by Schafer, Ben
“Suddenly, this became a lot bigger than a part-time smuggler looking to stay out of prison. Somebody was offering a free ride out of Syria to anyone who might be in danger. Given the staggering number of people that you put into danger for a living, that must have caused some sleepless nights back at the home office. How am I doing, so far?”
“You’ve got most of it,” Jamil conceded. “Your organization got sloppy. The ‘real Jamil,’ as you call him, doesn’t look anything like me. I argued that we could give him the chance to work for us as an asset. Abbas wouldn’t have any of it. I think he had suspicions that his wife was given the same offer and he wanted someone he knew he could trust in the group. I killed the bus driver and took his place.” He slipped back into the voice I had grown accustomed to hearing. “Imagine my relief when I introduced myself yesterday and Father Abiad didn’t even blink.”
“You only needed to change your appearance to make it look like you were a downtrodden bus driver. Father Abiad had only ever spoken to Jamil on the telephone—”
“And you have a gift for voices,” Nadir finished, echoing Jamil’s statement from Mosab’s garage.
“Right. Why blow it all at the end? Even if I hadn’t figured it out, it would have been pretty obvious when we were all arrested as we walked onto the ship.”
Jamil sighed. “Nothing is happening like it was supposed to. The call I placed at the cafe was just a periodic check-in. It was only after I mentioned Hashim that Abbas decided to set up his sting. I tried to talk him out of it. I argued that we would be able to track Azima and Hashim if my mission was a success. He could have gone in at any time to retrieve them, but the man isn’t known for his patience.”
He looked in my eyes and added, “He wants to kill you, you know. I think it’s the only reason he left Azima alive. She’s bait, and Abbas knows you won’t walk away without her. He wants this showdown. He needs it. It appeals to his honor.”
I snarled. “Then it would be rude to keep him waiting.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CONFIDENCE is the key to getting into areas you otherwise would never be allowed to enter. If you look nervous or are constantly craning your neck to check for security guards, it will be clear you don’t belong. But most people are too busy to accost someone who knows where they are going. Move with purpose, and everyone will get out of your way.
Our situation at the port was a perfect example. There were signs every five feet that read “No Trespassing” and “Authorized Personnel Only.” Despite these warnings, we drove on without hesitation, projecting an attitude of casual confidence. Well, Nadir and I projected confidence. Jamil looked like he was going to faint.
We passed a dozen men as we drove, any one of whom could have blown the whole operation by asking to see our identification. But these were just guys trying to make a living. They had their own jobs to do, and none of them involved harassing people who were clearly there on business.
Abbas’ directions had been precise. The rough industrial vibe of the port gave way to lush growth, and the road was lined with shrubs and palm trees. A chain-link fence blocked our progress north and the road turned to run parallel with it. We began to pass tall banners that showed the leaders of Syria and Russia in friendly poses, though the pictures of the men had been selected from separate photographs.
Wherever Jamil had gotten his information that the base was almost abandoned, it was out of date. Even from the road, I could see self-propelled artillery and even main battle tanks positioned to prevent any assault on Russian territory. That being said, there were still very few people visible from this side of the fence. If Abbas had a close relationship with the Russian base commander, all this firepower just increased the privacy and made it a more attractive place to do his dirty work.
The road turned off to a gate wide enough for two cars to pass through side-by-side. On the left and right sides of the gate were metal signs bearing the flags of Syria and Russia. That fence marked the boundaries of the Russian facility and, according to Abbas, the south gate should have been left open for us.
It wasn’t.
We were greeted by a fair-skinned young man with a grim expression on his face and an AKS-74 in his hands. The rifle wasn’t quite raised at us, but it would only take a twitch to get us in his sights. I fought the urge to reach through the window for the rifle. Even if I could get to it without getting turned into Swiss cheese, this man wore the uniform of the Russian Navy. I wasn’t about to start a war until I was sure there was no other way.
Nadir must have understood my line of thinking because he said, “Relax. I’ll handle this.” He rolled down his window. “Zdravstvuyte.”
The man looked at him in shock for a moment, then repeated the greeting. Nadir and the soldier had a brief exchange in what I assumed was Russian. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but judging from the expression on the guard’s face it wasn’t going well.
“He’s not going to let us through,” Jamil whispered.
I had my own doubts, but I wasn’t going to share them with the lieutenant. “Have a little faith.”
Jamil smirked. “What’s keeping me from yelling for help? If he knew who I was and why you were here, there’s a good chance he’d shoot you on the spot.”
“You’d better hope he speaks Arabic. Otherwise, he might think you were just yelling at him to let us past the gate.”
Jamil shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
I made sure the Browning was out of the guard’s line of sight and pressed it into Jamil’s ribs. “My thoughts exactly.”
“If you kill me, then you die, too,” Jamil observed. “And so will Azima.”
“That may be true, but our deaths won’t bring you back. Keep calm and we can all go home tonight, okay?”
“Do you really believe that?” Jamil asked.
Before I could respond, the guard’s radio crackled to life. A gruff voice barked out a short series of commands in Russian. The guard acknowledged that he had received the call, then mumbled something to Nadir as he unlocked the gate.
Once we were inside the perimeter, I looked to Nadir. “What was that all about?”
“The guard was just asking what we were doing on a facility that belonged to the Russian Federation. Apparently, many refugees have tried to break through the fence and stow away on incoming ships. They assume Customs officials will not search Russian naval vessels.”
“What do they expect to do when they get caught by the crew?” Jamil asked.
Nadir shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t believe anyone’s ever gotten that far.”
“It would explain why he was so anxious,” I concluded.
Nadir nodded. “I think he would have detained us on the spot if I had spoken to him in Arabic instead of Russian.”
“About that,” I said. “You said that you worked with the Soviets in Damascus. I assume that’s where you picked up the language.”
Nadir nodded. “I’m not fluent, but I can get by. That call that came in was from the base commander. His orders were, and I quote, ‘Let them pass, for God’s sake. This isn’t our fight.’ He must have seen us coming from one of the CCTV cameras along the fence.”
That didn’t sound good. Something about Abbas had the Russian commander spooked, and he didn’t want his men getting caught in the crossfire. I was glad I had a hostage of my own to keep Abbas from shooting everyone on sight.
“There it is,” Jamil said as he pointed to the west. There was an olive-drab ZIL-157 cargo truck parked just beside the warehouse. That alone was not enough; the truck was an old Soviet model still in use by the Russians and would not be out of place in a military installation like this. What made it stand out was the Syrian Air Force insignia on the doors.
Abbas was here.
“Stop here,” I told Nadir. As soon as we stopped moving, I popped the door open. I pushed Jamil out of the truck, then hopped onto the pavement. I turned back to Nadir. “I’m going in on foot. I want you to st
ay with the truck.”
“Absolutely not. If something goes wrong—”
“Then you need to get back to the ship as fast as you can,” I finished. “I was supposed to come alone, and I don’t want to spook Abbas. You weren’t invited to this party, and I’ve already got my plus-one,” I clasped Jamil’s shoulder and dragged him out of the truck behind me.
“Hey, not so rough,” Jamil protested.
“Shut up. I don’t need you to talk, I need you to walk. So,” I nudged him with my pistol, “walk.”
“Okay, okay.”
I reached for the rifle, then stopped. The AKS-74 was never designed to be fired one-handed, and I couldn’t keep Jamil close enough to work as a human shield if I had to steady a rifle in both hands. I decided to leave it behind. After all, I wasn’t here to kill Abbas. He hadn’t said to come unarmed, but I doubted that his entourage would take it well if I showed up with an assault rifle.
I looked back at Nadir, still seated in the driver’s seat of the truck. He gave me a tight smile. I tried to match his expression, but my heart wasn’t in it. I hadn’t been honest with him. While it’s true that Abbas said that I should come alone, it was unlikely that one more man added to the mix would have sparked an all-out gunfight. Everything about this deal felt like a trap, and I would have loved to have some backup with me in case things went south.
But it was precisely that scenario, a life-or-death conflict with Syrian soldiers, which made Nadir unsuitable for the job. It’s not that I didn’t trust him. It’s true that I still had a sense of rage when I thought of what he helped do to my mother. But his confession finally brought a sense of closure to a dark chapter in my life.
My concern wasn’t with him, it was for him. In Rastan, Nadir had balked at harming a Syrian soldier even though that soldier had mortally wounded Omar and was mere inches away from contacting reinforcements to kill the rest of us. I didn’t want a repeat performance when tensions, and the stakes, were much higher. Nadir wasn’t a coward. But he wasn’t the killer he used to be. He really had changed into a better man. In this case, it made him a liability.
I was on my own. In some sense, that was a good thing. When the odds were this overwhelming, I would have to think twice about letting my emotions get the best of me. I was still shaken by how close I had come to murdering Nadir, and I had been prepared to slice Jamil into pieces during my interrogation. My life had become a cascade of pain and violence, and I was all too happy to say goodbye to that life forever. But first, I had to get Azima and Hashim. And I couldn’t do that if I went in stupid and emotional.
It was getting late in the day, and the sun was beginning to creep toward the horizon. As a result, the water sparkled with a dazzling hue of oranges, yellows, reds, and purples. It also meant that I could hardly make out any details regarding the figures gathered on the southern side of the warehouse. All I could see were long shadows stretching out toward me like vengeful ghosts.
As we drew closer and the warehouse blocked some of the glare, I was able to make out my opposition. Four men stood facing me in a semi-circle: Abbas flanked by some of the biggest, toughest looking soldiers I had ever seen. The guy to Abbas’ left had a long scar running from his hairline to his chin and a poorly disguised glass eye. I dubbed him Scarface. Because of their mustaches, I recognized the other two as the virtually identical men who had been with Abbas on the gangplank of the Haroutyoun.
These guys were the best the Air Force Intelligence Directorate had to offer, handpicked by Abbas for their loyalty and skill. The Mustache Brothers held AKS-74 assault rifles while Scarface had a Skorpion submachine gun.
While I couldn’t prove it, I was willing to bet that he was the man who opened fire at us in front of the Chapel of St. Paul. Militia fighters may be good for deniable operations, but the fake hit in Damascus required a level of precision that could only come from trained soldiers. If he fired that weapon again, he wouldn’t miss.
I kept Jamil in front of me, prodding him along with the Browning. I did this primarily so Abbas would see that his friend was still alive, but a human shield could be useful. I was facing at odds of at least four to one, and I would take any edge I could get.
“Colonel Bashir,” my voice echoed across the plain of cracked asphalt. “Let’s make a deal.”
“Mr. Hoyek, so nice that you could make it,” Abbas replied. Gleaming metal caught my attention, and I saw that he was holding a nickel-plated Colt 1911 handgun in his right hand. It looked like the weapon of a cartel enforcer, not a serious military professional. Whatever that said about Abbas’ ego, I had no doubt that he could use it with deadly efficiency.
Jamil stumbled over a crack in the pavement. With the Browning in my right hand, I reached out to grab his collar with my left. This close to the end, I was afraid that he would try to make a run for it. “As you can see,” I yelled to Abbas, who was still thirty yards away, “I’ve held up my end of the bargain.”
“And the rest of my men?” Abbas asked.
I released Jamil’s collar and held up the radio that I had confiscated from him. “As soon as I get Azima and Hashim, I’ll pass word along to the captain to release your men. I left a radio with them so you can call and verify that they have, in fact, been set free. If they don’t hear from me in fifteen minutes, or if I give them the order, they will execute your men and dump their bodies overboard on their way into international waters.” I glared at Abbas. “Do we have an understanding?”
Abbas clenched his jaw, then said, “We do.”
“Then show me Azima and Hashim. Now.”
Abbas flashed a predator’s smile. “Bring them out!” he shouted. At his signal, another soldier emerged from the warehouse along with his two captives. He had Hashim’s little hand wrapped in his own and led the boy with surprising gentleness to his father’s side. He was not so gentle with Azima. She lagged behind and the soldier dragged her through the gravel as he walked.
I grimaced as I looked at the woman I had come to save. She was conscious but seemed unfocused, though whether that was from confusion or from a concussion was unclear. The skin along her forearms was worn raw from numerous unsuccessful attempts to slide out of restraints, most likely a chain or cord of some kind. She had also been severely beaten. A random pattern of bruises appeared on her delicate skin, and her left eye was swollen shut.
A greasy rag had been shoved in her mouth, and it was stained with the blood that trickled from her lips. Nevertheless, as soon as she noticed me she tried to scream. She thrashed in vain to wrest herself out of her captor’s grip. It was no use. Even with only one hand, the soldier’s grip was like a vise and Azima didn’t have the energy to keep fighting. She drooped so suddenly that I was concerned that she had passed out.
“You bastard!” I shouted. “What did you do to her?”
“You specified that she needed to be alive. You did not specify that she was to remain unharmed. Which was fortunate, because by that point the harm was already done. Of course,” Abbas spread out his arms, though he was careful to avoid pointing the Colt in my direction, “once you radio the good captain and I receive confirmation that the men I left aboard your vessel are safe, this whole ugly affair can come to a close.”
I sighed and pulled the radio from my belt. “Captain Grimm, come in.” There was no response. “Captain Grimm, this is Kyle. Are you there?”
Abbas tapped his foot and looked at his watch. “Perhaps my men took the ship away from your friends. Again.”
I shot him a dirty glance. “I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from burning down a town or whatever it is that you do.”
Abbas waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “That’s okay. I have subordinates who will burn towns for me. This is far more important.”
I rolled my eyes. “How can you work for this guy?” I asked Jamil.
My hostage shrugged. “The medical plan is pretty good. We get full dental coverage.”
“Is that right?”
The ra
dio chirped. “Kyle, this is Grimm. What’s the word, kid?”
“I’m here with Azima and Hashim. I can’t get to them until Abbas gets confirmation that his men have been freed.”
There was another long pause. A different voice came through the speaker. “Colonel Bashir?”
Abbas unclipped his own radio. “Bashir. Are you safe?”
“Most of us, sir. Corporal Ajan was killed when the fugitives seized the ship. But we have been returned to the dock. They stole our weapons, but they have not tortured us.”
“Very well, then. Go to the closest police station and wait for me there. Colonel Bashir out.” Abbas looked up at me with pure hatred in his eyes. “You murdered one of the men under my command, Mr. Hoyek,” he said with icy calmness. “You failed to mention that fact.”
“That was before our agreement,” I told him. “By that point the harm was already done.”
“So I understand,” the colonel said through his teeth. “Perhaps, if I had known, I would have been a little more . . . forceful in my own pursuits.”
I felt the rage bubble up inside my soul, but I kept a lid on it. Now that most of his men were safe, Abbas was trying to antagonize me. If I fell for it, Azima’s life would be forfeit. So I blew out a deep breath. “It just seems like a lot of effort to expend on someone you’ll never see again.” Something nagged at the back of my mind. “Come to think of it, why haven’t you killed her?”
Abbas’ eyebrows furrowed. “What?”
“It took some time for me to break out and set up this deal, a lot more time than it would have taken for you to have killed your ex-wife. Why not kill her at the dock and be done with it?” I asked. “You should be on a helicopter halfway to Damascus by now with Hashim in your lap. Why stick around Tartus at all? The lieutenant here had his ideas, but I’d like to hear it from you.”