by E H Jennings
His captors then made their next mistake: they started talking. There were three men; two of them had a lengthy conversation, while the third man was clearly a subordinate and was told to “keep his gook mouth shut.”
Though it was possible the men were joking, “gook” indicated one man was likely oriental. The other two spoke a sloppy amalgam of Bulgarian and Serbian, almost as if they couldn’t decide which language to use. Colton got a bit lucky when one of them mentioned the time and date, which allowed him to calculate he had been unconscious for approximately thirteen hours.
The information wasn’t terribly useful. If the men had access to private wings, which he had to assume they did, thirteen hours was a meaningless figure. They could be just about anywhere in the world in thirteen hours.
He was listening to the men rattle on about their myriad experiences with prostitutes when something strange happened. The van stopped.
It was then that the men had made their third and most pivotal mistake: they didn’t pay attention to detail.
Had they checked Colton’s pulse and respiratory rate they would have known he was no longer sedated. But they didn’t. Colton closed his eyes and let his body go completely limp as the van came to a stop. And when they opened the doors to the back hatch, dragging Colton out into the cold night air, he heard everything: the beating of the helicopter wings, the introduction of a fourth man to the party, whom he presumed to be the pilot of the helicopter, and most importantly, a name.
It was uttered so quickly he almost didn’t catch it. But when he did, his heart rate climbed even higher. It was a name he had heard before.
In the strange meeting with the woman in the mail room at Langley, she had mentioned widespread corruption throughout the United States Government. Her exact words were, “It climbs all the way to the top.” Colton wasn’t sure if that meant to the top of the CIA, as in DCI Bradford, or even worse, if it meant that President Steven Ryan was somehow involved. Either way, it was very bad news.
But that wasn’t the end of their rendezvous. The woman had told Colton that the conversation had never happened, that they had never met, and finally, to be suspicious of everyone. That he was in grave danger. Naturally, he had a thousand questions, but knowing she likely wouldn’t answer any of them, he had kept them to himself. Before reaching for the door, she turned back and said one final thing, which turned out to be the most important detail of all: The Mirage Project is the key.
And then she was gone.
In the weeks following, Colton had employed a complex network of backchannels and shadow contacts searching for any shred of evidence something called The Mirage Project had ever been conducted. It was nowhere to be found on CIA servers and he made sure to completely cover his tracks, erasing all evidence of his query.
It became apparent The Mirage Project either didn’t exist or was completely black; and given the exigent message from the woman, he had a strong notion it was the latter.
Few people were better at uncovering hidden truths than Colton King, but he found absolutely nothing. The Mirage Project truly didn’t exist. It had been wiped from reality. There were no evidence threads, no trails to follow. It had been there, Colton was sure of it. But it was gone now. Someone had gone to great lengths to remove it.
Which begged the question—what were they so desperate to keep hidden? And who were they?
Then came the break.
An encrypted email sent from an anonymous source somewhere in Italy. Whoever it was, they had information on The Mirage Project. The source refused to divulge significant details, nor would they answer any of Colton’s direct questions. Instead, they sent one message and one message only.
The MP was Nazism in America. Day and McManus. Your brothers were victims. So was I. Now you are too. It isn’t over.
–MT
There were no words to express Colton’s curiosity. Nazism in America? His brothers? The questions were too numerous to count, and prime among them was what MT had meant by his final statement: It isn’t over.
Despite becoming obsessed, Colton found nothing else on The Mirage Project. What he did find was information about the names Day and McManus.
Day referred to Colonel James Day, a prominent member of the CIA during the Cold War with a lengthy dossier of medals and commendations. McManus referred to Lieutenant General Warren McManus, and when Colton saw his picture online, he recognized him immediately. McManus was an admired national figure, but he was especially well known among the intelligence community, considering he had helped lead the National Clandestine Service for nearly two decades.
Colton even found a few articles suggesting if presidential hopeful Mark Prosser won the upcoming election, McManus would be on his short list to become the next Secretary of Defense.
Even in the moment, Colton knew he had made a mistake by not contacting Carson and Connor. They clearly had some connection to The Mirage Project and likely had answers to his questions. But he simply couldn’t bring himself to ask. He had asked about their military experience in the past and was always met with the same terse admonition: We don’t talk about it.
And if he was honest with himself, Colton was mortally afraid. Not of whatever danger the woman had said he was in, but of something far worse. He was afraid of finding out his brothers had been part of something nefarious.
They were his idols. He had spent his whole life looking up to them.
For the first time in his life, Colton was afraid of the truth. So he stayed quiet. And now he was here, locked away in a cell, his life and America’s national security in serious jeopardy.
McManus. That was the name he had heard before they hoisted him onto the helicopter and flew him here, wherever here was.
Hearing the name was troubling, considering it confirmed all his worst fears. The woman had been telling the truth. The Mirage Project was real. His brothers had somehow been victims and now he was too, just like MT had said.
But hearing the name had also given him hope.
It meant he had guessed right in Paris. His napkin and the copy of the La Croix. The message he had left behind.
Footsteps in the corridor interrupted his thoughts. He closed his eyes and listened. There were four discernible sets of feet, maybe more. There were also voices. One belonged to the man who came to visit him three times a day, bringing food and a space heater. The other three were all women. And as the group passed by his door, his breath caught in his throat.
He listened in horror as Amy, Audrey, and Alyssa were loaded into a cell next door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Al-Safirah
After a mind-numbing two hour debriefing with Hassan Abdullah, the Arab had retired to his room and fallen asleep almost immediately. He had slept hard, never stirring despite the activity in the hallway outside his room and on the rooftop above.
He awoke at 0200, got dressed, and went to the roof.
The night watchman was a man named Raul. The Arab smoked several cigarettes with him, carefully explaining that the other men were not to know what the Arab was about to do. It was official Brigades business and questions were not welcome. Raul knew Faisah had the respect and trust of their leader, so he nodded his assent.
The Arab thanked Raul and handed him an extra pack of cigarettes before leaving the roof. He then made his way quietly through the compound and accessed the underground tunnel that led to the garage.
He selected a dusty blue jeep and drove through the back door, closing it behind him. He exited the compound and headed north.
The drive was quiet. He didn’t turn on the radio and there was no traffic. Instead, he took the opportunity to think.
As he came into southeast Aleppo, he took a deep breath and leaned back, letting his shoulders relax. The Arab wasn’t a man that got nervous. But even he had to admit there was a lot at stake.
Nonetheless, he knew it was time to take a risk.
• • •
The industrial city of She
ikh Najjar was located about five miles outside Aleppo and fell under the jurisdiction of the Aleppo Governorate. Situated less than forty miles from the Turkish border, nearly half of Sheikh Najjar’s two thousand businesses were Turkish-owned.
Once a thriving urban business community, Sheikh Najjar, like the rest of Syria, was heavily impacted by the civil war. Several hundred businesses were forced to close amid the fighting, which left the industrial zone mangled and bleeding. The city was a skeleton of its former self, and some say, as the war and destruction raged on, the city began to feel haunted.
Many of the business owners refused to go quietly, so they armed themselves and joined the battle, fighting for their way of life.
The Arab saw them as he drove into town. Pacing in front of their factories, patrolling the rooftops, machine guns at the ready. Sheikh Najjar was not a safe or hospitable place.
And that was why he had chosen it.
Just north of the industrial zone, the Arab turned into a narrow alleyway behind an abandoned factory. It was dark and a slight breeze scooted trash along the pavement. The Arab was peering into the darkness when lights erupted from the shadows.
He flashed his brights once, confirming his identity.
The Arab pulled the jeep in beside the other vehicle and rolled down his window. The other person did the same.
“Hello, Omar.”
Omar nodded at his boss. The Arab handed him one thousand American dollars.
“This will be the last time we see each other. Thank you for your assistance.”
Omar took the money and nodded again. He did not speak.
The passenger door of Omar’s 4Runner opened and Sayid Moussafi stepped out. Once Sayid had walked around and climbed into the jeep, Omar started his vehicle and drove out of the alley.
The Arab smiled at his protégé and the two men shook hands as they followed Omar back out into the street.
“Well done in Istanbul,” said the Arab. “You carried out the mission with perfection.”
Sayid returned the smile. “Thank you, Faisah. It is very good to see you.”
“Same to you, my friend.”
The two men caught up as they drove through an especially hostile segment of Sheikh Najjar. Sayid had his Kel-Tec sitting on his lap.
As he listened to Sayid recount his violent interaction with members of Crna Kuga, the Arab realized just how lucky he had been to find the Syrian physician. He was a brilliant doctor, but he possessed tactical skill far beyond his training.
It was driven by rage, the Arab knew. Rage was an excellent fuel, and when harnessed appropriately, could be used to yield overwhelmingly positive results.
But the man’s intellect, skill, and willingness to fight were not the reasons the Arab was recruiting him. The young Syrian had an insatiable thirst for justice. And that was precisely what the Arab needed. If there was a job requirement for what the Arab had in mind, that was it.
The conversation shifted from mission details to pleasantries as they came into Aleppo and drove south back toward the compound. When the jeep finally grew quiet, the Arab watched as Sayid stared out the window, pensively observing the dark countryside.
It was time.
“Sayid, I’ve been lying to you.”
Sayid looked at his mentor, a grin on his face. “What?”
The Arab wasn’t smiling. “I’ve been deceiving you. From the moment we met, I’ve been leading you to believe things that aren’t true. And the first thing I need to tell you is that I’m sorry.”
The jeep lurched as they hit a rough spot in the road; both men ignored it.
“This has something to do with your name, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” said the Arab. “There are many things you don’t know about me. And up until now, that was by design.”
“And now it’s time to tell the truth? To come clean?”
The Arab didn’t say anything.
“Did you lie about your family being killed?” asked Sayid. “Because if you did, I’m going to kill you.” He lifted the Kel-Tec and leveled it at the Arab’s head.
The Arab showed no sign of being shaken. “No, I didn’t. They were killed in a manner not terribly different from yours. I would never use your family’s murder as leverage.”
“Then I suggest you start talking,” said Sayid, keeping the pistol aimed at the Arab’s face. The pain he felt at the betrayal was overwhelming. He was his mentor, his friend. In some ways, he was a father to him. “Tell me your name,” he demanded.
The Arab shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Tell me your name!”
“Sayid, listen to me. Let me finish. If you still don’t like what I’m saying at the end, if you still feel betrayed, then I’ll let you shoot me.”
Sayid didn’t lower the pistol.
“I’m not a Saudi,” said the Arab. “And Faisah isn’t my real name. I joined the Qassam Brigades with an ulterior motive and have been using my position to my own personal advantage.
“The Damascus operation is a hoax. I have been travelling to Damascus; the apartment I have there is real and I have been meeting with members of the Syrian government. But I have not been gathering secrets. Most of the information I’ve reported to Abdullah has been fabricated.”
Sayid’s finger went inside the trigger guard. “So you work for the Syrians?” He laughed. “Goodbye Faisah, or whatever the hell your name is.”
The Arab lifted a hand. “No, I most certainly do not. But I also don’t sympathize with a terrorist organization like Hamas. My only loyalty is to justice, Sayid. Surely you of all people can understand that.”
“As a matter of fact I don’t,” he spat. “Assad is the devil himself. His fucking loyalists killed my family. Why would you interfere with an organization trying to remove him from power?”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” the Arab said. “I have greatly advanced Hamas’s aim of taking out Assad. I said most of the information was fabricated. I have given the opposition plenty of legitimate details regarding the inner workings of the Syrian government. I have also leaked important information directly to the Syrian National Council. Why? Because they aren’t terrorists. They’re actually seeking justice for the Syrian people.”
Sayid looked dubious. “So what the hell is it then? Why join the Qassam Brigades? Why do any of this?”
“It’s very complicated. But the primary reason was to convince the Syrian government to blackmail a former American contact of mine. A very bad man.”
“An American?”
“Yes.”
Sayid was quiet for several moments, his mind reeling. None of it made sense. “Why the Syrians? And why would you need to join Hamas to do that? Why not just go straight to the bastards in Damascus?”
“I chose the Syrians because they have credibility. If I convinced them to claim they had intel on the American, I knew he would believe it. He did some things in Syria that were very heinous. He is a powerful man and if those details ever came to light, he would lose everything. And his will to preserve his power outranks his will to do anything else.”
Sayid gripped the pistol tighter. “Why join Hamas?”
“Because that was the token the Syrians required.”
Sayid was clearly confused and getting more agitated by the moment. The Arab knew he needed to wrap this up, and quickly.
“Blackmail is all about leverage, Sayid. I blackmailed the American with information that could remove him from power and possibly even end his life. I convinced the Syrians to risk their necks and blackmail the American with information they don’t actually possess by choosing the perfect bait.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“I came to them as a Hamas insider. They thought I had infiltrated Hamas for their gain, not my own. I had information they wanted. The bait was simple—blackmail the American by claiming the Syrians had evidence of his atrocities, and tell him the only way to avoid exposure was by killing members of the opposition here in S
yria.”
Sayid clenched his jaw. “I think I should just kill you and forget all this.”
“That gave both the American and the Syrians something to gain. Don’t you see? The American has access to resources that can take out key members of the Syrian opposition. That’s a huge benefit for the Syrians. It turned out it was enough to convince them to plant the blackmail. And the American took the bait hook, line, and sinker.”
“What the hell is the point, Faisah?” The edge in his voice said he was done listening. “How does killing members of the Syrian opposition somehow hurt this American? What do you stand to gain from doing all this manipulative shit?”
The Arab finally smiled. “Sometimes, to slay a sleeping monster, you have to wake him up first.”
At long last, Sayid put down the pistol. “Why?” he asked again. “Why tell me all this?”
“Because I want you to join me when I leave Hamas.”
Sayid glared at him, his face wrought with disbelief. “You’re recruiting me again?”
The Arab nodded. “And this time I’ll tell you everything. You will be an integral member of the team I have planned.”
“Do you not understand that the only reason I joined the Brigades was to fight Assad? I don’t care what you have planned. I want to kill Assad and everyone loyal to him. That’s all.”
“Injustice is not a problem unique to Syria,” said the Arab. “What about the thousands of other families slain all over the world every day? Who’s fighting for them?”
Sayid shook his head. “That isn’t my fight.”
The Arab shrugged. “Maybe it is, my friend.”
The jeep was silent. As they turned left and descended the slope back onto the compound property, Sayid finally looked over.
“Why now? I just risked my life for you in Turkey and now you tell me it was all fake. What was that, some kind of ruse you were conducting to save the world?”
The Arab parked the jeep in the garage and looked intently at Sayid. “Your work in Istanbul was critical and you did an excellent job. As for why I’m telling you now, there is one very important reason for my timing.”