by Mark Young
Raed gave a tense nod. “Agreed. Now, I must leave.”
Atash watched the Syrian weave through the crowd, looking from left to right, probably still trying to figure out where his people might be watching.
About twenty minutes later, Atash finished his last drop of coffee and moved toward the door. A couple seated near the entrance glanced up at him, and he gave them a nod. They rose and beckoned to three others seated throughout the café.
Atash casually exited the café and turned toward the main market, stopping from time to time to examine merchandise. He did not look around, relying on the others to cover him as he worked his way deeper into the market. He reached a side street, much smaller than the main thoroughfare, and followed the gray tiled bricks until he emerged in sunlight. He meandered several blocks until he came to his destination.
He lit a cigarette and leaned against a tree, watching the street. He carefully scanned both directions for any vehicles that might be suspicious, and then carefully looked for those on foot passing along the narrow sidewalk. One last time, he scrutinized a row of parked vehicles all lined on one side of the narrow street.
One of his security team stood nearby, waiting for instructions. He walked over and whispered, “Station your people along this street, and keep an eye on any vehicles that come into the area. I do not want to be seen with the man I am about to visit. Understood?”
The other man nodded and moved off to pass on Atash’s orders.
Atash flicked the cigarette butt into the street, glancing around one more time before walking up to a weathered wooden door wedged between two shops. He quickly rapped on it. A moment later, a lock turned and the door slowly opened.
He entered without asking permission, brushing past a man carrying a handgun in his left hand. Atash climbed a stairway that led to the second story, then walked past a series of closed doors. The last door, at the end of the hallway, was partially open. He shoved it open and entered.
Mohamed Abul Fotouh rose from a chair across the room, behind him a window overlooked a small courtyard below. “Allah has protected you.” He crossed over and embraced Atash.
“I see you arrived safely, my friend. And what does my brother from the Syrian National Council have to report?”
“The struggle continues, and we are trying to get more weapons for our fighters.”
Fotouh returned to his chair near the window, then slid it up to a well-scarred table with dark wood turned ash gray from age and abuse. Fotouh beckoned him to take a seat. Another chair—painted a dull red—stood empty next to the table facing Fotouh. Sunlight filtered through the dirty window and created dancing shadows across the room as light fought its way through a thicket of leaves outside.
“I heard that Lebanon seized a shipment from our brothers in Libya. Many weapons on board.”
Fotouh soberly nodded, and then a faint smile showed a row of crooked teeth. “They found one, but not all. Three others got through. Thanks to you.”
Atash shrugged. “Use them in good health to further our cause. As it is written, ‘Fight them and Allah will punish them by our hands, lay them low, and cover them with shame. He will help you over them.’ Are you ready?”
Again, Fotouh nodded. “Yes.”
Atash rose and reached over and patted the other man’s shoulder. “I will send word. I am returning to Tehran. I will be back before it happens. Be ready.”
Fotouh stood and embraced Atash, kissing both cheeks. “Allah will defend those who believe.”
As Atash left the room, he thought of the days ahead and Fotouh’s last words. Many will die, my friend. I pray Allah protects you.
Chapter 42
March 2
Frustrated, Gerrit slipped out of the farmhouse and retraced his steps to the orange grove. He paced back and forth between the trees, impatiently waiting for a response to the voice mail he’d left fifteen minutes ago. When it came, he snatched up the phone on the first ring. “Frank?”
“How are things on the farm?” Frank was not one to make light of a situation. He was not joking now. “I interpreted your message to mean that the team might be having problems.”
“People are on edge. And there is an issue of trust we’ll have to work through.”
“You mean the Muslim, Jewish, Christian thing?”
“That’s what I mean.”
A heavy sigh came across on the line. “I thought everyone would be able to put their differences aside and work together on this mission. How can we resolve this?”
“Trust doesn’t work that way, Frank. Particularly behind enemy lines. It should have been worked out before we got here.”
“How bad is the situation?”
Gerrit looked over at the farmhouse, watching Alena pacing. He assumed the others remained inside. “Well, so far no shots have been fired. But I may have trouble keeping the lid on this thing. Particularly between Shakeela and Max.”
“So everyone thinks Shakeela’s a Muslim?” Frank took a deep breath. “Have you talked to her about her beliefs?”
“She told Max it’s none of his damn business what she believes, except that she’s a loyal American.”
“She can be feisty,” Frank said. “And if she doesn’t want to share something, you can forget trying to weasel it out of her. I’ve read her file. You all might want to make sure of your facts before you start passing judgment.” The man paused for a moment. “So where do we stand?”
He turned away from watching Alena and focused on the call. “I need every available resource you can beg, borrow, or steal. We need to focus on the airfield where Syria’s 29th Brigade is housed.”
“Damascus International?”
“Yes, sir. I need all the satellite attention you can muster to focus on every one of their An-26s on that airfield. At least one of them will most likely will be used in this attack.”
“You got it. What else?”
“You have any HUMINT contacts here on the ground?” Gerrit knew that Frank’s influence within the CIA and other intelligence services might be able to connect them to human sources of intelligence here in Damascus.
Frank had once told him that he and others close to the president were trying to encourage a wide-scale effort to go back to the basics of spying. Develop one-on-one human sources of information and get away from the reliance upon technological spying—satellites, cryptology, and computer voyeurism. NSA was doing a good job of collecting and analyzing this kind of intelligence, but spy agencies needed to return to the basics. Developing human assets.
It was commendable what Collord was trying to build, but Shakeela’s assessment of the CIA still echoed in Gerrit’s mind. Congress throwing the CIA billions of tax dollars only to be squandered on other projects with no fiscal accountability. In frustration, the military had begun developing their own spy efforts, and then calling in the Marines, Army, or the SEALs to take action when targets had been clearly identified.
In this mission, the Israelis got a jump on them by sending in their equivalent to the SEALs—Max’s Israeli commandos, the Sayeret Mat’kal. Those men would be useful if Gerrit’s team clearly identified the target. Until then, a cloak-and-dagger approach was needed—human sources of information on the ground that might be able to provide them useable information.
Gerrit continued. “We have the scientist located here in Damascus. In a few minutes, we will work out the details of getting close to this guy’s location and assess the situation. Need to determine whether this traitor is there of his own free will—”
“My guess, he’s there as a guest,” Frank said. “We’ve tracked his accounts and saw a significant amount of money transferred to one of his foreign accounts. It would appear he has been paid for his treason.”
“Do you want us to extract him from his current location? This might put a crimp in their plans.”
“Not a bad idea, but I think we should let this play out. See where Scott Henderson takes us in this little plot of theirs. It might lea
d us to the right plane they intend to use and to those who might try to carry it out.”
“Would the Israelis be on board for this? For them it might be like playing Russian roulette, particularly if the plane takes off with Henderson aboard before we can stop them.”
“I’ll have Colonel Thompson run it past them. Right now, try to keep Henderson under surveillance until we have a better idea how they might be using him.”
“Okay, Frank. But if they take him anywhere near those An-26s, I’m going to drop him where he stands. No need for a trial.”
“Gerrit. Listen close to what I am about to say. Unless I give you a direct order, do not take him out. Do you read me?”
“Loud and clear, sir. And what if there’s not enough time for you to give the green light?”
“Then I’ll shoulder the responsibility for whatever happens. It will be on my head. Now, get back in there and try to get everyone on the same page. I’ll find out about the HUMINT situation and get back to you.” Frank hung up.
Gerrit pocketed his cell phone. Frank just earned his respect. There was no doubt in his mind that if things went sideways and they found themselves front and center before a senate subcommittee bent on lynching them, Frank Collord would stand up and take the hit. This was a sign of a good leader. He wished there were more like Frank.
That thought led him to think about their current president. Frank spoke highly of President Chambers, but if any political fallout came down because of this operation, would the president take a bullet for others like Frank?
It had been his experience that politicians were not heroes. They seemed to be cut from a different cloth—one that fell apart in bad weather. Would this president be different? Gerrit hoped they wouldn’t have to find out.
Time to pull the team together. Gerrit passed Alena on his way back into the farmhouse. “Come on. Let’s see if we can get everyone to work together on this, shall we?”
Alena stopped pacing. “That may be harder than you think. Max and Shakeela got into it again when you left. Shakeela tried to explain about her Muslim background, but Max was not listening. Sometimes he can really be hardheaded.”
“Really?” Gerrit asked. “And now you’re traveling as man and wife. His idea?”
Alena looked irritated “Give it a twist, Gerrit.”
“You mean a rest. Give it a rest?”
“Yes. That’s what I mean. Give it a rest.” She took his hands in hers. “You know he set that up before we got there, based on what Frank sent him. Or have you forgotten?” She moved closer. “Are you getting a little jealous?”
He tried to smile. “I guess I’m just a little tired of all this drama—and here I am just adding to it. Let’s focus on the mission instead of all this other stuff. Agreed?”
She nodded and slipped her arm around his waist. “Come on, let’s see if we can get everyone to play nice together.”
“Why can’t everyone else be as reasonable as you and me?”
She laughed. That told him everything was okay between them, even if others on the team were firing darts. Alena hugged him just before they walked inside. Whispering, she said, “If we get everyone to work together, do you have a plan?”
He never got to answer. A man from the security team came running from the grove. Others on the security team were drawing back toward the house. Panting, the man dashed into the house. “Army patrol coming our way.”
Through the trees, Gerrit saw a green flatbed truck carrying a half-dozen armed Syrians in military uniforms. They had not yet spotted any of Max’s sentries, but if the vehicle continued in this direction, it would only be a matter of time unless The Unit members could melt into the countryside.
Gerrit wheeled around and ran inside.
Max tossed him an assault rifle and a satchel of loaded magazines. “If they take us on, we must kill everyone. No one escapes.”
Gerrit nodded and saw Alena and Shakeela carrying rifles. They fanned out in the farmhouse, each taking a window as an observation point. Crouching, Gerrit approached Max. “Hey, I’m going to slip out the rear and work my way along the tree line. That way, we can have them in a cross fire if we have to take them down.”
Max whispered, “Keep your head down. So far, they have not seen us.”
Gerrit crept out the back and dashed into the grove of trees, getting as deep as he could before cutting over to the far left. He kept glancing back, making sure he kept the trees between him and the patrol. When he had traveled far enough, he started a slow sweep toward the farmhouse, staying as low to the ground as he could while still moving forward. When he reached a point where he thought the patrol might become visible, he dropped to the ground and crawled forward, from one tree trunk to the next.
He could no longer hear the truck. Maybe they were grouping up to search the farmhouse and killed the engine so they could hear sounds from the structure. They must have seen several vehicles parked in front of the house.
He must move quickly before the soldiers approached the farmhouse. He wouldn’t do any good out here in the middle of the orchard. Grasping the rifle with both hands, Gerrit elbow-crawled forward as fast as he could without making a sound. The ground had been plowed, and the weeds kept to a minimum. Using a pile of severed branches as cover, he slowly raised himself to see what direction the patrol might be headed.
The truck sat dead ahead, midway through the orchard, its driver and camouflaged soldiers sprawled on the ground beneath the trees. Each of the men carried Russian-made assault rifles, flak jackets, and bandoliers of ammunition. One soldier wandered toward Gerrit, stopped just a few tree trunks away, and unzipped his pants. As the man did his business, Gerrit caught a glimpse of the patch on the soldier’s sleeve—a member of Syria’s 4th Armored Division.
Gerrit tightened his grip on the rifle. This Army group—headquartered in a little village south of here called Al-Horjelah—was the elite of the elite, equipped with the best equipment and best training the Syrian Army offered. They were part of a three-pronged security force, teaming up with the Republican Guard and Syrian’s secret police to protect the Assad family’s control over this country.
All the recent turmoil in this country had kept the 4th Armored Division very busy. Human rights groups and certain Syrian dissenters claimed this military unit had committed a number of atrocities against the civilian population. Most of the division’s leadership had been recruited from the Aliwi Islamic sect—which included President al-Assad’s clan—comprised of about 16 percent of the Syrian population. The Sunni majority, making up about 74 percent of the population, hated these Aliwi-led soldiers for their reported brutality against the Sunnis as well as other groups. The Aliwi became a well-established religious group in Syria, referring to themselves as a branch of Shia Islamists.
This soldier, standing a few feet away with his pants unzipped, probably was a member of the Aliwis and would do anything he could to protect his president.
As the soldier walked back toward the military truck, Gerrit still wondered whether al-Assad might have lost his marbles. If there was an attempt on President Chambers’ life—not to mention killing the Israeli prime minister—the Syrian president must realize the hell that would be rained down upon him from the U.S. and her allies. It seemed like al-Assad must have a death wish.
He continued to study the patrol members. They seemed relaxed, not intent on any hostile movement toward the farmhouse. Then one of the soldiers, cradling his assault rifle, walked toward the front door. Gerrit raised his rifle, focusing on the rest of the patrol around the truck. If anyone in the house took out the single soldier nearing the front door, Gerrit would be prepared to take out as many soldiers as he could in his first volley.
He strained to hear the first shot from the house to warn him the fight was on. He could take two, maybe three soldiers in that first few bursts, but the others would be alerted and start scrambling for cover. Then it would be harder to pick them off.
In a cross fire
with those at the house, they might be able to overwhelm the patrol. He clicked off his safety and inserted his trigger finger into the well, waiting for the first shot to ring out.
Instead, he heard a woman’s voice. Shakeela stepped outside and shyly spoke with the soldier, her face chastely focused on the ground in front of her, her demeanor one of submissiveness.
The soldier rested the rifle on his shoulder, looking back at his team jauntily. Men all over the world seemed to respond pretty much the same way to beautiful women—felony stupid. Was that soldier about to find out just out fast Shakeela could cut his throat with one slash of the knife she kept hidden under her clothing?
He watched them talking back and forth, but he couldn’t hear their conversation. The soldier nodded before turning away. As he approached his companions, the man made a remark that drew laughter from the others. Men would be men.
Gerrit relaxed as the soldiers gathered and began to climb back on the transport, the driver firing up the engine. They crept around the front of the farmhouse in second gear before driving away, a few men laughing as they looked back at Shakeela still standing in the doorway.
Gerrit flicked the safety back on, slowly raising himself, and walked back to the farmhouse. If only those men knew how close they came to death.
Chapter 43
March 3
Evin Prison, Tehran, Iran
He gave up everything he knew—and still they continued his torture. There was not a place on his body that did not hurt. Sleep deprived, dehydrated, he wished for death. It became clear that he would not be able to talk or buy his way out of this jam.
A guard with green fatigues and black steel-toed combat boots marched him out of his cell and back to the interrogation room. Groaning with pain, he felt himself roughly strapped to a chair, unable to move, even if he wanted to. Since the interrogations began, he tried to remain absolutely motionless, every move he made bringing bolts of searing pain to his mangled body. He no longer knew whether it was day or night or how many days he’d been confined.