The edges of the crowd reached the line of police and started to move to the sides, allowing Saadeh and his entourage to get closer. Cal was now just about four or five people away from Saadeh as the revolutionary approached the police line, shouting something long and wordy in Arabic. Cal didn’t understand—but the crowd immediately cheered loudly when he was done. No wonder Za’im likes this guy, he thought. The policemen holding the line began to fidget and look at each other for support as Saadeh continued to exhort them, presumably, in the name of unity and prosperity or whatever it was they wanted.
There were others in the crowd talking to individual policemen, trying to argue their case or plead with them. A few even put their hands on the cops’ shoulders, which Cal couldn’t help but tense at the sight of; where he was from, touching a cop was a good way to get your nose broken. Yet the police here did nothing; in fact, a few started to relax and lower their weapons in response.
And then, one by one, members of the crowd started walking past the police line, in between the individual officers. The trickle soon became a wave, and all of a sudden, Cal was walking with Saadeh past two armed policemen looking out at the crowd with tears in their eyes.
“Cal, come in,” came the tinny voice from his cigarette case.
“I’m here, Frank,” Cal said. “Just got past the police line.”
“I know. I circled ’round. It’s a trap. You need to get Saadeh out of there.”
Cal looked around for several long moments, trying to see what Frank was talking about. “Frank, come again. I don’t see nothing out here.”
“I’m telling you, it’s a trap,” Frank said. “I got army troops around the back of the Parliament building and—shit, they’re moving! They’re moving, Cal! Get him out of there!”
Cal reached out with a long arm towards Saadeh, who was walking briskly toward the Parliament building, the bulk of the crowd at his back. “Mr. Saadeh! Mr. Saadeh! You got to come with me, sir. It’s a trap up ahead.”
Saadeh turned to give Cal a bemused look. “The only trap here is laid by men like you, Mr. American,” he said with a smile. “Watch as we take back Syria for the Syrians.”
But then Saadeh stopped cold, his smile evaporating as several columns of soldiers emerged around each side of the Parliament building, carrying rifles. Officers on horseback shouted at the armed men in Arabic, and they formed a new line, several rows deep, in front of the building.
“Like I said, Mr. Saadeh, this here’s a trap. You need to come with me,” Cal insisted, taking him by the arm.
Saadeh wouldn’t move, but the crowd around him slowed as well, the shouting and hollering dying down almost instantly.
One of the men on horseback drew his cavalry sword and shouted—and with his orders, the lines of soldiers began to shift. They were three deep, and the first two ranks immediately knelt down and raised their weapons. Two hundred rifles were suddenly pointed out at the crowd.
“Sweet Jesus,” Cal muttered, grabbing hold of Saadeh’s arm again, this time tighter. “Sir, we got to go now. You understand me?”
“They will not fire,” Saadeh muttered in disbelief. “They cannot.”
The man on horseback shouted again, and two hundred rifle bolts clicked into position.
First ready, now aim. “They sure seem like they’re gonna, Mr. Saadeh. You need to get out of here. Come on.” Yet nobody around them was fleeing, and Cal suddenly understood—these folks weren’t gonna move until Saadeh did, and Saadeh was frozen still. “Sir, you’re gonna get a whole lot of people killed if you stay here,” Cal said, trying a different tack and moving around to place his body between Saadeh and the rifles—because that, he figured, was his job at the moment.
Finally, Saadeh raised his fist in the air and shouted something in Arabic, then again in French. The crowd cheered once more.
“Aw, Lord,” Cal said quietly as he screwed his eyes shut and waited.
The cavalryman barked orders a final time.
Two hundred rifles erupted as one.
“Aw, Lord,” Cal said again, a bit louder, pulling Saadeh to him in a bear of a hug and using his body to shield the revolutionary.
Cal’s upper thigh blossomed into agony as a bullet pierced him with a roar of pain. He staggered forward, pushing Saadeh along with him even as men began dropping all around him and screams erupted from the crowd. Cal tried to put weight on his leg, but it gave way from under him in a searing white-hot blast of agony, sending him to the cobblestoned plaza.
Next to him on the ground, Cal found himself face to face with another man staring back with the glassy-eyed look of the freshly dead, blood pooling in the cracks between the cobblestones under his head. In his haze of pain, Cal reached out and touched the man, praying to God that he was indeed dead instead of merely injured, and pulled as much healing life out of the man as was left.
The pain subsided somewhat as he felt himself grow stronger, and Cal looked up to see Saadeh surrounded by his own men pushing him away from the lines of soldiers. Knowing there would almost certainly be a second volley, Cal pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. His thigh still throbbed, but he managed to get to his feet and hobble after Saadeh, pushing his way through the now chaotic, panicked throng.
There was shouting all over, and another round of shots pierced the air. Cal winced but somehow missed getting shot again. The young man next to him—no older than his own boy—wasn’t so lucky, falling to the cobblestones with a cry of agony. Cal paused, wanting to reach out and help, or at least alleviate the pain, but caught himself—God help him, that wasn’t his job right now. His job was Saadeh.
The knot of burly men with Saadeh in the middle was falling back toward the edge of the plaza, away from the Parliament building, and Cal managed to get there just as they reached an alleyway—a dead-end one at that.
Cal shoved through the mob around the revolutionary. “Mr. Saadeh, this ain’t no good. You got to come with me if you want to live. Come on!”
Saadeh made eye contact from behind the line of men protecting him. “Where?” he shouted.
“We got a car. Come on!” Cal raised his radio and keyed it on. “We’re in the alleyway off the plaza, next to the shops. Where are you?”
“I’m almost there,” Meade replied. “It’s a madhouse here.”
“Hurry up,” Cal said, looking over his shoulder to see the line of government troops now systematically marching into the square, using truncheons to beat up anyone damn fool enough to confront them. They had two, maybe three minutes. “Frank, you better get over here.”
His reply was a tap on the shoulder. “Right here, Cal,” Frank said, panting from exertion. “Let’s get these boys lined up.” Frank turned to Saadeh. “Too many men in here. Get them to stand at the street. They may have to buy us some time.”
Saadeh looked dismayed, and for a moment, Cal wondered if he was going to play ball after all. But finally, Saadeh barked out some orders in Arabic, and several of his bodyguards fanned out back through the alley. Some of them pulled pistols, which Cal figured wouldn’t do anything except piss off the soldiers and turn the alley into a shooting gallery. “Tell ’em to act scared, hide behind things,” Cal said. “If they look like they’re gonna fight, the fight’s gonna come to them.”
This time, it was Frank who gave the orders, and to Cal’s relief, Saadeh’s men obeyed. They now had a clear path to the street—so long as Meade showed up with the damn car.
Finally, with the soldiers now marching into the middle of Martyrs’ Square, the trusty blue Packard screeched to the curb, Meade behind the wheel. “OK, Mr. Saadeh, you keep your head down,” Cal said. “Get your jacket up over your head so they don’t see you right away. Ready?”
Saadeh, wide-eyed and sweating, nodded quickly and pulled his suit jacket up. “Ready,” he said quietly.
Cal looked over to Frank, who had his Regina .32-caliber pistol out, the suppressor already screwed on. Cal thought to reach for his own, but figured
against it—the man next to Saadeh shouldn’t be a target. Wasn’t like Cal had it loaded anyway.
“OK, go!” Frank yelled.
Cal grabbed Saadeh by the arm and took off fast as he could down the alley toward the street, his thigh getting more painful with each step. Meade reached back and opened the rear door, and they quickly shoved Saadeh into the back seat, Cal right behind him. Frank clambered in up front, and Meade was driving again before the doors even closed.
“My men!” Saadeh yelled as he sought to untangle himself and sit upright. “What about my people?”
“You’re a wanted man now, Mr. Saadeh,” Frank said. “And—hell, keep your head down! We can’t have anybody seeing you in this car. Better you get out of town than get arrested with the rest of them.”
“But I need to regroup! This isn’t over!” Saadeh protested as he nonetheless slouched down in the backseat.
Meade swerved onto a side street. “Sir, I just drove across town to get here, and let me tell you, it’s over for now, OK? There are troops at every major intersection. They’re looking for you. I think you had a leak in your ship.”
“Leak? Ship?” Saadeh asked impatiently.
Cal put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Means the government had someone on the inside, spying on you. We got to assume they know everything you got going. All your bolt-holes and safe houses. Everything. That’s why you got to go, leave Beirut, figure things out away from everything.”
Saadeh looked miserable, on the verge of tears. “My own people. I cannot believe it.”
“Honestly, sir, your security was shit,” Frank said, no recriminations in his voice. “If we could wander around and figure out what your plans were, no doubt the government could too. Or the Russians. Anybody, really. Next time, you have to be smarter.”
Saadeh looked as though he wanted to strangle someone but instead just closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the seat. “So, where are we going now, Americans?”
Cal smiled at him. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Saadeh. You got friends in Damascus. We’re going to take you there.”
“I don’t have friends in Damascus,” Saadeh said quietly.
“None that you know of,” Cal replied. “But you do.”
July 5, 1949
It took six long hours to drive from Beirut to the outskirts of Damascus—a trip usually done in well under three. Instead of taking them east along the main road, Meade chose a more winding path that led them south through farm country, then over the cedar-lined Mount Lebanon range on a road that seemed more like an ambitious goat path. Frank looked down at one point and saw the Packard’s tires were inches from a precipice that would’ve ended them, but Meade drove as efficiently and automatically as a New York City cabbie in rush hour. Frank just closed his eyes and leaned his head back, praying for flat land.
They were in the Beqaa Valley by sunset. As they drove, Saadeh inexplicably began talking about Lebanese wines—apparently, they were the best in the Middle East. Frank really felt for the guy; his pride in his homeland was palpable, and the sadness and weariness in his voice felt like his soul was in a vise. Saadeh even offered to have them stop for a meal at a vineyard owned by a friend, but that was quickly vetoed. Instead, they found a lonely looking gas station at a major intersection—they had to cross a well-traveled road at some point—where Meade had to barge in on the proprietor’s dinner to fuel up but managed to wrangle some bread and grapes out of him as well. Meanwhile, Frank took the opportunity to use the phone to dial a nondescript number in Damascus.
“Yes?” came a tired voice in Arabic-accented English.
“Mr. Hawley, please,” Frank said, using one of the code phrases Copeland had established.
That perked up the man on the other end of the line. “Yes, of course. One moment.”
There were several clicks and a bit of static, then a phone that rang six times before it finally picked up. “Yes?” It was Copeland’s voice.
“Hawley!” Frank said in his best salesman voice. “It’s Jack Rittenhouse! I know it’s late and all, but are you up for a drink tonight? I’m coming to town and got my hands on some actual Scotch. Had to practically wrestle a bear for it, but it’s the real deal.” We’re coming in, and we have Saadeh with us. Things went south in Beirut.
“Oh. Oh! Yes, hello! How are you?” Copeland said, and for a minute there, Frank thought he wouldn’t keep up with the ruse. “So, you’re on your way?”
“Might take a bit—customs, you know, but yes. Shall I come by the house? Or maybe Morty’s in town and would like a drink?” On our way, still in Lebanon. Meet at the consulate or go straight to Za’im?
“You know, I imagine Morty would love to see you. Let me ring him up. You can meet me at the house and we’ll go from there.” Za’im wants him. Pick me up at the consulate before you go.
“Right, then. See you soon. Bye, Hawley!” Frank hung up with a grimace. He hadn’t been in the spy game for long, but amateurs rankled him as if he were a pro.
Back in the car and munching on bread and grapes, they crossed the Beqaa Valley on a dirt road, still heading east and headed for Mount Hermon, which straddled the Lebanese-Syrian border and was within spitting distance of the heavily fortified Israeli border. Frank wasn’t worried about his own safety should Meade take a wrong turn, but he was pretty sure the Israelis wouldn’t mind keeping Saadeh for themselves, what with his whole vision that a newly formed “Greater Syria” would also include all of Israel. But Meade had mapped out his escape routes even before they arrived in Beirut, and the crossing over Hermon into Syria was uneventful—though Frank really wished someone would’ve put some goddamn guardrails up.
Once in Syria proper, with the Packard now heading northeast toward Damascus on the main road, everyone relaxed a little bit. Well, Frank and Meade did—Saadeh was still looking forlorn, staring out the window blankly, while Cal had managed to go right to sleep about an hour outside Beirut.
“So, why does Colonel al-Za’im wish to ally himself with me?” Saadeh said finally. “I feel as though this is not, as you say, a fit like a glove.”
“How come?” Frank asked.
“He gained power through a military coup, against a president elected by the people. I wished to empower the people of Lebanon against the government that ruled them. I would simply think he would wish to side with that government instead.”
Frank thought about this a moment before replying. “Well, I suppose you have a point there. But I also think Za’im thinks the same as you about the whole Greater Syria thing. He’s more, I guess, cosmopolitan when it comes to religion and social issues, kind of like how you’ve described it. Maybe you have more common ground than you think.”
“I guess that depends on what sort of man he is,” Saadeh allowed. “Have you met him?”
“Yep.”
“And?”
“You’re asking what, exactly? If he’s a good guy?”
“I suppose that’s a place to start,” Saadeh said.
Frank sighed. “He’s an army officer. You served in the army, Mr. Saadeh?”
“I have not.”
“The army’s rough. Not a lot of room for debate or thoughtfulness when bullets are flying. You make a decision, you expect it to be carried out, no questions asked. I think he’s a good example of that sort of mentality. He wants stuff done and makes it happen. And that’s what he did in Syria, I guess.”
Frank looked back to see Saadeh smiling. “Either you don’t know him well at all, or you are trying not to tell me something.”
“Look, we’re not pals, so I can’t tell you if he’s good to his wife or goes to church every week,” Frank said. “He took Syria without firing a shot. Isn’t that saying something?” Frank left out the part about Za’im nearly murdering the old president.
“Yes, that is a good thing,” Saadeh said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “I suppose I will have to meet him myself.”
It was well past midnight when the g
low from Damascus’s lights were spotted over the horizon. Frank nudged Cal awake so they’d have an extra set of eyes as they entered the city, then told Saadeh to hunch down again. Saadeh’s SSNP no doubt had some friendlies in town—and Frank figured the Lebanese might have some folks stationed there as well. Maybe it was paranoid, but more and more, it had been paying off to play it safe.
The trip into the city center was blessedly uneventful, and soon the Packard pulled up in front of the consulate. Meade ran inside to fetch Copeland, who came out looking disheveled and generally tired, a sight that amused the hell out of Frank. “We mess with your beauty sleep, Miles?” Frank said as Copeland crammed into the back seat with Saadeh and Cal.
“What the hell happened?” Copeland said, then caught himself and extended a hand toward Saadeh. “Miles Copeland, U.S. State Department.”
“Mr. Copeland,” Saadeh said, shaking his hand. “Unfortunately, it seems the Lebanese government knew of our intentions and sent soldiers to deal with us—truly a sign of their animosity to the people of Lebanon!”
Copeland looked over at Cal, who just shrugged. “They tried a revolution. Didn’t work.”
Saadeh looked as though he was ready to punch Cal but seemed to think better of it.
“All right,” Copeland said. “We’re going to Mezze.”
“What?” Frank said. “Why there?”
“Well, we can’t just march him into the presidential palace, now, can we?” Copeland said impatiently as Meade hit the gas. “Za’im’s refurbishing one of the buildings there as a kind of retreat for these kinds of meetings.”
Yeah, that’s convenient, Frank thought, but held his tongue. Why the hell would a country’s president want a safe house at a prison? On the other hand … well, it was pretty well secured and it was the last place you’d look. Maybe it was a sharp move, even if it was creepy.
The Packard rolled out of the city center toward the hills outside town. Mezze Prison was situated on a particularly forbidding hillside overlooking a poorer neighborhood. A wide swath of land separated the prison from the barbed wire and walls that set it off from more respectable sorts. Meade drove up to the gate, and Copeland rolled down the back window to give some kind of password to the guards; they were let in without any hassle at all. Another guard inside pointed them toward a separate building set apart from the main prison. It looked like some kind of administrative building. Outside, Frank saw al-Hinnawi there, looking as brutish and pissed off as ever.
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