by Mark Greaney
“Tell me the procedure you would use.”
Sebastian Drexler did so, giving Azzam a quick layman’s explanation for a complicated operation, and the Syrian president actually smiled and even gasped once while listening to the details.
“You seem to know all about this,” Azzam said when Drexler was finished, and this unnerved Drexler a little. The procedure he outlined was a means to get into Europe, and for Drexler to know it so well, he wondered if Azzam suspected he might have been preparing to flee Damascus and return home at some point. But Drexler sold his knowledge of the method as more professional necessity than an actual plan of action.
“Mr. President, if there were a book written on this procedure, I would have been the one to write it. I have been working on this with doctors and scientists for five and a half years, beginning back when I was living in Sudan.”
“But it’s untested?”
“We’ve tested it. We sent agents to Europe two times using this method, and both times we were successful.”
Now Azzam nodded enthusiastically. “Oh . . . then we shall use this procedure to move you into Europe.”
“Thank you, sir. Obviously it will require some significant resources to accomplish, so I assume it is something that would only be approved in the case of a national emergency.”
“Approved,” Azzam said with a hand wave. “How quickly can you go?”
Drexler feigned surprise. “Well . . . depending on the nature of your operational necessities, I can begin preparing the resources immediately. It will take several hours to get the equipment and people in place and brief them, but I could be on a plane leaving Damascus within twenty-four to thirty-six hours of you authorizing the mission.”
Azzam gave a squirrelly, awkward smile. “Then the day after tomorrow you will leave. Time is critical, you see.”
Drexler nodded, and then he hesitated before asking the next question. “What can you tell me about the operation, sir?” He was worried about where this would lead, but it would have been inauthentic and suspicious if he did not inquire.
Azzam looked out his window. From there he had a good view of the southern districts of Damascus, though they were mostly obscured by darkness. “There is a young woman in Paris who has been kidnapped. Did you hear about the attack there last night?”
“Yes, of course. It’s all over the news. ISIS raided a private hotel, kidnapped a young Spanish fashion model. A very beautiful woman, from the pictures on Al Jazeera.”
Azzam smiled again. Drexler knew him to be an oddball, so he was no longer creeped out by his mannerisms. The Syrian president said, “The media says she was the lover of the emir of Kuwait, but they have it wrong. That woman is my lover.”
Shit, Drexler thought. He’d hoped the president would send him off with some ruse, but the man seemed unabashedly proud of the truth.
Drexler feigned shock for a moment, then said, “My condolences, Mr. President, but I understand the gravity of the situation. I and my team in Europe will find her, and we will bring her back to you.”
“I know you will, Sebastian. When you get to Paris, of course you will have access to all the resources at our embassy there, and that includes all the men from GIS that you require.”
“Excellent,” Drexler said, but he didn’t like hearing this. Men from the General Intelligence Service working in the French embassy would be tasked with rescuing Medina from her captors, whereas Drexler wanted her killed. Still . . . there was no way he could decline the assistance.
Azzam leaned forward. “I am watching you carefully to make certain you have everything you need to take care of this. She is a good woman. I fear for her safety. Bring her back to me.”
“I will do my very best.” Drexler was going to kill Bianca Medina, but he’d be damn certain that the man sitting across the desk from him would never suspect that for an instant.
“And breathe not a word of your true mission to anyone.”
“Certainly not, Mr. President.”
“I really do mean anyone. I know you work closely with my wife. I also know you understand discretion, and you understand my reach if you let me down.”
“Of course I do. You can count on me.”
Drexler looked across the desk at Azzam’s thin, awkward smile, and he thought he would be having a lot of nightmares about that face in the days and weeks to come.
* * *
• • •
Drexler left the president’s office a minute later with carte blanche to do whatever he wanted in Europe. There wasn’t much further left to fall for Azzam, reputation-wise or sanction-wise, so if Syrian intelligence agents were caught on a street in France, it would hardly make much difference, diplomatically speaking.
Drexler was pleased that the president had done just exactly what he wanted him to do, and his plan was already meeting with success. The one snag was the fact that he would have Syrian intelligence officers with him in Paris every step of the way, but, he told himself, he’d find a way around this problem. Things would have been so much easier if the damn ISIS gunmen had simply managed to shoot Bianca Medina the previous evening, and there was no denying that the next few days would be dangerous for Drexler, but he was a man who was accustomed to adversity, and accustomed to surviving, and even thriving, in danger.
He left the president’s wing of the palace and began walking to the first lady’s wing. She’d be there, waiting for him, wanting to know what her husband had told him. He told himself he’d fuck her before he said a word, to demonstrate that he retained some power in the relationship outside the bedroom, even if it was just making her wait to hear his news.
CHAPTER 21
Vincent Voland himself drove Court to the safe house outside the city, leaving first the traffic and lights of Paris and then the modern highway to the south before taking a side road through the countryside.
At eleven p.m. they passed by the tiny hamlet of Vaumurier, and soon afterward Court saw a road sign for La Brosse. Before they reached the village, however, Voland turned the Citroën into a narrow gravel drive all but hidden by thick woods.
The driveway wound through the trees for a quarter mile before it passed a long greenhouse illuminated only by the vehicle’s headlights. Court tried to peer into the black beyond the illumination, but he didn’t see any hint of the main house until they were within a hundred feet of it. It seemed to be a large structure, but there was no electric lighting outside, and either the windows were all covered or there was no power running to the property at all.
As Voland slowed the vehicle over loose stones, a single light flipped on at a side door of the house, next to the gravel parking circle. Under it a man in a brown leather jacket stood with a pump shotgun hanging from a sling over his shoulder. The wall behind him was covered in ivy, and the stone building looked like a large and well-built farmhouse.
A motion light flipped on, and Court saw two other security men standing around in the dark outside. One had an old Uzi, and the other wore a pistol in a shoulder holster.
As Voland parked the Citroën, Court looked over what he could see of the grounds and the farmhouse. “This is too big to be private property owned by the FSEU. This looks like some kind of government safe house.”
Voland pulled the parking brake and turned off the ignition. “Government property, but not government run. My consulting firm rented it from DGSI through a front company, and we, in turn, have loaned it out to the Halabys’ organization.”
“French intel is all over this op. When are you going to tell me that you’ve been lying and this whole thing is government sanctioned?”
Voland surprised Court by laughing at this. “Perhaps you have forgotten, but less than twenty-four hours ago a large cell of ISIS terrorists from Belgium perpetrated an attack in France that led to a great number of deaths. If you think the French government knew about the ISIS a
ttack in advance and then simply allowed it to take place in central Paris, then you’ve been watching too many bad movies. No, monsieur, that was me alone, and one of the most difficult decisions I’ve had to make in my career.”
Voland sounded sure of himself, but Court harbored suspicions nonetheless.
He followed the older man through the side door, past the bearded man with the shotgun. Once inside, Court found the building to be a well-kept, medium-sized farmhouse, stately but certainly not garish. The lights were on, but every window had thick blackout curtains drawn.
Rima and Tarek Halaby stood in the kitchen by the stove, but the middle-aged couple approached Court warmly as soon as he entered. Court could still see the strain on Rima’s face, but she had some of the color back she’d lost earlier in the day when three men died right in front of her. She hugged Court, a Western act that turned into a somewhat awkward gesture considering the fact that Court just stood there with his hands to his sides and his eyebrows so furrowed they almost touched. Both of the Halabys thanked him again for saving their lives earlier in the day, and Rima poured him tea.
Court ignored the tea. “I’d like to talk to Bianca, in private.”
“Why privately?” Rima asked, suddenly on guard.
“Because I want her to tell me where her kid is. And I think she might do it if I can get her to trust me.”
“Does this mean you will go and rescue the child?” There was obvious hopefulness in Tarek’s voice.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
* * *
• • •
Rima led Court into the kitchen, then through a doorway off it. Down a flight of wooden stairs adorned with a tattered red rug that looked like it predated the reign of Napoleon, Court found himself in a large and well-stocked wine cellar. Rima nodded to a young guard with a beard and a ponytail sitting at a table between two heavy wooden doors. The man looked at Court suspiciously, then stood and produced an old brass key on a big ring. The young man said something to Rima in Arabic, but Court’s command of the language was rudimentary, so he didn’t understand.
Rima turned to him. “He wants to know if you have a gun or a mobile phone. We can’t let Bianca have access to either for the obvious reasons.”
Court wanted to tell her that Bianca wasn’t going to get his gun or his phone off him, but instead he obliged. He pulled out his Glock and laid it on the table next to the door, then pulled out his phone and put it down next to the gun.
Both the guard and the co-director of the resistance organization were satisfied, so the key went into the lock.
Court cleared his throat, and both Syrians looked back to him.
The American lifted his right foot and rested it on the table’s edge, reached down to his ankle, and pulled a stainless steel snub-nosed .38 pistol out of its holster. This he put on the table next to his primary weapon. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a second, and then a third phone. These he put on the table, as well.
A folding knife came out of his waistband, and he tossed this next to the phones.
Court eyed the man in the ponytail. “On the first day of sentry school they teach you not to use the honor system.”
Rima said, “This is my nephew, Firas. He’s a schoolteacher by trade.”
“Tell him he shouldn’t quit his day job,” Court said, but Rima did not translate.
Court turned back to the heavy wooden door and Firas opened it.
* * *
• • •
He was shocked by how much Bianca Medina had changed in the twenty-two hours since he’d last seen her. She wore jeans and a beige sweater that was too short for her five-foot-ten-inch frame, and she lay sprawled across a small bed in the small room. She looked tired, drawn. She wore no makeup, and he could see the dark circles under her eyes that told him she hadn’t slept in nearly two days.
The wall behind her was the stone outer wall of the farmhouse, and the floors were cold tile. The room smelled like damp stone. A private bathroom looked well kept, and there was an uneaten plate of fish and rice that had been brought down for Bianca from the kitchen. An empty bottle of champagne sat on the table, and not a brand a top European fashion model would normally drink, Court determined. Someone, Court presumed it was Bianca herself, had meticulously picked at the label until it lay torn in little bits on the table.
She clearly wasn’t being mistreated here, but it wasn’t much of an existence for someone who was accustomed to living well.
Upon recognizing the American who fought her away from the Syrian guards and the Islamic State attackers the evening before, she pushed herself up to a sitting position and spoke in English. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
Court slid a simple wooden chair closer to her and sat down. “Did you hear what happened today?”
“I haven’t heard anything. No one will talk to me.”
“A pair of local police detectives, working on behalf of either Ahmed or Shakira Azzam, attacked the Halabys. They were looking for you.”
Bianca rubbed her red eyes, although no tears drained from them. “Ahmed won’t rest until I am found. I guess Shakira won’t rest until I’m dead.” She asked the next question in a matter-of-fact tone. “How are the Halabys?”
“They survived . . . this time. The two Paris police detectives were killed.”
“Let me take a guess. You killed them, right?”
Court did not answer.
She reached over into a plastic cooler next to her bed, and from it she pulled out a fresh bottle of champagne. Water dripped from the bottle, but she ignored the mess as it collected on the floor and on her jeans. While Court looked on, she expertly removed the foil, the wire, and the cork.
Off his look, Bianca said, “I wanted something to help me relax. I meant Xanax, Valium. They brought me scotch.” She sniffed wet congestion. “I put up a fight and got this. Haven’t drunk anything so cheap since I was fifteen years old.” She gulped from the bottle, then held it out to Court. He just shook his head.
Bianca swigged again, then nodded. “I’m an alcoholic, I guess. Have been since I was a kid. Ahmed used that to his advantage. Among other things. I stayed off booze during the pregnancy . . . and I was good after Jamal was born . . . till I came up here.” She shrugged. “Now look at me.” She put the bottle on the floor between her knees. “The contaminating influence of the West, I suppose.”
“People drink in Syria. It’s not exactly Saudi Arabia.”
Bianca shrugged. “Yeah . . . and I was one of them.” She looked up to Court. “Hey, can you ask them to get me a phone? I want to call Jamal’s au pair. My son needs me. I’ve been gone too long.”
Court didn’t answer her; there was zero chance this prisoner was going to get a phone to call home, but he wasn’t going to tell her that right now.
Instead he said, “Help me understand . . . How did you get caught up with Azzam in the first place?”
Bianca smiled a little. She was sad, stressed, tired, but Court saw that she could still look beautiful with only a smile. “My grandfather on my father’s side was from Tartus, Syria, on the Mediterranean coast. I’d visited twice as a child, then four years ago I was invited to a party in Damascus. It meant a lot to my parents for me to go, so I went, and I met Shakira. We became friends, and she introduced me to Ahmed. They were very kind to me, treated me like I belonged in their nation. I decided to stay for a season, to show my solidarity for Syria and the Alawis . . . I am an Alawi, if you did not know.”
Court said, “I knew.”
Bianca raised her eyebrows. “You researched me?”
“I wanted to know if you would put up a fight in the hotel. I thought any religious or tribal affiliations might be relevant. Of course, that was before I was let in on the joke.”
“The joke?”
“That I’d be grabbing
you at the exact moment the terrorists attacked.”
“Ah,” she said. “That made everything easy, didn’t it?”
“Not everything. Just you.”
A look of anger flashed across her face, but it dissipated, and she kept talking. “I bought a home in Damascus. I wanted to stand against the lies perpetrated by the West against my people. Shakira thanked me personally for my actions. We would have lunch every week, and we went on shopping trips in the city together, if you can believe such a thing now.”
She gulped another swig of champagne.
“Then Ahmed asked to see me privately. Of course I knew what was going on, but I was flattered. He is one of the most important men in the world, obviously.”
He’s a psycho, Court wanted to say, but he held his tongue. He needed this woman on his side right now.
“Our relationship developed quickly. I’m convinced Shakira knew all along and did not mind.”
“Apparently she minds now,” Court said.
“Only because of my son. My son is a threat to the future of her children, or at least she thinks he is. Ahmed wants to leave her and bring me into the palace, but it’s complicated because of the war. Shakira is Sunni, and she has power with the Sunni groups helping the Alawi government. But when the war is over . . . when it is safe, he will send Shakira out of the country with some money and her kids, and . . .”
Her voice trailed off oddly.
“You all right?”
Her eyes went distant. “I think that’s what I wanted once. I don’t want that anymore.”
Court sat there, patiently waiting for her.
She said, “I thought I loved Ahmed. I became his mistress, and then . . . slowly, I began to feel like a prisoner. I thought it was just because of the war, and the Western lies . . . but when I became pregnant, I thought maybe I should kill myself.”
