Scorpion Betrayal

by Andrew Kaplan

  “There is a hadith of the Prophet, rasul sallahu alayhi wassalam, peace be upon him, who instructed us that there is no faith for one who has no trust, and no religion for one who does not fulfill his promises. You do not need to tell me why it was necessary to kill the shopkeeper in Cairo,” the old man said, holding up his hand. “I know it was necessary or you would not have done it. You need not make explanations to me, now or ever.”

  “It was necessary.”

  “It is of no consequence,” the old man said, waving his hand as if brushing away a fly. “But are you ready for what is next?” he said, looking at him with his sightless eyes.

  “I understand your meaning of the hadith. The warning has been delivered. We must fulfill our promise,” the Palestinian said.

  “We shall teach the unbelievers a lesson they will not forget. Are your preparations ready?” the old man asked, the glass trembling in his hand.

  “Phase one in America is complete.”

  “How was it?”

  “It went well. I entered California from Mexico, then shipped the parcel to New York. The Americans do not monitor internal package shipments.”

  “I thought they had improved their security.”

  “There are tens of millions of packages every day. It would be impossible. After, I went back to Mexico. There was only one casualty. A narco, a drug runner. He showed too much interest in my backpack. From the moment I hired him, I knew I would have to kill him. It was inevitable.”

  “You did as you should. The Americans will learn fear. It will be their new home. What of phase two?”

  There is still much to do, but inshallah, we will be ready,” the Palestinian said.

  “And the main target?”

  “That will be the greatest difficulty. They will tighten security. There will be checkpoints everywhere. Getting close will be almost impossible.”

  “Is it impossible?” the old man whispered, his voice quavering.

  “Inshallah, God willing, anything is possible. What is most important is that there is no photo of me. No one knows who I am,” the Palestinian said.

  “No one,” the old man agreed. “You are invisible to them, but you will end the war against Islam in America and Europe.”

  “Inshallah, God willing, all will be completed.”

  “It is well. How you accomplish this, you will decide. Whatever you need will be supplied. Whatever orders you issue to our people will be obeyed without question. If you need to spend more, no matter how much, the money is at your disposal. If you need to enforce discipline, you must do as you see fit. And may the blessing of Allah be upon you.”

  The Palestinian sipped the sweet mint tea and didn’t say anything. He watched the specks of mint in the glass swirl in the candlelight.

  “You go to Russia next?” the old man asked.

  “Not yet. There are things I must do. Then Russia.”

  “Trust no one there. They are godless creatures, the Russians. For them is reserved a special place in jahannam…” The old man hesitated. “You have not asked about what is most important of all. I appreciate your discretion, but you should speak. We shall not meet again.”

  The Palestinian stared at the old man’s blind eyes.

  “You know what I want,” he said. “How is she?”

  “She is well.”

  “Swear it. Swear she is well.”

  “It is not permissible to swear. But I assure you, she is well,” the old man said. “Here,” holding out an envelope. His hand was shaking, the skin spotted with age and waxy yellow, almost translucent, the veins clearly visible in the candlelight. “Here is your contact information. Memorize then burn it.”

  The Palestinian took it and stood up.

  “Ma’a salaama. Inshallah, we will meet in the world to come, in Jannatu al-Khuld,” he said.

  “Alla ysalmak, my Brother,” the old man said, looking up with his blind eyes. “As of this moment, you are the most important man in the world.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Damascus, Syria

  They were caught in a traffic jam on Choukry Kouwalty Avenue, the air shimmering from the heat rising from the pack of honking cars, yellow Star taxis and Service minibuses barely moving in the hot sun.

  The taxi driver shrugged. “Ma’alesh. Damascus traffic is always shit.”

  “Mafi mushkila,” Scorpion said. Not a problem. He glanced out the side window. In the distance beyond the buildings, he could see the brown slopes of Jabal Qassioun, the mountain looming over the city. In this most ancient of cities, it was said to be the mountain where Cain killed Abel.

  He wasn’t concerned about the traffic; his errand wasn’t essential. He was on his way to 17 of April Square to interview the director of the Syrian Central Bank for Le Figaro. He had set up the interview because, as Koenig used to drill into them over and over, “Cover isn’t a false identity; cover is who you are.” The director was probably waiting for him in his office now, but Scorpion’s real interest was in the two cars—one a white Toyota SUV with four men in it three cars behind them, the other a blue Renault Megane a few cars ahead—that were tailing him. It was a standard front and back tail, and he’d recognized one of the men in the Renault as the man with the mustache and white shirt who followed him to his hotel last night. He had to find out who they were, his mental clock clicking down the precious seconds, wasting time dealing with tails while the Palestinian, who was likely no Palestinian, moved step by step closer to his target.

  The taxi inched forward, the driver’s worry beads dangling from the rearview mirror swaying as they moved toward the cause of the jam, the crossroads where Choukry Kouwalty intersected with three main streets. Ahead, beyond the intersection, loomed the stone tower and wall of the Damascus Citadel at the entrance to the Old City. In the twelfth century the citadel had been the headquarters of Saladin, revered by Muslims as the leader who liberated Arab lands from the Crusaders. Scorpion thought about trying to lose the tail there, then glanced back at the white SUV in the rear window and made up his mind.

  “Turn right on Al-Jabry,” he told the driver.

  “The bank is the other way,” the driver said, turning his head for a second.

  “I’ve changed my mind. Go right as fast as you can. I’ll tell you where to stop. Yalla! Go now, quickly! Dilwati!”

  “Dilwati, inshallah,” the driver said, hitting the horn and swerving in front of another taxi, squeezing by with not an inch to spare and up on the curb, barely missing a pedestrian. They turned right onto Al-Jabry Boulevard, the traffic easing as they moved away from the intersection. Behind them, Scorpion saw that the Renault was too far into the crossroads over toward Port Said Street to follow, its way to the right jammed. But the SUV behind them was blaring its horn, and one of the men in it was leaning out of the window, shouting and holding up a badge, ordering traffic out of their way and pointing to the right toward Al-Jabry.

  Now he knew who they were, his mind racing. Plainclothes authorities, probably GSD, the Idarat al-Amn al-‘Amm. The Syrian General Security Directorate. It was worse than Hezbollah. He had to get away. If they arrested him, it would take weeks, if ever, for him to get out of Syria, and by then, whatever the Palestinian was planning, it would be too late. He also had to find out if the Syrians were involved, and he had to do it now. But first he needed to escape the tail. It would’ve been easier if he were driving, remembering Koenig once saying, “Breaking a tail requires a very good driver to behave like a complete maniac.”

  Ahead, he saw the General Post Office, a square gray concrete building hung with red, white, and black Syrian flag banners and two-story posters of the Syrian president. Waiting till the last second, Scorpion told the driver to make a sharp right turn and step on it. “Now! Now! Dilwati!” he shouted.

  The driver swerved, barely missing an oncoming car full of wide-eyed Syrian men. “Now where you want?” he demanded. “Crazy guy. Can’t decide,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

 
“I’ll give you an extra five thousand pounds if you can get me to the Cham City Center Mall in less than five minutes,” Scorpion said.

  “For five thousand, habibi, I’ll get you to Amman,” the driver replied, speeding up and honking on his horn as he knifed between two cars to his right. Through the rear window, Scorpion could see that the white SUV had been cut off by a bus while trying to make the turn.

  “Turn here,” he ordered.

  “It’s faster straight,” the driver said.

  “Turn here, then go the way you know.”

  The driver made a fast sudden turn and accelerated down the street, bystanders raising their fists and screaming at him. Within minutes they pulled up in front of a big modern shopping mall.

  “Maashi? It’s okay?” the driver asked.

  “Zein al-hamdulillah,” Scorpion said. Fine, thanks to Allah. He shoved money at the driver and got out, and just spotted the white SUV coming around out of the corner of his eye as he raced into the mall.

  When trying to break a tail, he remembered Koenig saying, it was essential to change the image. He ran into a men’s clothing store, grabbed a different color shirt and changed into it. He handed the money to the clerk and went out another exit, where he caught another taxi just as two women with their children were getting out. He told the driver to take him to al-Azmeh. On the way, he called the director of the Syrian Central Bank on his cell phone, apologized for missing the interview because of the traffic jam, and rescheduled the interview. Inshallah, they would do the interview bukra—tomorrow—which in the Middle East, as they both knew, could mean anytime from tomorrow to when hell freezes over.

  He assumed it was the GSD that was after him, as they drove past shops and buildings draped with more Syrian flags and posters of the president along al-Ithad Street. He had to find out how deep in this the GSD was. If Damascus was running the Palestinian through Dr. Abadi, that would change the equation and he just might need the Pentagon and the U.S. Marines after all. He decided it couldn’t wait, he had to find out now, while the Syrians were still off balance and trying to figure out who he was and what was going on.

  The problem was, how to penetrate the innermost circles of Syrian intelligence? Normal trade-craft procedure was to ID a Joe inside the GSD and turn him. But that could take months. He didn’t have the time. Worse, this was their country. They would pick him up the second they could. He would have to do something more drastic. He remembered somebody asking Koenig about how you could be sure you were getting good intelligence, and Koenig said, “If you need clean water, you have to go to where the water is.” It gave him an idea.

  Spotting an Internet café, Scorpion told the driver to pull over. He went inside, paid for a computer stall against the wall, got online, and in a couple of minutes found the address of the Ministry of Interior, headquarters of the GSD. He went back outside and after checking the street for tails caught another taxi.

  At a juice bar on a side street off al-Marje, as the locals called Martyrs Square, he was propositioned by a long-haired teenage shoeshine boy turned pimp.

  “You want farfourd?” the boy said, using the Arabic slang word for very young girls. “Iraqi girls. Very nice. Moroccan. Albanian. How old you want? Twelve? Thirteen? Very clean. Beautiful girls. They’ll make you feel good.”

  “I need a hotel room close by, where no one asks questions,” Scorpion told him.

  “Come,” the boy said, picking up his shoe-shine box and leading him down the street. “What else you need?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

  “Rohypnol, the date rape drug.”

  “Listen, boss. With these girls, believe me, you don’t need it.” The boy grinned.

  “I want Rohypnol and I’ll give you ten thousand pounds for you to forget you ever saw me.”

  “Mafi mushkila,” the boy said. No problems.

  The boy stopped at a tobacco stand and came back with a plastic vial with tiny white pills that he handed to Scorpion. They walked on, turned a corner and went into a small hotel with a narrow doorway. The lobby smelled of insect repellent and stale cigarettes. An old man in a crocheted skullcap behind the desk nodded at the boy. He was toothless and had one eye with a drooping lid, suggesting he’d had a stroke. Scorpion told him he wanted the room for the night.

  “We charge by the hour,” the old man said. The boy sniggered.

  “I’ll pay five thousand pounds for the night,” Scorpion said.

  “You have your bataqa shaksia identification card? It is required by the police.”

  “No. No ID card and no questions,” Scorpion said, looking at him with cold gray eyes.

  “Six thousand,” the old man said, his good eye blinking rapidly.

  Scorpion handed him the money, then took the boy aside and gave him five thousand pounds. The boy looked at the money in his hand.

  “You said ten thousand,” he said.

  “The other five will be in the room. Get rope and a tube of glue and bring it to the room.”

  “Sure, boss. Mafi mushkila,” the boy said. “Anything else?”

  Scorpion pulled the boy close. “Don’t come back after you bring the rope and glue. Forget you ever saw me,” he whispered into his ear.

  He waited till the boy left, then went up, checked the room, bare but for the bed and a dresser, left the money on the dresser and went out. He took a taxi, bought an al Baath newspaper and sat at a sidewalk table outside a small hummus restaurant across the street from the Ministry of Interior office building.

  At noon, employees began to come out of the ministry for lunch. Scorpion waited, glancing up from behind his newspaper. It was logical that ministry employees would eat at the inexpensive restaurant so convenient to their office. A man in a white shirt and tie came over and sat at a nearby table. They were close enough in height and build, Scorpion decided. He got up and on his way to the bathroom nearly tripped a waiter, then caught the man to prevent him from falling. During the distraction, he slipped three pills into the ministry man’s juice drink.

  A few minutes later, after Scorpion went to the bathroom and returned to his table, the ministry man was showing signs of the drug. He staggered to his feet, reached for the table to steady himself and knocked over his glass, sending broken glass and juice flying. The man swayed, staring stupidly at the broken glass as the waiter hurried over.

  Scorpion stood up. “I’m a doctor,” he said. “This man is sick.”

  “I don’t feel so good,” the man said, his eyes bloodshot and nearly closed.

  “He needs to go to the hospital. I’ll take him,” Scorpion said. “Come help me get him to a taxi,” he told the waiter, who waved down a taxi.

  “Ilhamdulilah. You are a good man, Doctor,” the waiter said, helping Scorpion get the man into the taxi.

  Scorpion told the driver the address of the hotel and tried to keep the man upright and awake in the taxi. By the time they got to the hotel, his eyes were rolling in his head and it was all Scorpion could do to get him out of the taxi. He half carried the man into the hotel.

  The old man came from behind the desk and helped him get the ministry man to the room. When he was sprawling on the bed, the old man smiling knowingly at Scorpion, as if to indicate he now understood why he’d wanted to keep his homosexual rendezvous secret. Scorpion winked at the old man and gave him an additional thousand, locking the door behind him. He went through the man’s pockets and took out his wallet.

  “I don’t feel so good. Need to call my office,” the man moaned. He looked like he was about to throw up, and tried to get up. Scorpion pushed him back down on the bed, took the rope and tied him up hand and foot, shoving a towel into his mouth as a gag. By then the man was out cold. He’d been right, Scorpion thought, finding the GSD ID card in the wallet. He memorized, then put it into his own wallet and went out. He would now be Fawzi al-Diyala, deputy supervisor for Ar Raqqah Province.

  Within minutes Scorpion was back at the Internet café, where he printed out his
own photo, scanned from his French passport, cut it to size and pasted it with the glue over the ministry man’s photo on the ID card. After taking a taxi back to the ministry, he used the ID to get past the security guards and into the building.

  He took the elevator to the third floor and walked until he found an empty cubicle. The computer’s Web browser took him to the GSD internal home page. He checked the organization chart for the director’s name, office number, and telephone extension, then glanced around and dialed the extension.

  The director picked up the phone at the first ring.

  “Naam, what is it?” he said.

  “Fawzi al-Diyala told me to call,” Scorpion said. “We have the man from the Cham Center. He’s a CIA agent. You must come!”

  “What the hell is this?”

  “Min fadlak, it’s urgent! You have to come at once!” Scorpion said, then hung up. He went out to the elevators and took one to the top floor. The director’s office was at the end of the corridor. Scorpion took out his gun, screwed on the silencer and walked in. As he had hoped, the office was empty. Najah al-Hafez had taken the bait and had gone down to Diyala’s office.

  Scorpion sat down in al-Hafez’s chair behind the desk, put his gun on the desktop and began to go through the desk drawers. He found a button that he assumed was an alarm button under the desktop. In a top drawer he found a BlackBerry, and was about to pocket it when al-Hafez came back into the office.

  “Who the hell are you? Get out of my office!” the director demanded.

  “Eskoot. Close the door and sit down,” Scorpion said in Arabic, picking up the gun and pointing it at al-Hafez’s chest. When the man didn’t move, he added: “I will kill you.”

  “El khara dah?” al-Hafez growled. What the hell is this?