Assassin's Code

by Ward Larsen

  Uday stared out the window and was happy for the darkness. He had no desire to see beyond the machines. To see what he’d been complicit in destroying. Uday had produced countless videos for the caliphate, uploaded thousands of photographs. Many were grotesque and inhumane, bordering on sadistic. Yet it was the images from Palmyra that he’d found strangely haunting, perhaps because they represented something more fundamental—not attacks on bound and helpless humans, but an assault on civilization itself.

  He remembered as a schoolboy learning the ancient legends. Hadrian, Tiberius, Solomon—all had walked these same sands over the millennia, visited the same oasis crossroad. The Islamic State had come as well. They did not control Palmyra any longer, but there had been more than one occupation at the height of the caliphate’s reach. Today its fighters were gone, some no doubt having melded into the local populace. At the crest of its domination, however, ISIS had made its terrible mark.

  Uday remembered editing videos to put their work on display. Palmyra, one of the world’s most revered archaeological sites, had been declared idolatrous by the caliph. Its ancient stone theater was used as a backdrop for executions, a video Uday himself had uploaded for the world to see. Orders were eventually given to raze every “totem of idolatry.” Structures that had withstood thousands of years of weather and earthquakes and invasions became little more than targets to a cult of religious fanatics who attacked them with dynamite and heavy equipment. Men whose education was drawn entirely from one book, and whose teachers slanted its words into a blueprint for an apocalypse, brought ruin as best they could.

  Uday’s hand tensed over the door handle as he watched the great machines slide past his window. Clearly they had been idle since the Islamic State’s pullback. Even so, as the caliphate steadily lost control of territory, he’d heard Chadeh discuss new tactics. Among them—returning teams of infiltrators to places like this, a desperate effort to prove their continued relevance.

  He felt a peculiar sensation come over him. “Stop!” Uday shouted.

  Faisal stomped on the brakes, and the Toyota skidded to a halt. “What is wrong?”

  Uday stared at the nearest bulldozer, only a few yards away. He tried to remember what the mechanic had asked him for over a year ago. What was it?

  “Aziz?” Sarah asked haltingly.

  Finally he remembered. “Give me a rag,” he said.

  “A rag?” replied Faisal. “But what—”

  Uday shot his brother a hard look. Faisal reached beneath his seat and produced a stained piece of cloth. Uday took it, opened the door, and walked to the first of the big machines.

  It was painted desert tan, a Russian-built behemoth that had been abandoned by fleeing government forces early in the conflict. The caliphate had claimed the earthmovers as a spoil of war, but for nearly a year they had sat idle on the shores of what was then called Lake Assad. In time, the caliph had seen a need and ordered them put into service. Uday was given a list of spare parts to obtain online.

  Now he circled the great machine like a bird circling its prey, sharp-eyed and purposeful. Searching for an opening. He thought he saw what he wanted in a recess of the engine bay. Uday went to work using the rag, but quickly realized that his hands weren’t strong enough. He spotted a large wrench on the floor of the driver’s compartment. The wrench’s span wasn’t big enough to grip the housing, so he turned it into a hammer, battering the thick plastic blow after blow. It finally came loose and fell to the dirt, oil spewing onto the ground from a broken line. With his method in place, he had the second bulldozer disabled in less than a minute.

  Uday stood back when he was done, completely out of breath. The sleeves of his robe were stained black as he stood back and regarded his work. The two engine oil filters he had ordered from St. Petersburg, necessary for the machines to run, were lying on the ground, their plastic cases shattered and fabric filter rings crushed. Oil oozed from the portals on both engines, dripping down the great treads and turning the sand beneath them black. Leaching back into the very desert from which it might have been extracted.

  “Aziz?” Sarah’s voice, wrapped in caution.

  He turned to see her standing outside the SUV, a guarded expression on her face.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He dropped the wrench into the dirt, and found himself smiling. “Yes, darling. I am better than I have been in a very long time.”

  FORTY

  The Gulfstream floated gracefully out of a clear starlit sky, and shortly after three that morning began its final approach to Palmachim Air Base, south of Tel Aviv. Slaton saw the blackness of the Mediterranean sweep past the window, followed by runway lights, and finally a rush of concrete before the tires kissed the earth—arriving within inches of the place and two minutes of the time that Nicolette had promised so many hours ago. That degree of exactitude and sureness, he knew, was about to come to an end.

  The jet taxied hurriedly to a quiet corner of the airfield, and when it stopped he saw a long car in the shadow of a hangar. Bloch or Nurin? he wondered. The answer was fast in coming.

  “Hello, Anton,” Slaton said, sliding into the limo’s backseat.

  “The director sends his regrets,” Bloch replied. “He’s rather busy.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “A great deal has happened since you left France.”

  “You could have sent a message—I’m sure the airplane was capable.”

  “I thought it better to let you get some sleep on the flight.”

  “Is it going to be that kind of night?”

  Bloch gave a wistful sigh. “I think it is what I have come to cherish most about retirement—eight hours of uninterrupted sleep every night.”

  “Except tonight.”

  “We heard from Baland. The raid was a failure—the girl wasn’t there.”

  Slaton’s gaze turned critical. “Did I make a mistake? Was it the wrong apartment?”

  “Don’t worry—your instincts for the dark arts remain as reliable as ever. She was definitely there, and stayed for a time. The French recovered trace evidence of gunshot residue. There was also blood in the bathroom, along with some skin and hair that is being analyzed for DNA.”

  “I doubt they’ll find any matches.”

  “I would stake my dubious reputation against it.”

  “So how did we lose track of her?”

  “The katsas missed an exit, and obviously she became suspicious. There was a skylight in the roof, and she very conveniently kept a ladder in the flat. The roof in back is very near a neighboring building, and from there half the rooftops in Monceau come into play. I’m sure it was a planned contingency on her part.”

  “I missed it too. The mistake is on me as much as anyone.”

  “Now is not the time for recriminations. This woman, Malika, was there for a time. I think the response might have been quicker if Baland hadn’t insisted on leading the assault himself.”

  “I’ll bet he’s disappointed.”

  “He used a far stronger word—Nurin talked to him directly. The French have gone back to searching, but she’s gone to ground again. Another safe house, I would imagine. As far as anyone can tell, she’s working alone.”

  “It will be awkward for Baland if she’s taken into custody.”

  “Undoubtedly. But that is not our problem.”

  The limo was already to the freeway, accelerating quickly on a nearly empty road. The city around them was in a deep sleep. Slaton asked, “Has Baland heard from Uday about the details of this exfiltration?”

  “Not yet, but we expect contact soon … assuming he is still alive.”

  “Do you have reason to believe otherwise?”

  Bloch said, “The Americans run the best signals intelligence in Syria, and we asked them to pass along immediately anything relating to Aziz Uday. It didn’t take long. They isolated radio traffic and messages implying that the caliphate is looking for him—looking very hard.”

  “T
hat’s good—it supports the version of events Baland has given us. It means Uday really has defected.”

  “That is our view as well. The Americans also mentioned that they’ve recorded an ‘event’ on certain internal servers within Raqqa. Virtually all ISIS comm networks appear to be either down or degraded.”

  Slaton considered it. “So their wizard really did throw a wrench in his machine to cover his departure.”

  “It would appear so.”

  “I think I like this guy.”

  “Good, because very soon you may be hauling him out of Syria on your back.”

  * * *

  While Anisa rushed from one workstation to another coordinating the search for Uday, Chadeh convened a meeting with two other men in a quiet corner of the mosque. She watched them discreetly, noticing that they’d taken with them printouts of the information Malika had sent earlier. There was a hushed argument, and the men gestured at different pages. Finally, Chadeh led the group back toward Anisa.

  She held her breath as they approached.

  “We have come to a decision,” he said. “This information Argu has sent us—it is useful. Unfortunately, any value will be lost if Uday manages to reach the West. We must initiate the first wave of attacks immediately.”

  “Attacks?” Anisa repeated.

  “We must strike these targets before the authorities are alerted. Use any cells or individuals in France who can be contacted.”

  “But the database has been—”

  “Enough!” Chadeh said, cutting her off with a slashing motion of his hand. “Your glorious database has proved a failure in the worst way. Surely other methods remain to contact our recruits in Europe.”

  She thought about it. “There might still be paper files in the trash cans—unless Uday has seen to those as well.”

  “Yes, that’s good. I can order commanders to spread the word among frontline units. Many of those from Europe will have contact numbers for friends and family members.”

  Anisa nodded, conceding that Chadeh had a point. They were going back to square one, but it might be possible to muster a small force quickly. “How many teams will we need?” she asked.

  Chadeh handed over the printout, and she saw certain paragraphs circled. “We have identified seven targets to be attacked, God willing.”

  “So be it. I will work through the night. By tomorrow afternoon the orders will be sent.”

  “No. You are to have this done by morning. That is not God’s will—it is mine.”

  * * *

  The Toyota was an hour beyond Palmyra when its headlights illuminated a fork in the road.

  “Which road should I take?” Faisal asked.

  “Have you seen any route numbers?” Uday asked.

  “Road signs?” Faisal laughed. “You are not in England anymore, my brother.”

  Uday tried to recall the route he’d traced with his finger over a map on a computer screen. He knew the caliphate still ran one roving checkpoint in this area, but he couldn’t remember exactly where it was supposed to be today. “Steer left,” he said, “away from Damascus.”

  A straight line would have given a three-hundred-mile run from Raqqa to the Golan Heights, but his chosen route was necessarily longer to avoid villages and known trouble spots. The ground they’d traversed so far had until recently been controlled by the Islamic State—although “control” was a strong word anywhere in Syria these days. Map or not, Uday knew they were at the limits of the caliphate’s reach. Soon they would be crossing sparsely populated desert, and any encounters there would likely be with a local tribe, the sort who were happy to take a “transit tax.” Less likely, but of greater risk, was to run into Hezbollah or a squad of Assad’s thugs. The risks down any road here were measurable, although not much different from what Bedouin had faced since the days of Christ: tribal mistrust, difficult terrain, and a place where lines on maps were meaningless.

  “Are you sure we have enough petrol?” Uday asked.

  Faisal, who rarely had a care, flapped his hand in the air. “I am sure we can reach Nawa. There I will find more … have no worries. My brother is a big man, nearly a member of the Shura Council.” He chuckled, and when he looked in the mirror Uday and Sarah both smiled at him. As soon as Faisal looked away, Uday’s humor dissipated.

  He said, “You realize that you can never go back to Raqqa.”

  “Yes, I know,” Faisal replied, echoing their earlier conversation. He was a bachelor who’d moved to the city on Uday’s coattails, and seeing the limitations of driving a cab, he had done well administering a food-distribution center under the caliphate’s banner. In Nawa, Faisal would have to find something new. But then, he always did. The brothers had been raised on the tan shores of the Gulf of Oman, and from there launched into the world. They kept in touch with their extended family, cousins mostly, who asked guarded questions about what the brothers were doing in Syria. Uday was sure Faisal would be welcomed back in Muscat if it came to that. He, however, had his sights set farther west.

  Uday’s ardor for the caliphate had long ago been beaten down by the brutality of the regime. It was his feelings for Sarah, however, that had put the idea of desertion into his mind. Once that choice was made, he’d tried to consider every consequence. He could think of only two people in Raqqa who might suffer reprisals for his defection. Both were in the car with him now.

  He felt Sarah take his hand, and when he met her gaze Uday didn’t like what he saw—a woman trying to be brave.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I have planned everything.”

  “How can we get across the Israeli border?” she asked in a hushed voice as the SUV groaned over deep ruts.

  “I am making arrangements. If we can safely reach Nawa, I have friends there who will give us shelter for a day or two—Druze who are not aligned with the government.” The Golan had a well-earned reputation as an independent region, a place where tribal alignments were more fluid than in other governorates. Certain groups there even favored Israel, and the seemingly endless war in Syria had driven growing numbers across the border to apply for Israeli citizenship. It was dangerous territory, to be sure, but laced with an air of opportunity. “A man is going to come. He will guide us across the border.”

  “But we are talking about Israel. They watch the Golan closely, and the U.N. keeps a buffer zone. How can we get through such defenses?”

  “That is the beauty of it. The man who is coming to lead us out—he is Israeli. He will take us to safety.”

  Sarah nodded thoughtfully, and he thought he might have seen a softening in her expression. Then all at once it went to stone. “Look!”

  He followed her gaze through the front windshield. Two heavy trucks were blockading the road ahead. Both flew the black flag of the Islamic State.

  FORTY-ONE

  To his mild surprise, Slaton was not delivered to Mossad headquarters. The car traveled north along the coast highway to Haifa, followed by an easterly turn into darkening hills. In a few hours the sun would rise, and Slaton knew perfectly well what would be beneath it: Mount Meron, with its uneven green cliffs presiding over the smooth Sea of Galilee. He was familiar with these hills, having spent time here as a teen. Indeed, these were the grounds where he had learned to stalk and shoot small game, innocently honing skills that would one day be leveraged by Mossad to a very different end. Soon after they’d turned away from the coast, Bloch told Slaton what he already knew: This would be the staging point for an extraction op across the Golan Heights.

  Civilization disappeared behind them like an apparition, and when the car reached the safe house, there was not another light in sight. Bloch and Slaton got out, and under a dome of stars they set out along a curving gravel path. When the track straightened, Slaton saw a modest house at the end backed by a large detached shed. Halfway up the straightaway, two men materialized from the siding, Uzis slung across their chests. Everyone nodded cordially—or at least as cordially as was possible under such circu
mstances. Two minutes later they entered the house.

  The three men who were waiting inside reminded Slaton of himself not so many years ago. Young and fit, each with the kind of stony gaze that wasn’t a product of mere training.

  Bloch introduced them to Slaton from left to right. “Aaron, Tal, and Matai. They know who you are.”

  Handshakes were exchanged all around. Aaron was tall and leanly built with a tight professional haircut, Tal dark and intense. Matai, with shaggy black hair and a careless smile, looked as though he ought to be teaching college English—causing Slaton to suspect he was the most dangerous of the bunch.

  Aaron, obviously in charge of the unit, led everyone to another room and began a briefing. “We’re extracting two individuals from Syria across the Golan border. Is that still the big picture?”

  “For now, yes,” Slaton said.

  “Can I ask where this information is coming from?”

  Before Slaton could respond, Bloch said, “No.”

  Aaron frowned.

  Slaton intervened, “I’ve met the source who’s in direct contact with our defectors.”

  “And you trust him or her?”

  “Absolutely not. When I go into harm’s way, I never trust anyone who’s not standing next to me.”

  Aaron’s expression brightened. “You really are him,” he said. “The one we all thought was dead.”

  Slaton didn’t reply. Aaron didn’t pursue it. They diverted to a room full of guns, explosives, body armor, and comm gear. Slaton gave a low whistle. “You guys are serious about this.”

  “About staying alive? You’re damned straight.” For five minutes Aaron briefed everyone on what was available.

  Slaton once more shifted gears: Chateaubriand and Bordeaux had given way to full magazines and flash-bang grenades. At the end, he had only one question. “How will we move?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask that.”

  * * *

  Aaron led Slaton and Bloch outside, then down a dirt path to the shed. It was too small to be called a barn, but big enough to contain a vehicle or two. Aaron took a grip on a large swinging door, pulled it open, and tugged a hanging cord to snap on a light. Slaton stood looking at four large ATVs. They were painted in a desert camo pattern and tricked out for weapons carriage.