Foreign Agent: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  Unzipping the side compartment of his camera bag, he removed the first envelope and handed it to him.

  “No talk,” Yusuf cautioned. “No Arabic. No Insha’Allah.”

  Harvath understood. Better for him to play dumb. Let Yusuf do all the talking. This is what he was paid to do.

  Arriving at the checkpoint, they were surrounded by a team of four very serious-looking Jordanian soldiers. Yusuf cranked his yellow smile up to full wattage.

  They spoke for only a few moments. Then Yusuf discreetly passed the envelope out the window.

  After looking inside the envelope, the lead soldier tucked it inside his tunic, smiled, and waved them through.

  Yusuf put the truck in gear and accelerated forward.

  As they rolled past the last of the troops and military barricades, Harvath looked in his side mirror. “That was easy,” he remarked.

  Yusuf crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray and quickly lit another one. “Jordan is always easy,” he said. “Now comes the hard part. Now comes Syria.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Wide, green fields interspersed with razor wire and long walls of concrete block created a no-man’s-land separating Jordan from Syria. Through the windshield, Harvath could see their next checkpoint up ahead.

  “Money, please,” Yusuf said, extending his hand.

  Harvath removed the final envelope and handed it to him.

  “Thank you. No talking. Okay?”

  Harvath nodded as they neared the checkpoint and Yusuf began to slow down.

  Things looked a lot different here than they had on the Jordanian side. Every single structure bore battle scars. All the buildings were pockmarked with bullet holes. Many had been charred by fire or explosions. They were unquestionably entering a war zone.

  Eight armed men swarmed the truck as they rolled to a stop under a large concrete awning. Yusuf cranked the smile back up.

  The men were unshaven, their fatigues dirty and wrinkled. They clutched their Kalashnikovs in their hands, fingers on the triggers. They were sloppy, undisciplined. It was a powder keg just waiting for a spark. A very bad feeling began to grow in Harvath’s gut.

  His Arabic was good, but not good enough to keep up with the rapid-fire dialogue being shot back and forth. Things were definitely not going as well as they had on the other side.

  Finally, Yusuf nodded and put his truck in gear. Harvath had not seen any money change hands. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “They want me to pull ahead so they can search the truck.”

  Damn it, thought Harvath. He had known this was a possibility, but he had hoped it wouldn’t happen.

  As they pulled over to the side, men surrounded the truck. Yusuf was told to shut the engine down and get out. Harvath’s door was yanked open and he was ordered out too.

  A man with horrible breath stood inches away from Harvath demanding his passport. Harvath held up the laminated press credential hanging around his neck.

  The man slapped it away and repeated in heavily accented English, “Pazport. Pazport.”

  Slowly, Harvath removed his Canadian passport.

  The man snatched it from him and took a step back. He looked back and forth from Harvath to the picture several times. One of his buddies walked over and joined him.

  The man seemed to be preoccupied with something. He directed his colleague’s attention to the photo and then over at Harvath. He then tugged on his own hair.

  Fuck, Harvath thought. Not good. The guy didn’t like how recent his photo was.

  “Journalist” Harvath stated, trying to take control of the situation. “Photo?” he asked, pantomiming the use of a camera. Turning, he reached back toward the truck for his camera bag.

  The men did not like his sudden move. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” they began yelling in unison, bringing their weapons to bear on him.

  Harvath raised his hands, palms out. “No photo? That’s cool. No problem. Journalist,” he repeated, pointing at himself and then the laminated card around his neck. “Journalist.”

  Whoever these men were, they were very badly trained. Reaching for his camera bag had been a smart move. It had drawn them in closer.

  Two of them were so close that he could have disarmed either and shot the rest before any of them had any idea what was happening.

  Looking to his left, he saw that Yusuf had isolated a commander. They were off to the side discussing something. Probably money.

  Everyone in the Middle East assumed Westerners were rich. And, by their standards, most were, which made them a prime target for extortion and kidnapping.

  If for some reason the cash in the second envelope turned out not to be enough, Harvath had extra in the camera bag shoulder strap. But that was supposed to see him through the rest of his operation. If he showed up in Damascus without any cash, he was going to run into serious trouble.

  Harvath watched their body language. Yusuf’s conversation with the commander didn’t appear to be going well.

  As the commander turned and began to walk away, Yusuf reached out and put his hand on the man’s arm. No sooner had he done so than the commander spun and struck him.

  The blow hit so hard that it knocked him out. Yusuf fell to the ground and his head slammed against the pavement.

  Harvath moved to help him, but two of the men grabbed him by his arms and held him in place.

  The situation had just gone from bad to worse. Then the commander came over to deal with him.

  Harvath could tell that he was the alpha of this pack of wolves. He had cold, dark eyes. His brown, leathery face was crisscrossed with so many scars it looked like a road map. He sported a thick mustache so black that it had to have been dyed.

  The armed man holding Harvath’s Canadian passport handed it over to the commander. He commented in Arabic about Harvath’s appearance in the photo.

  The commander studied both him and his passport. He then scrutinized his press credential.

  While he was doing so, Harvath’s mind was working overtime. He had kept the Winkler knife with him. It was tucked in his waistband, at the small of his back.

  The men holding him had no clue what they were doing. He could easily break their hold. At that point, he could grab the commander, put the knife up against his throat, and it would be an entirely new ball game. But the chances of an overzealous, undisciplined recruit deciding he might try to take a shot anyway was pretty high.

  What Harvath wouldn’t have given at that moment for a sniper covering him, over on the Jordanian side.

  The commander looked up from the passport and locked eyes with Harvath. It was obvious that there was something about him he didn’t like. The feeling was definitely mutual.

  Lowering his eyes, Harvath glanced over at Yusuf. He was still flat on the ground, out cold. He wanted to knock this commander’s block off.

  When Harvath returned his gaze, the man held it for several seconds and then, without breaking eye contact, ordered his men in Arabic to open the trailer.

  They all dispersed, except for the two holding on to Harvath.

  Throwing the trailer doors open wide, several of the men climbed inside. When one of the men popped his head out to report what they had found, the commander yelled for them to empty it out.

  Instead of traveling back with an empty truck, Yusuf had bought goods with his own funds. He had hoped to sell them in Damascus for a profit. There were cases of water, bags of flour and rice, batteries, toilet paper, soap, and shampoo—luxuries that citizens in the war-torn country would have paid handsomely for. Now he was getting cleaned out.

  Yusuf had expected to lose some of the goods on the way back. It was the cost of doing business. Everyone took a cut. He hadn’t, though, expected to lose everything.

  As the men unloaded the trailer, Harvath’s blood pressure continued to rise. Pokin
g out of the commander’s tunic was the corner of the white envelope Yusuf had handed him. The man had accepted it, but he still wanted more. The greedy son of a bitch.

  Harvath was pissed. He wanted to reach out and snap the commander’s neck. He hated men like this. Men who preyed upon the weak.

  There was nothing, though, that Harvath could do about it. He had to suck it up and take it—all of it.

  With the trailer emptied out, the commander told his men to search the cab. The vultures weren’t done yet.

  But just as the men were climbing into the vehicle, two new trucks approached from the other direction.

  The men paused and looked at their commander. He glanced at the incoming trucks. They were rolling heavy, which meant they had a buyer on the Jordanian side. They’d be carrying cash in order to be allowed to pass. It was shaping up to be a good day.

  He handed Harvath his passport back, but held on to it for a fraction of a second longer than he should have as he fixed him with his icy stare.

  Finally, he released the document and nodded for his men to turn Harvath loose. They turned and headed to the other side of the checkpoint to fleece their next victims.

  Replacing the passport in his pocket, Harvath moved quickly to Yusuf, who had slowly regained consciousness.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, helping him to his feet.

  The Syrian nodded, but he was unsteady and needed to lean against him.

  Harvath helped him back to the cab and loaded him into the passenger seat.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry. You need to rest.”

  “Can you drive?”

  “Insha’Allah,” Harvath replied, closing his door.

  CHAPTER 51

  It was a rugged, desolate landscape. The brown, rocky soil was punctuated by thin, sickly trees. The only other life was an occasional goat tied up outside a crumbling, mud brick dwelling. The pitted, four-lane highway they were on had seen better days.

  When Harvath felt he had put enough distance between them and the checkpoint, he pulled the truck over to the side of the road.

  “What are you doing?” Yusuf asked.

  “I want to check you over. Make sure you’re okay.”

  “I am okay.”

  “All the same—”

  “No,” the Syrian insisted, opening his door and climbing down.

  Harvath opened his door and followed.

  Yusuf walked to the back of the trailer and opened the doors. He knew they had taken it all, but he needed to see for himself.

  He stood there for a long time, staring at the emptiness. A heavy black bruise had begun to grow beneath his right eye. Harvath stood next to him, but didn’t speak.

  “I have nothing now,” he uttered.

  “You’ll make the money back.”

  The man shook his head. “This was my last chance.”

  “What do you mean your last chance?”

  “I have no more money. I used everything we had to buy products in Jordan. Now those are gone.”

  “You’ll figure something out.”

  “I don’t think so,” Yusuf replied. “I owe too many people too much money.”

  Removing a package of cigarettes, he lit another and looked out across the fields. “Syria,” he said, shaking his head.

  Harvath felt terrible for the guy, but there wasn’t anything he could do. He let him have a couple more moments of quiet and then helped him close up the trailer.

  “I think I will drive,” Yusuf said.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Harvath asked.

  He attempted a smile. “Insha’Allah.”

  Before they got back in the cab, Harvath had him open up the hidden compartment where his pistol and other items had been hidden.

  Once he had transferred everything to his backpack, they climbed back in and got back on the road.

  Yusuf didn’t feel much like talking. Harvath didn’t blame him. He was content to ride in silence.

  The silence didn’t last long. Ten minutes later, Yusuf changed his mind. “Before the border, you asked about my family.”

  Harvath, who had been looking out the window, turned and faced him.

  “I have a wife,” said Yusuf. “One son and two daughters.”

  Flipping his visor down, he removed a photo from inside the fabric and handed it to him

  Harvath looked at Yusuf’s family. They were on the chunky side, just like him, and had big, bright smiles. It was taken somewhere near the ocean. They looked happy.

  “They’re beautiful,” Harvath said. “How old are your children?”

  “The boy is nine and the girls are eleven and thirteen.”

  Harvath handed the photo back to him. “I’m sure you are very proud of them.”

  Yusuf looked down at the photo and smiled for a moment. But as soon as his smile appeared, it disappeared. He was obviously still very upset about having been robbed.

  “You’ll figure something out,” Harvath assured him. “Don’t give up.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Never mind. Tell me about Ottawa.”

  Harvath laughed good-naturedly. “It’s the capital of Canada. Now let’s talk about your situation.”

  Yusuf shook another cigarette free from his pack, placed it in his mouth and reached for his lighter. “The money I lost today. I really needed it.”

  “That’s the great thing about money, you can always find a way to make more.”

  The Syrian took a deep drag on his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs for a long time before exhaling it toward his partially lowered window. “I have lung cancer.”

  Harvath felt horrible for the guy. Life in Syria was tough enough without cancer. “I’m sorry to hear that, Yusuf. What’s your prognosis?”

  “Without treatment, it’s anybody’s guess. Six months maybe.”

  “That’s what the money was for?”

  He nodded and took another deep drag.

  “You know, maybe you want to lay off the cigarettes.”

  Yusuf expelled another cloud of smoke through the window. “At this point, what difference does it make?”

  The man was probably right, but still. “Tell me about your wife. What does she do?”

  His face momentarily lifted into a smile. “She used to have a dress shop.”

  “And now?”

  “The dress shop is gone. Like everything else in Aleppo. I moved my family to Damascus to find work. My wife is still looking.”

  Harvath wasn’t a soft touch, but this guy was breaking his heart. Though he made his living pulling a trigger, he hated war. He absolutely hated it.

  For the last twenty minutes of their trip, Yusuf turned the conversation back to Ottawa. Harvath only knew a little about the city, so the rest he simply made up. He didn’t like lying to the guy, but Yusuf wouldn’t know.

  As they got closer to Damascus, everything became greener and more prosperous. This was, without a doubt, the seat of Syria’s power. Or, more appropriately, the seat of non-ISIS power.

  Passing a rather nice new building that looked like a school of some sort, Yusuf derisively snorted, “Iranians.”

  “They own that school?”

  “Madrassa,” Yusuf corrected him. “They have built them all over Damascus.”

  “What for?” said Harvath. “You have that many Iranians?”

  Yusuf shook his head as he slowed for a stoplight. “The Iranians came to help prop up the regime. They want to convert everyone to Shia Islam. They set up madrassas and mosques, buy real estate, and import other Shia to live here. I think that’s why the Syrian government invited the Russians in. They don’t care about religion. They only care about power.”

/>   The man had no idea how right he was.

  As they rolled into the city, the landscaping grew even more dramatic. Full, healthy trees were everywhere. Grass lined the medians. Palm trees lined the sidewalks. Flowers spilled from planters.

  There were large apartment buildings, cafés, boutiques, and taxicabs. There were cars everywhere, as well as people walking and riding bikes.

  It reminded Harvath a bit of Washington, D.C. No matter how bad things were in the rest of the country, it managed to carry on as if nothing was wrong. It was astounding.

  He knew, though, that rebel-controlled neighborhoods outside the city, like Douma in the northeast, looked completely different. They were frequently targeted for shelling by the regime and resembled parts of Berlin after World War II.

  “You didn’t expect this,” said Yusuf as he watched Harvath taking it all in.

  “No.”

  “Have you been to Damascus before?”

  He shook his head. “I have been to other parts of Syria, but not Damascus.”

  “Looking for bad people?”

  “Yes,” said Harvath.

  Yusuf made another turn. “We’re getting close. Where do you want me to drop you?”

  Williamson had given Harvath a prepaid Syrian cell phone. Powering it up, he texted the number he had been given.

  “Stop up there,” Harvath said, indicating an area big enough to accommodate the truck.

  While Harvath waited for a response, Yusuf pulled off the street and parked.

  A few seconds later, Harvath’s phone chirped. After reading the text, he asked Yusuf, “Where are we?”

  The Syrian told him and Harvath typed a reply into his phone.

  “Do you have another trip planned yet?” Harvath asked.

  “Why? Will you need another ride?”

  “Maybe. Do you have access to any other kinds of vehicles?”

  “Yes,” said Yusuf. “But this is supposed to be my last journey for a while.”

  “Because of your treatment.”

  The man nodded.

  “How can I reach you if I need to?”

  Yusuf gave him his cell phone number.