by Ben Coes
Mallory looked at his watch. It was five minutes after eight. He used the distant white peak of Mount Qassioun to orient himself. He spotted the Presidential Palace in the distance. When he reached the outer circle surrounding the fountains at the center of Umayyad Square, he noted a loose line of soldiers pacing around the fountain. Cars sped by, horns blasting almost constantly.
Mallory walked until he came to Al Madhi Ibn Barakeh, a busy street running west. After a few minutes, he could see the telltale blue glass of the Blue Tower Hotel. A half dozen blocks later, he saw a fountain down a small side street; then, beyond, a line of shops. In the middle of the line of shops, he saw a bunch of tables filled with people, eating and drinking.
He glanced at his watch: 8:36.
He looked again. He didn’t see Andreas, but that meant nothing. Mallory assumed that Andreas was camouflaged, but there were so many people.
* * *
The chopper coursed in a high line several hundred miles south of Damascus, weaving between small towns—Izraa, Shaqra, Elbobar, then north, near Hazm, until it was a direct line north to Al Ghuzlaniyah, a large suburb near Damascus. They flew at twenty thousand feet. Despite the fact that the cabin was pressurized, Dewey felt the cold air seeping in.
All lights on the Israeli chopper were extinguished.
Dewey watched out the window for much of the time. It was still dark, but the clusters of lights grew larger, brighter. It meant they were passing over increasingly populated areas. It gave him a deeply uneasy feeling.
“I assume our radar is silent,” said Dewey, glancing at Meir in the dim gray.
“Yes,” said Meir.
“How are they piloting?”
“Eyes.”
Dewey nodded.
“This is nobody’s idea of a cakewalk,” added Meir. “I’ll be glad when we’re on the ground.”
A few minutes later, the chopper shuddered and tilted toward the ground, swooping left.
A dim blue light went on in the cabin. One of the pilots came out of the cabin.
“We were picked up,” he said, kneeling and looking at Meir, then Dewey. “A regional airport. They’ve asked twice for identification.”
“What’s the protocol?” asked Dewey.
Meir looked at Dewey, then the pilot. He had an odd look on his face, whatever humor and calm that had been there disappeared in an instant.
A high-pitched beeping noise echoed through the chopper.
“Lock on!” screamed the pilot in the cockpit. The other pilot lurched backward, toward the cockpit, scrambling into his seat. “Hold on!”
The chopper bent left, but instead of correcting, kept moving in what seemed like an impossible arc, down and down. Dewey, Meir, and the other commandos were thrown to the back wall. Dewey grabbed a canvas handle.
“The parachute,” barked Meir, blood coming from his nose, which had somehow been struck during the chopper swerve. “Get it on!”
The chopper leveled, then broke up, then sharp right as the roar of a jet engine scorched overhead.
Dewey grabbed the chute. He looked at Leibman.
“I need guns.”
* * *
At Ramat David Airbase, Safer watched the pair of Syrian jets leave Ramadahh Airbase. She had no way of communicating with Panther Ten.
She hit her ear, triggering commo.
“Black Torch Four, Black Torch Five,” she said calmly, her nostrils flaring ever so slightly as her face belied her, flushing red. “Get going. This is a live operation. We have a midair recon situation south of Big D. Repeat: this is a live operation. Priority One Recon.”
The mission room, housed just off the main runway at Ramat David, shook as the force of the departing F-18 rocked the air, accompanied, a moment later, by the sonic roar of the engines. A few seconds later, the second jet did it again.
“MC, this is Black Torch Two, over,” came the voice of the pilot of the lead jet. “What do we got?”
“We have a stranded helicopter twelve klicks south of Damascus,” said Safer. “This is Panther Ten. Three members of S Thirteen are on board. Local Syrian radar must’ve spotted them.”
“Roger that,” said the pilot. “Will we be dark?”
Safer turned to Tarshaw. He nodded and put his thumbs up.
“They’re already at Green Line,” he said. “Jesus.”
Tarshaw typed furiously and didn’t bother counting down. He nodded to Safer, who moved her eyes to the plasma. Two green dots, moving toward Syria, suddenly disappeared.
“You’re dark, Black Torch One and Black Torch Two,” she said. “Over.”
* * *
Leibman pulled open the door to the weapons cache in back of the chopper. The cabinet looked like the behind-the-counter display at a firearms dealer. Carbines spread across the top, stacked vertically, all Colt M4 with grenade launchers, optics, etc. The row below was a mix of submachine guns—Uzis and HKs. The next row, at waist level, was crowded with handguns, lined up, butts out. Below were rows of ammunition. Dewey’s eyes caught a black glint from above the carbines. A pair of Hecate sniper rifles sat horizontally.
“You need to get below a thousand feet,” Meir yelled.
Dewey’s eyes shot to the cockpit. Meir was telling the pilots to go down low enough for Dewey to jump and not die. Short chute. He remembered Rangers. Even at a thousand feet, it was almost suicide.
Don’t think about it. You liked Rangers.
Dewey grabbed a weapons vest from the floor, pulling it over his T-shirt. He strapped an M4 tightly across his torso, muzzle aimed at the ground. With Leibman’s help, he strapped an HK MP7A1 submachine gun to his back. He stuffed each armpit holster with a handgun.
“They’re all loaded,” said Leibman, helping Dewey stuff mags into the vest. “They’re good to go.”
Dewey nodded as Barsky wrapped the black robe around his shoulders.
“Looks good,” said Barsky, attempting a smile.
Dewey grinned.
“No pictures,” said Dewey. “If my mom saw this, she’d be a little upset.”
“’Cause you’re about to die?” asked Meir, approaching from the front, laughing.
“No, because I’m dressed up like Ayatollah Khomeini.”
The chopper banked suddenly as the growing decibel of an incoming missile sounded from somewhere outside.
“Hold on!” yelled one of the pilots.
The chopper shook as one of the pilots triggered the undermounted guns. The rat-a-tat-tat of the machine guns’ powerful fusillade rocked the cabin.
An explosion to the right, bright red and orange; all eyes shot in its direction. In the distance, one of the Syrian jets was like a fiery apparition in the early morning sky.
Meir stepped past Dewey and reached into the bottom right section of the weapons cabinet. He searched for a few moments, then came back with his hands full.
“Here,” he said, handing two grenades to Dewey. “You might need them.”
Interruption from the intercom: “T-minus five,” yelled the pilot. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”
“I’m fine.”
“… four…”
“All I know is I usually don’t need a grenade, but when I want one, it is very nice when it’s there, Dewey.”
“… three…”
Dewey put the grenades in the pocket of the vest.
Meir showed him what looked like a large ChapStick tied to a nylon string.
“… two…”
“What the fuck is that?” asked Dewey. “Lipstick? I guess I’ve never been tortured in the Middle East.”
“… one…”
Meir laughed.
“There was an insult in there somewhere,” he said, grinning, then pushing the object to Dewey. “You will have to explain it to me someday.”
“Deal,” said Dewey.
“This is an Iridium tracker,” said Meir. “Strap it around your neck. I’ll be back to get you.”
“Commander, we are past drop
line and we have inbound enemy guns,” said the pilot. “We need to get out of here.”
“You’re not coming back to get me, Kohl,” said Dewey as he pulled the parachute over his shoulders and stepped toward the cabin door. “I’ll find my way out.”
Meir grabbed the right strap of Dewey’s parachute as Dewey neared the door, pushing Dewey back against the wall.
“Wear it,” said Meir. “I’m coming back. Whether it’s to collect your dead body or give you a ride, well, that’s up to you.”
“Fine.”
He tied it quickly around his neck.
Dewey glanced at Leibman and Barsky, standing at the back wall, clutching handles. “Thanks, guys.”
He turned to Meir and put his hand up. They grabbed hands, clutching them for a few moments.
Meir slammed a button above the side door of the chopper. The door slid back. A gale of warm wind scored the cabin.
Dewey took a running step toward the open door, then one more, his foot striking the outermost steel at the edge of the chopper, jumping out into the air, then dropping into the void, disappearing, as the Panther ripped up into the sky and away from Syria.
18
CAFÉ MOSUL
DAMASCUS, SYRIA
Mallory arrived at the café.
“A table, sir?” asked a woman.
“Yes, please,” said Mallory in flawless Arabic. “Over there.”
His seat was at the outer perimeter of the tables. He ordered a cup of coffee. Mallory’s eyes scanned the restaurant, the street in front, the sidewalks leading to the café. It was warm out, at least eighty, despite the early hour. He saw nothing, save for traffic and pedestrians, people on bikes and motorcycles.
He was taking the first sip of his coffee when the sound of gunfire cracked nearby.
Mallory breathed deeply, trying to calm down, but it was no use. The adrenaline was now flowing. It had been so long. At least a year. He realized, now, that time away from it was bad. Mallory had atrophied. Or more to the point, Mallory felt he’d atrophied, and that inner doubt was much more harmful than any operating rust.
He thought of Allison. A memory flashed. It was a charred limousine, the limousine meant for him, which he’d chivalrously given to her to take to a tennis match at the Cairo Cricket & Field Club.
“I’ll walk, sweetheart,” he said. His last words to her.
He was interrupted from his thoughts.
“Sayidi, alshshay,” said the waiter, who placed a small tea cup in front of Mallory.
“Shukraan,” said Mallory.
Mallory took a sip just as noise came from his right, near the edge of the square. His eyes went immediately to a tall man, running desperately toward the café. Mallory recognized him from the INTERPOL photo.
Al-Jaheishi.
And then everything went to hell.
* * *
Dewey tumbled through the bitter-cold dawn air, the freezing wind ripping his face. He somersaulted for the first dozen seconds, then gradually planed out and righted himself into a dive. He kept his eyes shut except for brief moments to gauge his altitude. The earth moved at a startling speed up toward him, and the morning light revealed brown, green, and orange country, mixed with roads and buildings. He knew he was practically invisible now, but as soon as he opened the chute he could be seen by anyone looking up. The key was to open it at the last possible moment. The higher the opening, the more people who would be able to spot him. But being spotted was less risky than opening the chute too late.
The early hour was his saving grace. The haze of sunbreak was still in the air, and the streets below looked empty for the most part.
He reached for the parachute handles and waited. His eyes focused on a parking lot, the cars like Matchbox cars. He tightened his grip on the release line. The cars grew larger, but still he waited, as tears from the wind coursed down his cheeks. He could see trees, bushes, a woman. He would hit the ground any second. One more moment … then one more …
Dewey ripped the cord. The chute popped behind him, the loud snap like a gun going off, and he was yanked violently back, halting his speed, and just in time. Adjusting his eyes, he was less than twenty feet above the ground and dropping quickly. He slammed into the dirt pack of the parking lot, hitting feetfirst, bending at his knees to help absorb the impact, then diving into a tuck and roll.
As he stopped rolling, Dewey removed his fixed-blade combat knife from the sheath at his ankle, slicing through the cording of the chute, then removing it all, folding up the materials in a tight ball. He moved toward a line of cars and stuffed everything beneath a car.
He scanned the parking lot, his hand moving instinctively inside the folds in the hijab to the shoulder holster beneath his left armpit and gripping the butt of the handgun. He saw no one.
Dewey was breathing hard now. The cold air he felt a mile up in the sky above Damascus was but a memory. The air at ground level was hot, and he was soon drenched beneath the black garment.
The parking lot was located behind a clean-looking warehouse in a quiet section. Dewey walked to the back corner of the building, trying to get a glimpse down the driveway to the main road. In front was another parking lot. Two men in work gear climbed from a pickup truck and walked toward the front of the warehouse.
Dewey couldn’t read the writing on the building, but the company had to be some sort of utility. The parking lot was half-filled with vans and pickups, every vehicle with the same white paint and orange-and-brown logo.
Dewey walked quickly to the back row, searching for the oldest pickup he could find. A late-model Nissan sat at the end of a row. He smashed the driver’s side window with the butt of his gun, unlocked the door, climbed inside, and scanned for anyone who might’ve seen him or heard the glass break. No one had.
Dewey inserted the blade of his knife beneath the steering column, popping the plastic cover off, then found the harness connector and, inside it, a bundle of wires. He touched the starter wire to the other wires. The car’s engine rumbled to life. Dewey cranked the steering wheel hard in both directions, breaking the steering lock, and drove slowly to the corner of the building and along the driveway. When he got to the far corner, he stopped. He counted seven people walking toward the front entrance. They were oblivious of Dewey’s presence, except for one man who looked in Dewey’s direction, stared for an extra second or two, then kept moving toward the door.
On the main road, Dewey fell into a line of cars. He pulled the cell phone Meir had given him from his pocket, already open to the mapping application and the café preprogrammed. He was less than five and a half miles away. He looked at his watch: 8:28.
The traffic in Damascus was a helter-skelter of pedestrians, people on bikes, taxicabs, trucks, and cars, the blare of horns incessant. Vehicles traveled on the right side of the road, but whenever the opposite lane was open, cars swerved into oncoming traffic, trying to pass slower cars. The occasional traffic light was ignored.
Sprinkled at seemingly every corner were Syrian soldiers, all clutching machine guns or carbines. The city was clean, the buildings neat and well-kept. But the mood reminded Dewey of Islamabad in the days before the overthrow of the Pakistani president Omar El-Khayab. It wasn’t just the presence of the soldiers, their weapons sweeping constantly across traffic and sidewalks, storefronts and cafés; it was something less visible, something ethereal—tension, fear, the knowledge that Syria was in the middle of a war it was losing. Damascus may have been the safest city in Syria for the moment, but the fear of its men and women, as they walked quickly, eyes darting about, was unmistakable.
Get in, get out. Keep it simple.
Dewey took advantage of the chaos to drive almost recklessly across the city toward Umayyad Square.
Off the fountain of the square, he went down a busy boulevard. When he was just a block away from the café, Dewey turned onto a narrow side street and parked.
On foot now, Dewey walked to the corner. He took a left, walked a block, then
took another left, so that he was walking directly toward the café where he was to meet Mallory and the Syrian, al-Jaheishi.
* * *
Al-Jaheishi looked at his watch: 8:25. He was supposed to be at the café in five minutes, but he was still a mile away. He’d set the meeting place far away from the offices in order to ensure that he wouldn’t accidentally bump into anyone, but now he regretted it. He looked around, his head swinging nervously left and right, searching for Que’san and Azalea. He’d lost them.
He took a few breaths and began to run. In seconds, he felt the pain come on, the familiar pain.
A memory flashed: Wimbledon Commons. A rainstorm.
The memory was of the annual Oxford vs. Cambridge Varsity Match, sophomore year, the first year he won it for Oxford. Al-Jaheishi had run for Oxford’s cross-country club. By junior year, he was Oxford’s top-ranked runner.
His arms, nervous and clenched, somehow melted into a calm rhythm, swinging languidly at his sides. His legs took the sidewalk in deep, long strides. He had on a shirt and tie, pants, and wingtips, and yet he was back at Four Lawn, running across the verdant polo fields, running like a teenager, running like the wind. For a few precious moments, he heard nothing except the crickets back in England, the sound of his breathing, the lovely beat of his heart, tested and willing. For a moment, al-Jaheishi was free.
Then, at the next street, Que’san’s deep voice brought him back.
“Stop! Marwan!”
Al-Jaheishi rounded the corner at full sprint as, behind him, he heard shouts, a woman’s scream, then Que’san.
