Donovan's War: A Military Thriller (A Tommy Donovan Novel Book 1)

by W. J. Lundy

  20

  Fayed hadn’t yet unpacked his bag. He left his room and waited in the lobby, watching the fire in the building across the street be extinguished. He intended to return to France as soon as he could catch a flight. He’d had enough and wasn’t waiting around to be killed. Fayed moved out of the lobby doors and onto the sidewalk, stopping beside a uniformed officer. Speaking to his back, Fayed asked, “How bad is it?”

  The officer turned and looked back at him. He shrugged. “So, I suppose our meeting is canceled then?” the policeman asked.

  Fayed suddenly recognized the chief of police. He was scheduled to meet with him about the rescued women in a couple of hours. His curiosity turned to fear as he put the timing of the meeting and the explosion together. Was he being targeted, or was it a coincidence the building was hit as he arrived at the hotel? “Tell me, what happened here?”

  “There was a car bomb, followed by an ambush on the residence across the street, but the attackers botched the placement. The blast wave was vicious, but fortunately most was directed away from the crowds on the street. Someone also set fire to the top floor. The rest of the building will be okay; the concrete construction prevented the fire from spreading.”

  Fayed focused on the building across the street and could see covered bodies on the ground in front of the doors. He counted at least six. “Are you certain that building was the target?”

  The policeman glared at Fayed and rolled his eyes, not speaking. He looked at the inspector’s dirty and dust-ridden clothing, the dark stains under the man’s eyes. He laughed. “You had an up-close and personal view. You should be telling me what happened.”

  Fayed shook off the comment. “Did you catch the terrorists?” he said.

  The man leaned in close, locked eyes with Fayed, and grinned. “Is that who you want to say did this? Is that what you are telling me that you saw? You saw terrorists? Then where are all the civilian casualties? Where are the dead bodies? Look around you, man, you know what they were after. Do you know what that place is over there? Do you know what they do there?”

  Fayed shook his head, shocked at the officer’s response. “No—what is it, an apartment building?” he lied.

  The officer frowned. “No, not at all. And for the record, I have no intentions of getting my people involved in this. Consider the afternoon meeting canceled. I have already ordered the rescued women be evacuated to Damascus. If you wish to reschedule our discussion, you can contact me through the provincial office.”

  “Wait, before they get involved in what?”

  The officer shook his head and scowled. “Another turf war, right? I am plenty aware of what goes on here. You don’t have to poke fun, no reason to laugh at me and my people. I know that I have little to no control in this city.

  “The women—fine, someone wants to throw me a gift and release them to me. Fine, I say; I will take the credit. I will keep them safe. But I know that it isn’t about the women; it’s just another move to weaken the opposition. An opportunity for more bloodshed.”

  “And who is the opposition? Who exactly are you speaking of?”

  “Really?” the man said, grimacing at Fayed. “You dare play stupid with me on my own streets? You insult me as buildings burn in my own city. You play your games; play both sides, my friend, but do not insult me.” The police chief turned to rejoin his men near a police car with a flashing blue light.

  Fayed, feeling exposed and alarmed, reached for his phone, searching for the driver’s number. “I need to leave the city,” he said as soon as the call was picked up.

  “I don’t care if the routes are blocked, find a way.”

  The phone vibrated in his hand as a second call came through. Fayed gritted his teeth and switched to Abdul.

  “What in the hell do I pay you for?” the angry voice demanded.

  “This is not my fight; you are on your own.”

  The line filled with laughter. “My people are on the way to the hotel. Stay in your room until they collect you.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Stop. You’re not in charge here. If you want to keep your head, then return to your room. And wait for them.”

  21

  Security vehicles raced over the dusty streets outside. The room was dark, only a small gas lamp in the corner to light the space. The windows were open and a slight breeze swayed the curtain. The safe house was nothing more than a two-bedroom home in a modest part of the city. High clay walls surrounded the perimeter and sides of the house. A large entryway was open, the gate long ago fallen away from decay and disrepair. The opening provided a wide view of the front street.

  Tommy lay on his back, atop a wooden bench. His forehead beaded with sweat as an older man sutured his side. The man applied one last loop and knotted the final stitch before snipping the end. He dressed the wound with antiseptic and gauze then returned his things to a black leather bag, ignoring Tommy. He walked across the room and spoke in hushed tones to Elias then placed two bottles of pills on the table before leaving.

  “You trust him?” Tommy asked, his head still swimming with the effects of the morphine.

  “As much as I can trust any veterinarian, I guess.”

  Tommy laughed. “You hired a vet to work on me? Are the drugs at least made for people?”

  Elias shrugged, lifting the bottle of pain killers and antibiotics, tossing both to Tommy. “Wasn’t much of an alternative; people are lying low after that little war you started out there. Mohamed is the only guy I know that was willing to go out after dark.” Elias grunted. “You didn’t manage to grab anything of value from the building, did you? Or were you too busy blasting through the place like a bull in a china shop?”

  Tommy shrugged, looking at the bottles and swallowing a pair of the pills dry. “There was nothing there, and not a lot of time to snoop. I spotted a pair of locked iron boxes. I tossed the thermites and bolted,” Tommy said, grunting as he turned himself into a seated position. “If there was anything of value in that room, it’s burnt to a crisp now.”

  “So just the girl?”

  Tommy nodded. “Yeah, took the girl and a left a big load of hate behind.”

  Elias put a finger to his lips and pulled away from the window as the roar of a vehicle convoy moved past. Bright spotlights briefly lit the room with a halogen glow. The rumble of the engines faded and the convoy moved on. Elias pulled back the curtain and looked out before saying, “Russian presence patrols. We really poked the bear today.”

  “What relationship do they have with Badawi?”

  “None that I know of. The Russians are here for themselves. What remains of that group functions in the security of their shadow. This is a known Russian sector, so nobody messes with it—we’ll be safe here. The Americans won’t drop bombs here, and most of the anti-government forces keep their distance out of fear of massive retaliations.”

  Tommy fetched a drinking glass from the table and took a sip of water. “Damn, you have any booze in this shithole?”

  Shaking his head, Elias walked away from the window and opened a cupboard, retrieving a dark bottle. Tommy dumped the rest of his glass and Elias refilled it with Arak, a clear alcohol. Tommy took a quick gulp then urged for the glass to be refilled. After taking a deep breath, he said, “What will the Russian reaction look like?”

  Elias smiled. “That bomb in front to the International Hotel was like taking a shit on the Russian Commander’s front porch. They try to give the impression of stability in this sector. When a battle erupts in front of a hotel filled with dignitaries and visitors, it takes away that mirage. They will increase patrols, possibly make raids and arrests in the known hotspots around the city. Fortunately most of those places aren’t any friends of mine.”

  “What about the church attack? That didn’t hurt their feelings?”

  “The paperwork was filed, brother.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Tommy said.

  “It means the Badawi took the a
ppropriate measures to pay off the security forces. That’s how things work here. You toss some coin in the right direction, and the authorities will look the other way.”

  “That’s messed up,” Tommy grunted.

  “Yeah, well, talk on the street is that may be changing. The Badawi interest in the human trafficking arena is causing a stink with the Russians—especially when it gives them a black eye.” Elias nodded. “Look, we’re living in a very fragile state of give and take here, man. All of these players living in the same house of cards. It takes a bit of mutual cooperation to hold it all together. Someone like you comes along and starts kicking walls down, it causes problems.”

  “What, is this like 1930s Chicago? Are we in a Mafia turf war?” Tommy tightened his brow and stared thoughtfully at the open window. “Maybe we can use that.”

  “Use it how?”

  “We can get the other players to put pressure on Badawi to release Sarah and to get them out of the kidnapping business. I need to let them know what’s going on. Make them aware of what I’m doing here, and why.”

  “And how the hell do you figure on doing that without getting yourself killed? You’re already a target without giving up your identity.”

  Shaking off the comment, Tommy asked, “How’s the girl?”

  “She’s resting. I already placed a call to Kohen. I have to warn you; his generosity is wearing thin. He wants to meet with you. He’ll be here tonight.”

  Tommy grinned and adjusted his position to take pressure off his side. “Good, we can use him too. What did you find out about her?”

  “Her name is Carolyn Beaufort. She is a Canadian aid worker. Carolyn was posted at the same church where Sarah was taken. A few days ago, all of the Western women were separated from the others—there were three of them in total. Carolyn was sent to the building on Duma Street. They told her she was going home, but that wasn’t the case.”

  Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Then what was?”

  “She was to be sold off, forced into a marriage with some big shot that likes to collect Western women as trophies,” Elias said, frowning. “Sounds like we got there just in time.”

  “Does she know anything about the others? Where they were being held? Anything?”

  “Not really.” Elias shook his head. “A day earlier, she and Sarah were separated. They told Carol she was going home, and that nobody was coming for Sarah. She is still out there, but…”

  “But what?” Tommy said, looking up.

  “Jamal wasn’t telling us everything. He had met with them on different occasions. Carol says she saw him at least twice. You were right about him; he’s a scared rat. We followed him about a kilometer from where we dropped him. He made a phone call and was quickly picked up in a white station wagon. We followed it back to a compound just south of here. It sits on the city’s edge, near a canal.”

  “An outpost?”

  “Most likely. Lots of fellas in tracksuits, armed with AKs.”

  “You still watching them? Sarah could be there.”

  Elias grinned. “Yeah, could be. The place is heavily guarded. And these guys are pissed. Lots of traffic in and out. You kicked off something big when you set fire to that hornet’s nest. I think that’s what’s got Kohen spooked. He has people working in this city, and now you’ve got every player in town on a manhunt.”

  “Chaos is good for business.”

  “Then business must be great because the city has been turned upside down since we hit Duma Street.”

  “Screw ’em. Take what little cash we have left, give it to your people and tell them to raise hell. I want it to look like a full turf war has been launched before we make our next move.”

  Elias grinned. “I’ve missed you, old friend.”

  “There is something else,” Tommy said fishing the ‘O’Connell Transport International’ business card from his pocket. He looked at the card and turned it over, showing the scratched in writing on the back to Elias. “His name is Ali, if anything happens contact him, tell him you were with me and they’ll help you.”

  Elias nodded and took the card reading the back before placing it in his breast pocket.

  There was a low tap at the door. Tommy reached down and lifted his pistol as Elias did the same. The older man slowly moved to a side window that overlooked the entrance. He dropped his guard, unbolting and opening the door to a short man dressed in Arab garb: dark pants, a white cotton shirt, black vest, and a thick scarf around his neck. He had a round face partially concealed with a long gray beard. His skin was tanned and leathered from the sun. He stepped inside and his eyes scanned the room then stopped on Tommy. He looked back at Elias and said, “Is this the one causing all the trouble?”

  Tommy squinted. “You’re Kohen? I thought you’d be taller.”

  Kohen let out a gruff laugh and removed his jacket and the Shemagh from his neck. “I thought you’d be younger,” the man said, stepping closer. “You’ve become a popular person these days.”

  “Not as much as you’d think. The women here won’t even look at me.”

  The silver-haired man laughed and shook his head. He reached into his vest and withdrew a folded flyer. He straightened the paper and dropped it on Tommy’s lap. “Oh, I would disagree.”

  The single-page document was printed on cream-colored paper. Across the top were several faction symbols. In the center of the page and enlarged, was a photo of Tommy. The photo was at least ten years old. His face was thinner and clean shaven, his hair short and close cropped. Below the photo in block letters was printed Thomas Donovan. Below that, Arabic writing filled the bottom of the page. Tommy read the document, his expression unchanging. “I can speak the gibberish, but I’m not able to read it. What does it say?”

  Kohen grinned. “It names you an enemy of the people and offers a one-million Syrian pounds reward.”

  Handing the document to Elias, Tommy shrugged. “Million? What’s that, like six bucks American?”

  “It’s about five thousand dollars,” Elias answered.

  Tommy’s jaw dropped in mock surprise. “I feel insulted.” He pointed to the flyer. “That’s a government photo, and not from a passport. That was on my old military ID. How would they be able to get that?”

  “Very good, Mr. Donovan. My agents asked the same question and are already looking. It would have to be someone friendly with your intelligence services. We did preliminary digging in open sources, and my people were unable to find that photo. As a matter of fact, we found no photos of you. Your personal records are buried deep, only accessed through secure channels.”

  “Part of the job, I guess.” Tommy reached for a loose-fitting T-shirt and pulled it on, grunting as he lowered his arms, and looked up at Kohen. “But there is something else that is bothering me. How do they even know who I am? Only a handful of people know I entered the country. Even less know me by name. So who is feeding Badawi my information? How do they know it’s me?”

  The Israeli nodded and reached into his shirt, removing a small leather pouch. Inside were three pages folded together. “I can see you still have your wit and ability to ask the good questions. Anyone can kill, but to be an asset to me, you have to be a thinker. It is apparent that someone is helping them with intelligence.”

  Taking another long sip of the drink and finally feeling the pain in his body grow numb, Tommy asked, “What did you find out about the Hyena?”

  “Ah yes,” Kohen said, “We’ve confirmed the man you named as Abdul Nassir is the one you call the Hyena. We’ve tracked him for over a year now, based on interests of our own. He moves frequently, stays out of Albahr most of the year, only stopping in occasionally then quickly leaving.”

  “How the hell is he alive? I saw the bastard take a shot to the face,” Tommy said.

  “That question is irrelevant. What’s important is that he is alive, and we do believe he is the one responsible for holding your sister. He is very good with his movements. My men are experts, and he has managed to
vanish from their surveillance for weeks at a time on several occasions. But there is one means that he has failed to elude.”

  “And that is?” Tommy asked.

  “Electronic surveillance. He frequently uses mobile devices. We’ve digitally paired his voice to several mobile numbers. We know his voice signature and can trace him through multiple databases. The interesting thing is that a high frequency of his calls originates from or are to a subject in Paris. The numbers change, but the voice on the other end remains the same.

  “And more interesting, he made two phone calls earlier today. Both to a location in the Al Kishwa Hotel. One call immediately before your attack. And again another phone call immediately after. Someone appears to be keeping tabs on you, or there is a very strange coincidence.”

  “Do we know who he is calling?”

  Kohen frowned. “Not yet, but we’re still working on it. The second contact switches his number frequently and has only been traced through his association with Nassir. Even though Nassir sticks to known numbers, his phone is often powered off and he keeps his conversations short, so nearly impossible to locate. But there is another problem."

  Tommy thought then said, “Let me ask you, Kohen, could we distribute some bounty flyers of our own? How about we drop our own reward for the Hyena. Make it an actual million dollars.”

  Kohen nodded thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t have many takers; his people are loyal, and even if someone wanted the reward, the money would be useless here. The assassin would be dead before he could spend it.” Kohen bit at his lower lip and scratched at his beard, picking up on the real effect the flyers would have. “But this may work to send a message. An arrogant one, but an effective message, nonetheless. Do you have a million dollars to offer?”

  “No, but I have no intention of paying it out either. I want to put Nassir on notice, get him angry and draw him out. Also, if he thinks there is a price on his head, if he feels he is being hunted, legitimate or not, I think it will pull him closer to his home in Albahr, where he thinks he is safe.”