by Brad Taylor
They reached the border of Turkey at a sympathetic crossing. One that had been reliably used as a veritable fountain of men flocked to their cause. There, Omar had learned that the state of play had shifted.
Before, Turkey had allowed anyone willing to fight the hated regime of Bashar al-Assad free passage, no matter their allegiance or group. Had allowed anyone who wanted to kill into the cauldron, but during the time Omar had been fighting in Iraq, something had changed. Now the passage was blocked.
He’d rolled into the checkpoint, moving slowly, seeing the barrels burning and the men standing around with AK-47s. One held out his hand. He stopped.
The man said, “Who are you and where are you going?”
As he had in the past, he held out the bribe and said, “Who I am is of no concern. I’m going where I’m going.” The man took the money, then looked in the back. Omar sensed something was amiss. He could see it in the attitude of the men manning the checkpoint.
The sentry, his face completely covered in a keffiyeh, had said, “Show me identification. Are you a Kurd? PKK?”
Omar had breathed a silent relief. They were more concerned with the Kurdistan Workers’ Party flowing through here fighting the Islamic State than any attempt at catching him. As strange as it was, they cared more about the slow insurgency in their own country than the raging bonfire just south of the border. Something he could use.
“No. I’m not PKK. Or YPG. Or anything Kurdish. I’m Chechen, and I’m just trying to get home.”
The man’s eyes had hardened, and the rifle brought to bear. “Chechen how? What have you been doing in Syria?”
Omar realized too late the man cared about more than just Turkish interests. The crusaders had managed to actually get something done. Had managed to make the Turks look for the danger in their midst. And now he was in trouble.
He looked at the men around the fire barrel, all alert and pointing weapons. Not yet hostile, but he could sense the potential violence from them.
28
Omar had thought about running the man over and fleeing, turning back into the heart of Syria, when Jacob had shouted from the bed of the truck.
“What the fuck is going on? Can we not pass? Get me the hell out of this place.”
The man with the weapon snapped up at the words and, in halting English, said, “Who are you?”
“Braden Smith. American journalist. Trying to get the fuck out of this hellhole. I made the mistake of coming here, and barely escaped with my life. Let us through. I’ll pay you. Just let us through. I’m done with this shit.”
The man had paused, then said, “Who is back there with you?”
“My camera crew.”
While Omar sat still, the man had walked to the back of the pickup, seeing nothing. He said, “Where are the cameras?”
Jacob had leaned out of the bed and shouted, “They were taken from us! Right before they threatened to cut our heads off! Jesus Christ. We’re American citizens. Let us through!”
Omar had seen the emotion on his face, and was amazed. He really was a reporter in that moment.
The man had said, “Okay, okay. No problem. Follow me. We need to record your passports.”
“Why?”
“It’s a new rule. Blame America. They want to track people like you. We record your passports with a phone, and you get to leave. Unless there’s a reason you don’t want to.”
“No, no. I’m fine with that. What about my driver?”
“He must remain.”
“He saved our lives. He wants to leave as well.”
“He can’t.”
“He can.”
“No, he can’t. Get out.”
At that moment, Omar had known the mission was done. If they couldn’t even cross out of Syria, they had no chance of penetrating Rome.
Jacob had lightly jumped down and said, “Where do we go?”
The man had pointed to a small shack made of scrounged plywood and tin. “There. We’ll take your information, then you walk.”
Jacob said, “Fine. Devon, Carlos, get out.”
Both men jumped down, looking confused, but saying nothing. Jacob said, “How can we get our truck through?”
“You can’t. You need a pass, and there’s no way to get one from south of the border.”
“But you have them in that building?”
Now relaxed, the man laughed and said, “Yes, but your man isn’t getting one. If you want to spend the night here, I suppose you can.”
Omar had sat with the engine ticking, wondering what he was going to do. Jacob had walked to his window and said, “I’ll be back in a minute. Get ready to drive.”
Omar said, “They can’t take a recording of your passport. That can’t get into the system.”
Jacob had looked at him with his flat eyes and said, “They won’t.”
Nothing else.
Omar had watched him walk away, the other Lost Boys in tow. They’d entered the shack, and he’d focused intently on the light spilling out from the seams in the wood, trying to ascertain what was happening, but seeing nothing but shadows dance back and forth. Four minutes later the door had opened, and the group had emerged.
The men at the fire barrel had glanced their way, curious, but not concerned. The other Lost Boys had jumped in the back, and Jacob had approached his window.
“I’m riding shotgun. Here’s your pass.”
For the first time, Omar had seen the blood on his shirt.
They’d gone through the checkpoint without issue, then driven the remainder of the way to Istanbul in silence. Omar wanted to ask what had occurred, but decided it was better not to. Not out of fear, but because he already knew.
Now he had to decide if Jacob’s commitment was enough to execute in his absence. Jacob had done so once before, but could he succeed outside of Syria, when his life wasn’t in play?
He left the small room of the TAV Hotel, a cheap, postmodern building attached to the Istanbul airport, all metal and pressed wood, with the rooms so close it looked more like military barracks than a place for business travelers.
He went down to the lounge—really more of a cafeteria, with harsh fluorescent lights overhead and cheap metal chairs—and saw Jacob sitting with Devon and Carlos.
He sat across from them, seeing Jacob drinking a beer. He frowned and said, “I got an email today. It’s not good news.”
“What?”
“The linkup with the supplier has been delayed. I must wait for a day, which means I cannot be there for the substitution.”
Jacob said, “Why is that a problem?”
Omar pointed at the beer bottle and said, “Because I won’t be there to make sure you do it right.”
Devon and Carlos looked concerned. Jacob showed nothing but confidence. He said, “The target hasn’t changed? A church group from Florida?”
“Yes, that’s the target.”
“And the ultimate target? Is it the same? Or are you just tricking us?”
Omar felt the vibration of hatred, and decided to press.
“Why are you here?”
“What does that mean?”
Omar looked at Devon and Carlos and said, “Leave us. Now.”
They did, scurrying away like children scolded by a parent. Omar watched them go and said, “I know why they fight. I know what motivates them, but not what motivates you.”
“Why does that matter?”
Omar settled back and said, “Because I can’t trust them to wear a suicide vest correctly. I need someone to ensure they do so. Someone like you, but I don’t know what motivates you. I don’t believe you care about the Islamic State.”
“I do what I do for my own reasons. Why does it matter? I’ll get you what you want. I’m willing. That should be enough.”
“Why should I trust you?”
Jacob leaned forward, getting his face inches away. Omar felt the heat of his anger and knew he was dealing with something beyond a wish to see Allah. Something stron
ger.
Jacob said, “You trust me because you see in me what you see in yourself.”
Omar reached forward slowly, placing his hand on Jacob’s neck. Not squeezing, but showing the threat. He said, “Don’t test me, boy. I trust believers. And you are not one.”
Jacob stretched his neck out, looking to the ceiling and giving Omar full ability to harm him. He said, “Not a believer in what? Life? Or my death?”
Taken aback, Omar said, “You think I will spare you?”
Jacob turned his flat eyes on Omar and said, “Yes. My death matters little to me. But it means a great deal to you, and therein lies my strength.”
Omar pulled his hand away, a ghost of a smile on his face.
He said, “You will do.”
29
Jennifer was sitting on the edge of the couch like she was balancing on a spring-loaded booby trap. She watched Shoshana pace the room, I guess waiting on her to explode and try to kill us both. I knew she wouldn’t, as much as she might want to.
After a bit of a verbal debate at the coffee shop, she’d reluctantly agreed that my men were on the target, and maybe she didn’t know everything that was happening. Which was par for the course for me as well. We’d gone back to the InterContinental Hotel, where she and Aaron were staying, and now we were waiting for him to show up.
She said, “They’d better not lose his ass.”
I said, “That depends on the definition of his, I suppose.”
At the coffee shop, she’d refused to tell me what was going on, or who her target was, but she had at least stopped her operation. I understood that, because I would expect the same silence from my men. Her team leader, Aaron, would be the only one with the authority to spill the beans. If he would even do it.
Shoshana turned from the window, no longer wearing her Arab garb, and now regretting her decision, stomping back and forth with her quick pace.
She was fairly tall, about five nine, with a tomboyish body made of muscle. No breasts, no ass, and hair cut short—you had to look at her twice to see if she was female. When you did, you saw a face like a porcelain doll, seemingly full of innocence; she looked fragile and weak while being anything but. There was no way you would fear her, right up until she put a blade to your throat. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, but she was attractive. At least to me, but that may be because I envied her skills.
I heard the lock of the hotel door snick and Aaron Bergman entered, looking at me with as much interest as if he’d found a bowl of fruit delivered to his room. He had always been cool under pressure, but this was a bit much. I’d expected at least a little reaction.
I stood and said, “Hey, Aaron. Looks like you’re playing Uncle Kracker again.”
That finally brought some confusion. He said, “What?”
Seeing I was going the smart-ass route, Jennifer stood up, giving me a palm and saying, “Pike, stop that. Sit down.”
I did and Shoshana’s eyes shot open. She said, “What button do you push to get that? I want it.”
Jennifer ignored her and said, “Sorry for interfering with your operation. I don’t want to dance around, which is what Pike will do.”
I said, “Jennifer . . .”
She held her hand up again, which was really, really embarrassing. I remained quiet. To me, Shoshana said, “Okay, what’s up with her? How does she do that? I would have used it in the coffee shop.”
Aaron removed his coat without a word, draping it over a chair. He sat down and said, “Shoshana, save it. You brought them here. If you wanted to fight, you would have.”
He turned to me and said, “So, to what do I owe your incredible presence, Nephilim?”
I leaned forward and stuck out my hand, saying, “I didn’t mean to wreck what you were doing.”
He shook it and said, “You never mean to. But you always do.”
I laughed and said, “Not this time. I think we can help each other out.”
“Last time we ‘helped each other,’ one of my men was killed.”
My face grew hard, I said, “Right after your actions caused the death of one of mine.”
He said, “Okay, fair enough. Let’s hear it.”
I leaned back into the couch and said, “Unfortunately, I’m not cleared to talk to you unless I know who you’re working for. Shoshana said you’re no longer with Mossad.”
“It’s complicated.”
“So she said. How complicated? Counter to me?”
He smiled and said, “Well, if you mean I’m going to compete against you for a contract to protect some archeological dig, no.”
Meaning, I was as full of shit as he was. He still had no idea who I worked for, but also knew if the web was run back, it ended at the United States government. Which was at least something. I didn’t know if he was working for a Russian oligarch.
I said, “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I’ll cut the crap. We’re here on a target, and you guys are chasing the same target. Well, at least the same target set. I want to know why.”
He said, “I left Mossad. Too much bureaucracy to get anything done. Too many small-time operations and too much focus on overt war. Hamas, the Gaza Strip, and Hezbollah consume them. It took away from what I want to do, which is to remove terrorists.” He glanced at Shoshana and said, “She agreed to help. We have our own business.”
I knew that Aaron loved Shoshana, even as he knew that love would never be returned. At least physically. She cared greatly for him, and it didn’t surprise me that when he’d decided to leave, she’d followed. They were a team, in more ways than simply operations.
I said, “So? Who do you work for now?”
He looked at Shoshana and she glanced at me. She turned back to him and nodded, surprising me.
He said, “Can I trust you?”
I squinted at the insult and said, “Of course.”
“Who do you work for?”
Taken aback, I said my cover statement. “I work for myself. Grolier Recovery Services. Jennifer and I both do.”
He gave a sour smile and said, “See what I mean?”
I shuffled my feet, looking at Jennifer. She nodded at me. I paused a moment, then said, “Okay, look, I work for the United States government. Is that what you want?”
He smiled and said, “Yes. Thank you for the trust. I work for an oil magnate in Indonesia.”
My mouth fell open and I heard Shoshana laugh.
I felt a split second of fear, then relief. He was kidding.
He said, “Pike, I work for Israel. I’m no longer in the government, but I still work for Israeli interests.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there are times where my skills are necessary, but my government cannot intervene. Like here. Do you know anything about the attempt to kill the Hamas chief, Khalid Mishal, in 1997?”
“Yeah. A little. You guys poisoned him and got caught. Here in Amman.”
Aaraon grimaced and said, “Blunt, but fairly close. Nobody could point to us, but the king of Jordan brought so much pressure to bear we caved and admitted to it, flying in an antidote. Either way, it was a huge embarrassment and a diplomatic mess. So much so that Mossad is afraid of working in Jordan, but such work is needed. Someone must fill the gap, and we can’t upset the Jordanian government. They are a reluctant ally.”
He paused a moment, then said, “I expect this is the same reason you are here.”
I considered his words, trying to determine what to say. Reflecting on what he already knew. This game was borderline stupid, since everyone in the arena suspected what you were doing, but they really didn’t know. You stating it was the only way to confirm. And, while that confirmation might look simplistic and like a forgone conclusion, it wasn’t. Half the time the story ended up being some jerk working for USAID trying to get laid by acting like a secret agent. Or some asshole with four years inside Special Forces inflating his résumé, convincing everyone he was on the inside, spilling James Bond stories for
the fanboys. The real truth nobody knew unless you told them.
I tossed the ball into the middle, ignoring whom we both worked for and focusing on the target. “Aaron, I’m here for a man. Like you. My target is an American who’s working for the Islamic State. We want him back, and we’re going to get him. From what little Shoshana has said, I’m assuming he’s not your target. I want to know what you’re going to do, and why.”
Aaron smiled. “Our work is complementary. I’m operating against the Islamic State as well. You know Steven Sotloff?”
“The American journalist? The one those assholes beheaded?”
“Yes. We’re tracking his killer. He’s here, in Amman. He’s a British foreign fighter that goes by the nom de guerre al-Britani. He was walking with your target today. Shoshana has a date with him.”
I looked at her, seeing the same determination from past operations. The same willingness to kill anyone who crossed Israeli interests. She had a personal history with the Munich Olympic massacre in 1972, where her grandfather had been killed, and now brought that wrath to anyone who would attack the State of Israel. Which begged the question, Why here?
I said, “What does Sotloff have to do with Israel?”
“It was kept fairly close, but he was a dual citizen. He had ties to Israel. He was one of us. But because he wasn’t officially one of us, Mossad has stepped away.”
I nodded, now understanding. “But not stepped completely away.”
He smiled. “No. Not completely. They’ve hired a bumbling crew to help out.”
“And the man who was walking with our target is your target?”
“Yes.”
“You hit him and get away, you make a statement for Israel. You screw up, and you and Shoshana are hung out to dry. Am I right?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, today’s your lucky day. I think I can keep your bumbling crew from getting caught. Shoshana agreed to meet with us here, but my team kept eyes on your target. You help me with my target, and I’ll get you yours.”
He leaned back and smiled. I saw the relief on his face, and realized he was operating under extreme pressure, not the least because of the size of his team. He said, “You can do this?”