by Schafer, Ben
“Thanks for the ‘if,’” I said. “Way to boost my confidence before I put my life on the line.”
Cuvier suppressed a grin as he continued. “I would imagine Hannigan told his superiors that the plan is as foolproof as possible, and that the timing couldn’t be better for such an operation. If it fails, the blame will fall squarely on your shoulders. As you mentioned, you would most likely be dead in such a case. They would instead seek to punish the person responsible for training and supporting you in the field.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Sounds like he’s got his bases covered. But what would he have to gain from kicking you out of the Order? Especially after that lecture he gave about how it’s all-hands-on-deck out there.”
“He and I have history,” Cuvier sighed. “It’s complicated. Suffice it to say that Hannigan thinks the Order would be stronger if the leadership was more,” he struggled to find the right word. “Progressive.”
“Meaning more compliant to his whims,” I sniffed.
“Either way,” Cuvier said between bites, “Hannigan should be the least of your troubles now.” He was quiet for a moment and stared at the half-eaten food on his plate. “I know you put on a brave face back at the Operations Center, but I need to know that you are ready for this. Ready to go back.”
I sipped my coffee. It was bitter. Some of that bitterness slipped into my voice. “Do I have a choice?”
“You could say that you need time to recover after Afghanistan. No one would blame you.”
I considered it. “Who would go to Syria instead?”
Cuvier hesitated, then said, “No one. We would have to scrub the whole thing. Hannigan may be an intolerable bureaucrat, but in this case his analysis was entirely correct. You are the best man for the job.”
“It sounds like I’m the only man for the job.”
“Maybe,” Cuvier nodded. “But the point stands. As far as I am aware, you are the only member of the organization who has even set foot in Damascus, much less lived there for several years.”
“As a child,” I reminded him.
“I haven’t lived in Toulon since I ran away from home as a teenager. But if I returned to the streets of my birthplace today, I would still have an enormous advantage over someone who had only read about the city. You hold that same advantage in Syria, particularly in Damascus. I have a feeling you will need that advantage.”
“Can you give me any clues as to what I’m supposed to expect when I land?” I asked.
“Everything I know about this mission was in the briefing. No one really knows what they’re doing. We’ve never done something like this.” He rubbed his eyes. “The truth is that I would recommend you for this mission even if we had another Knight available. We’re all stumbling around in the dark, and nobody stumbles into success quite like you.”
“Thanks.” I hesitated. “I think.”
“You’re welcome.” Cuvier shrugged. “I think.”
Dionne returned with the bill. I reached for my wallet, but Cuvier stopped me. “I will take care of the meal. But you have to promise to repay the debt by buying drinks after you return from Syria.”
I smiled. “It’s a deal.”
Cuvier tried to match my grin, but he could not wipe the traces of worry from his face. “I will hold you to that. And don’t think you can get out of it by getting yourself killed on Hannigan’s crazy errand.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Cuvier put a hand on my shoulder. “Good boy. You know how I like my alcohol. I’m only human, after all.”
I stood and put on my coat. “It’s nice to hear you admit it every once in a while,” I commented.
Cuvier left a gracious tip on the table, then walked out the door as I held it open for him. “Come. I will see you to the airport. It is the least I can do for you.”
“Just make sure you’re here to answer the phone when I call,” I told him.
Cuvier smiled. “Always.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
TURBULANCE plagued the flight to Damascus. The attendants tried explaining something about weather patterns and seasonal storms, but I ignored most of it. I was too busy trying to keep my lunch where it needed to be.
Once we reached cruising altitude, I popped in my ear buds. One of my few actual possessions was an old iPod that I carried around for good luck. It had survived some crazy stuff and gave me a small sense of comfort. The music started and I settled back in my chair. The dull roar of the engines faded away beneath the sounds of “Gimme Shelter” by the Rolling Stones. It seemed oddly appropriate given my mood. Then again, the next song was Grand Funk Railroad’s “We’re an American Band.” Maybe a song was just a song.
With my focus diverted from the horrifying thought of the airplane plummeting from the sky, I could concentrate on some of the unanswered questions swirling in my brain. What Cuvier had said to me in Malta, and more importantly what he left unsaid, ate away at me during the entire trip. Was this whole trip a waste of time at best and a death trap at worst? Who in the Order would want to see Cuvier out? Hannigan was just a yes-man. He had to answer to someone.
With mind focused on these riddles, it took me by surprise when the wheels touched down on the tarmac. I shook the thoughts of intrigue and paranoia out of my head. I had more important things to think about right now. As the plane pulled to a stop, I grabbed my few belongings from the overhead compartment and left the mostly vacant aircraft. Civil war may be bad for tourism, but it’s a great way to cut down on the line for the lavatory thirty thousand feet in the air.
Inbound traffic from most nations was non-existent. It was a minor miracle that even a small local airline would be willing to fly into Damascus. For a moment, I thought that I might be turned away at the gate. I should have known better than to doubt Cuvier. Whatever good word had been put in for me had been enough to see me through Customs with minimal fuss. No one even bothered me about the slim case I had brought as my only significant luggage. The case held a SIG Sauer P938 micro-compact pistol, a thin Spyderco knife, and an Inmarsat satellite phone.
It was times like these that made me appreciate rampant corruption.
When the Customs officer handed me my passport and welcomed me to his country, I admitted to myself that Hannigan made the right call. The cover story, including the false identity papers and work history, would not have worked for any of the other Knights.
The heart of my cover story, that I was a Syrian expatriate who was returning after years working abroad, had the added benefit of being true. Or, at least, true enough for me to convincingly exhibit all the emotions one might expect from someone returning to their homeland after years in other lands. I radiated the anticipation of seeing familiar sights in a broader context, the comfort of coming back to a land where nothing changed, and the fear of returning to find a city that had been altered and no longer truly felt like home.
Despite occasional bouts of political upheaval and technological modernization, culture in the Middle East is essentially immutable. Sure, big cities like Damascus had modern restaurant chains and coffee houses that catered to the university students who had dreams of big changes for their people. But even here, tradition was king. Large families were the standard, and political or professional advancement was almost always based upon clan and tribal support. There were still strict societal expectations on matters as diverse as meeting strangers to finding a spouse to raising children.
I slid the passport into the internal pocket of the black leather jacket that I wore over a plain gray T-shirt and blue jeans. The jacket was a gift from Cuvier. It was interwoven with a special Kevlar blend that would withstand a direct hit from most handgun rounds as well as fragmentation and shrapnel from common explosives. In a country where civil war raged for years, it never hurt to be prepared. The jacket would do little against rounds fired directly at me from rifles or large caliber handguns, but certain trade-offs had to be made to remain inconspicuous. It was autumn, and the temperatur
e was mild. I could wear the jacket without attracting attention.
I slipped into a bathroom and placed the SIG into a discreet nylon ankle holster, then slid the knife inside my jacket. I checked myself in the mirror to make sure the weapons weren’t visible. I didn’t want to go out looking like I was ready for a fight. But I also recognized the real reason I kept checking my pants to make sure the gun wasn’t printing into the fabric.
I was scared. Scared to find that the city that had been my home was a warzone, or flooded with refugees, or changed so fundamentally that I would no longer recognize it. Scared to find that the city where my mother bled out in the middle of a crowded street hadn’t changed and was still the heartless place that had taken her from me. Scared to relive happy moments tainted by bloodstains on the pavement.
Damascus was my birthplace, the setting of my earliest childhood memories. I had spent the happiest years of my life here. But the death of my mother had left my recollection of this place stained. They were memories that I went out of my way to avoid.
When I stopped preening and stepped out of the terminal, I was overwhelmed by how vibrant the city was. Crowds surged around me, getting into taxis or rushing to meet loved ones. There was a sense of fear in the air, to be sure, but it was background noise, a distraction. I could see a sense of acceptance in the eyes of the people around me. Syria may have been wracked by conflict and death, but for most in Damascus life continued to go on.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I thought I was ready for this, but I found my mind flooded by memories from my childhood. Memories of this city, of this airport, and of friends and family I hadn’t seen in years.
The tranquility of my thoughts was shattered when I heard a man’s voice rise above the din. “Tour Crusader tombs today!” he said in rough English. It was the recognition code that my contact was supposed to use. Either Hannigan thought that referencing the final resting places of Christian warriors would give me extra motivation or he had a very twisted sense of humor. I was betting on the latter.
I opened my eyes and wished that I hadn’t. A man with leathery skin and a mouthful of crooked teeth stood on the curb. Despite his poor appearance, I guessed that he was still somewhere in his twenties. His clothing made him look like an extra from Saturday Night Fever with gray bell-bottom pants and a garish purple shirt. The top three buttons of the shirt were undone and an unreasonable amount of chest hair was showing in the gap. He walked toward me, alternating between Arabic, English, and French as he touted his tour of the medieval crypts.
I waited until he made the announcement again in Arabic, then waved to attract the man’s attention. He came close and I got a great introduction to his halitosis. I forced cheer into my voice and said, “Howdy!” Well, not literally, but I went for the closest equivalent in the Arabic language. The man in the Disco Hobo outfit eyed me and said nothing. “Is there a group discount for that tour?” I asked. It was my countersign. If he was my contact, he’d know what it meant.
I hoped this was an honest mistake. Maybe I was chatting with a real tour guide who had been using the same phrase as my contact. I was a little disappointed when the man replied, “I am sorry, but we already have a group signed up for the tour. Perhaps, if you follow me, we could make other arrangements.” This was my man, all right.
He led me to a cream-colored Toyota Land Cruiser that had been parked in a haphazard fashion, one of the front wheels resting on the curb. As I climbed into the vehicle, I noticed that much of the open space was filled with boxes and a collection of bags. The seats were clear and some leg room remained, but that was all.
I sat in the passenger seat and buckled my seat belt. My contact stretched out his hand. “My name is Hafiz.”
I shook his hand. “You can call me Jirair.” Jirair was the cover identity I had set up for this job. It was a common enough name that would draw little interest in this corner of the world. It was also my father’s name. The memories it evoked would ground my undercover persona in his culture and heritage.
Hafiz started the vehicle and pulled away from the curb. “Is this your first time in Damascus, Jirair?”
“I lived here several years ago,” I said. Even if I could trust Hafiz, the man didn’t need my whole life story. “Of course, that was long before the current troubles.”
“Yes, these protests and revolutionaries have made life complicated for all of us here,” Hafiz sighed. “The leadership has its faults, but at least they know how valuable the Christian community has been for this country.”
My heartbeat quickened, but I kept my voice level. “You support the regime, then?”
Hafiz kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t support the regime, no. But that doesn’t mean that I support any of these half-baked crazies trying to take over. The government treats us like pets and rewards us for loyal behavior. It’s degrading, but not dangerous. Too many of the revolutionaries, on the other hand, would like to see all Christians converted, driven out of the country, or dead.”
“Are you trying to get out?” I asked. “Are you one of my passengers?”
Hafiz rolled down the window and spat. “Never. Father Abiad needs me. He is a great man, my mentor and spiritual guide. Damascus is our home.” His voice lowered to a growl. “And I do not run away from my problems.”
I looked at him for a moment. Beneath the disheveled exterior there was something much deeper about Father Abiad’s assistant. He had to have been tough, and a little crazy, to choose a life of evangelism in a country that didn’t want him.
“We have two vehicles for this little mission of yours,” Hafiz explained as he drove. “These are actually government surplus Land Cruisers that belonged to some nephew of the Minister of Electricity before he got involved in a drug habit. Should help us get around the city unmolested.”
“Will these attract attention?”
Hafiz shrugged. “These days, who knows? I wouldn’t worry about it.” He tilted his head to the fully loaded back seat. “The boxes are full of books for the Ministry of Education.”
I knew the cover story from the briefing. If we were stopped we could claim we were delivering the books to a supplier from Homs. The helicopter crew that had been hired had a history of making supply runs for government ministries, but were mercenary enough to run a few people across the border for the right price.
The Land Cruiser rattled as we took a pothole at full speed. “I was worried these were all personal belongings.”
Hafiz pressed on the horn as a little boxy truck cut us off. “No. They followed your rules. Only one small bag each.”
“Good. That helicopter is going to be tight enough without bringing all this garbage.”
Somehow Hafiz managed to glare at me without taking his eyes off the road. “This ‘garbage’ is the memory of a life before this terrible war, before these people were driven from their homes by fear. You may have lived here once, Mr. Jirair. It does not give you the right to disrespect those who stayed.”
The people I was about to meet had been forced to abandon everything they held precious out of fear and, perhaps, a desperate hope. Were they really any different from my family all those years ago? The only difference was we had a government who helped us get to a new life. These folks only had me.
I prayed it would be enough.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE Chapel of St. Paul was a sturdy little stone church with two fortified towers on either side of the chapel proper. In contrast to the great cathedrals, the Chapel of St. Paul was simple, almost austere, in design and looked like a miniature medieval fortress. Given the troubled history of Christianity in the region, it was strangely appropriate. It was constructed using stones from the same ancient city gate where Paul had been lowered in a basket to escape persecution. Now it housed a new batch of Christians seeking a way out of Damascus.
A low stone wall with a wrought-iron gate separated the church from the street, and it creaked as Hafiz pushed it open. A short stairwa
y led up to a very modern glass door placed inside of a centuries-old archway. A pair of potted ferns in desperate need of watering stood beside the door. As we walked up the stairs, I glanced up at the face of the church. A false window had been carved above the entrance, a subtle reference to Paul’s daring escape from the city two thousand years ago.
Hafiz led me through the door. It was a beautiful chapel, illuminated by lamps hanging from the ceiling as well as large windows cut into the stone. Colorful depictions of the saints and scenes from the gospels hung on the walls. A simple granite altar with four squat stone legs rested on an elevated dais in the center of the room. The altar was currently bare save for a sculpted crucifix flanked by a pair of white candles.
We passed by short rows of wooden chairs arranged symmetrically with sixteen chairs on either side. The first row to my left was filled with four people. A man in his mid-sixties dressed in the vestments of a priest and a little too thin to be considered healthy stood in front of them and was talking to them. I looked around, then tapped Hafiz on the shoulder. “Where are the others?”
Hafiz pointed to the priest. “Ask Father Abiad.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks. You’ve been a big help.”
He bowed dramatically. “Anything for you, boss-man. Now if you will excuse me, I have better things to do.”
I watched the strange man leave the room, then turned on my heel and approached Father Abiad. I called out his name to get his attention.
When he saw me, he spread his arms out wide and embraced me. “It is wonderful to see you, my son,” Father Abiad said. I was surprised that such a booming voice could come from such a frail man. “You must forgive Hafiz. The boy is a smart student and a great help at my advanced age, but he has much to learn about manners.”
“It is no trouble, Father.” He released me from his hug and I said, “I am glad to finally meet you, though I wish it could be under better circumstances.”