Arabian Collusion

by James Lawrence

  Migos and I left the villa as soon as it got dark. We walked around the perimeter wall looking for neighbors. The smell of cooking fires wafted through the air, and we searched for the source. In one of the buildings, catty-corner to the Shirin Compound, we found two boys outside in the street. Migos approached them and started a conversation in Arabic. He offered the kids some of the candy we had purchased in the Beirut airport for exactly this purpose. Migos was quickly engrossed in conversation, while I hovered in the background. Eventually, the kids left.

  “What did you learn?” I asked.

  “A lot. The attackers didn’t speak Arabic. They were speaking to each other in a language the children didn’t understand. The kids said that after the firing stopped in the compound, there was more firing in that building over there. We should go have a look.”

  The building they pointed out was a partially destroyed villa. We used flashlights to enter the building; inside we found expended bullet casings on the first floor. On the stairs leading down to the basement, we found more dried blood. As we were exiting the villa, we saw several people moving around on the second floor of the villa next door. Unlike the Shirin Complex, not all of the other villas had power. The villa was dark as we approached the entry gate.

  The gate was made of steel bars. Migos banged on the door and asked, in Arabic, if anyone was home. A man emerged out of the dark holding a rifle. Migos raised his hands and started talking in Arabic. After several minutes, the man opened the gate and ushered us forward, leading us inside the villa.

  The windows were covered with fabric, and several candles provided minimal lighting. On the floor of the main room, I could see at least seven people sitting on cushions. Migos gave the man who brought us in a bag with the remaining dates, candies, and nuts we bought at the airport. The Mad Max existence lived by these people made them wary of strangers, especially westerners. Migos explained who we were and why we were in the area. I was able to follow some of the conversation, but my Arabic is too limited to lead it.

  We left the villa two hours later and returned to the Shirin Compound.

  “How are we going to find this guy?” asked Migos.

  “He lives in the area. I say we just go around paying people for information until somebody points him out to us.”

  “We should go back into Lebanon and get more bargaining material.”

  “If we leave now, we’ll get through the Al- Qaa/Jussiyeh border crossing before morning and we can come back tomorrow night.”

  We pulled out of the compound and headed back to Beirut in our SUV. I called Cheryl and put Clearwater to work searching for our man. Then I called Mike to give him an update.

  “We have a lead,” I said.

  “What is it?”

  “One of the Shirin International Security personnel was seen leaving the compound after the attack. We believe he was involved. He’s from a family that lives in the area, and we’re working on finding him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Khaled Abadi.”

  “Anything new on the girl?”

  “Most of the gunfire occurred in the bedrooms; it was a surprise attack while everyone was sleeping. No shots were fired in the lone female bedroom, which we assume was Sara’s. We believe she escaped the compound during the attack and sought refuge in a neighboring villa.”

  “Did she get away?”

  “We don’t know yet. After the attack, neighbors reported gunfire in the nearby villa. We found signs of a gunfight and a lot of blood on the stairs leading down to the basement. The Syrian military had already removed the bodies of the victims, and if Sara was one of the KIAs, her remains should have been turned over with the rest of the Shirin personnel. It seems most likely she was captured since there was only one way out of that basement.”

  “So, what now?”

  “Now we find Khaled Abadi.”

  “Do you think you can?”

  “Migos and I are going to keep searching the neighborhood. Clearwater may have a better chance tracking him electronically. The people in Homs have no access to food, water, medicine or security, but they have cell service and the internet. Shirin’s main office will have contact info on Khaled, including his cell, and if Migos and I don’t find him, I’m betting David Forrest will track him down using his online signature.”

  “Good luck.”

  We slept all afternoon in a hotel in the north end of Beirut and made it across the Syrian border before last light. We had enough food to pass ourselves off as part of an aid agency and planned to work our way around the neighborhood until we found someone who knew where to locate Khaled Abadi. We were entering Homs when Cheryl called.

  “We found him,” she said.

  “How?” I asked.

  “WhatsApp. He sent a location-tagged picture of himself to a friend. I’m texting you the location now.”

  “How old is this location?”

  “Less than thirty minutes,” Cheryl replied. I started to plug the LONG-LAT into my GPS while we continued to talk.

  “What do we know about his location?”

  “It’s a built-up area, mostly residential apartment buildings. Lots of bomb damage. There are several Syrian Army checkpoints within two city blocks.”

  “Do you have ISR?”

  “Yes, we have a satellite feed, and the streets are clear except for the two checkpoints. We can see people on the roofs of some in the nearby buildings. The apartments are three to five stories high. We can pinpoint the building, but we have no idea what floor or what apartment you’ll be able to find him in.”

  “Send us an image of what he looks like, so we can identify him.”

  “Already sent.”

  “OK, GPS says we’ll be at his building in twenty-five minutes.”

  “What’s the plan?” asked Migos.

  “We’ll just pull up to the apartment building and start knocking on doors,” I said.

  Cheryl helped us bypass a Syrian Army roadblock. Migos parked in front of the apartment building, which was on a corner and appeared to have only one exit.

  “You should wait in the lobby while I start canvassing,” Migos offered.

  “Let’s stick together. It looks like four apartments per floor and there are four floors,” I replied.

  Only one of the apartments on the first floor was occupied. The tenants were an older couple who appreciated the fresh fruit and dates we delivered. Neither recognized the image of Khaled Abadi I showed them on my phone.

  Three of the second-floor apartments were occupied. No one in the first two apartments recognized Abadi. The family living in the third apartment recognized him. Migos knocked on the door and did all the talking, and gave his spiel in the doorway. He was talking to a man and his wife who looked to be in their thirties. Behind the man were two boys, about ages eight and ten. When Migos showed the picture, the father said he didn’t know him, and the mother shook her head. The look of recognition in the eyes of the children was unmistakable. We gave them gifts and they closed the door.

  “Let’s go downstairs,” I said, as we both ran downstairs to the lobby.

  “I’ll stay here while you go outside and make sure this is the only exit,” I said to Migos.

  The lobby was small, about twelve by twelve feet. An elevator and a stairway lead into it, and the stairway had a door that opened into the lobby. I stood against the wall between the elevator and the stairwell.

  I called Migos on my cell. I put one of the earphones from my cell into my ear, and we kept the call open so I could hear him, and he could hear me. We assumed the couple would warn Abadi and he would make a run for it if he was still in the building.

  “There’s a small alley in the back with a fire exit. I’ll wait here,” he said.

  The elevator never made a sound; it was probably broken. Eventually, I heard footsteps coming from the stairway. I watched the door swing open and saw a woman in a burka that covered her face, and a man, who was too old to be Khaled, leave.
The male glared at me as he walked past, and I pictured the lady behind the black mask doing the same. I smiled and gripped the Walther PPQ 9mm pistol behind my back. Minutes later, I heard another set of footsteps, heavier and faster this time.

  The door flung open and a man raced for the exit door. I caught him with three quick strides as he was opening the lobby exit on the far side of the room. I dragged him down onto the tile floor. I straddled him from behind, with my right arm wrapped around his neck and my left hand gripping my right forearm to lock in the chokehold. I still wasn’t completely sure it was Khaled, because I’d yet to have a look at his face. When I felt the body go slack underneath me, I rolled the body over. I checked the image against the one on my phone Cheryl had sent earlier.

  “I have him,” I said to Migos.

  “Moving to you,” Migos replied.

  By the time Migos arrived, I had tied Khaled’s feet using his belt, and his hands using his shoelaces.

  “Let’s get him into the Landcruiser and get out of here,” I said.

  “Where to?” Migos asked.

  “Let’s go back to the Shirin Compound.”

  Migos drove with me and Khaled in the back seat. It took twenty minutes to reach the compound and even though Khaled had regained his faculties, he didn’t say a word.

  Migos pulled Khaled out of the vehicle and dropped him onto the sand in front of the vehicle where he was illuminated by the headlights of the still-running vehicle. I walked around the truck and looked down at the bound and kneeling Khaled. He was covered in sweat and his eyes were wide in fear.

  “You speak English. You were a translator with Shirin, right?” I asked.

  “What do you want with me?”

  “We were sent here to find the girl. Where is she?”

  “I don’t know where she is.”

  “Let’s back up a bit. Start with the trip to St. Simeon’s Cathedral.”

  Khaled had a good memory. He told the full story about finding the two boxes, the return to Homs, and Saed’s killing of the two men manning the roadblock. Khaled was a member of the Free Syrian Army. He told us he informed his Commander of the discovery of the ancient Quran and the stone. He was on guard duty the night of the attack; he was the person who let the attackers into the compound.

  “What about the girl? What happened to her during the attack?” I asked.

  “Saed rescued her and took her out of the compound. The men went searching for her and found them in the villa over there,” he pointed.

  “What happened then?” I asked.

  “Saed was killed. Dr. Salam was taken.”

  “Where was she taken?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who took her?” I asked.

  “The Turks, Grey Wolves, not Free Syrian Army.”

  “How do you know it was Grey Wolves?” I asked

  “They were Turkish. The only Turks in Syria are Grey Wolves and the Turkish Army. The Turkish Army wears uniforms, but these men didn’t.”

  “Where do we find these Grey Wolves?”

  “North, all Turks are in the north. They never come this far south. I had no idea any of this was going to happen. I worked for Shirin as an interpreter and as security. I made periodic reports to the FSA. I was ordered by the FSA to allow access, and I did. I was told nothing about a slaughter and nothing about the Grey Wolves. Most of the people around here are FSA. I thought my people were going to take back the artifacts, nothing more.”

  “Why would the FSA be working with the Grey Wolves?” I asked.

  “We never work together. Although we’re both part of the Brotherhood, we’re not allies, but we’re not enemies either. The Grey Wolves concern themselves only with Turkey. I don’t know why they did this thing.”

  “We’re going to need to talk to your Commander. We need to know his Grey Wolf contact.”

  “I can’t give that to you. If my Commander knew I’d spoken to you, he would have me killed. I have a family.”

  “If you give us the information we need, we’ll give you some money and you can make a run for it with your family. If you don’t, then I’ll get the information out of you the hard way, and then I’ll kill you. The choice is yours,” I said.

  Khaled looked at me; he had a survivor’s mentality. A possible death in the future beats an immediate, certain death every time, and from my tone, he had to know he was facing a certain death if he didn’t do as he was told.

  We confirmed the information he gave us on his Commander with his cell phone data. I gave Khaled ten thousand Euros and dropped him off outside his apartment. I expected in a month or two he’d be living large in Germany or Sweden on the taxpayer’s dime. I kept his cell phone.

  Cheryl guided us around another roadblock and helped us find Khaled’s Commander’s villa. It was as he described it. The Commander was a man of significantly more means than Khaled. The villa was a home more fitting for a prosperous merchant than for a military man. We drove up to the tall metal gate and knocked.

  A guard opened a peephole in the gate.

  “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “I’m here to see Mouloud Zetar,” Migos responded in Arabic.

  “What about?”

  “He’s expecting me. Tell him Khaled Abadi is here to see him.”

  Minutes later the door opened. The text Khaled had sent earlier requesting a meeting had done the trick. I drew my pistol, and as soon the door was open enough to expose the guard, I shot him. Migos took out the second guard who was positioned behind the first. Migos and I each took a rifle from the dead guards and ran toward the front door of the villa.

  The heavy wooden door looked formidable. Migos got there first and tested the doorknob; it was locked. I slung the rifle over my shoulder and scaled the villa wall. The building was made out of heavy stones, with solid handholds. I climbed over the balcony rail and pulled Migos up behind me. I kicked in the balcony door and we entered an empty bedroom. I walked through the bedroom and entered into a dimly lit hallway. Gunfire erupted in front of me. I dropped to the prone on the hallway floor and returned fire. Migos jumped over me and entered the bedroom on the other side of the hallway. I heard a woman screaming from inside the bedroom Migos entered. Another extended burst of automatic gunfire came from the far side of the hallway. I could see thin arms sticking a weapon into the hallway and firing blindly in my direction. An entire magazine of bullets went over my head. When the gun was withdrawn, I assumed to reload, I jumped up and rushed forward. When I reached the corner of the hallway the gunner was behind, I swung my weapon and smashed the buttstock of my AK into the head of the shooter who was still fumbling with a magazine to reload.

  Migos came up behind me and looked down at the gunman. It was a boy, no older than fourteen.

  “That must be his son,” Migos said.

  “Must be,” I replied.

  The next two bedrooms we checked were empty. When we reached the last room in the hallway, bullets fired from inside the room splintered the wooden door. I waited for the shooting to stop.

  “Mr. Khoury, we have your son and your family; they’re alive. There is no need for anyone to die. We came for some information about an American woman. Don’t make us turn this into a bloodbath,” I said.

  “I don’t know anything about an American woman,” a muffled voice said in English from behind the door.

  “You have the answers we need. I’m going to give you a choice. Either sit down and talk with us or I’ll burn this villa down with everyone in it.”

  A full minute passed. “I’m coming out. Don’t shoot.”

  Mohammed Khoury was a heavy man. He had a thick, black beard and fat, partially bald head. When he saw his son lying on the hallway floor, bleeding, he rushed over to him. He picked his head up and, realizing he wasn’t dead, cradled his head on his lap.

  “What have you done? He’s a twelve-year-old boy.”

  “You set up a massacre of Shirin International and the kidnapping
of an American, Doctor Sara Salam. I want to know who took her and where.”

  “I don’t know where they took her. I have no idea where she is.”

  “Who took her? I want a name,” I said, menacingly pointing my rifle at him.

  “I don’t know the name of the people who took her.”

  “Let’s start with the person you gave the information to.”

  “Omer Aslan.”

  “What information did you give him?”

  “I told him Shirin had made a discovery. An ancient copy of the Holy Quran. He’s a collector, a wealthy man. I wasn’t expecting violence; I had no idea. My plan was to take the book and sell it to him. He thought it better to take it himself.”

  “Khaled Abadi said you were his Commander.”

  “I am, but I pay him for information to keep tabs on the people he guards. I have many others like him—that’s my business. The SFA is a political movement, no longer active in fighting, as the war is over.”

  “How do we locate this Omer Aslan? Tell me everything you know about him.”

  Chapter 8

  Paphos, Cyprus

  The group was seated around the conference table. For some reason, everyone seemed to always sit in the same place.

  “We just need a few more minutes,” Cheryl said to the assembled group.

  “How was Syria?” Roger asked.

  “It was pretty dicey. Pat went all Tier-1 operator on a twelve-year-old kid; you should’ve seen it, the full Rambo,” Migos said. I tried my best to make myself invisible while everyone at the table turned to glare at the child abuser.