by Mark Greaney
The fawning media outlets of the world had long ago ceased fawning about Shakira.
Though her nickname before the war had been the Rose of the Desert, now people in the Western press had taken to referring to her as the First Lady of Hell.
* * *
• • •
And now, as Shakira sat watching television and glancing down to her satellite phone every minute or two, she thought about the last few years, what she had endured for her husband, and what he had put her through.
Shakira had introduced the enchanting young Spanish model Bianca Medina to Ahmed, and for that Shakira would forever be angry with herself. That Shakira did not know about the affair for the first year of it was her second major regret. She should have been watching her husband’s actions closer, for the sake of both herself and Ahmed.
It wasn’t the affair itself that bothered her. No, she didn’t care about who her husband slept with. He was slow and simple, boring and unloving to her. Shakira was involved in an affair of her own, after all, although she was certain Ahmed had no idea. As long as she raised the children and continued to support the regime, she had always felt her place was secure for the rest of her life, or at least the life of her husband. She’d lived her days certain that their mutual survival remained important to them both.
And then something changed.
Shakira had recently learned details about her husband’s relationship with his mistress, and now Shakira saw Bianca Medina as a threat, a threat that could destroy everything she’d worked so hard for.
So the bitch had to die.
A knock at the door was followed by the sound of footsteps in the entryway to her quarters. She had been expecting no guests, but she knew who it was, because no one else in her world would dare walk into her private salon without waiting to be acknowledged at any time of day or night, especially not at this rude hour.
The footsteps stopped as the late-night caller waited to be summoned, but before she called out, she glanced at her TV. Al Jazeera had just transitioned to a live cut-in on their programming; the screen changed from the TV studio to a shot of a darkened Parisian street, flashing lights and running police and medical personnel in the background.
Shakira smiled thinly, hopeful that the impeccable timing of the man at the door would fill in the details of the images on her huge television.
She spoke in French. “Come in, Sebastian.”
A man stepped through the darkened salon quietly. When she heard him walking up behind where she sat on the sofa, Shakira lifted the sat phone and held it up. “I thought you’d call. Someday someone will see you coming into my flat in the middle of the night. They’ll suspect you aren’t here to discuss my holdings in Switzerland.”
The man knelt in front of her, close. He leaned forward to kiss her, but she did not mirror the action. They did kiss, but she clearly had other things on her mind.
He said, “I was discreet. I thought it would be best if I delivered the news I have in person.”
“Tell me.”
He leaned in again, and she started to lean back and away. She was all business, and wanted this conveyed to the man. But as she tried to separate from him the second time, he brought a strong hand out, put it behind her head, pulled the face of the first lady of Syria to his, and kissed her hard on the lips.
Just as she started to kiss him back he let go, stood, and went to a chair on the other side of the coffee table.
Shakira quickly sat up and composed herself, hiding the fact that she’d even held a moment’s interest in his affections.
Sebastian Drexler was forty-three and Swiss, with close-cropped white-blond hair and steel blue eyes. He was a thin but fit six feet, and his mature face bore no wrinkles to speak of. While he was unmistakably good-looking, his eyes conveyed danger along with intelligence.
Shakira knew Drexler well enough to see his guarded mannerisms. Something was clearly wrong. “Did you not call because you needed the walk from your office to think about how you would inform me that you failed?”
Sebastian Drexler was a supremely confident man, so he delivered his bad news with the same cool tone as if he’d told her he’d just won the lottery. “There is much we do not know yet, but I have been monitoring communications between Islamic State’s foreign operations bureau and their cell in Paris. It appears ISIS has failed in their objective. The lone surviving operative who escaped the attack reported to his command that Bianca Medina was not in the suite, and the Syrian bodyguards killed five or six of the eight attackers. Others were captured by French authorities.”
Shakira’s face darkened. She spoke in a measured tone, fighting to control herself. “Where is Bianca now? With the police?”
“No. And that’s the curious part. I’ve been listening in to police radio transmissions in Paris, as well. The police there think she’s been kidnapped.”
Now Shakira gasped in surprise. “Kidnapped? Kidnapped by whom?”
“Unknown. Certainly Daesh doesn’t have her. The cell member who contacted the head of their foreign operations bureau was quite clear. He didn’t take the woman, he didn’t even see the woman, and his comrades are all either dead or in the hands of the police.”
Shakira stood and began pacing the dimly lit room. “I didn’t bring you into this to lose her! I will not accept failure!”
Drexler remained seated. An air of composure surrounded him. “We haven’t failed, Shakira. We will find out what’s going on, and we will fix it. I have people employed in Paris right now who are very well connected, and they will locate the woman and those responsible for taking her.”
“Where the hell were these amazing men of yours when this all happened?”
“I had them perform reconnaissance of the hotel earlier today to make sure there was no extra security in the area that we would need to alert the Daesh team to watch out for. But by necessity I moved them off target during the afternoon.” He added, “These men know what they are doing; they will get me answers.”
Shakira tossed the satellite phone across the sitting area towards the man facing her. He caught it deftly. She said, “Well then, call them and get me those answers! You know what’s at stake here. We have to find out where she is. We have to get her before she tells whoever has her the dirty little secret that could destroy us.”
Sebastian Drexler stood, dialed a number on the sat phone, and stepped back out of the private salon to talk with his people in Paris in privacy.
CHAPTER 10
In the apartment over the antique furniture warehouse in Saint-Ouen, 4,374 kilometers northwest of Damascus, Bianca Medina walked back into her interrogation after taking five minutes in the bathroom. The Halabys were still seated at the table in the bedroom, patiently waiting; the guard was still at the window; and the silver-haired man in the blue suit remained in the corner, outside the light.
The Spanish woman had composed herself during her break, and as soon as she sat, she asked her next question. “Who are you?”
Tarek answered now. “We are the opposition in exile.”
“The opposition?” Medina laughed when she repeated it. “What opposition? The only opposition I’ve ever heard of stayed in Syria and fought. They aren’t in Paris.”
Tarek seemed wounded by the comment. He answered her defensively. “The entire world will soon know about the Free Syria Exile Union, and Ahmed Azzam himself will come to fear us.”
Bianca Medina looked back and forth at the couple in front of her. “But . . . if you think I am involved with your enemy, why did you save me?”
Rima replied, “Because we know you can help us.”
Bianca had seen this coming, but she played like she did not understand. “Help you? In what way?”
“We are here to solicit your assistance in ending this terrible war that has destroyed our nation. The nation of your father.”
Tarek said, “Not so much of a prisoner. Ahmed Azzam let you come to Paris, didn’t he?”
“With five of his best security officers controlling me at all times! Did you know he ordered one of his men to watch me sleep every night? Does that sound like any kind of freedom to you?”
“Why did he allow you to come at all, then?” Rima asked.
Bianca sniffed. “He wanted me to come. Ahmed likes the thought of his mistress working as a model in Europe. It makes him feel cosmopolitan, young and virile, I suppose. I didn’t ask; I just took the opportunity.”
Tarek said, “Obviously if he thought there was any chance you would run, he would not have let you go.”
With a slow blink and a look of genuine surprise, the Spanish woman said, “Run? How could I possibly run?”
Bianca noticed the same quizzical look on the faces of the two at the table with her that she herself wore now, but in the back corner of the room, the man who sat alone in the dark did not react.
“And what is it you think I know that will help your cause?”
Rima motioned to the man in the corner. “This is Monsieur Voland. He is a former member of French intelligence, and he works with us now. He wants information about a trip you took with Ahmed last month to Tehran.”
Bianca said nothing.
“You both met with the Supreme Leader of Iran, in complete secret. The French know about it because they have an agent in the Iranian government, but they have no way to prove the meeting took place.”
Tarek spoke up. “You will be that proof, Bianca.”
“What does it matter? I wasn’t in the meeting itself, I don’t know what was discussed.”
“Ahmed conducted the trip in secret because he could not let his Russian masters know he was working with the highest levels in Iran. He wants to bring more Iranian military into his country, to give them permanent bases, to blunt the power the Russians have over him. Now that the war is winding down, Ahmed is negotiating with the Shiites in secret. If you go public with details of the trip to see the Supreme Leader, then the Russians will know of Ahmed’s plan.”
“And what will that do?”
Tarek said, “The French think this will cause discord between the Russians, the Iranians, and the Syrians, and this could lead to the end of the brutal regime in Syria. All we need is for you to speak publicly about the trip. This can help stop the bloodshed that, you must know, has killed half a million people in the last eight years.”
Bianca rolled her eyes. “Half a million? Lies.”
“Would you like me to show you films of children being killed by sarin gas, dropped in bombs from Azzam’s air force bombers?”
Medina repeated herself. “Lies. Ahmed has been fighting terrorists and insurgents for seven years now, and fighting the lies of the West.”
Tarek looked to Rima. “We’ll need to deprogram her brainwashing.”
Bianca shook her head. “No, you won’t. I don’t have time for any of this. My flight leaves at one p.m. I must go back.”
Tarek replied, “To Damascus? Didn’t you hear what we just said? One of the most powerful people in that nation just tried to have you killed. You can’t go back.”
Bianca’s eyes widened now, a look of near panic. “I can, and I will. This afternoon I’ll fly to Moscow, and tomorrow morning I’ll fly home to Damascus.”
Tarek spoke to her in a cruel tone now. “Other than the affections of a psychotic mass murderer, what are you missing so badly in Syria? What can you find there that you can’t find here in Paris?”
She blinked thick teardrops now. “Is that a serious question? What kind of a person do you think I am?”
Neither Tarek or Rima spoke at first, thinking the answer to be obvious, but soon Rima’s woman’s intuition told her she was missing an important piece of the puzzle. She leaned forward. “What is it, Bianca? What is back in Syria that you can’t leave behind?”
Bianca blinked slowly. Uncomprehending. But then it dawned on her. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Don’t know what?” Rima asked.
“My . . . my baby. My baby is in Syria.”
Rima’s and Tarek’s heads swiveled to each other, and then they both turned to the silent man in the wingback chair in the corner. He gave them a look of concern, but to Medina the look did not give away much in terms of emotion.
Soon Rima turned back to Bianca. “You have a child?”
Bianca wept openly now. “You thought you knew so much about me, and yet you didn’t know this. He is my life, the only thing that matters in this world.”
A pronounced vein on Tarek Halaby’s forehead pulsed. “When did this happen?”
“Happen? He didn’t happen! He was born! His name is Jamal, and he turned four months old last week.”
Rima cleared her throat. “Jamal.” She looked at Tarek, then back to Bianca. “And . . . and the father?”
Bianca shouted through angry sobs. “Who do you think? Ahmed Azzam is the father!” Then she stood. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
The guard by the window moved forward with a hand out, motioning for Medina to sit back down. Tarek stood, as well, and stepped around the table towards her. She made no move towards the door, but she did not sit down, either.
“Am I your hostage?” she croaked. “Am I a prisoner here, just like I was in Damascus?”
Rima stood, stepping around the table, but she moved behind Bianca. She led the woman gently back into her seat. “No, daughter. Of course not. We only want what’s best for everyone. You will see. We are friends.”
It took Tarek several seconds to recover from the bombshell news about the love child of the Syrian president. And when he did recover, his words were considerably less calming than those of his wife. “You are our guest, and you will remain so until you speak publicly about your trip to Tehran with Ahmed Azzam.”
Medina shook her head. “I won’t do anything for you as long as my child is in Damascus. Torture me if you want, but you will get nothing!”
Tarek asked, “How on earth are we supposed to get your child out of Syria?”
“I don’t have any idea, but I didn’t put you in this situation. You did. I am only thinking of Jamal. You either let me leave right now, or you kill me right now, because you’re insane if you think I’m going to abandon my baby willingly.”
The man in the dark blue suit stood, eyed the Halabys, and left through the door to the hall. The Syrian couple followed without a word to Bianca Medina, leaving the bearded guard to watch over her.
CHAPTER 11
Sebastian Drexler sat on a bench in a darkened vestibule outside Shakira Azzam’s quarters in the presidential palace. He held his satellite phone to his ear and listened to it ring.
It would be difficult to explain himself if he was found by one of the palace guards right now: seated outside the first lady’s private quarters in the middle of the night while the first lady was alone inside. But Drexler’s confidence was born out of his intelligence, hard work, and meticulous study. He’d lived here at the palace for two years, and he had long since worked out all the security measures the guards employed. He knew the sentry rotations and patrol schedules, the individual proclivities of palace personnel, the camera angles of the CCTV system . . . even the direction of the motion sensor lighting in the gardens and pathways outside. The former Swiss intelligence officer could walk through virtually all the corridors in the main building and avoid being caught on security cameras or encountering sentries by now, and he’d made a game out of besting the palace guards.
Drexler had spoken boldly to Shakira about his “people” in Paris, and he
had every right to do so. He’d hired four members of the Paris Police Prefecture, well-placed law enforcement personnel working there in the capital, to feed him intelligence and monitor the movements of Bianca Medina for the three days she was in France, and so far they had done a fine job. But the truth was that Drexler had not told the captain in charge of his small cell of dirty police the full extent of his interest in Medina, and now that there had been a terrorist attack in Paris involving the woman, he did not know if the man would balk if ordered to hunt Bianca Medina down and kill her.
ISIS was supposed to handle that end of the operation, and ISIS had made a mess of it.
Henri Sauvage was the leader of Drexler’s cell in Paris. In the past two years Henri and his crew had tracked down and surveilled Syrian dissidents, agitators, and expatriates in Paris via the French police database, over French police CCTV networks, or by using actual shoe leather.
The four French cops had proved themselves reliable and discreet, which was good, and they’d proved themselves insatiably greedy, which, as far as Drexler was concerned, was excellent.
The phone rang so many times that Drexler worried Sauvage had stopped taking his calls after the dramatic gun battle, so he was relieved to finally hear a click and an “’Allo?”
Drexler spoke in French, and he adopted the code name he used when working with his Paris cell. “Sauvage? It’s Eric. What have you learned?”
The man shouted into the phone. “What the fuck happened tonight, Eric?”