Getting into Syria, let alone Damascus, had been a challenge. Zima flew on the IMSI’s Gulfstream from New York City to Beirut. From there, she took a cab and had to cross two Lebanese security checkpoints before reaching the Syrian border. The IMSI had prepared the proper documentation and her forged Croatian passport—with a suitable visa—worked like a charm with the Lebanese. The Syrian border guards were more thorough. But after a methodical search of the taxi and a short interview where she talked about her credentials as an agricultural expert, they let her through but warned her that the road to Damascus wasn’t safe and that the government couldn’t ensure her safety. To her surprise, the taxi was stopped only twice on their way to Damascus. The government troops were respectful and, after a cursory inspection, they were given the green light to continue their journey.
With so many Syrians fleeing their country, it had been easy for the IMSI to find a suitable apartment with views of the square. She was perfectly positioned to observe the whole process and had already identified the Canadian contingent. The fact that she knew one of them had facilitated her effort. She transitioned to her camera and took several pictures of the man she knew to be Joachim Persky. Persky was the deputy assistant-director of the CSIS—the Canadian Security Intelligence Service—collection division. He was a hard worker who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. The fact that he was in Syria, personally taking charge of the operation, proved she’d been right about him. She then pointed the camera and zoomed on the two men seated next to him. Dressed in gray cargo pants and black, short-sleeved polo shirts, Zima guessed they were probably JTF-2 operators—Canadian Special Forces soldiers specialized in counter-terrorism—tasked with protecting Persky.3 Both operators were carrying fanny packs that Zima was pretty sure weren’t holding candy. They looked alert and ready to go. A waiter—a tall, good-looking man with a muscular build and dark skin—brought them espressos and water. She snapped a few pictures of him too. She’d always loved tall, handsome men, even bald ones like him.
If all went according to plan, she would take pictures of Mike’s father and of the Syrians involved in the exchange and would be on her way back to Beirut before the end of the day. She looked at her watch. Ten minutes left before the scheduled meet.
CHAPTER 19
Damascus, Syria
Ray Powell’s nerves were being tested. He wondered who would be there to collect him. He doubted they would be Canadians. That would be too good to be true, and he knew as well as anyone that the Canadian government didn’t negotiate with terrorists. But were the Syrians considered terrorists? And what did his country agree to give back in exchange for his freedom? He would know soon enough.
“We’re almost there, Mr. Ambassador,” General Younis said. “Less than two minutes.”
Since the last checkpoint, the motorcade had slowed down. Traffic was a bit heavier and Powell could see more pedestrians. Small shops, cafés and restaurants lined the street. There were only a few people seated at their tables but at least they were open. From the SUV’s windows, he could see they were approaching a nondescript square close to the old city of Damascus. Orange trees gave the landscape some much-needed bright colors, as the rest of the city seemed rather drab to Powell. The motorcade stopped in front of a leather shop and General Younis said, “Stay in the vehicle, Mr. Ambassador. I’ll be right back.”
The Syrian general exited the vehicle and several plainclothes and uniformed officers did the same from the other two SUVs. Even though Powell couldn’t hear what Younis was saying to his men, it was clear he was giving them directives. Less than a minute later, they left in different directions in groups of two.
“What’s going on?” Powell asked as Younis climbed back in the SUV.
“I’m deploying my men around the perimeter. This area is one of the most secured in all Damascus, but the rebels have eyes everywhere. Your security is paramount.”
He looked sincere enough.
“I appreciate this, General.”
Younis nodded. “Time to go.”
CHAPTER 20
Damascus, Syria
Igor Votyakov brought the espressos and the glasses of water to the two Canadian security men. He was careful not to make eye contact with them. Tier-one operators had a tendency to recognize one another. With only a few minutes before the beginning of the operation, he didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention.
His father, the Sheik, had briefed him on exactly what he wanted. There were no rules. Only the successful completion of the objectives counted. The Sheik wanted Ray Powell. He wanted him badly. And General Younis had to die. Younis had betrayed his father and that wouldn’t stand. No one betrayed his father and lived.
No one.
Case in point was the assassination of one of his father’s closest associates, Major Jackson Taylor, at the hands of Omar Al-Nashwan. With Al-Nashwan dead and his father in bed with the Russian president, Igor had been chosen to assist his father in accomplishing a task that would allow his country to take its revenge on the United States. Igor doubted his father’s motivation was to see Russia prosper once again. The Sheik wasn’t known to take other people’s wishes under consideration when plotting his own retaliation. But if his objectives were aligned with Russia’s, why not?
His phone chirped in his pocket.
“We’ve identified six Syrian security officers on foot,” one of his men said.
“Wait for my signal before engaging,” Igor replied.
“One more thing, sir,” the man continued. “I’ve spotted a women observing the scene from a fourth-floor window across the square. I didn’t see any weapons but she does have a camera.”
“She’ll be your first target. Do it quietly.”
“Understood.”
The motorcade parked on the other side of the street and Igor watched a smiling Younis opening the door for the former Canadian ambassador. Younis’s attitude pissed him off. How could he ever think that betraying his father wouldn’t bring any consequences? Younis’s driver had remained loyal to the Sheik and would be handsomely rewarded for his services.
Time to play.
Igor blew his nose in a tissue, giving the signal to begin.
CHAPTER 21
Damascus, Syria
From her vantage point, Zima Bernbaum caught sight of the plainclothes Syrian security officers before the JTF-2 operators did. Their presence was to be expected, but it wasn’t reassuring to see them. Being the eternal optimist, Zima wanted to believe they were there to protect the ambassador. The Canadian operators rose from their chairs the moment they realized they were being watched. They didn’t look too concerned, so maybe they already knew to expect company.
Zima took as many pictures as she could of all the Syrian officers she had spotted before continuing her security scan. She focused on the windows facing the square. Some of them were open but she couldn’t see deep enough inside to know if a threat was lurking or not. There was only so much she could do by herself. She returned her attention to the Syrian officers and was happy to see that they weren’t focusing on the Canadian delegation but on the perimeter. They too were looking for any signs of danger.
A convoy of three Range Rovers in tight formation made its way slowly toward the square. Zima’s heart started beating faster. This is it.
She grabbed her camera and started taking photos of the Range Rovers. There was no doubt in her mind that Mike’s father was in one of these vehicles. Movement on one of the rooftops on her left grabbed her attention. She used her camera to zoom in.
Not good.
A man carrying a sniper rifle was crawling toward the edge of the building. For a moment, Zima thought the man was part of the Syrian security detail but she dismissed the idea once the man reached his firing position.
His rifle was aimed at the Syrian security detail. Zima remembered the one-plus-one rule. If you see one, there’
s another one you don’t see. It was a basic police concept that had saved her life more than once.
Only seconds remained before the motorcade carrying Ray Powell reached the café where the Canadians were waiting. The motorcade is waiting for the green light from the security officers they deployed. Her gut told her something was wrong but she couldn’t see another sniper.
Wait! There! Fifty meters to the right of the café, a group of six men, all of them Caucasians, split into three groups of two. Shit! Something’s happening. Zima used her secured satellite phone to call the IMSI headquarters as the motorcade stopped in front of the café, partially obscuring her view.
Jonathan Sanchez picked up the phone on the first ring.
“All is well, Zima?”
“Contact the Canadians,” she said. “Something’s not right. They need to pull back. Now.”
Then the window in front of her shattered and a bullet struck the satellite phone she was holding to her ear. Plastic fragments peppered her face as the bullet continued its trajectory and ripped away her middle finger, sending blood and bone fragments into the wall next to her.
........
Ray Powell couldn’t believe it when the motorcade stopped across the street from the café. He didn’t know personally the three men who were waiting for him but they looked the part. It was clear that two of them were security while the one wearing a gray suit was probably a diplomat from the Canadian embassy in Beirut. By their looks, the two men providing security were either from the RCMP Protective Division or they were members of JTF-2. It didn’t matter. He was in good hands.
General Younis was the first out of the Range Rover. He personally opened Powell’s door.
“Please, Mr. Ambassador.”
Powell stepped out and followed the general. The Canadian diplomat was smiling and Powell waved at him. He was halfway across the street when he heard the familiar sound of a pistol being drawn out of its holster. He turned around to face the barrel of the driver’s pistol. The Syrian soldier already had his finger on the trigger. Powell’s training, honed from years spent in the RCMP Prime Minister Protective Detail, kicked in. His left hand swiped from right to left and connected with the driver’s wrist just as he was firing. Powell heard a grunt and saw General Younis clutch his abdomen. He tried to grab the gun but the soldier was well trained and kicked him in the stomach, creating the distance he needed to readjust his aim.
For a fraction of a second, Powell was sure he was about to die. He was unarmed. Powerless. Then a multitude of shots rang out from behind him as the JTF-2 operators opened fire on the soldier. The Syrian collapsed, his torso turning red. Powell ran to him and picked up the pistol just as a full-blown firefight erupted all around him. The first to fall was the Canadian diplomat. He was hit multiple times from fire coming from two shooters forty meters to their right. One of the JTF-2 operators returned fired and the two shooters went down. Then the JTF-2 member fell face first as a bullet entered the back of his neck. Powell scanned the rooftops and saw the barrel of a sniper’s rifle. He fired a few rounds at it.
“Sir!” yelled the remaining JTF-2 operator who had run to him. “We need to go.”
Powell nodded. A quick look at General Younis confirmed he wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t going to make it if he didn’t receive immediate medical attention.
“We don’t have time to help him, sir,” the operator said. “We move or we die.”
Powell didn’t understand what was going on. The Syrians seemed to be engaging another group of men that had apparently come out of nowhere.
“We have a car and a driver at the back of the restaurant,” the operator said. “We’ll go through the café. Stay on my heels, and check my six. Let’s move.”
........
Zima Bernbaum’s face was on fire. The plastic had cut through her flesh, and blood was pouring from the open cuts. At least her vision wasn’t affected. But her hand was a mess. The middle finger of her right hand was missing and blood gushed out.
Need to stop the bleeding.
She looked around for a medical kit she knew wasn’t there. The apartment was empty except for a couple of dirty couches and a dining table. She had to move. People might already be on their way to her location. Her mind snapped back to her mission. Ray Powell. A firefight was raging outside. She needed to know what was going on, but her instinct told her to stay down, not to show herself. The sniper knew her location and his next shot wouldn’t miss. She crawled to the main door of the apartment and made her exit. She climbed down the stairs two by two. She was already feeling lightheaded. She needed to stop the bleeding. She had only a few minutes before she would lose consciousness. And that would mean certain death, or torture. An explosion from somewhere near the square told her the fight raging outside wasn’t over.
She reached the third-floor hallway and rammed, shoulder first, into the first door she saw on her left, knowing the apartment wouldn’t be facing the square. Pain rushed through her upper body as the door ceded. Zima crashed to the floor and found herself in the middle of a small living room. A man ran at her with a butcher’s knife and took a swing at her. The move was telegraphed and Zima had no problem ducking and counter-attacking by punching the man in the solar plexus. The man doubled over and Zima finished him off by delivering a powerful elbow behind the man’s head.
Behind the fallen man stood three young children who looked terrified. A woman was standing between Zima and the children, screaming in Arabic, her eyes filled with hatred.
Zima said in Arabic, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I want you no harm. I’m injured and I need your help.” She showed the woman her injured hand but that didn’t calm the woman. Zima couldn’t blame her as she had just knocked down her husband.
“Go. Leave this place,” Zima said, pointing to the open door of the apartment.
The hysterical woman wasn’t leaving. Her husband was sprawled in their living room and she wasn’t about to abandon him.
Zima had wasted enough time and went in search of the bathroom. She found it next to the master bedroom. She located a small emergency kit under the sink filled with medicine and bandages. The pain had become unbearable and she had trouble focusing. She turned on the faucet and poured antiseptic where her finger used to be. Adrenaline rushed through her body and her knees buckled at the agony.
Movement behind her startled her. She looked in the mirror. The Arabic woman was standing behind her holding the butcher’s knife in the air.
CHAPTER 22
Damascus, Syria
Ray Powell tailed the JTF-2 operator through the café. His heart was racing, pumping blood into his brain. This, mixed with the adrenaline rush that came with combat, gave him a feeling of ecstasy. The operator was moving fast, his pistol flashing left and right, looking for threats while Powell concentrated on their six.
“Kirk, this is Travis,” the JTF-2 operator said into a mic attached to his collar. “Dan’s down. The ambassador and I are moving to you. We’re one minute out.”
A quick scan to the rear told Powell they weren’t followed by armed men into the café. The cacophony outside had somewhat diminished in intensity but Powell wasn’t sure if this was good news or not. When he had followed the JTF-2 operator into the café, Younis’s men didn’t seem to have the upper hand. What had just happened? Who were General Younis’s men fighting? Rebels? It didn’t matter now. Whoever they were, they had killed two Canadians. Someone would pay for this. But first, he had to live through this.
........
Igor Votyakov walked through the café’s back exit just as Powell and the Canadian operator entered by the main entrance. One of his men, a sniper positioned on the rooftop of a building with a clear view of the back exit, had informed him a car with diplomatic plates was parked less than fifty meters from the back door.
Conscious the driver might be watching him, Igor made sure his
pistol was pressed against his leg, concealed from view. From the thickness of the windows, Igor concluded the car was armored and he had to change his plan. Shooting through the side window to kill the driver wouldn’t work. With only seconds before the two Canadians made their exit, he had to act fast.
Igor pressed a key on his cell and it autodialed the person he wanted to talk to. His man answered on the first ring.
“The car is armored. Engage it as soon as I’m done with the ambassador,” Igor ordered. His man would know what to do.
He then placed his back against the café’s exterior wall and waited. He didn’t have to linger for long. Less than five seconds later, the exit door was kicked opened and the Canadian operator’s head appeared.
Igor pulled the trigger.
........
Ray Powell saw the red sign over the door indicating the exit that would lead to the street where a car was supposedly waiting for them. The JTF-2 operator kicked the door opened. Rays of sunlight blinded Powell and he heard a pop. A warm mist speckled his face and he fell forward over the fallen corpse of the man in front of him. Powerful hands attempted to wrestle his pistol away but Powell used his forward momentum to push his attacker into the street. His assailant lost his footing and fell backward with half his body still on the sidewalk. Powell tried to fire but the man, who was wearing a waiter’s uniform, had jammed one of his fingers inside the trigger guard behind the trigger.
A Red Dotted Line (Mike Walton Book 2) Page 8