Damascus Station

by Unknown

  Mariam stood up. Her chest was heaving, her eyes gigantic.

  Sam quickly checked the pulses of the other two and felt nothing. “Shit,” he muttered. “Shit.”

  When it hits the fan, get off the X. “We need to go,” Sam said as his training kicked in to manage the surging adrenaline.

  She was right there with him, had already started throwing everything in her suitcase. “Now you tell me the truth, you understand?

  “Understand?” she yelled.

  12

  IF THE HOTEL LE PANORAMIC HAD BOTHERED TO invest in even the most basic of security systems, the camera on the third floor would have shown a tall American man and an Arab woman hanging the Do Not Disturb sign on the door of Room 302 at 12:38 a.m. Another camera would have shown the same couple walking quickly through the lobby. The woman was making irate gestures toward the man with her right hand while gripping the suitcase with her left. The man, who had no luggage, grasped her hand as they marched toward the door. The camera would have also caught part of a blouse peeking through the woman’s suitcase zipper as if it had been jammed inside at great haste. There was also a speck of blood on the woman’s forehead, which she had missed in what the viewers might have assumed was a hasty face-washing attempt. Her shoulders and the hair at the top of her forehead looked very wet.

  But, as Sam guided Mariam out of the lobby, he noted with relief that the hotel did not have any visible security cameras and that the receptionist at the front desk was sound asleep.

  Three problems instantly became clear as they passed through the lobby and jumped into Sam’s parked car. One, quite pressing, was to calm Mariam, who was nursing a bruised hip and asking a steady hum of uncomfortable questions.

  The second was where to go. The Èze safe house seemed like the lucky winner, so they tossed Mariam’s suitcase into the rental car and drove back onto the Corniche toward the village, the silence punctured regularly by Mariam’s string of Arabic profanities. He held tight on the wheel and double-checked his speed to keep it below the fifty-kilometer-per-hour limit.

  The third, and most problematic, was what to do with the bodies. Sam had no idea if someone had heard the shots or the fight. If they had, the French police would be there in minutes. If not, they had time. The triple homicide ensured that no one in Syria could link Mariam to the CIA. He hoped to unsnap the connection between Mariam and the bodies.

  Holding the wheel with his left hand, he picked up the phone to dial Shipley. Mariam asked who he was calling.

  “My boss in France,” he said.

  “Wait. Before you do. I know at least one of those men. The big one. He works for Atiyah. He’s mukhabarat.”

  “Based in France?”

  “I don’t think so. Kidnapping?”

  “A poorly managed one.”

  She smacked the dashboard. “Fuck,” she yelled in English.

  Sam dialed Shipley just outside Beaulieu and told him what had happened. The Chief sat in silence for several seconds. Sam saw the sign for Èze and began to slow the car. Mariam rubbed her face with both hands.

  “Go to the safe house now,” Shipley said. “Take the Syrian with you. I’ll send a team to dispose of the bodies unless the police get there first. I have a crew of support assets who can do this sort of thing.”

  “How do you want to, uh, write this up?”

  “You’re sure the kidnappers were Syrian? Not French? Not French North Africans?”

  “I am sure at least one was sent from Syria. Mariam recognized him from Damascus.”

  “The others?”

  “We think they are Syrians.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, there is little upside to an official reporting stream on this. Our team is okay, the Syrian is fine, three kidnappers are dead. Though if any of this turns up on French police blotters, you’ll never be able to come back to France.”

  “I’ll take those odds.”

  “Have your surveillance team watch the hotel for police. My team can be there in a few hours. If the police arrive, the Syrian will either have to run or turn herself in.” Sam heard the Chief breathing into the mouthpiece. “Keep me updated.” He hung up.

  MARIAM TOOK A SHOWER WHILE Sam positioned the BANDITOs. Elias drove to Èze to retrieve Mariam’s room key for onward passage to Shipley’s cleanup crew. Thirty minutes later Rami called and said the police had still not arrived and the hotel was quiet.

  Sam called Shipley, who told him the team would be in Villefranche in two hours. They would beat the maids to the room. Shipley said they would come to collect the clothing worn and weapons used during the assault. “Put everything in a garbage bag,” Shipley said. “Leave it outside.”

  “What are they going to do with the bodies, Chief?”

  Shipley grunted. “They’ll bring saws and acid and a few suitcases and shit. More questions?”

  After he hung up, Sam placed each article of clothing he’d worn into a garbage bag and took a hot shower. Then he sat on the terrace with a beer. The evening was cool and pleasant, the moon fat and bright as clouds thinned in the night sky. He knew she knew. He took a long swig of beer. It was time.

  She brought a bottle of wine onto the terrace and sat across from him, drinking half a glass in silence. She wore a robe and her hair was wet from the shower.

  “Where are your clothes?” he asked.

  “The bathroom.”

  Sam stuffed them into the same garbage bag along with the confiscated pistols and baton and placed it outside as Shipley had instructed. He returned to the terrace to find Mariam pouring herself another glass of wine.

  “I have questions,” she said. “I will go first. Then you can ask me yours.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You are CIA?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Your real name is Sam?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are really from Minnesota? You spent time in Las Vegas? Your background, is it all true?”

  “Yes.”

  “We are in a CIA property now? None of this nonsense about you renting it with gambling money.”

  “Yes. A safe house.”

  “You are really going to Damascus next?”

  “Yes.”

  “You fight well because you have been trained?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why were you in Paris?”

  “To talk to you.”

  “To try to recruit me.”

  He finished his beer. It was not a question. Still, he would answer. “Yes. To recruit you.”

  “You did not stage these men in the hotel?”

  “You Syrians really are paranoid—”

  “Answer the question.”

  “No. We did not stage it. I was as surprised as you.”

  She gulped more wine. He noticed that she was not shaky. She was composed. She’d seen death before.

  “Do I need to flee France?”

  “I don’t think so. Police have not been called. Cleanup crew is on the way. We’ll know more in a few hours.”

  “The chemistry between us. It is real, or you faked it to recruit me?”

  “Real. Very real.”

  “I’m done now.” She closed her robe tighter against the gusts of hilltop wind and looked out toward the ocean.

  He set down the empty beer bottle and dragged his chair closer to take her in: the eyes, hand movements, the position of her head. It would all matter for what was coming.

  “You’ve seen murders or killed someone before?”

  “Yes. There is a war in Syria, Sam.”

  “But more than that. You’ve done it yourself, haven’t you?”

  She ran a hand through her wet hair, untangling a knot. “Yes. Once. In Damascus when I was twenty. Someone tried to rape me. He did not succeed. I killed him. It does not bother me, in case that was your next question.”

  “It wasn’t. I already knew that. Why did you tell me about the Palace tonight?”

  “I wanted you to know.”
/>   “Why?”

  “Because I must do something.”

  “Would you like to work together?”

  “Do I get to work with you?”

  “Yes. We would work together in Damascus.”

  “Tell me what this would look like.”

  SHE PUT THE LEVANTINE NEGOTIATING sensibility on full display and kept the conversation going without actually saying yes. He marched through the flow on the terrace: we give you a crash course in France; a communications plan so we can talk inside Syria; an address where we can meet in Damascus; a list of topics we want to know more about; we make financial arrangements.

  She held up a hand. “I do not want money. I am not a mercenary.”

  “I understand, Mariam, but we’ll hold it in escrow. For later.”

  “I would never leave Syria. It is unnecessary.”

  He dropped the subject. Money would flow into an account. Finance would keep records. If she defected or retired, it would be hers. CIA kept its promises to its assets. Sam had once delivered ten years of back payments that an asset had missed because the guy had been in prison for spying. He’d sat across from the man on a train and slid a duffel bag filled with cash toward his feet. “From your American friends,” was all Sam said as he walked away.

  “You will show me how to move to get to the safe house without the mukhabarat?”

  “Yes. We will—” His phone vibrated in his pocket. Rami. It was almost five in the morning. He was wide awake.

  “What’s up?”

  “Cleaners just left. Guy at the front desk is literally snoring. No police.”

  Thanks. He dialed Shipley next. “Does she need to get out?” Sam asked.

  “No. My team says the room is clean.”

  He looked up at Mariam, who was leaning against the terrace’s wrought-iron railing, scrutinizing him. “Maybe she checks out tomorrow morning and relocates here, to Èze?”

  “She’s okay with that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Call me tomorrow.” The line went dead.

  “We are okay, yes?” Mariam said, and Sam wondered how much of the conversation she had heard.

  “Yes. You should check out tomorrow morning. Relocate here if you’re okay with that.”

  “How do I handle this when I go back to Syria?”

  “The kidnapping attempt?” She nodded. “I’m not sure you need to do anything right now. Atiyah is going to assume they failed, say nothing, maybe regroup for another try. None of this was official.”

  “That’s the problem with Syria, Sam. You never know.”

  13

  SAM DRAFTED THE CABLE AFTER MARIAM FELL ASLEEP in one of the bedrooms and sent it encrypted to a BIGOT list sufficient to wake the CIA’s slumbering bureaucracy. The bipolar nature of the Agency never ceased to amaze: CIA had the ability to find and kill a person in the remote Hindu Kush, and on the other hand he couldn’t find a working stapler at Langley. And so it was with Mariam’s recruitment.

  Procter set to ensuring the prized asset would have what she needed in three days when she returned to Damascus. The Chief sent a map of potential dead drop locations, signal and brush pass sites, and two safe houses in the Old City. There were reams of satellite imagery. It all had to fit with Mariam’s pattern of life. Sam would have to build it with her here in Èze. Luckily, a few days was a lifetime to spend with an asset.

  He could not sleep, so he made coffee. It was seven a.m. The sun had begun peeking over the horizon. Mariam was still asleep. As he waited for the grounds to finish steeping, he could smell the salt from the sea and hear the waves crashing into the rocks below. He pressed the plunger, poured a cup, and stepped out onto the terrace to watch the sunrise. Only the sound of the waves and a solo car horn disturbed the dawn-quiet streets. He sipped the coffee for a few minutes before returning inside, where he pulled up Procter’s maps on a secure tablet.

  Then there was Langley’s torpid bureaucracy. He’d asked for a trainer to coach Mariam on SDRs. No one available. Procter had gone berserk and used the word dogshit in official cable traffic. Said we have a plum asset here, a Tier 1 country, and a Palace adviser at that and you can’t get us someone? Fuck’s that about? It had not worked. Sam and the BANDITOs would have to handle it.

  Mariam emerged from her bedroom and started rummaging through the cabinets before closing them very loudly. “Everything in the world, except for tea,” she said, then poured herself a cup of coffee and sat on the couch next to Sam.

  “Before we start,” he said. “A promise. We tell each other the truth about everything. No walls. No half-truths. No lies.” He’d given the same pep talk to other assets, but they usually were not in bathrobes. Now he evaluated Mariam’s eyes, looking for deception, for courage. He saw honesty. He saw fear. It meant she understood the weight of her decision.

  She held his gaze. “I promise, Sam.”

  “So do I, Mariam.”

  “Now, where do we start?”

  They spent four hours reviewing her life: family, work routines, friends, frequented restaurants, enemies, blackmail risk. They consulted the maps. She pointed to her apartment, the Palace, her parents’ home.

  In the early afternoon Mariam went into the village to buy sandwiches and call Bouthaina to report on the lack of progress with Fatimah. Sam fired up the encrypted cable database on his tablet and saw the good news:

  1.NE DIVISION CONCURS WITH C / O GOLDJAGGER ASSESSMENT OF REF DEVELOPMENTAL’S MOTIVATION AND PROGRESSION TOWARD RECRUITMENT.

  2.RECOMMEND GENERATION OF CRYPTONYM PENDING COUNTERINTELLIGENCE CONCURRENCE.

  3.WE LOOK FORWARD TO REVIEW OF GOLDJAGGER’S COMMS AND OPS PLAN.

  Burt O. GOLDJAGGER was Sam’s “funnyname,” his alias used in written cable traffic to avoid printing his true name on documents. Such names were frequently ridiculous. Sam had heard that a computer program generated them using a British phone book from the 1950s. Procter found the name amusing and had taken to calling him Jaggers. Sam saw another cable, this from Counterintelligence, CI.

  1.CI DIVISION CONCURS WITH RECRUITMENT AND SIMILARLY LOOKS FORWARD TO COMMS AND OPS PLAN.

  2.REF DEVELOPMENTAL NOW ENCRYPTED BL/ATHENA.

  ATHENA was perfect. A huge improvement on his last recruit, who’d been encrypted SLIMER.

  He called Elias and asked the BANDITOs to meet in Nice the next morning for Mariam’s crash course in surveillance detection. The town’s cramped old city was the closest terrain to Damascus here in southern France.

  Sam banged out a cable for Procter with a proposed comms plan and follow-up questions for the Chief based on his discussions with Mariam that morning. He attached a picture of a map he’d drawn with Mariam that traced her jogging route through Damascus and up Mount Qasioun overlooking the city. He wanted to know if Procter could find a suitable drop site on the mountain. He sent the cable, closed the database, and refilled his coffee.

  Mariam returned with lunch: a tray of salami-and-butter sandwiches, bottled water, salad, and quiche. She explained that Bouthaina had instructed her to try for one last meeting with Fatimah. It was a gift. It bought them more time. As they ate, he explained that he’d asked Damascus for a drop site. “We can go to a trail nearby, maybe this afternoon, and I’ll show you how to manage the drops,” he said. She took a sip of mineral water, thinking something.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “Can we talk a little more about the Palace? For me to understand the information that is helpful to you.”

  “Sure.”

  “For example, what if Bouthaina was facilitating strange financial transactions for the Republican Guard?” Mariam said. “Would that be interesting?”

  “That would be very interesting.”

  Mariam took a sip of water. “Rustum appeared in Bouthaina’s office a few months back for a meeting. It hasn’t happened before or since. Bouthaina includes me in almost everything, but this one she handled alone. After the meeting she told me why. She shouldn’t hav
e, but she did: the Guard needs to procure equipment clandestinely. The sanctions are biting, and they don’t trust the SSRC shell companies to manage sensitive transactions.”

  “She said ‘SSRC’?” Sam asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting.”

  Mariam continued. “Bouthaina creates the shell companies using a network of friendly Syrian businessmen. Most are in Beirut. Some are in Amman, a few in Cyprus, in the Gulf. I helped with six transactions. I don’t have the full picture.”

  “All unique to the Palace?” he asked.

  “I think so. The funds come from bank accounts associated with the Republican Guard and are put into several held by Bouthaina at the Palace. Then we wire the money to the shell companies, who are presumably purchasing something for the Guard. It makes Bouthaina nervous. But here is the most interesting part. I did some research on one of the shell companies. The internet searches turned up nothing. They don’t have a website. But I checked a Palace database and found that an identical shell was established in 2002 to conduct business for the SSRC.”

  “I know where you’re going with this,” Sam said. “Chemical weapons. But they could be using the same shell now to buy something else. Pipes, bolts, scissors.”

  Mariam nodded. “True, but I called the company because I was curious. I told them I was in Finance—asked if they could read back the items on the bill of materials. I told them the scanner had done a poor job. It was one item: isopropyl alcohol. It is required for sarin production. I know because Bouthaina’s office had to respond to questions about the Europeans banning chemical exports to Syria.”

  “Do you know how much money was transferred into that shell company?” Sam asked.

  “Ten million U.S. dollars.”

  “Any ideas for how we could get access to the full list of shell entities and the transactions between those firms and the Palace?”

  “I expect it is on Bouthaina’s computer.”

  “She ever leave you alone with it?” he asked. Worth the risk, he knew, but it was just a little hard to be objective with her folded up on the couch reviewing the maps with that white underwear peeking out.