Son of Syria

by Schafer, Ben

  I shook his hand. “Kyle Hoyek.”

  “Oh, I know who you are, sir,” relief evident in his voice. “Everybody does.”

  “I don’t know whether to be flattered or worried.”

  He smiled. “You have a reputation for crazy stunts that would get anyone else killed. My boss hates you. He says you lack discipline. All the more reason to admire you, is it not?”

  “That’s definitely one way of looking at it,” I chuckled.

  I saw the other members of the group pile into a gray passenger van. I smiled. We had spent so much time in one vehicle or another during the past couple of days that I could probably predict which seats each person would choose. Nadir would call shotgun because of his height, Azima and Hashim would sit together in the back, Khamilah would pick a seat in the middle, and Omar would—

  I shook my head. The pain of his death would echo for a long time. One last fallen friend to haunt me as I retired from my violent life. One last failure.

  The other Order representative tapped his colleague on the shoulder. “It’s time to go.”

  I took a step toward the van, but Vincenzo stopped me while his buddy returned to the vehicle. “Sir, we’ll take it from here,” Vincenzo said.

  “I’d like to say goodbye,” I replied.

  “I’ll make sure they get the message.”

  “Can’t you tell me anything about what will happen to them?” I asked.

  Vincenzo sighed. “I’m not supposed to do that. But, it’s not like I’m going to tell Hannigan, right?” he added with a wry smile. “The old guy and his wife are being relocated to a mission in Haiti. From what Father Abiad told us, he has some military training that could be helpful in setting up security for the site. Give the Order one less thing to worry about, you know?”

  “Sounds good.” I didn’t add that the placement would also force Nadir and Khamilah to learn a little humility. “And the girl?”

  “That one was weird,” Vincenzo said. “Cuvier called me yesterday and said that her relocation had been changed. He told me that she was to be sent to America. I can’t remember the exact location off the top of my head. To tell you the truth, we weren’t prepared to send anyone to America. We had to pull it all together at the last second.”

  I suppressed a grin. Of course he had. Cuvier didn’t know about my plans to leave the Order, but he must have surmised who Azima was. He was practically a second father to me and knew almost as much about my past as I did. The wily old man must have pulled some strings so that Azima would have the best possible shot at raising her son in a safe environment.

  “That’s good to hear. I really appreciate it, Vincenzo.”

  He rubbed my shoulder. “Get some rest, take a shower, maybe grab a bite to eat. Relax. You’ve earned it.” He waved to me as he climbed into the van. “And wish me luck on my training.”

  He shut the door and rolled down the window. “I’ll see you around.”

  No, I thought. You won’t.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  AFTER an hour in hiding, I worked up the courage to climb down from my hole. I walked home to find the police parked on the curb in front of our house. Men in suits were assembled in our living room to break the bad news to my father. In fact, they were in the middle of telling him that I had disappeared as well when I walked up behind them. Shock and surprise quickly gave way to relief, then shared anguish.

  Time passed in a haze as the men took turns asking me questions. What did I see? Where did I go? Would I recognize any of the men if I saw them again? Stuff like that. When I explained that the men directly responsible for my mother’s murder were already dead, the investigators seemed shaken.

  One of the men in suits stayed with us and told us to pack some clothes. Unlike the others, who had been Damascus police officers, this man was an American and spoke to us in English. He was a stocky pit-bull of a man whose head looked like a cinder block wrapped in flesh. As he unbuttoned his jacket I got a glimpse of something bulky and metallic under his left shoulder. I knew without having to ask that it was a gun. I may have escaped, but we were all still in danger.

  Fast-forward five hours. My father, my sister, and I sat on nice-looking but uncomfortable black leather chairs in an office the size of a utility closet. In fact, judging by the pipes in the corner, that may have been exactly what it was.

  For such a cramped space, there was little clutter. A pair of filing cabinets rested against the wall behind the desk. Only two frames were displayed on the walls. The first held a picture of a dozen smiling but clearly exhausted young men dressed in olive fatigues. It was labeled simply, Retreat, Hell! Next to that was a framed bachelor’s degree in criminal justice from San Diego State University issued to one Bradley Stephen Miller.

  The leather chair squeaked as my father leaned forward. “Isn’t there another way?” he asked.

  Seated across from him, behind a simple and sturdy hardwood desk, was the man who stayed behind to guard us. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair, and his navy-blue tie was just a bit too loose to fit in with what should have been formal circumstances.

  It was the sort of detail that would have driven my mother crazy. I had never met the man before that day, but I knew that he was a co-worker of sorts with my mother. That was why we were in his office, deep in the bowels of the United States Embassy. Perhaps that was why he had loosened his tie. It was his subtle way of telling us that this wasn’t a cold business relationship. He saw my mother, and by extension all of us, as family.

  The man put his elbows on his desk and the wood groaned in protest. He steepled his fingers. “I’m afraid not, Jirair.”

  “But to lose everything that we worked to build . . .” my father shook his head. “I can’t do it, Agent Miller. I can’t just walk away from my life.”

  A sad smile spread across Agent Miller’s wide face. “Please, Jirair, I told you when we met at the embassy party last year to call me Brad.” The smile faded. “And you don’t really have a choice. In order to protect you—”

  “Protect me?” my father thundered. “What about my wife, Brad?” He pointed to the nameplate on Agent Miller’s desk. “‘Assistant Regional Security Officer.’ Security Officer? Where was that security when some son of a bitch put a bullet in my wife’s lung?”

  It was the first and the last time I ever heard my father use foul language. I glanced at Miriam. We were shocked, but Agent Miller met my father’s furious gaze without flinching.

  “You know that’s not how it works. I’m not her bodyguard. She was a co-worker, she was my friend. I would have done anything for her if I knew she needed it.” He slapped his palms down. The only decoration on the desk, a statuette of a bald eagle clutching an American flag, rattled from the impact. “But she was never my responsibility. I can’t watch everyone all the time, and I certainly can’t help them if they don’t come to me about their problems.”

  “Do you really want to help?” my father asked. “Then find the men responsible.”

  “Ask your son,” Agent Miller sighed. “The shooters are dead, Jirair. So are our leads. Don’t get me wrong. I will turn this city upside down if I have to. But I don’t know how long that will take. You and your family are still at risk. I can’t shake the feeling that there is something moving behind the scenes here. Whoever sent those men will keep sending people after your family until they get what they want.”

  “So what do we do about it?” I asked.

  Agent Miller seemed surprised to hear me speak. He looked at me and said, “There’s only one option. Your father may resent it, but in the end we have no other choice.” He reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out three slips of paper. “There’s a flight leaving for Atlanta by way of Rome at eight-thirty in the morning. Your family needs to be on it.”

  “There’s no way we can pack up everything in that time,” my father protested.

  Agent Miller raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I know. Tell me what you ne
ed for the next couple of days and I’ll have one of my guys grab it for you. I’ll make sure the rest of your stuff is boxed up and shipped to whatever address you want.” He slid the tickets across the desk. “Lily said she had family in New York. Maybe you can start there.”

  My father nodded absently. “Yeah. Her brother lives near Albany.” He stared at those tickets for a long time. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” he whispered.

  Miriam sniffled and pulled her knees up to her chest. It was what she always did when she was upset: put up a wall to block it all out. But this, the death of our mother, wasn’t something that she could simply pretend would go away. I saw oceans of emotion boiling in her eyes. She was in despair. She was in denial. She was frustrated. She was shocked. She was terrified. She was furious.

  I understood what she was going through. If I had any advantage, it was that I had been given more time to process the event as well as its ramifications. I wound my own way through the stages of grief, forcing my way through the denial, the despair, and the bargaining.

  But the anger? The anger was here to stay.

  I needed to clear my head. I stood suddenly. “I, uh, have to use the bathroom,” I lied.

  “Turn left when you leave my office and follow the hallway until it branches off,” Agent Miller explained. “Men’s room will be on the right.”

  I slammed the door shut behind me. I turned left like Agent Miller suggested, but instead of heading for the bathroom I just began to wander. I made one random turn, then another. I had no destination. My mind was consumed with questions. How could this be happening? The members of my family were good people. We worshiped God, we paid our tithes, and we took the sacraments. Why was God punishing us like this?

  Walking alleviated some of my nervous energy, allowing me to focus on clearing my mind. But my unsupervised stroll hadn’t gone unnoticed. As I passed by a small alcove with a water cooler, a muscular arm wrapped in a pristine khaki sleeve appeared to block my path. In my state of mind, I didn’t even notice until it was too late to stop myself. But the arm wasn’t there to hurt me, just to stop me.

  I struggled against the iron grip, but it was pointless. “Let me go!” Fear surged through my brain. I was terrified that the men who killed my mother had come back for me, that they had somehow gotten into the embassy and were going to slip me out the back before anyone noticed I was gone. It was irrational, but I wasn’t in the most reasonable of moods.

  “Easy, kid,” said a deep voice. I looked up to see a tall, skinny black man in a khaki long-sleeve button-up shirt and matching tie. He wore navy blue trousers with a scarlet stripe down the outer seam of each leg. His posture was incredible, and I stood a little straighter out of embarrassment. There was a small paper cup in his other hand. He took a sip and asked casually, “What are you doing here?”

  “Um, I was looking for the bathroom,” I told the Marine security guard. I recognized the uniform from the few times I visited Mom at work.

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because you passed those quite a while ago.”

  I chuckled nervously. “Oops. You know, I got lost.”

  “Sure you did,” he said, clearly not buying a word of it. “Look, I don’t want to get you in trouble—”

  “Great!” I said excitedly. I tried dodging around his outstretched arm. “It was nice meeting you.”

  The big guy reached out and grabbed my collar. He dragged me back with his free hand and spun me around to face him again. “I don’t want to get you in trouble,” he repeated, “but I can’t let you wander around in here. It’s not safe, not for you and not for the people who work here.”

  I tried to think of a reply. It turned out I didn’t have to. A voice with a distinct Southern drawl said, “I’ll take it from here, Sergeant.” I turned to see Agent Miller marching down the hall toward me.

  The sergeant snapped a salute. “Yes, sir. Anything for my favorite staff sergeant.”

  Agent Miller smiled and returned the salute. “I’m not a staff sergeant anymore, Broyles. You know that.” Sergeant Broyles grinned but said nothing. “As you were.” Broyles nodded respectfully, then continued down the hall.

  Which left me alone with Agent Miller.

  “That was an awful quick visit to the bathroom,” Agent Miller said.

  “Heh, yeah,” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Sorry I lied. I just needed to . . . I don’t know.”

  Agent Miller nodded slowly. “I know, kid. I know.” He knelt down to one knee. It put him a little below my eye level, but for some reason the gesture did not strike me as patronizing. “Look, you’ve been dealt a rough hand. I thank God that I didn’t have to deal with that when I was your age.”

  “Is this supposed to make me feel better?” I asked.

  Agent Miller shook his head. “Ain’t supposed to make you feel better. It’s supposed to make you become better.” I was confused, and he seemed to pick up on that. “See, you’re dealing with some intense challenges right now and you have two choices. One, you can let this event ruin your life and wreck your chances for future happiness. I gotta tell ya, a lot of people take that route. It’s easy to let gravity do its work and drag you down.”

  I folded my arms. “What’s the second choice? Pretend like it never happened?”

  “God, no. That’s what makes the first choice so easy. People just plaster over their guilt, their shame, whatever. They think it heals them, but all it does is make them weak and vulnerable. No, the other choice is to use this tragedy and gain strength from it. It’s going to hurt. A lot. Probably more than you think you can survive. But that’s good. Pain has a great way of reminding a guy he’s still alive.”

  I thought about his words. “I have a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What does ‘Retreat, Hell’ mean? I saw it on the wall in your office.”

  “Oh.” Agent Miller rubbed his chin. “When you said you had a question I assumed it was about—” He stood up. “Never mind.” He rolled up his right sleeve to reveal a tattoo of a bulldog on his forearm. Underneath the bulldog’s snarling visage was a scroll with E-2-5 written on it.

  “Back when I was young, only a few years older than you, I dropped out of high school and enlisted in the Marines. I wanted to work on aircraft, fixing them and the like. But the Corps had other ideas for me. I was assigned to the infantry.” His chest puffed out with pride. “Echo Company, Second Battalion, Fifth Marines.”

  “That explains the tattoo,” I said, “but I still don’t get ‘Retreat, Hell.’”

  “It’s the motto of my battalion. You see, back in World War One, the Marines were still making a name for ourselves. You’ve heard the term ‘devil dog,’ right?” I nodded. “Thought so. You seem like a bright kid. Your mom was always braggin’ about you and your sister both.”

  A sad smile touched my lips as he continued. “Anyway, ‘devil dog’ was the nickname the Germans gave the Marines they encountered on the battlefields of France. ‘Retreat, Hell’ has its roots on the same battlefields. When Captain Lloyd W. Williams was advised by his French allies to withdraw from his position, he replied, ‘Retreat? Hell, we just got here!’”

  I smiled. “I like that.”

  “I thought you would.” Agent Miller said. “I think you’ll do okay, kid. You’ve got a good chance for a happy life. Your dad loves you. He’ll need you, too, you know. You’ll be safe in America, and you can do anything you put your mind to.”

  “Maybe even become a Marine?” I suggested.

  Agent Miller laughed. “A smart kid like you should go to school, not crawl around in the dirt with us grunts. But whatever you choose to do, remember that you face the same challenge that Captain Williams did. You’re working through something right now that would cause most grown men to collapse in despair. I can’t imagine what it would do to someone your age. But you can either run from the bad things that have happened to you, or you can tackle them head-on and gain the strength to help guide others. Retreat o
r attack, the choice is up to you.”

  I considered what he told me, then looked up at him. “Retreat, Hell.”

  Agent Miller tousled my hair. “Attaboy. Come on,” he said as he pulled his sleeve back to normal length. “Let’s get you back to your father.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CATANIA-FONTANAROSSA Airport was the busiest airport in Sicily. I had seen my fair share of airports in my life, military and civilian. They all tended to blur together in my mind. They were all full of activity and emotion, yet architecturally very cold and modern, hives of glass and steel. It spoke to a fundamental truth about airports themselves: they were always a transition. No airport ever felt like home because airports are constantly changing and adapting and evolving. They are always a stop along the journey, never the ultimate destination.

  The terminal I found myself in was no different. With hundreds of people rushing to their departures or from recent arrivals, that sense of transition, of constant change, loomed heavily in my thoughts. I paced back and forth on the carpet, absently twirling a single red rose in my fingertips. Was this the right course? Could I give up my life in the Order to spend a life with Azima?

  Of course I could. She made me happy and I prayed that I could make her happy. I had done good work for the Order, but that time in my life had passed. It was time to move on to better things.

  Speaking of time, she should have been here by now. I looked at the clock on the wall, then at my watch. Had something happened to her? Had I gone to the wrong terminal? I had pulled some major strings to get through security to see her. My heart sank at the thought that she was already gone, that I was too late. I shook the thought from my head. No, my source was reliable. She was coming here. I just had to relax.