Damascus Station

by Unknown

  Sam packed up the equipment and reattached his mustache. He noticed he’d run the whole op wearing the fake gut and wig.

  Susan’s voice cut through. “The guy with Ali said, ‘We’ve found him.’ ”

  “Sam, you hear that?” Bradley said. “Don’t move, obviously, you don’t have any assets there with you. Hang tight and stay on the line.”

  Mariam, his world, his presence here, it had all hung by a thread that Ali Hassan was now cutting. If they caught him in the safe house, the Syrians would kick him out of the country or kill him. He wouldn’t be able to protect Mariam, to feel her skin on his, to hear her laugh. He would never see her again. He cursed and kicked a hole in the wall and sat down in the conference room, debating how to destroy the video equipment.

  ALI AND VOLKOV ARRIVED OUTSIDE the white stone building, which was indistinguishable from the others on the block. They approached a Security Office captain, who was smiling ear to ear. “How’d you find him?” Ali asked.

  “We got lucky, saw him walk inside. I followed him up the stairs, saw him go in one of the apartments.”

  “Did you see anyone enter with him?”

  “No.”

  “Take me there.”

  They rode the elevator in silence, Ali’s pulse accelerating with each floor.

  They reached the apartment. The captain tried the lock. He shook his head.

  Ali knocked on the door. “This is the Security Office. Open the door. Now.” Silence.

  “You have three seconds to open the door.” Still more silence

  Ali nodded and drew his weapon. The captain kicked in the door. Ali ran in.

  THE LIVING ROOM WAS EMPTY, as was the kitchen. Ali entered the bedroom and saw an attractive young Syrian woman smoking on the bed, nude and serene. She was well groomed, he saw as she stood unashamedly to put out her cigarette. Picking up her bra, she nodded toward the closet.

  As it turned out, the man the team had identified as Sam was in fact Clement Lacroix from the French Embassy, a young man who bore a striking resemblance to the CIA officer and who was bedding a Syrian hairdresser with an apartment in Kafr Sousa.

  Clement hid in the closet at the sound of the knocks. His girlfriend, the brains of the operation as in most Syrian relationships, had enjoyed a smoke as she waited for the mukhabarat to realize this was one big horrible mistake.

  SAM HAD WAITED PATIENTLY FOR Ali to kick down the door. After thirty minutes Bradley and Procter agreed he should depart. He’d not been followed and had no idea where Ali and the Russian had gone. He left the video equipment inside and slowly discarded the disguise on the outbound SDR. By the time he arrived at his apartment, the bag was empty and he resembled himself again.

  He was exhausted but needed to attend the dinner with Zelda on the chance the Syrians did not know he’d been operational that evening. Given the text messages, which they were surely reading, they’d expect it. The mukhabarat foot soldier watching his apartment entrance appeared shocked to see him enter. Same guy for the last five days, poor bastard, Sam thought, and considered waving but decided it would be offensive, a professional slight. That was the kind of thing that would invite them to break into his apartment for a search—or just to have some fun ransacking the place.

  Zelda had made a reservation at Three Tables, a trendy restaurant in Sha’alan. The district was normally packed, overrun with families, young couples on dates, and strollers on the sidewalk. That was before the war. Now the luxury boutiques and upscale liquor stores were quiet, the restaurants open unevenly.

  Zelda had arrived first. She sat uncomfortably at a table with a view out the window. Most of the tables were empty.

  Ali Hassan sat beside her.

  He smiled and waved at Sam, beckoning him to the table. As Sam approached, Ali stood to shake his hand. He motioned to one of the empty chairs facing inside the restaurant.

  “Samuel, please have a seat,” he said in English.

  Zelda had ordered wine, presumably before the Syrian had arrived. The waiter now brought the bottle.

  Ali smiled as the waiter poured it into his glass for the wine ritual and Ali turned it about and sniffed. “Domaine de Bargylus, an excellent choice.” Ali took a sip and nodded at the waiter, who filled everyone’s glasses. “You know, this is the only Syrian wine considered suitable for export. The rest is garbage produced in state-owned vineyards. A pair of Lebanese own this one, even though it is in Latakia, near my ancestral home. Rebels occasionally shell the vineyard, I hear.”

  Sam noticed the sweaty imprint on the tablecloth when Zelda removed her hands to place them on her chair.

  “Shame on you for drinking,” Sam said in Arabic, winking at Val’s killer though he wanted to drive his knife through the man’s heart. He sensed Ali was at ease, in control.

  Ali laughed and took another sip. “I am an Alawi, Mr. Joseph, we are all heretics anyhow.” The Syrian smiled at Zelda and she looked down at the sweat marks on the table.

  The waiter arrived with bread, and Ali nodded at him to serve them. Ali turned to Zelda and said, “Allow me,” as he drizzled her bread with olive oil. Then he seasoned his own bread, but his focus remained on her. “Are you enjoying your stay in Syria?”

  “I am.” She now looked him in the eyes. “It was a beautiful country.”

  Ali’s English was apparently not sufficiently fluent to notice Zelda’s derogatory use of the past tense. “It’s too bad you cannot travel up to the coast, or to Aleppo,” Ali said. “Although I’m afraid the latter is not presentable these days. It is a shame.”

  “My father was born there, I visited once when I was young,” Zelda said.

  “Ah, very good, so you know its former glory. And you are half Syrian? Incredible. America truly is a melting pot, as they say.” He tore off another piece of bread and took a bite. His eyes narrowed at Sam. “Let’s take a walk, Mr. Joseph.”

  As they left, Zelda remained at the table, taking a long and grateful gulp of her wine.

  Ali lit a cigarette as they walked and offered one to Sam, who declined. The Syrian led them toward a park. “Is a team covering us?” Sam asked.

  “Not from my agency, but you never know. Another group might be running an op.” He laughed at his own remark and ashed the cigarette.

  “How are your twins?” Sam asked.

  “They are fine, thank you. I’ve always wondered what my CIA file looks like. Do you have all the juicy stuff?”

  “We’ve only found six of your mistresses.” Ali laughed again, and Sam noticed a red-rope scar on his neck.

  “Ah, you’ve missed the remaining four. They are the ones I’ve hidden most carefully . . . maybe even the CIA cannot find them?” He grinned, then motioned to a small convenience store and patted at his breast pocket. “We have much to say, but I am out of cigarettes.”

  Sam followed him inside and held out a few bills. “I’m happy to have the American government pay me back for all the inconvenience,” Ali snickered in Arabic. The cashier appeared visibly discomfited by the presence of a mukhabarat official and an American chatting in his establishment. Sam smiled at him and asked, in Arabic, “How is your night going?”

  “Fine, sir,” he said, though his eyes begged them to leave.

  Ali led them out of the store and they walked in silence until they arrived at the park. Curiously, Ali had not opened his fresh pack. He gestured to a bench and they sat down.

  Ali tapped the pack against his wrist, packing the cigarettes, and then pulled one out and lit it. He waited for a couple to walk by, then turned to Sam. “Mr. Joseph, you are permitted to live and work in this country by the grace of my government. We monitor you for your own protection. Disappearances are not tolerable.”

  “I understand,” Sam said.

  Ali continued: “And you must not confuse my geniality for weakness,” he said. “If you break the rules again, there will be punishment. And as you well know, there are dark forces at work now in this country. Rule-breaking will give t
hem cause to lash out.”

  “I understand,” Sam said again.

  “Good,” Ali said. He finished the cigarette and tossed it to the ground and stamped the embers with his shoe. He stood to leave.

  Sam wanted to get the guy talking. He really wanted to ask why they’d butchered Val, see the look in Ali’s eyes at the mention of her name. But any mention would spook Ali and endanger the op. So instead he tried to elicit something. “You have a wife, children. You read all of the security reports,” Sam said. “I suspect you do not approve of your government’s response to the unrest. Am I correct?”

  “The government has made mistakes, certainly.”

  “And do you believe this government is your best chance to keep your family safe?”

  He lit another cigarette and handed the pack back to Sam before leaving. “Mr. Joseph,” he said. “Let me spare you the breath. I am the only one keeping my wife and boys alive. I suggest you spend less time worrying about my safety and devote more to your own. You will need it.”

  WHEN SAM ARRIVED AT HIS apartment, he did not need to wave at the mukhabarat guy. The man was looking right at him, smiling. Sam was not surprised to find that his apartment door was already unlocked. Nor was he surprised to find his shelves overturned, books spilled out and torn to shreds, laptop crushed with a hammer, kitchen knives scattered in the living room where they had been used to carve up the couch. He opened his front hall closet. He did not have to touch his coats to know they were slick with piss. Following a burning smell into the kitchen, he found his garbage disposal had been stuffed with silverware and run to mechanical failure, and his kitchen chairs splintered to kindling. The oven was off, but he opened it anyway out of morbid curiosity. Inside, he found the ashen remains of his books. He smiled. The air conditioner—too precious to destroy—had been carted off. Smart. And when he got to the bathroom, he was actually impressed. They had smashed the tub into bits, filled his sink with urine, and stuffed his pillow into the toilet.

  One flourish, though, exceeded expectations: the superhuman pile of human excrement mounded in the middle of the bed. A grainy surveillance photo of Sam and Ali leaving the restaurant jutted from the top like a candle on a birthday cake.

  41

  ALI HAD TRIED HIS BEST TO AVOID INVOLVING THE President. He’d called Rustum twice, he’d sent an official eyes-only memo with the list of names and the false locations Rustum had agreed to deliver. He had received nothing in return. When he had sent Kanaan to Republican Guard headquarters, one of Rustum’s aides had kept him waiting for three hours before informing the lieutenant that Rustum was at the villa in Bloudan. In Bloudan, they told Kanaan that Rustum was in Damascus. So, finally, Ali had hovered outside the office of the President’s secretary waiting until he could be squeezed in for a five-minute appointment.

  “Your brother assures me he has already had the discussions,” Assad said, distracted as he surfed on the internet. Ali stood in front of his desk. He had not been invited to sit. “I know that he has at least told Atiyah, because the man asked me about the site during a meeting earlier this week.” Assad clicked his mouse, then clicked again in rapid succession. “Those two men, as is probably apparent, despise each other.” Assad chuckled. “I honestly worry that Rustum may order Basil to kill Atiyah someday.” He laughed again. Ali could not tell if he was serious.

  “He has had all but one conversation, Mr. President,” Ali said. “The surveillance operation against the American is proceeding, but we still need to test the officials that had knowledge of—”

  “I heard your team lost the American,” Assad said, continuing to stare at his computer screen. The President looked up and shifted the conversation back on topic. “You are talking about Bouthaina, though, yes? Your brother does not think it is necessary to test her, Ali.”

  “Do you agree, Mr. President?” Ali asked.

  The President put his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair. He rubbed his thin mustache. “What do you need?”

  ALI CARRIED THE CLASSIFIED PRESIDENTIAL decree into Rustum’s home office, brushing past an aide who insisted Rustum was in the middle of a meeting. When Ali opened the door he found Rustum sitting at that awful noria desk, reading reports. “Get the hell out—”

  “Do you think your girlfriend is spying for the CIA?” Ali asked.

  “Fuck you, little brother. I do not.”

  “Then why have you not passed to her the false information on the backup facility at Wadi Barada?”

  “How do you know I have not? And for god’s sake, we both know the spy is that rapist Atiyah.”

  Ali slammed the presidential decree down on the desk. “Read this.”

  Rustum picked up the paper and read, his face reddening as he finished. He set it neatly back on the desk, upside down.

  “You have until tonight to pass her the information,” Ali said. He turned and left.

  MARIAM SLOWLY ATE AN ORANGE, glancing sideways at the gigantic purse she’d used to smuggle the document bag into the Palace. She’d eaten three oranges in the past hour, her fingers were discolored, and the juice was stinging her exposed nailbeds. She worked part of the peel off and kept looking at the bag, as if she could will it into Atiyah’s office without needing to make the journey herself. It was ironic that this monster had sent men with guns and clubs to kill her in France, but if she succeeded, his end would come from a simple briefcase.

  As she ate a section of orange, Bouthaina stopped outside her door. “Night, Mariam.”

  “Night.” Mariam smiled at her boss. The fewer people on this floor, the better. She did not want a crowd around as she switched the bags. Bouthaina disappeared and Mariam’s eyes turned back to the purse. She lifted another section of orange to her lips and the smell suddenly reminded her of Ali’s henchman Kanaan. He had been eating an orange during one of the rounds of questioning after Italy. He’d sat silently, working away the skin as his boss again asked the same questions and Mariam answered.

  Q: The device you provided. It connects to a satellite?

  A: Yes, that is what Samuel Joseph said. I’ve already told you, General.

  Q: Why did he give it to you?

  A: I gave him the information we agreed upon. I said I needed a way to talk to CIA from Damascus. I needed a device. I have said—

  Q: What else did you tell them?

  A: Nothing.

  [Shuffling paper]

  Q: Which of these people is the CIA Chief of Station?

  A: This woman.

  Q: Name?

  A: She told me her name was Artemis.

  Q: Is that a real American name, Kanaan? It sounds like a pseudonym.

  [Inaudible]

  Q: Really? Okay. Did they provide other safe houses here in Damascus?

  A: Just the one I’ve shown you, General.

  Q: Did he promise you anything in exchange for your cooperation?

  A: Money.

  Q: What did you have for dinner in San Angelo?

  A: Pasta

  Q: What kind of pasta?

  A: Cacio e pepe. Spaghetti with cheese and pepper.

  Q: What did Samuel Joseph eat?

  A: I have told you four times—

  Q: What did Samuel Joseph eat?

  A: Pasta. Tuscan ragù. With boar.

  [Muffled conversation, the click of a cigarette lighter]

  Q: We can take a short break. Would you like to see your cousin now?

  A: When will you release her?

  Q: When your job is done.

  A: When will that be, General?

  Q: When it is done. Anything else?

  A: May I use the bathroom first?

  She’d vomited, then scrunched herself next to the toilet and hyperventilated into her hands. In the moment, she’d been unaware that she’d latched her teeth onto her pointer finger. She cursed as she broke the skin. Dabbing the blood with the toilet paper, she looked at herself in the mirror. She remembered Sam’s promise in the vineyard and felt like
a whore. “You look worse than I do, okhti,” Razan had said as Mariam was led into her cell for a brief visit. “And I’m the one in prison.”

  Mariam finished the orange. She picked up the pieces of the peel and walked them to the trash. It was 8:45. Fifteen minutes. She went to the bathroom and washed the residue off her hands. Returning to her office, she turned off the lights and closed the door as if she were not there. She sat under her desk, holding the giant purse containing the document bag, and listened to her heart beat. She heard footsteps outside and checked her watch, which she could barely read in the darkness. It was 8:58. “He’s a prompt pervert,” Bouthaina liked to say.

  She heard Atiyah’s footsteps pass her office on the way to visit Hasan Turkmani, another adviser to Assad. Mariam had waited for a very specific date for this operation. She needed Atiyah to meet with Turkmani, preferably late at night, when Bouthaina was gone. With those conditions met, she could hustle down the hall into Atiyah’s office, replace the bag, then return without Bouthaina wondering why she was walking into that part of the corridor. Bouthaina was as suspicious as Atiyah, and she would probably interpret Mariam’s presence near his office as evidence of treachery.

  Mariam sprang into action when she heard Turkmani’s door open, then click shut. Picking up the purse, she walked quickly down the hallway, past Bouthaina’s office, then turned left into the corridor housing Atiyah’s team. She picked up her pace until she reached his office, which was thankfully open.

  Walking inside, remembering him smacking her bottom right in the doorway, she pulled the new document bag—loaded with U.S. passports for Atiyah and his unfortunate wife, cash, and a device preloaded with a message asking for exfil—from the purse and set it on the floor next to Atiyah’s original. “How do you think the mukhabarat will react?” Sam had asked. “I think they will kill him,” she had said. “Good.” He had nodded coldly. “We’ll also arrange for his phone to receive a few strange text messages from American numbers. Just to be sure.”

  Mariam pulled the papers from Atiyah’s bag. She closely examined the inside compartment before making the switch. “There is one caveat,” Iona had said. “We obviously cannot see the inside of the bag from your video. We’ve subjected our bag to a couple months of wear and tear on the inside. I personally crammed papers in and lifted them out more than one hundred times. But there could be a stain, there could be rips or scuffs we cannot see. When you make the switch, again, you check and abort if the bags don’t match.”