by Schafer, Ben
I suddenly understood. “Oh, Azima, what did you do?”
“I protected my child,” she snapped. “I could not let Abbas force Hashim, my son, to grow up to be a sadistic man like his father. I took him away from that life. With any luck, Abbas will not know Hashim is gone until we are safely out of his reach.”
“You kidnapped your own son?” I asked in a hushed tone. “Azima, that’s—”
“The only way I could save him,” she said curtly. “My former husband put all of his hopes for the future into Hashim.” She wore a grim smile. “He wanted to groom him as the perfect heir. He was obsessed with his legacy. That’s all Hashim ever was to him. I don’t care if Abbas is Hashim’s biological father. I am his only true family.”
“I understand that you want the best for your son. But is this really the best way to do it?”
“You have no right to judge me, Kyle.” The tone of her voice made my blood run cold. “You have no idea what my life has been since you left. The choices that I have been forced to make just to survive. I would appreciate it if you could keep your condemnation to a minimum.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “Hey, Azima, you learned that life can be rough. I get it.”
“I don’t think you do,” she said. “After you disappeared, I was left alone with my father.”
I nodded. “When my dad fled the country, there was no one willing to put a check on your father’s temper.” She looked away. It all the acknowledgment that I needed. All these years I had been angry about what I had gone through when my mother died. I never stopped to consider how it had affected the people who had been left behind.
I felt like a self-centered fool.
“What happened?”
Azima looked at the ground. It seemed like the movement was instinctual, a physiological reaction instilled after years of pain. Avoiding eye contact is a sign of fear and submission, two words I would never have associated with my childhood friend. “Let me just say that I quickly learned how I was supposed to act in public. But that’s all it ever was: an act. My father knew better than to try to push me around when we were behind closed doors.”
“But I’m guessing that Abbas had other ideas.”
She nodded. “When I lived with my father, I had some freedom. I could read, watch, and listen to whatever I wanted while I was in my own home. In exchange, my father got the perfect, polite daughter to trot out at all the major social events. I chafed under this arrangement, but looking back I realize how lenient my father had been.
“When I was eighteen, my father arranged for me to marry Abbas. I thought it was everything I wanted. I was freed from my father’s influence and became the wife of a handsome military officer who was popular in the top social circles.” She chuckled without a trace of humor. “It turns out I have more of my father in me than I thought. All I could see were the opportunities. It was only after we were married that Abbas truly revealed himself. By then, it was too late to turn back.”
She wiped a tear away from her eyes. “I refuse to make my son pay for my foolish mistake.”
“But Abbas will come for Hashim. You know that.”
Her shoulders drooped. “I know. But I thought the danger would be minimal. The rebels have consumed Abbas’ attention for months. By the time he realized what had happened, I figured we would be out of the country. But now, I don’t know.” She shrugged. “If Abbas knows what we’re doing, there is no way he would allow any of us to leave. I’ve endangered his legacy. He would not hesitate to kill me and all of you to get Hashim. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that he plans to do exactly that.”
I ran a hand through my hair and blew out a deep breath. Even Azima had people who wanted her dead. Today kept getting better. At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that little Hashim was in deep with his bookie. “Your husband doesn’t happen to oversee base sanitation, does he?”
Azima shook her head. “He’s a colonel in the Air Force Intelligence Directorate.”
“Well, we’re not going to be on a Syrian Air Force base at any point during this trip,” I observed. “We should be okay.”
Azima’s lip twisted. “The Directorate runs many of the torture centers that hold the worst enemies of the regime. My former husband was responsible for creating and supplying militia forces that could be used for acts that were too violent or cruel for even his most hardened soldiers.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fantastic. What you’re telling me is that not only is your husband a guy with access to information, but that he’s also in command of a private army of butchers.”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“You’re making it awfully hard for me to enjoy this little reunion, Azima.”
She frowned. “But you are glad to see me, right?”
I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Always.”
I released her and she returned to her son. I took a step toward them when something set off my mental alarms. It was nothing specific, but I had not survived this long without listening to my instincts. I turned away from the Land Cruisers and began scanning the street for any sign of trouble.
I heard the motorcycle before I saw it. It was the higher pitched hum of a sleek sport bike rather than the low rumble of a cruiser, which made sense in this part of the world. The garish yellow bike weaved in and out of the sparse mid-morning traffic. Both the driver and passenger wore black leather, riding jackets, and dark denim jeans. Black, full face helmets obscured the features of both riders. That caught my attention. The overwhelming majority of scooter and motorcycle riders that I had seen in the city used minimal, if any, head protection. I guess when the government is busy shooting protesters, they don’t really care if a couple of adrenaline junkies crack their skulls on the pavement. It could just be a coincidence that the only safety-conscious bikers in Damascus happened to be passing the church at this exact moment.
Yeah. Right.
The motorcycle started to slow down in the middle of the road. An electric shock ran through me as I recognized what was about to happen. There was no time to draw my own weapon, so instead I shouted, “Get down!” Without looking back to see if anyone heard me, I followed my own advice and dove for the pavement. A wave of pain ran up my left arm as my body’s weight fell on it. In the rush to get to and from Malta, I realized that I hadn’t seen a doctor. There wasn’t anything I could do now except bite down and push the pain aside.
When I looked up, I saw a Skorpion submachine gun in the passenger’s hand. The gun was a favorite of terrorists and criminals throughout the world. He opened fire and a stream of bullets poured out of the Czech weapon and into the stone face of the Chapel of St. Paul. Metal shrieked and glass shattered. I heard someone behind me scream, although I was unsure if it was in pain or simple fear. The bike, slowed but not stopped, drifted so close that one of the hot shell casings grazed my cheek as it fell.
The shooter had not braced himself to compensate for the recoil. As a result, most of the rounds sailed too high to be any danger to us. Those horrifying seconds felt like hours. The gun clicked empty and the driver revved the engine and rocketed down the road.
I had my SIG out in a moment, then rolled to my feet and positioned myself to return fire. But the motorcycle was out of range of my small weapon. The driver made a sharp turn to the left and vanished behind a bakery at the end of the street. I swept my eyes back and forth for any follow-up attacks. For now, the violence had come to an end.
Gun still raised in a ready position, I called out, “Is everyone all right?”
“Kyle!” Father Abiad shouted. “We need help!”
I pivoted around on my heel. There was blood flowing onto the sidewalk, although the number and severity of injuries were hidden by the bulky Land Cruisers. I moved around the front of the lead vehicle and saw Father Abiad kneeling on the pavement. Hafiz was lying on his back and had his head propped up on Father Abiad’s lap. His ugly purple shirt was stained with an even u
glier shade of crimson.
I looked past the priest to the rest of the group. “Is anyone else hurt?”
“Just scrapes and bruises,” Nadir said. “See to Hafiz.”
Hafiz lifted a weak arm toward the rear Land Cruiser. “Medical supplies are in there.”
I nodded. “Father Abiad, I need you to keep pressure on that wound. Can you do that for me?”
“I, well, yes.” I felt bad for the old man. This was beyond anything in his experience.
My left hand trembled, a side effect of the adrenaline dumped into my system. I ignored it and opened the rear passenger side door to look for the first aid supplies. I found them in a small orange bag, and only then did I take a good look at the interior of the vehicle.
The Land Cruiser had been torn apart by the gunfire. Shattered glass covered the seats and the floors, and the cushions had been ripped to shreds. Several rounds ricocheted into the dashboard and radio. I stepped back and looked underneath the vehicle. Various fluids were dripping down and forming pools on the street.
The bag in my hand had a bullet hole in it, as well. I opened it up to see what could be salvaged. Fortunately, the bullet had sailed through without tumbling and, as a result, had done little damage. Finally, some good news.
I pulled out a couple of sterile field dressings and tore them out of the wrapping. Father Abiad gingerly lifted Hafiz’s shirt from his chest so I could get a better view of the wound. As far as chest wounds went, it wasn’t too bad. There was no squishing sound that indicated a sucking chest wound. In addition, the bullet appeared to have passed through the upper chest and out the back.
I dressed the wound as well as I could under the circumstances, but I knew that Hafiz needed more serious medical attention. With the medical situation stabilized, Father Abiad turned to check the physical damage to his church. I started to rise, but Hafiz grabbed my wrist.
“Spy . . .” he mumbled. “You’re . . .”
“No, Hafiz, I’m not a spy. I’m just here to get these people to safety.”
“No safety. Danger.” His grip loosened.
“Hey, Hafiz,” I slapped him on the cheek to keep him awake. “Stay with me, Hafiz.”
His eyes were distant. “Family, my family . . .” his voice trailed away.
I stood and looked down at the priest. “Hafiz needs a doctor, Father. Go inside and call for help.” Father Abiad was frozen in indecision. I snapped my fingers. “Father? Father! This is critical. Hafiz is losing a lot of blood. He may not make it unless he can get to a hospital. Go inside and call for help.”
“But the police,” he hesitated. “They will ask what happened, why he was here. If I tell them the truth they will know to look for you. You will not make it out of the city.”
“That is why you need to say that Hafiz was running errands when he was caught in the crossfire of a rebel attack.”
“Now wait just a minute!” Omar protested. “You can’t do that! The government will use that to turn the Christian population against the revolutionary movement.”
I grimaced. “Look, if he tells the police that the church was targeted, the police will want to know why. Their first thought will be that Hafiz could have been involved in criminal activity and made some dangerous enemies.”
“But he is a good boy,” Father Abiad said. “He would not do such a thing.”
I tried to keep my voice gentle. “I know that, Father, but the police do not. They will want to know what he was doing out in the open to provoke such an attack. They will find witnesses who will say that Hafiz was seen preparing equipment for a group of people, one of whom is armed,” I said, nodding to the gun on my ankle. “I’m sure that someone in the police will know who Nadir is, and they could uncover the rest of your identities without much effort. If that happens, they will ground every flight and set up checkpoints on the ground until they find us. Make no mistake, they will find us.” Nadir’s head bobbed in agreement, but I could tell that Omar was still not convinced. “Look, kid, if we can get the police chasing phantoms it will buy us the time we need.”
Father Abiad looked confused. “You want me to lie?”
I blew out a breath. “We still don’t know that it wasn’t a rebel faction. I’m sure that they have Nadir’s description. I also don’t know how popular you are with your former comrades right now, Omar. You are fleeing the fight, after all.”
Rage burned in the young revolutionary’s eyes. “What happens if the police ask for proof?”
“They either buy the rebel angle or they write the whole thing off. Either way, it buys us time.” I pointed to Hafiz. “While you argue with me, Hafiz is bleeding out onto the concrete. Do what you think is right, Father. But for Hafiz’s sake, do it now.”
Father Abiad licked his lips, then ran back into the church. He was spry for an old guy.
I turned my attention to the rest of the group. “All right. We need to get moving. Khamilah, I want you to stay with Hafiz until Father Abiad comes back out here. He’s becoming delusional. Keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t lose consciousness.” She moved to the injured man’s side.
We were down a driver and we were down one vehicle. I glanced over my shoulder at the other Land Rover. It had a few pockmarks where a stray bullet or two had impacted, and a sizeable chuck of glass from the right rearmost window was sprinkled on the seats. But it would run, and it would be able to fit all of us if we left most of our stuff behind.
“Azima, you and Hashim can go through the disabled vehicle and pull out your bags. Everyone else, we need to make room inside the other Land Rover for all of us.”
Khamilah looked up from Hafiz. “What? You expect us all to share the same car? What about privacy?”
I rolled my eyes. “The journey is only going to be a few minutes, Khamilah. Or would you rather walk all the way?” That seemed to take the wind out of her sails. She returned her focus to Hafiz, as if the poor guy didn’t have enough problems.
Omar and Nadir began unloading gear from the back of the surviving Land Rover, but I couldn’t see Jamil. I looked around and saw him pacing a few yards away. He muttered something under his breath, and his eyes were unfocused. I walked up to him. “Hey, Jamil? We need you to help, buddy.” He didn’t respond. “Is something wrong? Are you hurt?”
He stopped moving. Like, completely. One moment he was twitching and shuffling his feet, and the next he was a statue. The only things that shifted were his eyes. The way he stared at me was a bit unnerving. “‘Something wrong?’ Yeah, there’s something wrong. I don’t know if you noticed, but somebody just tried to kill me!”
“Us,” I clarified. “They were trying to kill us.” I folded my arms. “You’re acting kind of jumpy, Jamil. I don’t think Hafiz is this upset and he’s the one with a small-caliber hole in his chest.”
“It could have been any one of us.” His hands began to fidget again.
“You know who that was, don’t you?”
He glanced away. “No. They had their faces covered.”
“But you have an idea.” Jamil didn’t respond. “I’m going to assume that this comes back to you somehow, doesn’t it?”
He took a step back. “Why are you asking me? Why not question anyone else?”
“That shooting had all the earmarks of a criminal hit, and everyone else seems to have made their enemies within the Syrian government. Nadir and Khamilah are afraid of his old friends in the bureaucracy. Omar’s anti-government activism is the real reason that he’s fleeing the country. If it had been meant for any of them, we would have seen police and soldiers swarming the place.”
“What about your old girlfriend and her kid?” Jamil asked. “Why would such a well-connected young mother risk her life, and her child, on a journey like this?”
I was still processing Azima’s revelation myself, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. “Come on, Jamil. It’s not like I’m accusing you of arranging the hit. But you are by far the most fearful person in this group. It’
s why you assumed that I was a bodyguard when we met, and why you thought that the assassins were here to kill you. I can’t protect you if I don’t know the threat, and it’s going to be a long trip if I’m not sure I can trust you.”
He sighed. It sounded like someone deflated a balloon. “All right. But only if you promise you won’t get me kicked out of the program. I don’t wanna die, Kyle.”
That sounded ominous, but it was too late to turn back now. “You have my word.”
He seemed to relax. “All right. Like I mentioned, I drive a bus for a living. Before moving to Damascus, I worked in Homs. It’s not exactly the best job in the city, and I had bills to pay. I fell in with a bad crowd.”
“Is that why you know the assassins on the bike?” He nodded, and I rolled my eyes. “Don’t tell me that you were some kind of mass transit hitman.”
He eyed me with a mix of horror and embarrassment. “No, nothing like that. But the black market is alive and well in Homs. Some of the players would ask for packages to be moved from one end of town to the other. That was all I did, I swear.”
“Drugs?”
He shrugged. “Drugs, money, guns, little statues of bearded guys with swords; who knows what they were? I never asked. All I know is that an extra piece of luggage would be sitting at one of the bus stops with the destination written on a small tag. Someone would be waiting there to take the package and give me a stack of cash, all very neat and clean.”
“And then, what? You had a guilty conscience and decided to call it quits?”
“Yes,” he said. “No. Sort of. But I knew that I couldn’t stay in Homs. I ran and wound up in Damascus. I admit I didn’t hide very well. I even got the same job I had in Homs.”
“And when your smuggling buddies tracked you down, they assumed that you were going to rat them out to the authorities.” I rubbed my chin. “But from what you’ve told me, you didn’t really know a whole lot about their operation. Why run the risk of such a public hit?”