by Unknown
Hide. Also bad. You die if either side finds you.
Fight. The best option now. A chance at survival.
“Stay put. The city center is still safe, habibti. I am going to the office. I will come home soon.”
Reaching his building, Ali walked past the Russian command center on the way to his office. He spotted Volkov, a triumphant look beaming from his meaty face. He held a new mug filled with vodka and a single piece of paper.
“General, I’ve been instructed by President Putin himself to provide you with this information. It is, as the Americans say, hot off the pressures,” Volkov said as they sat.
Ali was about to correct the phrase but stopped himself. Who knew how much vodka the man had in him?
Volkov continued. “We’ve had some luck in Washington. One of our most highly placed sources received an interesting piece of information late last night.”
Volkov slid the paper across the table.
It had markings like the other information—(TS//HCS//OC REL ISR)—and was very concise. Just five lines of text including the source description. The text did not matter, just the title:
“LOCATION OF REPUBLICAN GUARD SARIN STOCKPILE AT WADI BARADA DEPOT.”
Ali thought he might laugh or cry, he was not sure. Wadi Barada. The facility provided to Bouthaina.
ALI FOUND HIS BROTHER IN his office, six aides standing around slack-jawed as Rustum screamed at someone over the phone to ready the missile and rocket forces nationwide. As Ali entered the room, Rustum turned his entire body to look at him because he could not move his neck. His brother’s eyes were feral, and Ali saw that his mustache was singed. He had not noticed at the palace.
Ignoring Ali, Rustum continued yelling into the phone and went to a map, pointing at coordinates inside Douma. He slammed down the phone and made a crazed gesture with his right arm toward Ali, beckoning him to sit and wincing in pain as he did so. He shooed the aides out of the room.
“Why are you here?” Rustum asked.
Ali slid the Russian report across the table. “The SVR delivered a copy to you, but I assumed you’d be too busy to read.”
His big brother gazed at the report for several significant seconds, as if imagining the title might change. Then Rustum breathed deep and sank his head. He set the paper down on the desk.
“I will handle this. I alone.”
Ali had initially considered arresting Bouthaina, but he knew that he could not have his way, not this time. She was done.
“Yes. You will, big brother.”
45
THE RUSSIAN PAPER OPENED A WORMHOLE IN RUSTUM’S brain. Hama. February 1982. He had boarded an attack helicopter in Damascus and flew, scanning the rebellious scrublands below, wind whipping through his hair, tactical shotgun in hand, preparing to reclaim the city house by house. Back in Damascus they’d joked about kus and played cards, but now he and his boys were silent, flying low, observing farmers pointing at their choppers, probably readying to inform the Ikhwan terrorists of the government’s arrival. In Hama they’d stormed the apartment, running forward into the maelstrom. Tossing grenades, taking cover to return fire, rage rising with each comrade destroyed. In the apartment, they’d turned their tactical shotguns on the family huddled inside before taking the scalps.
Rustum emerged from the wormhole in the bathroom of his villa in Bloudan, helicopter whirring outside, Russian combat shotgun pointed at Bouthaina, SVR report tossed at her lithe frame soaking in the gaudy bathtub, the one with the gold bear paws for feet. The paper fluttered into the suds. She picked it up, shaking. The Hama apartment then had been ratty, pockmarked with bullet holes, thick with the stench of death. This room felt clean, peaceful, refined. He steadied his vision and saw Bouthaina trying to read the paper, now soggy and illegible.
“What is this, habibi?” she stammered. She slid back in the tub. Away. They always tried to scoot back. Anything to get away. Rustum now saw his villa, his girlfriend bathing, apparently ignorant of the chaos choking the capital. He gripped the shotgun and watched the SVR report sink into the bubbles.
“It is your death warrant,” he said.
He leveled the gun at her head. Bouthaina screamed. Then Rustum pulled the trigger.
RUSTUM RETURNED TO DAMASCUS, A bit jittery from the murder, to find Daoud Haddad seated in his office, as he thought he remembered requesting. “Daoud, sit,” Rustum said to the already seated Daoud. Rustum then explained his need for Branch 450 expertise in general terms, often referring to the Republican Guard as the Defense Companies, the Guard’s predecessor, a now-defunct military unit to which Rustum had belonged in the 1980s when he had been a young lieutenant.
Rustum explained that gas, Daoud, is the only way. The only treatment for vermin in tunnels, the only terror sharp enough to make them put down their swords. “We launch as fast as we can,” Rustum said. The Ikhwan, those terrorists in their rat holes, we’ll smoke them out.
Rustum fished into his desk drawer and produced a large knife, which he drove into the map on the wall. Directly into Douma. He spat at the map and slime snaked down the M5 highway from Aleppo to Homs.
Rustum turned around. “Now, Daoud,” he said, yanking himself from the graveyard of his imagination. “We have the matter of Branch 450’s expertise. We’ve received orders from the President to initiate a retaliatory strike on the terrorists using our chemical stockpile. My men are preparing ballistic missiles at the sites on this order, which I am issuing to you as the newly promoted head of Branch 450.” He slid the piece of paper across the table.
“You will see on this order the air bases at which we will mix and load,” Rustum said.
“We don’t have a sufficient quantity in our stockpile, Commander,” Daoud said, reading the report. “Not for an operation of this magnitude.”
“We’ve produced several hundred tons of sarin at a place called Jableh, all moved to a nearby bunker once the site was discovered by the Americans and Zionists. My men have made rough allocations of the binary components and sent them to the launch sites on the order I just handed to you. I would like you to personally oversee the preparations.”
“What is the timeline?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Commander.” Daoud stood and turned to leave. He was picking at his neck.
“Oh, and Daoud. Though you have a rebellious daughter currently in our custody, I consider you a loyal servant. Do not let me down. For her sake.”
46
LIKE MANY SYRIANS THAT DAY, MARIAM WONDERED IF this was the end. Militia checkpoints had proliferated, looters roamed the streets, and the rebels gave interviews on Al Jazeera proclaiming the last days of the regime. She heard artillery fire and sirens constantly.
By the midafternoon, Zahran Alloush’s militia broke through Rustum’s siege and sent raiding parties into the city center. An entire Republican Guard battalion defected, according to a Reuters report she read online.
Bouthaina had gone to Rustum’s pleasure palace in Bloudan, which left Mariam in charge at the Palace. She’d sent the team home after the explosion and said sit tight, for now.
Her cell phone rang, and she saw the name of Amina, one of Bouthaina’s assistants. “Mariam, she’s dead, she’s dead,” Amina shrieked as soon as Mariam answered.
“Who is dead? What happened?”
“Bouthaina, Mariam. In the tub. The tub, Mariam.” More screaming, the sound of helicopter blades whirring. Amina yelled something incomprehensible into the background. “Shot by Rustum,” Mariam heard her say, at last. Then whimpering.
“Rustum?”
“Yes. He arrived on a helicopter, walked inside, shot her, and left. I was in the office. I found the body. Oh, Mariam, it was—her face is gone, the tub is covered . . .” Amina was yelling again, and Mariam could not understand what she said. The young girl stammered and whimpered and mentioned something about a paper she’d found in the tub. “A paper?” Mariam asked.
“Yes I could see English words on i
t but I couldn’t read much of the rest there were strange markings and it was very wet and my English is not as good as yours and—”
Mariam cut her off, suddenly feeling very cold. “You stay there, the roads are not safe. And destroy the paper. Understand?”
“What if he comes back, what if the monster comes back?” Amina asked. Mariam thought of the information she had passed to Sam. Wadi Barada. A single site, yet it had come from Rustum’s lips, to Bouthaina. Mariam had given it to CIA. Then Rustum had killed Bouthaina. Coincidences did not exist in Syria anymore. She could not suck in enough air to breathe. She felt light-headed. Maybe she was going to throw up.
“You will be fine,” she told Amina. “He will not come back. His business is done. But, Amina?”
The girl whimpered.
“Amina?” Mariam raised her voice.
“Y-ye-yes, Mariam?” she stammered.
“Do not tell any of the soldiers that you saw who murdered Bouthaina, understand?”
The young woman hung up, muttering. Mariam went to the bathroom and threw up.
NOW SHE SAT ON HER bed waiting to set the plan into motion. Or for Ali Hassan to take her away. Or for Jamil Atiyah to murder her. Or to die during a mortar volley. Whichever came first.
She heard the rattle of gunfire outside her window. Looking down, she saw a man in a mask sprinting through the street with a box slung over his shoulder. The looting had begun. The Security Office minder that had been posted outside her apartment was gone. Coward. She closed the window blinds. She ripped at a piece of finger skin with her teeth.
She jumped at the knock on the door. Opening it, she was greeted by Uncle Daoud’s ruinous figure. He no longer wore the bandages from the shooting, but he somehow looked more broken than ever. She beckoned him in. They sat in her living room listening to the shriek of jet engines and the thump of mortar fire, and she served lemon tea as if this were a normal social call.
Daoud’s uniform was damp, the armpits drenched. There was perspiration collecting on the tip of his nose, and it dripped into his teacup, which shook as he sipped.
“What is the matter, Uncle?” she said.
“I would have called your father,” Daoud said. “But I have not been able to reach him.” He grimaced, and her chest compressed with a dull pain, like a hand had pressed against her lungs. She nodded.
“I am going to an air base for work, maybe as early as tonight. I am not sure how to say this, other than I expect I may not return.”
She wanted to laugh and say: Are you joking? But she knew he was not. “What is happening?” was all she could say.
Daoud set the cup down and ran a hand through his hair, taking several strands with it. He rubbed them into his pants.
“I said something to you at your cousin’s engagement party, a lifetime ago it seems. I said that you were always a member of the war councils.”
“I remember, Uncle. I was honored. Am honored.”
“I cannot tell you why I may never come home, but I need two things from you, as a member of the council. I am sorry to ask like this.”
Mariam saw his frantic eyes. She did not want to hear what he had to say, but she said, “Tell me, Uncle.”
“I need you to promise me you will care for Razan and see that she is freed. If I do not return, there may be . . .” He stopped and scratched at the sore on his neck.
He finished: “Questions. Uncomfortable questions.”
“I promise,” she said. “Of course, Uncle.” His face rose, just a little. “What is the second thing, Uncle?”
Daoud took a piece of paper from his pocket, wet and eroded and shaking with his hands. “There is something happening that you should know about. Something so evil I am ashamed to mention it. But if I give you this paper, you will be involved. You will have choices to make.”
“Why are you telling me this, Uncle?”
“You are on the war council, no? And what is this, if not a great war? Do you want the paper?”
I did nothing.
She nodded. He slid it toward her, placing it under her teacup, and stood to leave. “I have written everything I can on it. Everything I know.”
At the door he hugged her, and she found herself crying. When he saw her cry, he, too, began to shed tears. “Your father,” he said, “would be proud of you. Whatever part my information plays in this, please, when the time is right, tell Razan that her own father stood up to be counted. That in the end, in some way, I avenged her. Tell her this, please, Mariam?”
She could not speak, just nodded and said yes with dark, frightened eyes.
He turned to leave, then wheeled around. “There are five locations on the paper I gave you. It would be best if they were destroyed tonight or tomorrow morning.”
“But Uncle, how—”
He put his hand up and smiled, his face lighter. He had tossed a weight from his body. “There is no need, Mariam. I am telling you for me, for my soul.”
SHE CLOSED THE DOOR.
She read the paper.
She vomited again.
She wished she had a better way to reach him.
She called Sam’s burner phone.
She told him everything, quickly.
She felt an unseen grip release from her chest.
And yet there was everything left to do.
47
SAM THOUGHT IT HAD TO BE ONE OF THE MOST CALAMITOUS messages sent from an asset to the CIA. He wanted to run to the Station. But he and Mariam had more work to do. He picked up the burner phone and called the embassy. One of the consular officers answered.
“Tell the people downstairs to call this number on a throwaway. Do it now. Understand?” Sam said.
The man did. Sam hung up. He paced the room and accidentally knocked over a stack of soup cans. Five minutes later, the phone rang. He answered.
“Fucking hell, man, where are you?”
He’d never been so happy to hear Procter’s voice.
“Laying low. I’m sorry, but I don’t have a choice. I’m going to read something to you. It’s from ATHENA’s subsource. We need to toss this in a restricted-handling compartment so about three people can read it. Ready?”
“Go.” She complied, but he could hear the rage in her voice.
He read it. She was silent for a moment. “I’m going to send it and call Bradley. I will call you back.” Click.
The phone rang again ten minutes later. “It’s out. Now, tell me where you are, otherwise you’ll be in chains when you return to the United States.”
PROCTER’S BLACK ENERGY FILLED THE safe house upon her arrival. Grunting, she pushed past her case officer and smacked her bag down, buckles clanking against the table. Sam eyed the black leather purse. He’d never seen the Chief so enraged.
Her eyes narrowed. She continued to glare at him until his eyes turned to the bag. “My knife and a pistol from the Station,” she said, anticipating the question. “City’s gone nuts. Fall-of-Rome kind of shit. Visigoths wetting themselves at the gates, thirsty for blood and goddamn plunder.”
Procter retrieved a rubber band from her bag and tied her frazzle into a crooked ponytail. “You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?”
She barged on without waiting for Sam to speak. “Let me paint the picture, and you tell me why I shouldn’t knock you the fuck out, dump you in a car, and drive you across the border to Amman myself, okay?”
Sam was silent. Procter leaned against the table, he against the wall, facing her.
She continued, voice tense, gritty, seething. “I have a case officer, brilliant recruiter, but with one of his assets I am now suspecting his dick is the primary assessment tool. This person is attacked by government militia, said asset in tow, for reasons I cannot even begin to fathom. They retreat to this pleasure palace”—Procter gesticulated around the shabby room toward the bed—“after committing a triple homicide, and then pass uncorroborated intelligence on a backup production facility, which I duly report to Langley in the hastiest
of fucking manners.”
Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Procter cut him off. “This case officer then refuses to come to safety, forcing me to run a death-wish SDR through checkpoints and falling mortars.”
He tried to speak again, but she put a finger over her mouth. “Ssh. Ssh. Ssh. You will shut. The. Fuck. Up and let me finish. This asset’s subsource then provides us with the information necessary to stop Assad’s sarin party. The intrepid Chief of Station passes said intelligence to Langley, guaranteeing that POTUS issues an order to bomb the sites in the next day. Endangering everyone at the embassy if the Syrians decide to respond.”
She glanced toward the door as someone screamed down the apartment hallway.
“And meanwhile said case officer sits in this safe house commanding his own Station. Running ops, refusing to tell me where the fuck he is. And why is that?”
“Bec—”
“I’ll tell you why. Because you knew I’d come here, grab you by the sack, and drag you back to the embassy. So now you need to explain a few things to me. Right now. You are ATHENA’s handler. Tell me what’s wrong with her. Tell me why she was at the scene of the crime.”
Procter stopped talking and folded her arms across her chest.
“Ali got to Mariam. Mukhabarat reported our conversation in Paris. He arrested her cousin as leverage. They sent her to Italy to acquire a device, not knowing we’d already recruited her. She wasn’t read into the op but pieced together that Ali was on a mole hunt.”
Procter sighed loudly. “She told you this?”
“Yes.”
“What else did she say she gave them?”
“Background info on me. The safe house we used with her.”
“She give a particular reason why they wanted the device?”
“No. She doesn’t know. And she hasn’t had the device since she got back to Damascus from Italy, hence the comms blackout.”
“So that’s why she ran to meet you?” Procter said. “To pass intel without using the device because she had a change of heart.”
