Son of Syria

by Schafer, Ben

Khamilah’s face was deathly pale. “Jamil, shut up,” I whispered. “We’re not leaving her.”

  Relief flooded Khamilah’s expression. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “But,” I held up my index finger, then pointed to Nadir. “Nadir, I want you to keep a close eye on your wife. Any deviation, any abnormal behavior, any indication that she is still sending messages to the Mukhabarat and we will not even slow down when we dump her out of the truck. Do I make myself clear?”

  Nadir nodded. Khamilah hesitated, then did the same. “All right, then.” I wiped my brow. “This trip has been far too interesting for my liking. Let’s get to Tartus so we can leave this dustbin behind once and for all.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  TARTUS was a bustling port city with a rich history. The fortified city, known as Tortosa by the Crusaders, had been a stronghold for the Knights Templar for over a century. The crumbling medieval walls and the ancient cathedral of Our Lady of Tortosa, itself a miniature fortress, were still tourist attractions to this day. The former president of Syria had promised to return control of the cathedral, which was now a museum, to the region’s Christian population, but he died before he could fulfill that promise. His son, the current leader of the regime, claimed that he would honor his father’s wishes regarding the cathedral. Years later, the dictator still failed to put those promises into action. And he was surprised that people didn’t trust him to run the country.

  Tartus had also been the last Templar territory on the Syrian mainland to fall to the Saracen armies. It made a fitting departure point for our little band of refugees. It was another example of Hannigan’s twisted sense of humor influencing the planning stages. I was surprised he hadn’t expected us to make a stop at the Krak des Chevaliers, the world-famous citadel of the Knights Hospitaller, on our way here.

  For such a historic city, I was surprised at how modern many of the buildings were. It wasn’t New York or Boston or even Damascus, but it had a sense of energy and life that towns like Rastan sorely lacked. Progress was slow but insatiable, gobbling up much of the ancient parts of the city to make room for industry. Even so, there was a weight to the air that spoke to the generations of struggle and sacrifice that made Tartus what it had become.

  We made our way through the city and toward the port. There were pedestrians everywhere, and they didn’t seem to care that cars were travelling on the roads with them. I was surprised the horn didn’t wear out given the activity it was getting. “Is it always this crowded?” I asked.

  “I’ve only been here once,” Azima said. “It was a long time ago. I came with my father. The buildings haven’t changed much, but the people . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t quite put it into words.”

  “A friend of mine said that a lot of the new residents in Tartus are Christians from other parts of Syria,” Jamil explained through the rear window. “He said that a lot of these Christians either cannot leave the country or tried to live in Lebanon but ran out of money.”

  “It’s tough for these poor souls. The Syrian pound is not what it once was,” Nadir agreed.

  The port was, like the rest of the city, filled with people. Many of these people had large bags strapped to their backs and carried bizarre items like rugs and television sets in their arms. We were looking at an exodus. These people had thrown everything they could fit into old steamer trunks and set out to flee their home.

  “Look at all the people,” Khamilah whispered.

  “Watch yourselves back there,” I said. “I don’t want one of you to go flying out of the truck if we hit a bump.”

  “I’m more worried about the extra passengers that are trying to get in,” Jamil said.

  “These people do seem rather desperate,” Nadir agreed.

  “Stay calm. It’s not too much farther. It should be just ahead.” I examined the numerous vessels lined up in the docks. It was a lot more fun to play this game from the air. There were at least a dozen of them, all varying in size and design, with another score of ships drifting in the harbor.

  I noticed that some of these ships were not waiting for a spot. Those rusted-out hulks stranded themselves in low tide and the unfortunate owners abandoned them where they rested. The place was littered with these nautical corpses, giving the appearance of a mechanical boneyard. I shivered at the thought that such a fate could befall our ship while we were still aboard, but I had faith in Captain Grimm.

  A row of huge silos and domes lined the shore to the north. I knew that these were used to store cargo to be transferred to and from ships in the harbor. The sheer number of these structures surprised me, as did the number of longshoremen going about their work as if the crowds of refugees had never crossed their minds. I guess somebody had to make an honest living in the middle of this madness.

  Finally, I got a glimpse of our ride. It was huge steel tub with an extended superstructure in the stern that was painted bone white. The rest of the ship was a dark maroon color. My thoughts returned to the half-submerged husks in the bay. I hoped that it was paint, not rust, that gave the Haroutyoun its distinctive appearance.

  Considering the sheer number of refugees who were swarming the port, I expected security at the gate to be a nightmare. But, beyond a reinforced gate and a single guard behind in a bulletproof glass booth, I didn’t see much. The security guard barely looked at my identification before waving me through. Maybe he figured that anyone who was well-off enough to afford a truck was not here to cause trouble.

  I found a parking space near the docked ship. “Last stop,” I shouted. “Everybody out.”

  I helped Azima and Hashim climb out of the cab, then stuck the keys under the mat. If someone wanted the truck, let them have it. Maybe some of these refugees could make use of it. Given the state of Rastan when we left, I had a feeling Mr. Sayeed wouldn’t need it anymore.

  With that task accomplished, I shut the door and joined the others who had already gotten a head start. They were gazing up at the freighter when I caught up with them. It was larger than it looked in the picture. It made sense why it took Captain Grimm so long to move this thing from Beirut. Not exactly the most glamorous ride I’d ever seen, but not the worst, either. When you’ve crossed international borders in a sewage pipe (don’t ask), appearances seem less important.

  At least, they were less important to me. Hashim stared wide-eyed at the bulky vessel. “Are we going on that?” he asked.

  I crouched down to one knee and ruffled his hair. “That’s right. Have you ever been on a boat before?” He shook his head and I smiled. “I think you’re going to like it.”

  Without warning, he toppled forward and wrapped his small arms around my neck. “Thank you, Mr. Kyle.”

  I didn’t know how to react to that. After a moment of stunned silence, I patted him on the back. “No problem, kiddo. Go get ready. We don’t want to keep the captain waiting.”

  Nadir cleared his throat. “Kyle, is someone going to help us get on board?” Nadir asked.

  I frowned and rose to my feet. He had a point. Where was the welcoming committee? There should have been someone waiting for us. We were behind schedule, and Captain Grimm must have been anxious to leave. Why wasn’t he here? Come to think of it, he should have had a man waiting for us at the gate to guide us to the right pier.

  Azima saw the concern on my face. “Kyle, is everything all right?”

  “Huh?” I turned to face her. Jamil came up and stood beside her, also curious about my reaction. “It’s probably nothing.”

  Jamil shrugged, then stretched out. “I cannot wait to take a shower.”

  Azima, who was standing close to the sweaty man, wrinkled her nose. “Yes. We all look forward to that.”

  We walked toward the metal gangplank that extended from the side of the ship. The captain was expecting us. But where was he?

  There was something else troubling me, a riddle tugging at the back of my mind. But I couldn’t put my finger on it. It felt like
I was missing something, something important. But I didn’t know what I was supposed to be looking for. I scanned the deck, looking for any familiar faces. Or any faces at all. There was no movement or activity that I could see. “Where is everyone?” I muttered.

  “Relax,” Azima said. “They’re probably just waiting on board so we can leave as soon as we can.”

  “Yeah,” Jamil added. “We’ve gone through a lot. We’ve survived so much. But we’re here. I don’t think we have anything else we need to worry about.”

  “I should hope not,” I said. “Khamilah her damned transmitter complicated the trip too much already.”

  “Those things only have a range of a couple kilometers,” Jamil commented. “There is no way the signal could have reached anyone here in Tartus. And you said yourself that the Mukhabarat would not have set up that web to find us at the gas station if they knew that we were coming here.” He smiled. “The people following us won’t even realize that we’ve left the country until we’re halfway to Europe.”

  I froze in my tracks. It could have been nothing more than Jamil’s best guess, but he said it with such a casual tone it was as if he spoke about such things on a regular basis.

  Why would a bus driver know so much about tracking devices and army procedure, especially when he claimed to have never served in the military?

  The pieces began clicking into place in my mind. The attempted hit at the church had gnawed at me this whole trip. The more I thought about it, the less sense it made to me. An anonymous group of criminals happened to get information that Jamil was hiding at the Chapel of St. Paul, but they didn’t try to kill him until the whole group was ready to leave. Then they sprayed so many bullets, seemingly at random, when their only target was a handful of feet away. Not to mention the fact that, while they had disabled one vehicle, they had left the other with only superficial damage. As far as attempted murder went, it was a botched job. But if it was designed to restrict us to one vehicle, which would be much easier to track, it was brilliant. Not only did they achieve their goal, they also managed to sell Jamil’s story while providing a convenient bogeyman to distract our attention.

  It also explained why he had been so interested in the idea that Nadir had been the group’s mole. If he could divert attention from himself, it would excuse almost all of his bizarre behavior. He was an excellent marksman, knew his way around a battlefield, and maintained his composure in life-and-death circumstances. He tried to downplay these facts, but in hindsight it was obvious.

  Jamil was a spy, a real professional and not a civilian stooge like Khamilah. He was good and had come within a hair’s breadth of getting away with his whole scheme, whatever it was. But he slipped up just before the clock ran out.

  I spun on my heel. As my jacket flipped up behind me, I pulled the Browning out of my waistband. By the time I stopped moving, I had the shot lined up.

  Jamil caught his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. Like told me outside the diner, the government trains their operatives to read body language. Jamil must have noticed my change of pace and hadn’t wasted any time. He snaked his left arm around Azima’s neck and yanked her close to him. I don’t know where he had been hiding the tiny knife that suddenly appeared in his right hand, but I had no doubt that he was willing to use it.

  Azima shrieked. “Jamil? What are you—Ow!”

  Jamil tightened his grip on her neck. “Drop your gun, Kyle.” His voice was odd. Higher-pitched and more nasal. The change was subtle, but noticeable.

  Whoever he really was, he was good. He had twisted himself so only a sliver of his body was exposed behind Azima. It would be a tricky shot, and there would be no way I could take him out fast enough to prevent him from cutting her throat. “Not going to happen.”

  Azima gasped as Jamil pressed the steel against her skin. “Stay back.” He pivoted back and forth to look at the rest of the group. Nadir stepped forward to stand beside me while Khamilah lifted Hashim and shielded him from having to watch the scene. “If any of you take another step toward me, I will kill her.”

  “You do that, and you lose your only leverage,” Nadir countered.

  “Kyle, just shoot him,” Azima pleaded.

  “Shut up!” Jamil spat.

  “So you were Khamilah’s handler,” I surmised. “I guess you didn’t trust her as much as she thought.”

  Jamil tilted his head. “Actually, no. That surprised me as much as any of you.” He jabbed his chin in Nadir’s direction. “Just ask Nadir here. The guys over in the General Security Directorate don’t tell us anything. And you always did get all the cool toys.”

  “I assume you belong to a rival agency,” Nadir said.

  “First lieutenant of the Air Force Intelligence Directorate, at your service,” he answered. “I’d salute, but . . .”

  He waggled the knife, which made a small cut in Azima’s cheek. She flinched and clutched at his arm, but he had the advantage of strength and leverage. Azima was trapped, and we all knew it.

  “Drop the knife or I drop you,” I told him. I tried to line up a clean shot, but he kept moving. “Do it now.”

  “Come on, Kyle,” Jamil sneered. “I know you like to put on this show. You want to appear like a cold-blooded badass. But we both know, beneath it all, you’re still the same scared little kid who watched his mommy get shot in the street and never got over it.”

  “This ‘scared little kid’ is about to put a bullet through your head,” I growled. “One last time.” I tightened my grip on the pistol. “Let. Her. Go.”

  Jamil pursed his lips. “Um, no.”

  I gave him a wolfish smile. “You overplayed your hand. Like you said, no one could have followed us here. You’re all alone out here, but I’ve still got friends.” Without tearing my gaze away from Jamil, I shouted toward the gangplank, “Captain Grimm, tell this idiot just how much trouble he’s in.”

  There was no answer.

  “Captain?”

  “The good captain is busy at the moment,” a voice rumbled. It came from the direction of the ship.

  The smile vanished from my face and reappeared on Jamil’s. “Like I said, no one was following us. I made my call at the restaurant in Damascus. All of your struggle, all of your pain, only brought you where I wanted you to go.”

  “We’ve been waiting a while for you,” the voice said. It was a low, smooth bass that I had never heard before. “I was beginning to think that you weren’t going to show.”

  There was glee in Jamil’s voice as he said, “You may have brought a captain. But I brought a colonel.”

  Azima’s eyes shot wide in horror. I kept the pistol trained on Jamil as I rotated my head to look at the source of the voice. Four men stood in the doorway to the superstructure of the Haroutyoun. They began to descend the gangplank, the first two men walking single file with the last two spread out behind them. I squinted to cut down on the glare from the water so I could spot the details of their faces.

  The two men in the rear could have been twins. They had long, gaunt faces and thin pencil-mustaches on their upper lips. They were dressed in khaki combat uniforms that were devoid of any ranks or insignia. Each man carried an AKS-74, a more modernized upgrade of the more famous AK-47 which used a smaller and more accurate round and replaced the iconic wooden stock with a folding metal stock. Neither rifle was pointed in my direction, not yet, but both men were ready to use them if the situation called for it.

  I recognized the man ahead of them. Captain Grimm’s dirty blond hair was longer than it had been in his dossier photo, but that cleft chin was as pronounced as ever. His ice-blue eyes studied the situation with a calm detachment. His face was bloody and bruised, although the swelling was minimal. His hands were bound with plastic zip-ties in front of his body. Every few steps he stopped moving, out of stubbornness and spite as much as anything else, but the soldiers behind him kept shoving him onward.

  Leading the pack was a human mountain. At six feet tall, I’m not a sma
ll guy, but this man was at least six inches taller than I was. His wide shoulders and sinewy arms strained the material of his uniform. Even the brown wool coat he had over his shoulders seemed to pop with every step.

  It was an intentional display of overt machismo designed to throw people off-balance, but it was effective. He had a wide nose that had been broken and improperly set, and his bushy black eyebrows were so thick that I could barely see the brown eyes peeking out beneath them.

  Based on Azima’s reaction, there was only one logical conclusion. “Abbas, I presume?”

  “That’s ‘Colonel Bashir’ to you,” one of the lackeys behind Captain Grimm corrected.

  I turned my attention to Jamil. “You called for help. Didn’t think that you could take me on by yourself?”

  “You may be some reckless American cowboy. We were both sent here to keep an eye on this group. But there is one large difference between you and me. I’m not a fool. Why would I take such an unnecessary risk?”

  “You know, I should have realized that something was wrong from the start. Your story back at the Chapel of St. Paul was too neat.”

  Jamil nodded. “Yes, you should have figured it out a long time ago. I was prepared to kill you to protect my secret. I must say,” he added with a hint of levity, “I was disappointed.”

  “It’s not too late to be a man and try it now,” I shot back.

  “Tempting, but no. I’ve seen how fast you are. You’ve already made the shot in your mind. Now you’re just waiting for an opening. You’d drop me the instant that I pulled my blade away from your girlfriend’s pretty little head. I’ll be content to just watch as our soldiers drag you away.”

  Abbas stepped off the gangplank and onto the dock. “My soldiers will take it from here. You’ve been a great help, my friend.”

  “You’re forgetting something rather important,” I said.

  “And what’s that?” Jamil asked.

  “I’m already a dead man, right?” I flooded my voice with as much anger as I could muster. I had an ample supply. “I might as well take some of you out with me.”