by Unknown
Mariam remembered what he’d said at the engagement party: The regime broke its end of the deal. Look what happened to Razan. And we have no recourse. We are trapped.
She looked at her dear uncle’s ballooning waistline and his sallow cheeks. A spark in his eyes ignited some nightmare and he rubbed his forehead and scratched at his neck. She glanced at an open sore under his shirt collar where he’d dug in the fingernail. He picked at it and finished the whiskey. He leaned back in his chair to close his eyes and smell the flowers.
Mariam thought she would have to press for information, but as it turned out only one simple question would be required. “What’s wrong, Uncle?” she asked.
“We ran a test,” he mumbled with his eyes still closed.
“Don’t you always?”
“Yes, but this test was on people.”
Mariam set down her whiskey. Her hands felt cold.
He opened his eyes and looked at her, again scratching at the sore on his neck. “And it was successful.” Then he poured himself another glass. “They are preparing the sarin for war.”
MARIAM SNUGGLED INTO BED NEXT to Razan two hours later but did not sleep. She sensed her cousin’s warm body and the fluttering of her chest, its gentle ups and downs. Mariam pulled the covers over herself and turned to face her cousin. The patch. Tissues were stuffed under the pillow.
Mariam had asked many questions. Too many, she feared. But Daoud had crossed a line. Several, in fact. The words he’d spoken did not seem real. They made her want to shut down. They kept her from sleep.
In the morning she snuck out early and went to her apartment, where she sat in the closet and wrote a short note, folding it up the way Sam had taught her in France. Satisfied it would fit inside a can, she stuffed it into the bottom of her shoe, put on athletic pants and a long-sleeve white T-shirt, and started out for the mountain.
When she returned to her apartment, she found Razan in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading a magazine. She had snuck out early from her father’s place.
“Want to talk about last night?” Mariam asked.
“Not really.”
“Have it your way,” she said, and went back to her bedroom, sweating out the last of the whiskey as she ran through her Krav movements.
When she finished, she pulled down the window blinds about halfway.
24
DAMASCUS STATION SUBMITTED MARIAM’S INFORMATION to NE Division for immediate processing and publication in cable traffic. The Deputy Chief of Syria Reports at Langley, Louise Boolatte, released the report, muttering to herself that those Syrians are butchers, savages, and monsters. Boolatte, like Damascus Station, wondered if the flagrant violation of POTUS’s red line would compel a response from the White House. She doubted it, but what the hell did she know? At this point she was just hustling for the overtime pay. An Exceptional Performance Award wouldn’t hurt, either, even if the paper-pushers in DO Finance had recently replaced the cash bonuses with restaurant gift cards.
Boolatte had flagged the report for the Director’s evening read book by late afternoon. The Director read it, cursed the Syrian regime, and called the National Security Adviser, who did likewise and said he would convene the Syria Working Group at the White House that evening to discuss, once again, the lethal authorities against Ali Hassan and the chemical weapons plotting coming out of Damascus. The Director, already late for dinner with the Saudi ambassador, explained that Ed Bradley would represent the Agency at the Small Group. In the Situation Room, Bradley sat through a three-hour argument about whether to enforce the President’s red line. In the end, the National Security Adviser presented three options for POTUS: destroy the regime, bomb the Jableh facility, send a covert message.
“Make it clean, Ed,” the President had said as he chose the third option. “Just the general. No innocent bystanders.”
THE NEXT DAY PROCTER SUMMONED Sam into her office for a videoconference with Bradley, who was apparently still awake, at home in the Box, and probably a few beers in as Damascus Station came online. His pixelated image emerged on-screen.
“Hey, guys,” Bradley said. “I’ll keep this quick. Last night POTUS considered bombing Damascus in retaliation for the sarin test ATHENA reported in her intel. He decided against, but still wants to send the Syrians a don’t-fuck-with-us kind of message. Office of Legal Counsel at Justice thinks they can interpret the Val and KOMODO murders, coupled with Ali Hassan’s surveillance operations in Damascus, as an ongoing threat to America and her interests. Which is why I am now holding in my hand a piece of paper, signed by POTUS forty-five minutes ago, declaring that an operation to eliminate Brigadier General Ali Hassan is, and I’m quoting from Title 50 of the U.S. Code here, ‘necessary to support identifiable foreign policy objectives of the United States.’ This is not an assassination. It has been certified as national self-defense.”
“Very classy. Nightgown-like elegance,” Procter said. “That’s why everybody loves lawyers.”
“What are the conditions?” Sam asked.
“And how much is on paper?” Procter asked.
“Procter, I am going to assume from your tone that you are really asking if we can run this like the drone operations in AfPak. And the answer is no. Only Ali dies. There can be no collateral damage. That is the only restriction on paper.”
“Any others not on paper?” asked Sam.
“Yes, one, from me,” Bradley said. “The President agrees. Call it commander’s guidance. We need our facial recognition experts to confirm it is Hassan before we pull the trigger. I don’t want us flubbing and killing the wrong Syrian general. We’ll need video footage in real time to confirm it is him.” Bradley’s eyes narrowed and he seemed to stare into Sam from the screen. “This is a rare opportunity to avenge one of our own. We all want Ali Hassan dead for what he did to Val. But let’s be smart. Nothing crazy.”
“Of course,” Sam said. His heartbeat picked up. CIA usually had to look the other way when one of its officers was killed. Now he could avenge Val. He could pay Ali back for that thin line he’d traced on her forehead.
Procter removed her tweed blazer and stood facing the screen, staring back at Bradley. Sam could see the IN HONOR stars visible on her lats above her black top. What the hell were they for?
“Is this your way of hinting that this Station isn’t pulling its weight?” she said.
“No,” Bradley said. “This is my way of telling you explicitly—no hints here—that you all are under the damn gun. Expectations are high and increasing because of your great work. Is your door closed?”
She looked at the closed door.
“No, it’s wide open, along with the door to the chancery. There is actually a Syrian in the room here with us, Ed, he’s off-camera and has been acting as notetaker. Mahmud, Mahmud, come join us on-camera and smile for Ed.” Procter waved wildly toward the door.
She turned back to the screen and gave Bradley a smug smile.
He laughed. “I forgot how much of a pain in the ass you are, Procter. I should have sent you to Europe Division so you could terrorize someone else. I’m getting the same shitty treatment you offered the Pakistani Taliban and Qaeda.”
“At least you’re still alive,” she said.
INSIDE THE AMBASSADOR’S SECURE CONFERENCE room in the American Embassy, Yusuf kicked his heels up on the table and took another bite of pizza. The box claimed it was “Authentic Syrian Pizza” from a place called Café Costa, and Sam could barely look at it. “Stop the tape here, Rami,” Yusuf said in response to a question from Procter. He sat up. The screen showed Ali Hassan’s car weaving through the concrete berms into the Security Office building. They’d been watching the BANDITOs’ surveillance footage.
“See how low that Lexus is riding?” Yusuf said. “It’s armored, so we’d need something fairly heavy. “Also, take a look at this.” He slid the surveillance log across the table.
Sam opened the file. The BANDITOs had marked Ali’s arrival and departure times. I
t varied every day, sometimes by hours.
“Does he mix up the route, too?” Sam asked.
“Yes, unfortunately. He rolls up from different directions,” Elias said as he pulled another slice off the pie. “We haven’t found a pattern.”
“Gatehouse attack?” Procter asked, casting a sideways glance at the pizza. “Run-and-gun while he shows the badge?”
“Typically, one guy works the gate, between four and seven guys outside passing the time smoking and bullshitting with each other,” Rami said. “Not particularly professional, but you’d have a shoot-out on your hands.”
Procter stood up. “I said I’d take his balls, I meant it. You got any actual ideas?”
“One,” said Yusuf.
He removed a pack of Marlboro cigarettes from his breast pocket and placed them on the table.
“No, thanks, Yusuf,” Procter said, giving a wise-ass grin. “The ventilation in this tin box is not so great.”
“No. Watch.” Yusuf fast-forwarded until he reached footage taped at 9:55 p.m., one week earlier. The camera focused on Ali Hassan as he emerged from the Security Office building and walked along the street, winding through the cars parked on the sidewalk, just as Sam had seen other pedestrians do when he’d watched the building.
“I was filming this one,” Yusuf said. “Watch closely.” The camera zoomed in on Ali. He stopped next to a parked car and pulled the distinctive red Marlboro package from his shirt pocket. He paused to remove a cigarette, light it, and then began walking again. He moved slowly, as if he were deep in thought.
“Now watch this one,” Yusuf said. He fast-forwarded the tape again, to the next day’s footage. The time stamp read 10:02 p.m. Ali walked the same route, smoking his Marlboros.
“Guy does it a lot. One week he walked the route four times.”
Sam picked up the cigarettes from the table and turned the package over in his hands. He nodded to Procter, who nodded back.
25
JAMIL ATIYAH WAS BOUTHAINA’S PEER. THEORETICALLY, anyway. But the old man had been deputy director of Military Intelligence, he’d helped smooth Bashar’s ascension to the presidency, he was in charge of the Iran file. He had more wasta than Bouthaina. And he had a penis. He told Bouthaina what to do.
So Bouthaina was apoplectic but not surprised when she received another curt summons to brief Atiyah on Mariam’s efforts to peel oppositionists away from the National Council. “I will handle the pedophile in the meeting,” Bouthaina said. “But I’d like you to come in case he asks for details. We can share the reports you drafted in France. Of course, he doesn’t give a shit about the actual work, this is about our war. Another battle in his effort to destroy us.” Mariam unconsciously lifted a finger to her mouth as she thought of the three bodies in her Villefranche hotel room, her shaky fingers attaching the DO NOT DISTURB sign as she closed the door behind.
Around the time of the brush pass, Mariam started biting the skin around her fingernails. She would not notice at first but by the second or third finger she would catch herself. But Bouthaina, poor self-absorbed Bouthaina, seemed not to notice.
Mariam placed her hands on Bouthaina’s office table and noticed a drop of blood peeking from the nail bed of her right thumb. Bouthaina’s phone rang and she stepped into the washroom. Mariam fiddled with reports on the table, mulling over her boss’s horrendous communications security as Bouthaina spoke with Rustum. She was gnawing at the left middle finger when she realized it and bit her lip in disgust.
Bouthaina hung up and emerged from the washroom. “Let’s go see that old creep.”
Mariam smoothed her dark blue skirt and picked up her reports to follow. Atiyah sat at his desk reading and did not look up to acknowledge them. Today he wore a fine-cut black suit with thick pinstripes that made him look like a gangster.
Bouthaina and Mariam sat at the table. Atiyah finished reading his report, then looked up. He sipped tea but did not offer any. Instead, he drank in Mariam for a beat and did not hide it.
“She’s a little old for you,” Bouthaina snapped.
Atiyah did not even acknowledge her comment. Instead he spoke to Mariam. “I forgot to ask the last time we saw each other. How was France?” She caught an edge in his voice. The rage was about to break through. His eyebrows quivered for a second, but then, in an instant, they stopped and he raised them, smiled, and said, “Eventful?”
“The meetings with Fatimah did not succeed,” Mariam said. “Not yet. Though as you can see in these reports we’ve taken active measures to shift her opinions on the matter.”
Mariam slid the paper toward Atiyah.
Atiyah made a flapping motion with his hand as if shooing her away. He said: “I already know that Fatimah’s mother has been arrested. I don’t need these reports. What I want to know is why, Bouthaina, your office keeps failing. Fatimah is still on the council, lounging in Europe and mocking us.”
Bouthaina glanced longingly at a letter opener propped on the desk. Instead, she looked down for a moment and brushed lint off her left pant leg with an air of indifference. She, too, knew her war with Atiyah required composure. “My office is traveling to squeeze the life from the opposition, and you’re traveling to Thailand to squeeze teenage flesh. We all have our priorities.”
Atiyah snickered, but he locked his eyes on Mariam. She folded her hands in her lap to keep from biting her fingers and glanced at the letter opener herself. It would be fitting payback for the hotel incident in Nice.
“You keep using the same weapons, Bouthaina,” he said. “It is not working. Try something else. If you do not solve this problem, you will lose the file. Then I will take it and succeed where you and Mariam have failed.” He held up Mariam’s reports as he stared at her blouse. “I may actually read these, Mariam, and when I’m done maybe you’ll provide me with a proper briefing.” The word proper spoken as if it would be anything but.
Overpowering the Botox, Bouthaina’s forehead wrinkled. She looked like she was about to speak, then, in silence, she stood up, turned for the door, and left. Mariam tried to follow, but she felt a hand gripping her shoulder and hot breath on her neck as she reached the door.
“I’m glad you’ve returned safely from your French vacation,” he said.
She turned and brushed his hand from her shoulder. “It would have been a shame to lose you, but please understand—it is nothing personal. Bouthaina started a war with me.” She dropped the reports and pulled free, slightly off balance because of the heels.
Surprise registered in his eyes. “Be vigilant, Mariam. There is much to fear. I will summon you for a full report once I’ve read these files.” He looked at the papers on the floor and laughed. He closed his office door.
Mariam quickly gathered up the scattered papers and walked back to Bouthaina’s office, holding eye contact with a portrait of the President as she marched past.
BOUTHAINA WAS ALREADY BACK AT her desk, typing furiously with her eyes locked on the screen. Mariam only knew Bouthaina was aware of her return when she said, “I think that went well, don’t you?” She went to the table, where she began rifling through paper, muttering. This was a proper Syrian bureaucratic war, Mariam thought, fought with papers, files, and meetings, the subordinates as cannon fodder.
“Here it is,” Bouthaina said. She smacked an Iranian intercept of Fatimah’s travel itinerary in front of Mariam. “Atiyah wants to tell the President that we have failed. He thinks it will give him leverage, and he’s correct.” She pointed to the report. “Fatimah is going to be at her family’s home in Tuscany for a few days starting on July sixth. You will go see her. You will bring her home, plaintive, muzzled, gift-wrapped. We will have Ali arrest a few more family members to soften her up. You, Mariam, will succeed this time.”
“Of course, Bouthaina. I will handle her.” She raised a fingernail to her mouth but caught herself and put her hand down, balling it up like a fist.
ON THE WALK HOME MARIAM nibbled at crackers she’d bought to settle he
r stomach. Atiyah’s threat ran through her mind, as did the forbidden thought of Sam joining her in Italy. He would calm her down, help her think. She crossed the street and entered the bustling Souq Al-Hamadiya. Some of the shopkeepers called out as she passed, asking if they could show her a nice dress, or perhaps some sunglasses. But she was in Èze, on top of Sam, taking her pleasure when the club cracked open the head of the thick assailant in the Pink Floyd T-shirt. She was in the backseat of the car, guiding him inside, when the second man’s blood sprayed onto the hotel room mirror. She was next to Sam in the bed, fingers tracing the muscles on his chest, when the back of the third attacker’s head collapsed onto the freshly made sheets. Mariam nearly tripped on a raised paving stone and stopped to rummage through her purse for another cracker. Removing one from the foil, she held it between her lips as she felt again to be sure the marker was still in her purse. She grasped it for a moment to reassure herself. She slung the bag over her shoulder and quickly closed her eyes to recall the image of the graffiti they’d practiced on napkins in Èze.
“This is the emergency signal,” Sam had said as the napkin whipped in the Mediterranean breeze. “Someone will check for it every day. If we see it, we service the drop site right after.”
Mariam stopped at an alleyway three blocks from her apartment. “What do I do if someone sees me?” she had asked him. “Don’t let them,” he had replied.
