Assassin's Strike

by Ward Larsen

  A better trained bunch would have reacted differently. Climbing into a vehicle during an air attack, with the intent of driving away, was like hiding behind a paper target on a gun range. The best defensive move would have been to throw themselves in the ditch along the shoulder of the road. Yet once the first vehicle began moving, the frenetic die was cast. None of what Slaton saw surprised him.

  And it suited his needs perfectly.

  Within a minute six vehicles—the four technicals and the two Urals that were still in service—were thundering westward down the road. Two of the technicals were weaving drunkenly, as if side-to-side movement would negate the tracking of a precision-guided bomb. The drivers of the Urals, which were too heavy for evasive maneuvers, simply went for speed. Altogether, it bore no resemblance to any kind of defensive formation. More like a stampede.

  From the Hezbollah commander’s point of view, there was one minor victory. As far as Slaton could see, not a single man had been left behind. The stricken Ural delivery truck remained in the middle of the road, its left front wheel jacked in the air like a hospital patient in traction. The new tire had been put in place, and on the ground next to it Slaton saw a discarded crowbar. The flat tire was on the ground nearby.

  He couldn’t have drawn it up any better.

  He waited.

  The roar of engines soon faded, both on the ground and in the air. The desert reverted to its customary silence.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Slaton gave the silence another five minutes. The pinballing convoy was completely out of sight, having disappeared down the road. They would return at some point, most likely a small detail dispatched to see if anything was left of the stranded Ural. Slaton doubted that would happen before daybreak, when the sky could be watched more closely. Once everyone’s heart rates got back to normal.

  He scanned all around the abandoned truck, particularly in the brush along the road’s shoulders. He was reasonably sure every man was accounted for, but during the chaos it was possible some right-minded junior officer might have opted for the desert.

  Seeing no signs of life, Slaton decided the coast was clear.

  He sidestepped quickly to the bottom of the hill. The Hayes, he decided, could be left where it was, concealed in a dense thicket. He did, however, take the time to note its GPS position before switching the nav unit off. With his optics he carefully memorized features of the hill and surrounding terrain. Slaton didn’t plan to return for the bike, but one never wasted a backup plan. If it came to that, he wanted to be able to locate the bike in a hurry, preferably without electronic help.

  He shouldered up the backpack, then made his way to the road with the MP5 leading. By the time he reached the truck Slaton was convinced he was alone.

  The first thing he checked was the truck’s cab. The key was still in the ignition. Slaton tensed momentarily on hearing distant voices, but then realized it was only the truck’s radio—it was still on, tuned to a tactical frequency. His Arabic was poor, but he caught a few words. Something about continuing ten more kilometers. In spite of his fractured translations, the radio could prove a priceless source of intel—if the unit reversed to collect the truck they’d left behind, he was sure he would get warning.

  He stepped out of the cab and checked the left front tire. The spare had been mounted, two lug nuts remaining on the ground. He picked up the crowbar, used the wrench end to install them, then tightened those already in place. The jack was a peculiar design, and he didn’t immediately see how to lower it.

  No matter.

  Slaton backed off a step, took a solid stance, and put one boot on the driver’s-side running board. He pushed and the cab wobbled away slightly. He let it come back, then did it again, beginning a cyclic rocking motion. On the fifth shove the jack gave way. The truck’s front end dropped twelve inches to the ground, bouncing twice on its huge tires before going still.

  Slaton torqued each lug nut one last time, then with the crowbar still in hand, he moved to the back of the truck. The large cargo bay was topped by a steel frame and desert-tan canopy. Slaton climbed onto the rear bumper, then a second step put him inside the bay with the payload. In the dim light he stood looking at twenty-odd crates, each the size of a kitchen stove. From his pocket he removed his tactical flashlight and switched it on. The writing on the crates was in Cyrillic—no surprise there—and he couldn’t decipher the words. He did, however, note that all the crates had a similar model number.

  He was sure he was looking at a cache of Russian-manufactured weapons, most likely supplied by Iran. The only question: what kind?

  With due caution, he eased the crowbar into a gap beneath the first wooden lid. He worked his way around and had it free in less than a minute. Slaton pulled the lid clear, trained his flashlight inside, and could not suppress a smile. He was looking at a Shmel-M rocket launcher, a 90mm Russian weapon designed to be carried and employed by a single soldier. He uncorked another crate and saw a slightly different version, the smaller Z-model—an incendiary weapon that was technically classified as a flamethrower. After digging deep into both crates, and doing a bit of math, he estimated the truck was carrying nearly 250 man-portable rockets.

  He pulled out the topmost M-model and grounded the stock to his shoulder, trying it on for size as a more genteel man might a dinner jacket. Satisfied, he set the rocket aside, worked the lid into place, and hammered down a few nails using the crowbar. He did the same to the other open crate.

  Slaton noticed a stack of folded blankets in one corner, and he took one from the top. It was stained with black grease, which was just as well. He wrapped up the rocket launcher, returned to the truck’s cab, and placed it on the passenger seat. He took a long look at the detritus in the road all around—a byproduct of the unit’s hasty departure—and decided it might be worth a look. Slaton walked through a sea of cigarette butts, spent water bottles, and at least one cheap mobile phone. On the shoulder of the road he found a camouflage jacket. It looked like it had been run over, foot-wide tread marks stamped across the back. He picked up the jacket and took a closer look. It displayed no unit insignia, but that was hardly a surprise. Hezbollah was an irregular force by any measure. He’d noted earlier through his optic that every man had been dressed differently. Most wore fatigues and camo of some kind, but they’d all seemingly shopped at different stores, been fitted by different tailors. There was nothing “uniform” about it. He tried the jacket on for size. It was a snug fit, but not bad. Best of all, it came with an integral rain hood zipped into the collar.

  He was about to turn back to the truck when something in the distance caught his eye. He walked a hundred feet up the road, and there, smack on the centerline, was the Hezbollah flag he’d seen flying from the lead technical. It had obviously fallen off in the scramble. Slaton picked it up and, without bothering to brush away the dust, carried it back to the Ural. After some searching near the rear bumper, he wedged the pole into the canopy frame just above the tailgate.

  Slaton mounted the cab and fired up the engine. The big diesel rumbled obediently to life. He put the Ural in gear and accelerated in the same direction as the fleeing convoy. The radio was silent, and he guessed the unit commander had either ordered a switch to a different tactical frequency, or more likely shut down UHF communications altogether. It wasn’t a bad call—radio usage could give away a unit’s position. Either way, Slaton doubted he would see anyone for the next ten miles. Which was all he needed. From that point, a right turn onto the adjoining highway would place him on a collision course with Damascus.

  The big Ural rumbled southward in a riot of noise and flapping canvas, its suspension groaning under the weight of more than two tons of rockets. In the truck’s wake, the flag of Hezbollah snapped smartly in the soft night air.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The three Iranians left Khartoum’s Corinthia Hotel well before dawn, all looking weary as they passed beneath the great modernist portico. Their rented Land Rover was in the parkin
g lot, and as they slid inside three sets of eyes squinted against a dome light that seemed inordinately bright.

  The call had come thirty minutes ago, waking them out of a sound sleep—directions for a second rendezvous.

  “I hope we have better luck than yesterday,” grumbled the leader from the front passenger seat. “Seven hours in this damned car, and nothing to show for it.”

  “Considering what we are taking possession of,” said the driver, who was in charge of security, “I am glad the Russians are being careful.”

  The third man, who was the technician, said nothing. He’d always been the least social of the bunch, and his reticence this morning was magnified by a raging hangover. After yesterday’s frustration, they’d all gone to the hotel bar, and “one drink” had led to far too many. Alcohol was generally prohibited in Sudan, just as it was in Iran. Yet in the capital city certain allowances were made for foreigners. And what their controllers back in Tehran didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

  The driver turned on the GPS receiver, turned off the radio, and set out into the still-black morning. The other two settled back for what promised to be another long day of driving.

  * * *

  As the Land Rover turned west onto the main road, it was watched carefully from the window of room 442. The housekeeper, whose name was Yusra, waited until the SUV was completely out of sight. Once it was, she went to the hall and used her passkey to enter 444—directly next door.

  Yusra closed the door behind her, let her eyes drift across the room. She couldn’t contain a heavy sigh. The place was a mess. The Iranians had been complete slobs since arriving. Each man had his own room, but they all looked the same: food trays and trash and towels strewn everywhere. Today she saw an empty gin bottle next to this one’s bed, and the place smelled like someone had vomited. Every day it was something new, and so far not even a dollar left for gratuity. Truth be told, Yusra felt a bit of satisfaction in what she was about to do.

  She ignored the mess for the time being—she would come around later with her cart, after the morning shift started—and headed straight to the bathroom. From her apron pocket Yusra removed the kit she’d been given. She followed her instructions to the letter. First she removed a pair of nitrile gloves and snapped one on each hand before extracting the set of tweezers. The kit contained three sturdy Ziploc bags, already labeled 1, 2, and 3. Room 444 correlated to number 1, and she set that bag on the sink counter. Having already performed one collection yesterday, she knew it was important not to mix the samples.

  Yusra was not an educated woman, yet she’d seen enough Hollywood movies to understand, at least in a general sense, what she was being asked to do. She began at the tub drain. Two days ago there had been nothing but a hole, but the man who’d hired her had provided three special metal screens, one for each room, that fit perfectly over the drains. She checked the screen and saw two hairs, one long and straight, the other short and curly. She put them into the bag using the tweezers. She collected another hair from the floor near the toilet, and two from the sink counter.

  From her apron pocket she removed a disposable razor and a toothbrush. Both were freebies provided by the hotel, and still in their cellophane packaging. What the Iranian guests couldn’t know was that the sundries, while complimentary, were generally provided only upon request, a bit of emergency aid for travelers whose luggage had been lost. As a housekeeper, of course, Yusra had access to an unlimited supply, and she’d been instructed to provide a fresh item to each man every day.

  Yesterday’s razor and toothbrush, both of which appeared to have been used, went into the bag labeled 1. She placed the new razor and toothbrush on the counter.

  Going over the rest of the room, she collected one more hair from the bed. Yusra was ready to move on to the next room when she was again struck by the sour scent of alcohol-infused bile. She looked around and finally saw the source. Someone—most likely the room’s occupant—had thrown up in the ice bucket. This gave pause. The man who’d hired her had been generous, and she recalled that he’d promised a bonus for any blood or fecal samples. She wondered if drunken vomit was in the same category. It was a fleeting thought, but then the housekeeper in her took hold. She emptied the putrid bucket into the toilet, flushed, then filled it with water at the tub. She would deal with the rest later.

  Yusra went to the window and checked the parking lot. She saw no sign of the Land Rover. Yesterday they’d been gone nearly eight hours. All she needed was another twenty minutes. She slipped into the hall and gasped when she almost ran into someone.

  She was relieved—only just—to see that it was Emil, the vile old Eritrean who kept the toilets flushing. He leered at her unabashedly.

  Yusra gave him her haughtiest look before turning down the hall. She quickly disappeared into the next room.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Morning was barely a promise when the glow of Damascus first came into view. By the time Slaton had the Ural rumbling into the city’s outskirts, only a few of the most stubborn stars remained in the brightening sky overhead. The rising sun was low at his back, which was always an advantage—like a fighter pilot sneaking up on an unsuspecting adversary. At that early hour there were few vehicles on the road, and those he did see were strictly civilian. His run of good fortune ended at the edge of the first official township.

  Slaton spotted a checkpoint ahead near a gentle bend in the road.

  He slowed to a judicious speed, donned a pair of cheap sunglasses he’d found on the truck’s glare shield. He pulled the hood of his jacket completely over his head—his hair and skin were too light to blend in locally, and his limited Arabic would be a dead giveaway if he were challenged. Slaton was running a calculated risk: in his experience, a military truck flying the Hezbollah flag would not be stopped by the police. He’d seen it before in the course of Mossad missions. But had something changed in recent years? Was there a new dynamic between the two forces after so many years of war? He was betting heavily against it.

  All the same, the MP5 was ready on the seat next to him, secured with the muzzle down. He’d removed the thigh holster, but the Sig was in the right thigh pocket of his cargo pants. And the Shmel-M rocket? That was pure overkill.

  He quickly discerned two police vehicles. A pair of men stood beside the road, machine pistols hanging loosely across their chests. A third uniformed officer was leaning casually on the fender of one of the cars. Slaton was, if there could be such a thing, something of an expert on the subject of roadblocks. He knew that good ones could be all but impenetrable. He knew that most were something else.

  What he saw from a distance was a catalogue of shortcomings. The cars were not in the road, but parked parallel on either side. There were no secondary barriers or backup units nearby. On appearances the men might have been waiting for a bus, their posture slouched and relaxed. What little attention he saw was focused in the other direction, on traffic coming from the city. This was telling. Combined with the lack of barriers, it implied a temporary checkpoint. Slaton wondered if it had anything to do with Ludmilla Kravchuk. Sorensen had told him the Syrians were searching for her, and this might well be part of the strategy. He hoped that was the case. It would mean they hadn’t found her yet. It would also make getting into the city easier.

  Getting out would be another story.

  Slaton downshifted to a lower gear, and the pitch of the big diesel rose. As expected, it got the policemen’s attention. All three turned and stared at the approaching truck, flying the Hezbollah flag.

  Slaton’s eyes were fixed on the road beyond. In the distance he saw two cars nearing. He slowed further, needing time to evaluate the geometry. One of the cars was a taxi, the other a dated sedan.

  He was half a mile from the checkpoint, the two approaching cars somewhat less in the other direction. One of the policemen noticed the cars, and he directed everyone’s attention toward them. The two men with weapons stepped into the middle of the road. The officer pushed awa
y from the fender. He glanced back once at the Ural, but the focus was clearly in the other direction.

  More proof of where the scrutiny lay.

  Slaton governed his speed carefully. With a hundred yards to go, the taxi reached the checkpoint and came to a stop. The two policemen in the road began circling the vehicle, searching in earnest. The second car came to a halt behind the first, waiting its turn. The taxi driver got out and opened his trunk. This was no random shakedown—they were searching for something specific.

  Someone specific. The importance of Ludmilla Kravchuk, and what she might know, was being reinforced before his eyes.

  A hundred feet away, Slaton had the truck down to jogging speed. The officer glanced at him once, but nothing more. Thankfully, he never raised a hand for Slaton to stop. The gap in the road was wide enough for the Ural to pass. Slaton sped up slightly. Two truck-lengths away, he revved the engine and played the clutch to maximize the noise and commotion. The policemen couldn’t talk to one another if they wanted to. A cloud of black smoke spewed from the exhaust.

  The Ural arrived in a flurry of dust and diesel fumes. Passing only yards from the nearest policeman, Slaton raised his fist out the window, angled precisely to help conceal his face. He shouted one of the few Arabic phrases he could deliver convincingly.

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  He imagined that these policemen, like most Syrians, would agree that God was great. And like most Syrians, they would have little patience for the zealots of the self-proclaimed Party of God.

  The officer waved him onward, turning his head away from a belching cloud of smoke. For his part, Slaton breathed much more freely. As the checkpoint receded in the tall driver’s-side mirror, he shifted his attention ahead. Rising in front of him, like a great earthen jungle, was the war-torn city of Damascus.