SANCTION: A Thriller

by S. M. Harkness

  “For your sake Abbas, don’t lie to me.” Brad added.

  The fat man scoffed at Brad’s last comment. He would not be intimidated on his own turf. But Brad wasn’t there for a show. He was willing to rough Abbas up if he thought it would help him get what he wanted. It was another reason that he had picked the biggest loudmouth that he could find. He wouldn’t feel sorry for having to exert force, or worry about bystanders coming to his aide. Brad guessed that a man like Abbas didn’t have a single friend at the market.

  Abbas looked at the bill on the table. Brad’s hand covered most of it but the numeric value could clearly be seen. He was practically salivating as he contemplated having it in his possession.

  “I do not know.” The man said solemnly.

  In reality, no one in the town had any idea where the kidnapped victims were, which was becoming apparent to Ward by the minute. If Saleem was in As-Suwayda, it would mean that not even a single resident had gotten wind of his arrival–though he had sixteen hostages and his men in tow; an impossible feat.

  Brad lifted the bill from the table and walked back to the car. Abbas called after him hoping to convince him of parting with the cash. Brad ignored him and got back into the rusted hulk of the BMW. He did a U-turn in the middle of the street and headed back the way he had come. At the first intersection he made a right and turned down a small side street. He was going to tour the city anyway, in the off chance that something grabbed his attention.

  He turned down the next street and discreetly snugged up on the brakes. A fleet of troop carriers trailed behind a symmetric row of slow moving tanks that were headed in his direction. Soldiers lined the sidewalks flanking the formation of combat vehicles.

  People in their homes began to open their windows and pop their heads out. They stood on door steps and balconies to observe the train of military vehicles that crept by.

  Syria wasn’t the kind of place where rioting, or even soft protesting, took place anymore. This atmosphere had taken years to perfect but it was the predominant line of thought, solidified by Bashar al-Assad’s vicious stamping out of all opposition fighters the previous winter.

  Unable to find a quick and inconspicuous getaway, Brad threw the transmission into reverse and backed down the street. He turned down another in the middle of the intersection and spotted a second element of troops and vehicles bearing toward the center of town. He pointed the BMW down the merchant alley and gunned it. He parked the car again and jogged toward Abbas’s booth.

  Abbas had both of his arms open with his plump palms aimed at the open sky. No one in the market yet knew of the military presence around the corner.

  “You came back to the right place.” He said arrogantly.

  “I need a way out of here.” Brad said through clenched teeth.

  Abbas looked at him, weighing his options. He was wondering how high of a price he could demand from the stranger.

  “I know a place you can stay for the night but it will cost you.” The Syrian said.

  “One thousand American. Going rate for someone in your circumstance.” He said craftily.

  “Three hundred, I only need it for two hours.” Brad said firmly.

  “Three hundred, two hours. I won’t pay a penny more or accept a minute less. Abbas, any second now a band of soldiers is going to round that corner. If they see me, then we have no deal.” Brad said

  “Follow me.” Abbas said as he grabbed the four ends of the table cloth and pulled them together, letting everything inside collide with a noisy crash.

  “I know everything that is here.” He shouted at the men in the booths next to his, hoping they’d think better of robbing him. He threw the improvised sack over his shoulder and the two of them jogged off to the end of the block. They rounded a corner behind the market and climbed a set of stairs in front of a two story house.

  Abbas jammed a key into the lock and slipped inside to a tall foyer with a grand arched wood carving of a panoramic desert scene overhead. Inside, the house was decorated with ornate Syrian and Egyptian statues and antiques, some dating back more than a thousand years. The foyer opened up into a small room with a white marble floor and stained mahogany staircase.

  Abbas leapt up the first few treads, his girth bouncing wildly. Brad was close behind him, his hand sliding between the folds in his robe for his gun.

  A voice from the street outside the house stopped them both.

  “Citizens of As Suwayda, do not be alarmed. Our presence is only a precaution.” The force commander shouted through the microphone of a loudspeaker.

  “We must occupy your town, in order to ensure its safety. Additionally, we will need to take a census of the citizens. This is also for your protection.” The man said in his best grandfatherly tone.

  “Please, come to the town square and show your support for your beloved country.” Abbas clamored back down the stairs and slid a stool that sat next to the door to the center of the entrance. He peered over the top of the door through a transom window, balancing himself with one foot on the stool while the other dangled freely in the air above the floor. He saw soldiers lining both sides of the street. They were moving from house to house, pounding on doors. The Syrian’s own door soon rattled with a menacing vibration. Abbas nearly fell off of his stool.

  “Do not open that door Abbas.” Brad whispered. Though it was soft and quiet, there was a definite authority in Brad’s voice.

  “I have to open the door.” Abbas said as mounting fear began to consume his basic senses. Brad shoved the end of his .40 Caliber Sig into the base of Abbas’s neck.

  The big man froze.

  “I can’t let you do that. I’m not a criminal. I’m just looking for the students. If I get detained, even for just one night, I might be too late.” Brad lowered the gun but kept it out in case Abbas tried anything.

  “I’m carrying this gun and a number of other things that would be very difficult to explain to the authorities.” Brad said.

  “Why don’t you try?” Said a deep voice from above them. The language came wrapped in a thick Arab dialect, just like everything else.

  Brad glanced up to the top of the stairwell. Standing on the landing was a tall, Syrian officer. The man had a rifle pointed in the general direction of both Brad and Abbas.

  “I do not know this man.” Abbas screamed.

  “He merely asked me to provide him with a place to stay for a fee.” Abbas said, choking on his own words as they exited his mouth.

  Brad studied the end of the soldier’s rifle as the man descended the stairs.

  “I am just a salesman from Jordan. I only needed a place to sleep for the night.”

  Brad said, still maintaining his fake accent.

  The officer stepped off of the staircase and meandered slowly over to the two of them.

  “And what is the gun for, Mr. Salesman from Jordan?” The man said as he descended the stairs, stopping a few feet away from the opening to the foyer.

  After a few silent moments, the man pointed the rifle at the door and shouted at Abbas. “Open it.”

  Abbas fumbled with the doorknob until the metal tongue slid back into the door’s recess and the door swung in on its hinges.

  “Go.” The soldier said, looking at Brad and forcing the barrel of the rifle into his side. The man reached over Brad’s shoulder and closed his fingers around the pistol that hung loosely from the intelligence agent’s hand.

  Brad and Abbas were marched out into the hot daylight with their hands half way extended into the air. They were each handcuffed and thrown into the back of a large personnel transport. An hour passed before the truck rumbled to life and headed east out of the city. Brad looked around at the other faces in the vehicle. One man returned his gaze. He motioned to Brad with his head to come closer.

  “What is happening do you think?” The man asked over the loud whine of the truck’s diesel engine. They passed soldiers that were setting up makeshift firing positions and rows of combat vehicles that lin
ed the sand on either side of the asphalt road.

  “It looks like your country is preparing for war.”

  21

  Quneitra, Syria

  Professor Rhinefeld breathed in long, dull rasps. He had been inching his way back to the building where the students were being held; his prisoner in front of him.

  He placed the tips of his fingers on Azim’s shoulder and nudged him forward. The Palestinian stumbled into the dark street where he and Saleem had chased the professor hours earlier.

  The abandoned buildings loomed around them, their black shadows casting eerie shapes against the backdrop of a crescent moon.

  Rhinefeld was a bag of nerves. Around every corner, he expected to be discovered and fired upon. He was sure that a severe beating–like the one he was still recovering from–would be welcomed treatment compared to what the Jihadist’s would do to him now.

  Rhinefeld pushed the man again, this time with the tip of the Kalashnikov. As they neared the building, now only a few blocks away, Azim became more and more resistant.

  “Grab the sides of your shirt, like this.” Rhinefeld said as he jerked on the end of Azim’s tunic. He wanted to make sure that he could see Azim’s hands at all times. “Now walk”. He said, again shoving the rifle into the man’s shoulder.

  They traveled down the middle of the street for several hundred yards, the night swallowing their presence up so that anyone watching would never know they were there.

  Rhinefeld looked down the row of buildings on the right side of the road. The faintest glow illuminated through a small square window on the first floor of one of the structures. Azim saw it too; his steps slowed dramatically.

  “Keep going. We’re headed all the way back to the students.” The professor said, pointing in the direction of the light.

  “Saleem will kill you.” Azim mumbled. He was pretending to be tough but there was an unmistakable trembling in his voice. Even his walk began to get shaky.

  “Maybe you’re afraid he’s going to kill you, huh?” Rhinefeld said quickly.

  The archaeologist guided his captive back onto the sidewalk once they were within a few buildings of the students. He directed Azim over into the blackness that the dilapidated facilities provided.

  They came to the overhanging roof that Rhinefeld had used to escape earlier in the day. Rhinefeld stopped and studied its shape in the dark. All he could see was the very edge of the overhang and the metal posts that supported it.

  “Sit down.” He ordered.

  Rhinefeld scanned his surroundings for a sturdy object that could be set up under the overhang. It was near impossible to see in the blackness but after a few desperate minutes he found three concrete blocks leaning against the building. He backed away from Azim while keeping the rifle trained on him.

  Azim didn’t try to move, he just sat there coming to grips with the fate that awaited him; he would be dead soon.

  One at a time, Rhinefeld picked up a concrete block with his free hand and shuffled over to the spot under the roof where he had jumped. Stacked together, the blocks rose two and a half feet into the air. Now, the professor had to figure out how he was going to get Azim and himself up the stones and onto the roof without making any noise or taking his eyes or the weapon off of his prisoner.

  “Get up.” The professor said in Arabic.

  Azim unfolded his legs and stood.

  He was getting tired of being pushed around by the American but he wasn’t the one with the rifle anymore. He quietly walked over to where Rhinefeld waited.

  “Climb up there.” Rhinefeld said, pointing to the roof with the end of Azim’s rifle.

  Azim looked at the roof with trepidation; he had a natural aversion to heights. Slowly, he put a foot on the top of the three stones and lifted himself up. He could barely reach the edge of the overhang. His fingers touched some loose gravel that remained on the roof and a few of the pebbles fell off and tumbled down. The rocks made a shallow tinny noise as they cascaded over the two men to the ground.

  Rhinefeld winced. It wasn’t loud but then, Quneitra was deafeningly silent. Rhinefeld shoved the rifle into the small of Azim’s back.

  “Be quiet.” He whispered.

  “Or what?” Azim replied plainly.

  “What can you do?” The Palestinian challenged.

  “I’m nervous Azim. So nervous, that I’m surprised I haven’t already jerked this trigger. I’m not a killer, that’s true. But I don’t think it’s wise to gamble your life on whether or not I’m willing to shoot you. After all, I am human and like everyone else, there are a lot of things I will do that I wouldn’t normally consider, if it means surviving.” Rhinefeld countered.

  Rhinefeld got his response in the form of Azim’s renewed effort to get onto the roof. The stones wobbled greatly as the kidnapper clutched and clawed at the edge of the overhang. Finally, with one leap from the top of the makeshift ladder, Azim managed to get both forearms and elbows onto the roof.

  Rhinefeld watched as the rail thin teenager pulled his weight up onto the structure. He was still wondering how he was going to get himself up there when he heard the sound of footsteps. They weren’t close but as long as he could hear them, he knew they could hear him. He melted into the shadow of the building and crouched down on one knee. He listened intently for the sound but it had stopped. He looked back up at the roof, Azim wasn’t there. Suddenly, Rhinefeld had lost control of the situation.

  The professor mustered the courage to move toward the corner of the building. He peeked around the edge and spotted one of Saleem’s men heading back to the main entrance. The man held his rifle by the butt stock letting it swing in wide lazy arcs near his feet. Large puffs of smoke extended from his black silhouette as he devoured a cigarette. Rhinefeld waited until the guard was back inside the building before he returned to his improvised ladder. He placed his right foot in the center of the stack and heaved himself up. Once he got the heel of his foot level with his upper body, he used it to roll the rest of the way onto the flat roof. As he wrangled himself onto the structure, he caught a glimpse of a shadow moving toward him; Azim.

  Rhinefeld sprung to his feet. He brought the rifle up so that it was level with his waistline and slipped his finger past the trigger guard. Azim had made a massive lunge for the professor and was unable to stop or slow his momentum. He ran right into the tip of the AK-47. The Palestinian gasped loudly and covered the flesh on his stomach with his hands. Rhinefeld took a step back and aimed the weapon at the terrorist. Azim threw his hands up over his head.

  “Don’t shoot.” He said.

  “Be quiet.” Rhinefeld insisted.

  “Lie face down right here.” The archaeologist said pointing the Russian rifle at his feet.

  Azim kept his hands raised high in the air as he lowered himself to the rough tar patched surface.

  Rhinefeld took his eyes off of the captive for a moment to look for the window he had jumped out of earlier. He felt foolish for having taken such a chance now. He also dreaded finding out how his students had been punished for his decision.

  “If you move, I will shoot.” Rhinefeld said, trying desperately to be convincing.

  He crouched down low and walked along the old overhang. After a few yards, the window to the room came into sight. A soft glow of light illuminated the small square opening. He could hear some of the students talking as he stooped down just below the window. He looked back to Azim.

  The Palestinian was barely visible in the blackness. Rhinefeld placed the outside of his left shoulder against the building. Moving at an incredibly slow pace, he inched upward until his face was next to the window and above the bottom of it. With even greater care, the professor peered around the edge of the opening. He saw the students and immediately began counting them. They were all there. He moved his head back before anyone spotted him and squatted down with the rifle resting on the tops of his thighs. He thanked God silently and looked back at Azim. The Palestinian was lying face down on the roof,
his hands spread out before him.

  Rhinefeld had no Idea what to do next. At the moment, there were no guards in the room. That didn’t however, give him enough confidence to brave climbing back through the window. He hadn’t even allowed the students to see his face, for fear that it would solicit a scream of joy or excitement and send the guards barreling into the room. He entertained the thought, though only briefly, of storming the first floor of the building where Saleem’s men were holed up. It was ludicrous. He wasn’t even sure of how to get the weapon in his hands to operate. He stood back up and looked around the edge of the window again. The students were in relatively good shape. He examined them all, looking for signs of abuse; there were none.

  Matt Ward jerked his head in the direction of the window. Rhinefeld ducked but it was pointless, he knew he had been spotted.

  Matt’s heart began to pound with intensity as he saw the professor’s face. At least he thought it was his face. He couldn’t be sure, the only source of light in the room was a small lantern that was on the floor next to the entrance.

  Ward rolled over on the side of his thigh and stood up. His legs were still badly bruised and very stiff. Every step was excruciating. The swelling in his jaw had gone down some but it was still quite tender. He scowled in response to the pain that seemed to echo through his nerve endings as he neared the window.

  “Should you be walking?” Katherine Boyd asked.

  Matt forced a smile but didn’t respond.

  Tracy Peters got up and approached.

  “What’s wrong Matt?” She asked, with an inquisitive look.

  “I’m fine.” Matt said. He wasn’t going to say anything until he knew that professor Rhinefeld was alive.

  He got to the window and stopped to catch his breath. His legs trembled as if they were made of straw. Once he had recovered from the short trek, he carefully leaned his head out of the window.