal offered immensely kind words and was the first foreign publisher to buy the book.

  Many other dear friends and former Agency colleagues read early versions of the manuscript and offered help along the way. Hunter and Mary Beth Allen, Elisabeth Jordan, Blake Panzino, Marcus Gibbons, Mike and Jenny Green, Mark Weed, Griffin Foster, Jon Flugstad, Beryl Frishtick, John Wilson, Thomas Kivney, Anna Connolly, Erin Yerger, Sarah G., Becky Friedman, Betsy and Tim Martin, Elle Varnell, Joe L., James D., and Rob and Sahar Sea: all took the time to read and offer their candid thoughts. To each of you, I am abundantly grateful. Brice Wells, though not a reader, gave Norton’s Art Department a generous head start by completing a (literal) napkin sketch of the book jacket after several ranch waters at the Reata bar in Fort Worth. In the end, sadly, very little of that gritty concept survived.

  Readers living in Damascus—nameless, for their own protection—also provided invaluable insight and perspective, though any mistakes or creative liberties are my own. While I have tried my best to render Damascus authentically, one creative flourish bears mention: though there are indeed scenic overlooks and a decent restaurant on Mount Qasioun, the running trails that feature prominently as Mariam’s dead drop location are a complete fiction. The mountain itself is heavily militarized and, from a tradecraft standpoint, would make an atrocious drop site.

  The Syria of this novel, while fictional, does take inspiration from real events that took place in the first two years of the uprising, in 2011–2013. The U.S. Embassy in Damascus, for example, was indeed overrun and vandalized by a pro-Assad mob in July 2011 that, while committing no violence, did leave behind rotten fruit, obscene graffiti, and an inoperable air-conditioning system. The aftermath of the massacre that Abu Qasim and Sarya observe on the road to Damascus did occur, in May 2012, in Taldou, one of several villages in the Houla region of central Syria. Though accounts differ, it is likely that more than a hundred people were killed, most in summary executions, by pro-government forces and militia. More than half of the dead were women and children. Rustum’s fictional sarin attack, unfortunately, has all too real precedent on the Syrian battlefield. More than three hundred chemical weapons attacks have occurred during the civil war, the vast preponderance of those carried out by the Syrian regime against rebel-held population centers. The most infamous, the use of sarin in August 2013 in Damascus’s Ghouta suburbs—of which Douma is a part—may have killed over a thousand people. The bomb that almost killed Ali, Rustum, and President Assad takes its inspiration from an attack on July 18, 2012, in which—again, though accounts differ—a rebel group likely placed a bomb inside the National Security Bureau’s headquarters in central Damascus, detonating it during a high-level meeting of military and intelligence officials. The dead included the Defense Minister, the Deputy Defense Minister—also the President’s brother in law—the Interior Minister, the chief of the National Security Bureau, and a Palace adviser and former Defense Minister. The President was not present during the actual attack, and of course the fictional Ali and Rustum were absent as well.

  This novel would not have been possible without my past life at the CIA. I have tried to render the Agency—its officers, tradecraft, and operations—as accurately as was both possible and appropriate given the ongoing imperative to protect classified information. Thanks are due to the CIA’s Publication Review Board, whose readers sifted through several versions of this manuscript to ensure nothing would endanger sources and methods.

  Building the fictional CIA of this novel was quite fun, as was sneaking in the real details that occasionally made life in the secret world so bizarre. Indeed, on the lighter side, there is (or was, at least), a hot dog vending machine inside CIA Headquarters at Langley, the clocks never were quite synchronized, depending on the foreign country it was indeed possible to return to your hotel room and discover human excrement on the bed, and, as Sam laments, it is true that the CIA is
both able to track down terrorists in remote mountain passes and yet can sometimes struggle to procure basic office supplies.

  And yet, for all its warts and complications, I love and admire the CIA and hope that readers of this novel will come away with a deeper understanding of its Mission and the sacrifices made by its officers to protect America and her way of life. The CIA remains an essential institution for the preservation of our security and the global order. Its case officers, analysts, targeters, support officers, S&Ters, coders, linguists, managers (most of them), janitors, techies, SISers, SOOs, contractors, green jackets, CMOs, and many other cadres make the world a safer and better place. They work tirelessly, and largely in the shadows, for our great republic. We are in their debt.

  I also want to thank my two boys, Miles and Leo, who, after each day of writing, served as the joyful—sometimes psychotic—welcoming committee back to the world of reality. Their energy, verve, humor, and unconditional love influenced this book in countless ways. Though you aren’t yet old enough to read this (or anything, for that matter), I hope this book someday brings each of you some measure of the joy it has brought me to write it alongside you. And to my daughter, Mabel, just now in the world, I hope this one day makes you proud.

  And, finally, and most importantly, all thanks and love to my wife, Abby. She worked out key plotlines and characters and served throughout as the book’s foremost champion, co-conspirator, and muse. At each fork in the road, when quitting seemed like a nice idea, she pushed me onward. I could not have a better partner, in writing or in life.

  Damascus Station is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by David McCloskey