Lady Death

by Brian Drake

  And Tanya expected there wouldn’t be any trouble now. They were halfway to their destination. Short of a missile strike, the Cessna wasn’t falling out of the sky. And the Islamic Union had no air force. Tanya put the thought out of her mind. Engine failure or another malady might occur, but she knew the possibility was remote.

  Tanya slapped her cards down. “Gin!” She laughed.

  Raven smiled. “Now I’m sure you’re cheating.”

  She sat back and sipped a bottle of water. She glanced at the oval window beside her. Blue sky above, blue ocean below. Not a cloud in sight. The sun shined bright above.

  Raven collected the cards and began to reshuffle. “Let’s do it again,” he said.

  “In front of all these people?” She grinned.

  Raven didn’t avoid her eyes. The ice had thawed between them since his reassurances at the embassy, and he wondered if the CIA crew noticed.

  “Down, girl,” he said.

  During the chopper ride from the embassy, she’d held his hand tightly.

  Her tension finally faded once the Cessna took off. Relief filled her now. She was safe. The CIA had accepted her morsel of information and knew she was for real.

  Raven shuffled the cards and Tanya cut.

  Up front, a phone rang.

  Tanya watched Raven’s eyes flash over her shoulder. The flight attendant said, “Call for you, Mr. Raven.”

  Raven set the cards down. “Be right back.”

  She watched him rise from the chair.

  Raven side-stepped between the chairs on his way to the front. The two paramilitary officers looked line linebackers. Their hard eyes watched him. The flight attendant, her face stoic, handed him the phone. It hung from a wall near the cockpit door.

  Raven leaned against the wall as he spoke.

  “Raven talking.”

  “It’s Clark.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Or something,” Wilson said, with a laugh. “I’m running on a cat nap and very strong coffee.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Fisher has cold feet.”

  “I’m not sure I like where this is going.”

  Wilson recounted the meeting he’d had with Fisher and McCarthy. Raven listened without comment.

  “Do you think you can get more out of her?” Wilson asked when he finished.

  “Like what?”

  “We’d love Francesca Sloan’s current location.”

  “You want eyes on her.”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. She’s cleaning my clock in gin, but I’ll ask.”

  “Nuts, you’re letting her win.”

  “No, seriously, the cards are against me.”

  “Sure they are. Get back with me when you can.”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Raven hung up. He returned to his seat.

  Tanya said, “Is everything okay?”

  “We’re fine.” Raven began shuffled the cards again. “They’d like to know where Sloan is right now.”

  “The picture wasn’t enough?”

  “We have a fellow at headquarters who’s skeptical.”

  “I don’t want to say more until we have a deal.”

  “You don’t have the room to negotiate, Tanya,” Raven said. “You’ll get a deal, but you need to cooperate. If you refuse this, they’ll have an excuse to shove you out onto the street.”

  “Then the IU will find me.”

  “Yes, they will.”

  She took a deep breath and drank another mouthful of water. “When I took the picture, Francesca was departing Pakistan for Syria.”

  “What’s in Syria?”

  “We have people in Damascus she needs to see. Then she’s going to our base of operations in Sukkariyeh.”

  Raven raised an eyebrow. “Could be huge.”

  “It is huge. It’s the Union’s nerve center for Syrian operations.”

  “How long will she be in Damascus?”

  “Three days. We use an apartment for meetings there.” She gave him the building’s address. “The Sukkariyeh conference is the important part of the trip.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m saving some details for later.”

  Raven nodded. Syria was currently a four-letter word with US policy makers. The weapons and money provided to rebels fighting the Assad regime wound up in the hands of al-Qaeda and ISIS instead. The Russians, in their backing of Assad, increased tensions, and the possibility of a clash with the US. The current administration had ended US involvement in the region, and now it was a free-for-all. Various factions, from within and without, vied for control. The Assad government, with Russian help, tried to beat back the tide. The battle had reached a stalemate. Another quagmire from which there was no easy victory.

  Raven knew he was skipping over several details, but the problem was typical of any action in the Middle East. It was like walking through thick brush while dealing with a mass of barbed wire. There were so many distracting rabbit trails the original intent of the intervention faded. Even those who had ordered the mission couldn’t explain why the US was there.

  And now the White Widow had made Syria her hiding spot. At their nerve center to boot.

  The problem now, as Raven saw it, would be getting the government to act. He knew the CIA still maintained a presence in Damascus and the region in general but didn’t know the exact number.

  Raven set the cards down again. “Excuse me.” He rose from the chair. “Don’t doctor the cards.” He smiled.

  “I have all the luck today,” she said.

  He winked and went forward again.

  He caught Wilson right away.

  “She’s in Syria,” Raven said, and told him what Tanya had explained.

  “Excellent,” Wilson said. His enthusiasm carried over the line.

  “Do we have people in-country?”

  “Small team, yeah,” Wilson said. “They’re in Damascus. If she’s there, they will find her.”

  “Good luck. Give Fisher my best.”

  Wilson laughed. “Sure. He loves you.”

  “See you soon, Clark.”

  Raven hung up and returned to his seat. He dealt the cards, and they played another hand. This time, Raven won.

  8

  Syria was too nice a place to have a war.

  But “Tiger” Joe Hayden, CIA officer, knew it was wishful thinking. Hell, Syria was in the Middle East. When hadn’t there been a war?

  He sat at a small table, back to the wall, in a Damascus café. He’d have preferred to smoke one of his beloved Cuban cigars, but when in Rome, do as the Romans do. He instead puffed on a hookah, enjoying the flavor of the tobacco. He rolled it around his mouth and blew a stream of smoke. The cloud joined the haze hovering beneath the ceiling.

  Along with the hookah, he sipped hot cardamom coffee. The spice went well with the tobacco.

  He wasn’t alone in the café. Had he left the table to use the restroom, he’d have to step around dozens of other patrons at small tables to get there. And for a good reason. This morning, the café welcomed The Storyteller.

  The Storyteller, dressed in a white robe and red fez, sat on a throne across the room. He read aloud from a book of Syrian history, dramatizing events of the past in a booming voice. He required no microphone. The patrons sat as if in a trance, taking in every word.

  It beat the heck out of television. The workday hadn’t yet begun, so the patrons had time to listen. Syrians wanted to know their history. He wished Americans shared the same passion.

  Storytellers had once been ubiquitous in Syrian restaurants and cafes. As the years went on, they became less and less of a fixture. Only a few cafes in the city, and country, still featured storytellers, and only on certain nights of the week.

  It was one of the joys of his assignment in Damascus. He was working under the cover of a United Nations humanitarian aid administrator, with a Canadian passport. While he did go deeper into the country to oversee such oper
ations, he had two jobs. He kept one eye on the aid packages and the other open to observe terrorist and rebel activity.

  The United States may have pulled out of Syria, abandoning the flawed policy of trying to topple the Assad regime, but officers like Hayden remained. There was work still to be done, albeit covertly. He didn’t mind. It was a beautiful city, with wonderful people. If he could help end the current crisis and send the bad actors elsewhere, he’d consider his work a success.

  He wasn’t self-conscious of being the only white man in the café. Nobody cared. He was familiar enough to the owner to always have a table available. What bothered him was the circuitous route he’d have to take back to home base. He had to make sure nobody tried to kill him on the way.

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Once, twice.

  He’d turned off the ringer before entering. He didn’t want to disturb the listening. Setting down his coffee cup, he inspected the screen. A text message from home base. Two words.

  Dad Called.

  It meant he had to get back for a video conference with Langley. Something was happening.

  He downed the rest of his coffee. Nobody in his right mind let cardamom coffee go cold. He left the rest of the tobacco in the hookah unsmoked. Such was life. He purchased a bag of fresh-ground cardamom coffee and said goodbye to the owner. The old man took Hayden’s money and returned his rapt attention on The Storyteller. Tiger Joe left the café and stepped out onto the street.

  He carried the bag of coffee in his left hand and kept his right hand in the pocket of his jeans. He didn’t bother with a jacket despite the coolness of the morning. Hayden dodged other pedestrians on the crowded walkways and noted the heavy traffic. He carried no firearms, but he wasn’t without defense. His right hand gripped the T handle of a sharp push dagger.

  He wasn’t any taller than the average Syrian, a hair over five-foot-six. He ran marathons to stay in shape, and his condition showed in his walk. An army veteran, he moved with fluidity and confidence. His Everyman face helped him blend into any crowd. There was nothing noticeable about him. He was perfect CIA material.

  He cut through side streets and ducked into alleys, hiding in alcoves for several minutes at a time. Within an hour he returned to the building where the humanitarian mission kept its offices. Hayden and his CIA team occupied space in the basement.

  The outside temperature’s crisp 68-degrees and the clear blue sky almost too nice to leave behind. But duty called. There were plenty of days like this one to enjoy. Hayden showed his pass to the outer guard and entered the building. When he stepped out of the elevator to the basement office, his crew was waiting for him.

  He had a staff of two. Colleen Andreev, a Russian expert, had been attached to his unit because of the Russian activity in the country. Freddy Lymann, a former member of the Ground Branch unit of the Special Activities Center, had worked throughout the Middle East as a shooter. He now helped Hayden and Colleen sort incoming intelligence. He was no good in the field anymore, having lost part of his left leg to a bomb. Unless he wore shorts, they never saw his prosthetic.

  “What did you bring?” Colleen asked.

  Hayden tossed her the coffee. “Sounds like it will be a long day.”

  She opened the bag on the way to the coffee machine in a corner.

  Hayden sat down beside Lymann. “What does Langley want?”

  “In five minutes, we’ll find out.”

  Colleen brewed the coffee, and the scent of the spicy roast filled the room. Calling it an office was an understatement. There were tables and chairs clustered in one corner of the bare room. The floors were uncarpeted concrete, the walls cold gray concrete, and there was an ever-present chill. Fluorescent bulbs shined above. Lymann sat in front of a big screen monitor connected to a variety of computing devices and blinking servers stacked in a metal rack. Wires ran everywhere.

  No windows. Strategically placed circulating fans blew the stuffy air around.

  Colleen returned with a mug of steaming coffee. Hayden didn’t want any. Lymann grumbled. “How come you didn’t bring me one?”

  “I’m not your mother,” she said.

  Lymann cursed under his breath and left the chair for his own mug. Colleen smiled. Hayden shook his head. They argued like brother and sister.

  When Lymann returned, the screen came to life. Clark Wilson looked at them through a camera on the other side of the world.

  9

  “We have to confirm the presence of and take out a major player in the Islamic Union,” Wilson said.

  “Hell of a hello, Clark,” Hayden said.

  “We have to move fast. She’ll only be in Damascus for three days.”

  Colleen said, “She? You mean the White Widow?”

  “Yes. We have an informant on the way to tell us more, but she gave us a picture and a location in case she didn’t make it.”

  “This I have to see,” Lymann said.

  Wilson vanished from the screen. In his place was the photo of Francesca Sloan. Wilson gave Hayden and his team the rundown, leaving out Fisher’s concerns.

  Hayden grabbed a notepad of flash paper and a pen. “Where’s the apartment?”

  Wilson returned to the screen. “Corner of Ibn Battuta Street and Rawdat Al Midan.”

  Lymann rolled his chair to a neighboring computer and tapped two keys. A laser printer hummed and spat out a picture of Francesca Sloan.

  Hayden, at another terminal, looked up the building’s location. “Got it. Building under construction across the street, and on the opposite corner the produce souk.”

  “Good surveillance points?” Wilson said.

  “We’ll make it happen. You want confirmation, and then what?”

  “Drone strike.”

  “Not in Damascus,” Hayden said.

  “Of course not. She’s leaving for Sukkariyeh and an IU base. We need eyes on her because we don’t know the timetable. We want to track her and make the drone strike when she gets to the base.”

  “Understood.”

  “How big is your tactical team?”

  “Not big enough. It would be nice if we had a deal with the locals.”

  “Now’s not the time to debate policy, but I get it. I’ll send more people to you.”

  “Right.”

  “Joe?” Wilson said.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Don’t lose her.”

  Wilson disconnected and Hayden turned to his crew. Colleen brought her coffee halfway to her lips.

  “Make it to go,” he said. “Both of you.”

  “Why?” Lymann said.

  “We’re checking out this apartment building. I have a feeling the Union may own the entire building.” To Lymann, “Did you gas up the Rover this afternoon?”

  “She’s got a full tank, Skipper.”

  “All right, get the com units, and let’s move.”

  Hayden and his crew left their chairs.

  Hayden sat on a park bench with a partial view of the apartment building. Behind him, green trees and the city’s ubiquitous jasmine flowers. The flower grew everywhere in the city. Between him and the apartment building was a busy construction site. The crew was beginning their day and took no notice of him.

  Lymann and Colleen remained in the Rover, parked a short sprint down the road at the busy produce souk.

  Without binoculars, which would have given him away, Hayden had no close look of the building. He couldn’t identify faces. But his general observation revealed details telling him Wilson had been correct. There were sentries on the roof.

  “How many?” Colleen said over the wireless com unit in his right ear.

  “At least four, all armed,” Hayden reported. “They wander back and forth.”

  “A roof entry to bug the place is out,” Lymann said.

  “We wouldn’t know where to put the gear anyway,” Hayden said. “With our luck we’d put everything in the wrong room. Can you see movement in the windows?” he added. Colleen had binocula
rs.

  “Negative. Most of the drapes on this side are closed.”

  “We can confirm the building is in use, and our mysterious informant is probably telling the truth.”

  “Can we go home now?” Lymann said.

  Hayden paused for a moment, scanning the building levels once more. No decorations on any balcony. Satellite television dishes sprouted at the two roof corners facing him.

  “I think we’re done here, yeah,” Hayden said.

  Hayden told Colleen and Lymann to stand by with the motor running. He left the park and cut through the block behind him. From there Hayden made his way to the souk and the black Land Rover. The souk was packed with shoppers and vendors, and he blended easily with the crowd. He climbed into the back seat. Colleen drove off.

  “How’s the coffee?” Hayden said. He wiped sweat from his face. The 68-degrees of the early morning was climbing into the mid-70s.

  “Still good,” she said.

  Lymann said, “We need to call in some help to keep the building covered.”

  “We’ll handle it,” Hayden said. “In the meantime, we need to do some shopping.”

  “Great,” Colleen said. “Like we don’t have enough tomatoes already.”

  Hayden laughed.

  Colleen didn’t think it was funny.

  10

  The Cessna Citation descended. Raven and Tanya, their gin game long over, sat with their seatbelts strapped.

  They watched the green forest flashing by below as the morning sun shined bright. Raven looked for the small airstrip in the distance but didn’t see it. This wasn’t his first landing at the secluded runway. It was a tricky landing. Pilots had to crest over trees and make a last-second dive to hit the runway correctly.

  Tanya smiled at him. “This is getting exciting.”

  “Almost there.”

  He’d grown more confident in her story during the flight. She seemed more relaxed than she had been in Stockholm. He hoped Wilson and the Agency made her a proper deal.

  The strip lay ahead. The jet banked to line up. The pilot climbed over the trees, then dropped the nose. The nose lifted once again before the back wheels smacked onto the runway with a screech of rubber.