by W. J. Lundy
Fayed shook his head, frowning. “Moves like that will only make us a bigger target. You should stick to the trades and stop meddling in these things.”
“You worry too much, Fayed; you’ve grown soft. Get me a ransom for them before they are sold and this will all be over. Until then, I will move my operations away from the border regions and closer to Albahr. At least until you can get this matter sorted.”
Sighing, Fayed looked down at his hands. “Albahr is where his sister was taken. Is it wise to stay in the place? This man is most likely to visit.”
Laughing, the Syrian rose to his feet. “If he comes to Albahr, he is dead.”
10
It was dark and cold in the room, the floor hard and uncovered. The ceiling, covered with chipped paint, had a crack down the center. Hours had passed since they had seen a guard or the women who brought them food. The French woman was gone. No explanation was given; in the middle of the night, the room opened and she was taken away. Sarah and Carol were moved to a new room; this one with a single bed and a chair, no windows—another cell with a steel door. Carol was asleep as Sarah sat in the chair beside the back wall.
She looked up as she heard the screech of the iron lock. The guards again entered first, but this time the man who followed was different. There was no scar; he was fat and bald, his face leathered and covered with a black beard. The men stepped slowly into the room, examining it. Carol was awake. She rolled to her feet on the far side of the bed, cowering. Sarah pressed back in the chair, staying quiet. The man looked at them and pursed his lips. “Relax, I’m not here to harm you,” he said. “You need to ready yourselves; you will be leaving tonight.”
Carol hesitated and looked up at him. “Where are we going?”
The man’s smile faded. “You are going home,” he said, looking at her before turning to Sarah. “You, on the other hand, we are finding difficult—nobody wants to claim you.”
Sarah leaned forward and looked at the man intently. “Where did you take Abella?”
“The Frenchie?” Jamal hissed. “She is fine. She is waiting to be returned to her home, the same as with this one. If you would be more cooperative I could help you as well.”
He took a step toward Sarah, causing her to flinch. He smiled again then straightened his lip. “My name is Jamal. You shouldn’t be afraid of me. I am one of the only ones here to help you. To help gain your release from this place.” The bald man looked at his wristwatch then nodded to the guards. “You will be leaving soon.” The man turned and left the room with the lock clicking.
Carol stood and walked toward her. “Is it true? Do you think I’m going home?”
Sarah got up and moved closer. “You can’t trust them, Carol. Don’t let your guard down.”
Nodding her head, Carol took a step back to the bed and sat with her hands together. “This means we are being separated.”
“Yes.”
“What did he mean when he said nobody would claim you?”
Sarah shrugged and sat beside her on the bed. “I am an orphan.”
“You have no family?” she asked.
Sarah’s expression warmed. “I have a brother, and I have the Church. I have faith in the Church to free me, and if that fails– my brother will come for me.”
“Your brother?” Carol asked.
Sarah nodded. She knew more about her brother than she let on. When he was wounded and in the hospital, she was the one who sat twenty-four-hour vigil by his side. She was the one who prayed over him, squeezing his hand, listening to the nightmares and the words her brother screamed when he was still delirious from the drugs. She knew he was far from ordinary, she knew he was a warrior to his core. “Tommy isn’t a patient man. He acts as if we aren’t close, but I know he would die to help me. He won’t sit by if he knows I’m here.” She looked into her friend’s eyes. “Tommy isn’t like us. He doesn’t follow our rules, he doesn’t wait for things to happen.”
Carol look at her, confused. “Is he a criminal?”
Smiling, Sarah shook her head. “Maybe to some. Tommy has done things in his past—things that the rest of us would consider far outside the lines of a civilized society. Things to protect us from people like this, the people that nobody else wants to think about. Tommy has never talked to me about it, but I’m his sister; I know. I also know he’s a good man, but a good man capable of some very dark actions, and I’m sure that if he knows about me, he will do them again.”
11
He wore a burnt-orange, button-down collar shirt with a black jacket and well-worn black, denim pants. Tommy was standing at the gate before he heard the approaching SUV and saw the bright headlights reflecting off the wall. The gate opened and Ali jumped back in his seat, startled to see him standing in the center of the driveway. Tommy grinned and moved around to the passenger side and dropped into the front seat.
“It’s not customary for a client to ride in the front,” Ali said, placing the vehicle in reverse. “It will look suspicious.”
“Are you armed?” Tommy asked.
“Of course, and you?”
Ignoring the question, Tommy handed Ali a crumpled postcard with a return address circled on it. “Take me here.”
Ali looked at the card and flipped it, staring at a 1980s photograph of a street scene and a fancy café. “It is not far, but it no longer looks like this. I could recommend something better,” Ali said, guiding the vehicle north and onto a two-lane highway.
“I’m not going for the food.”
“Ahh, so this friend of yours, you will meet him there.”
Tommy sighed and shot Ali a hard stare. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“Only so I may better assist you. I have been well compensated to make sure you have a safe journey.”
Shaking his head, Tommy held back a laugh. “Just get me to the café.”
Ali nodded and said, “The border checkpoint is just ahead. I’ve made arrangements; we will have no problem crossing. This is a less frequented border crossing. It is out of the way, but will be less intensive than the main crossing points.”
“Why is it less frequented?” Tommy asked, his curiosity piqued.
Ali glanced at him before focusing back to the front. “Because of the danger. The further from the big cities, the less stability.”
Tommy squinted and kept his eyes fixed on the shoulder of the road. The sun was rising, and his glasses did little to block out the hot, white light. Looking ahead, he could make out the shapes of the shifting sand and buildings on the horizon. It had been years since he’d traveled almost this same route. Then, he had been headed for Iraq, but things felt oddly familiar to him.
“Tell me, Ali, what sort of assistance can you provide?” Tommy asked.
“I can come up with most things if given the proper notice. Mr. O’Connell is very resourceful.”
Ali slowed as he approached a line of queued-up vehicles in the distance. Tommy could see the checkpoint and vehicles being processed for the crossing. Ali was correct in calling it less frequented. Unlike most crossings Tommy was used to, with several lanes of paved road and backed-up commercial trucks and vehicles, there was just a single dirt road and smaller cars and busses to indicate local traffic. Instead of sophisticated barrier systems, there was a low concrete wall with Jordanian police vehicles.
“It’s not too late to turn back,” Ali said, keeping both hands on the wheel. “There is a turnaround just ahead. This is what the contractors call the airlock; only one vehicle at a time is allowed in. Once it is cleared on the Syrian side, the next will enter.”
“What am I getting into?” Tommy asked. “I mean beyond the border.”
Ali laughed. “Leaving Jordan will not be a problem, but once we cross, many things can happen. There are several groups trying to carve out their own place right now. Every terrorist group you can think of. You also have the well-meaning rebel groups, and of course the Russians, the Kurds, the Iranians, even some of your American opportunists
—everyone has a stake right now. A pale face like yours won’t be safe anywhere.
“The guards on this side will allow us to pass, of course. They don’t care too much who leaves, especially when the proper payments have been made. The Syrians on the other side… well, it depends on who controls the crossing today.”
“Who?” Donovan asked, instinctively placing the Glock under the seat.
“Yes, the territory has been shifting. Government one day, rebels the next.”
“And today?”
“We’re about to find out,” Ali said, dipping his chin toward a uniformed Jordanian man who waved them forward. The Jordanian soldier hardly looked at them as he held the gate. Spinning his index finger, he rolled them onto a dusty, single-lane road. “Like I said, the payment has already been processed.”
“They know you here?” Tommy asked.
“Not me, but the company. We make several trips a week through this crossing, delivering supplies to relief organizations across the border.”
At the end of the road was another barrier where three men milled about. They wore a ragged mix of military uniforms and civilian clothing with no insignia to identify anyone as being in charge. Each man was armed with an AK-47. Ali maintained his speed, only stopping at the last second before hitting the makeshift barrier. “Stay calm, my friend. I have done this many times,” Ali said, watching as Tommy removed the Glock from under the seat and placed it between his knees.
Tommy slowly analyzed the surroundings, spotting a bullet-pockmarked building with an olive-drab Range Rover parked out front. Two of the bearded men were leaning against the fender of the military vehicle, one wearing a red-and-white checkered scarf and carrying a rifle at the ready. The others were lax in their postures. The third rebel approached with his rifle hanging from the sling. He wore scratched sunglasses and a dark-green scarf around his neck. Tommy thought the man walked in a way to impersonate a Hollywood cowboy. His swagger was spot-on.
The man smiled, curling back his lips as he inspected the front of the white SUV. He lifted the glasses and squinted to see behind it, looking to the distant Jordanian checkpoint. Ali kept his hands on the wheel and looked straight ahead. “He will ask for a fee to cross. This is what the friendly rebels do. They board busses and take anything of value; they steal cargo from relief convoys, and for travelers like us they will demand a fee. I’ll offer cash, but if it isn’t enough he will ask for the vehicle.”
“Ask?”
Ali nodded. “That will be where it starts, and then we will barter until we come to an agreement. Because of your pale skin, it will cost us a bit more. This is how things are negotiated here.”
Tommy grimaced, having heard the tune before from hard men in different places. The message was clear, and it usually didn’t end well. He’d already been on alert from the time he’d entered the vehicle, but now his senses kicked into high gear as he opened his knees and let his right hand find the Glock. He lifted it inconspicuously, hiding it between his thigh and the door. There was a time when things like this wouldn’t have bothered him. But he wasn’t on any payroll now, and his tolerance for fuckery had dissipated.
“What’s the rating on this vehicle’s armor?” Tommy asked casually.
Ali turned his head toward him in alarm as the rebel stepped to the driver’s window and tapped the back of a steel rod against the glass. The man’s body language wasn’t threatening; he was still playing the intimidating cowboy role. He appeared as disinterested as a tollbooth operator. Ali lowered the window but kept his eyes on the men posted by the Range Rover. Ali lifted a hand with several folded bills tucked between his fingers. The man looked down at the money and grinned. He leaned closer and pressed his head into the window. “And where is the rest?” he asked in Arabic.
Before Ali could respond, Tommy swung open the passenger side door. He extended his arm and fired two rounds into the upper chest of the man with the red scarf. He then pivoted; a second rebel had turned away, trying to decide if he should run or fight. Tommy ended the man’s indecision with three rounds, two of them hitting the fighter’s back. When he turned toward the SUV, he watched Ali take two shots into the remaining rebel, the cowboy’s rifle still hanging from the sling, his fist squeezing the folded currency. All three were now dead or bleeding out on the dusty road.
“This is not how we do things,” Ali shouted, opening the driver’s door and stepping into the street. “There is a process here!” Tommy ignored him as he walked to the rebels’ Range Rover. He dragged the men’s bodies and leaned each one against a tire. He walked back to the SUV and looked past Ali to the Jordanian side of the border, where a police vehicle lit a flashing blue light on the roof.
“How will they respond?” Tommy asked.
Ali shook his head in frustration. “It will take them some time before they come over to investigate. Either way, this isn’t their jurisdiction; there is little they can do here.”
Tommy grabbed the dead rebel who lay next to the driver side door and dragged him to the Range Rover to join the others. He then removed a can of petrol strapped to the back hatch and poured the contents into the vehicle. He looked back to see Ali still standing stunned beside the SUV.
Tommy moved to the barrier and kicked aside a plank blocking their route then threw a match into the Range Rover, engulfing it in flames. As he entered the SUV, Tommy said, “Let’s go, we still have a long day ahead of us.”
Ali slid into the driver’s seat and pounded the gas pedal. The vehicle rushed down the road, leaving a trail of dust behind them. When Tommy looked in the sideview mirror, he could no longer see the distant Jordanian checkpoint. There was only a dark cloud of roiling black smoke to show they’d been there.
Ali clenched his teeth, and white knuckles gripped the wheel. “We needed that route open to return. They will know who we are. They know we were the last to cross before the fight. I made phone calls to the guards to expedite our crossing; they know who I am.”
Tommy dropped the magazine from the Glock and replaced it with a full one. “Who cares? We took out some bandits on the road. We did the people here a favor, and you know as well as I do, the Jordanians won’t give a shit either. Like you said, they have no jurisdiction on this side of the border. Continue to pay them and they will let you through; they won’t expose themselves for some dead terrorists.”
Ali grunted, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “There are rules here. We do things to remain unnoticed. Someone will notice this.”
Tommy grinned and returned the Glock to the seat between his knees and looked ahead as they entered onto another highway filled with trucks and small sedans. “Going unnoticed was never my plan. How much farther?”
“Not far. This address is in the next city. The area is under Russian protection, and we may see more roadblocks. I suggest you treat them differently if we do,” Ali said, again looking at the postcard given to him. “How do you know this place? It’s a small café not frequented by foreigners.”
“It’s not your concern. You can drop me close, and I’ll walk the rest of the way. I don’t want to implicate you any further.”
Ali grunted. “Mr. Donovan, I can tell that you have an anger within you, but I still feel obligated to tell you that this city is ravaged by extremist groups. This is not a safe place.”
“This isn’t my first rodeo. Drop me a block from the café and find your way home.”
“And what should I tell Mr. O’Connell?”
“Tell him I will be in touch soon. I have your card. If I need anything, I’ll call,” Tommy said, focusing on the terrain ahead.
Unlike Tommy’s previous trips to Syria, with its bustling cities and markets full of honking cars, this time he found the roads bare, with little traffic. The city street, lined with shabby shops painted with Arabic graffiti, was nearly empty in the early morning sunlight. Many of the buildings were crumbling, showing obvious signs of war. There were open windows with blowing curtains, but not many people to show th
eir faces. They drove past an apartment complex that was completely in rubble. Next to it, a lone boy guided a line of skinny sheep down the shoulder of the dusty road, keeping his eyes fixed ahead, avoiding the white SUV.
Ali slowed their approach and turned onto a narrow side street, which was almost like a sub-world of its own. Finally, there was some life in Albahr. Tommy could see a shopkeeper placing small tables and chairs in front of the café. He adjusted the shemagh on his neck and holstered the pistol under his left armpit. He pulled his wallet to offer Ali money, who again waved it off, saying, “I’ll watch and make sure you reach the destination.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Tommy gripped the door handle and exited onto the hot street, immediately hit by the scent of body odor and stagnant water.
Without looking, he knew the residents of this street had fixed their eyes on the tall stranger, a white man where white men didn’t belong. He wasn’t concerned. He knew that with the civil war or not, foreigners still traveled here. Not counting the aid workers, there were plenty of Russians, Germans, and others.
Albahr was a city at war, but a city spared from the worst of the fighting. He watched as women in heavy gowns walked the street, holding baskets of produce. A young boy kicked a ball as an old man followed close behind, leading a donkey cart. Tommy stepped closer to the café and paused, fumbling through his pockets as if looking for a cigarette. He twisted to check his back trail before proceeding toward the small, open-air café at the end of the street. He spotted a trio ahead, loitering in front of a closed shop on the left side of the street. The men leaned against the partially open, roll-top, steel door, eyeing him suspiciously. Their posture changed as Tommy feigned finding a slip of paper. He studied the blank scrap and looked left and right as if he were lost.
From the corner of his eye, he watched the men nod to each other. A tall man stood in the center, wearing a black shirt with an olive vest. But what stood out was the red-and-white checkered scarf wrapped loosely around the man’s neck—the same as the man wore at the Syrian border crossing.