by Mark Greaney
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was afraid, I suppose. Then I had Jamal.” Her eyes fixed again and beamed; she stared into Court’s eyes and their brilliance made him uneasy. “When I saw Jamal I realized I had never felt love before that moment. I had finally done something right. I finally had a purpose to my life.” She kept looking at Court. “I am wondering. Does a man like you even know what it feels like to love?” She drank some more champagne from the bottle while she waited for an answer, never taking her eyes from his.
Court looked away and changed the subject. “You still live in your house?”
“No. Ahmed bought me a new home in Damascus, in a neighborhood he can get to quickly and quietly from the palace. Neither his name nor my name were used in the purchase.”
“Your baby. He stays with you?”
She cocked her head. “Of course he stays with me. What kind of question is—”
“Will Ahmed move him now that you’ve disappeared?”
“He can’t. He is careful about Jamal. He uses special guards who work for him directly, so there is no connection back to the presidential palace. It would hurt him with the Sunnis if word got out about his other family, because it would hurt Shakira’s standing, and she’s the one thing keeping the Sunni militias from rising up against him.”
“How many security officers at your house?”
“Why do you ask?”
“How many?”
“It . . . it depends. About five or so.”
“I want to know everything about your home.”
She seemed surprised by the change in the conversation, and she lowered the bottle, held it between her knees. “Why?”
“Because the Halabys need your help, and the only way you’ll give it to them is if some idiot goes to Syria to get your kid.”
She regarded him for a long time, then snorted out an angry laugh. “What . . . you will just fly into Damascus, knock on the gate to my house, and ask the guards if you can take my baby for a drive?”
“Think that would work?”
Bianca did not smile, but her chin rose, her eyes widened. “Do you really think you can do this?”
“I have a plan.”
“It had better be a good one.”
“Well, the quality of it will improve the moment I get some idea where I’m going.”
Now she wiped her face, brought her hair back behind her ears, and sat up even more. Court saw that the woman felt she was being teased with a lifeline, but she felt her own actions now were the only way to encourage the man across from her to toss it her way.
“Sir . . . I am begging you to do this. What do you want from me?”
They talked in general about the layout of her house and the habits of the guards there, but Bianca did not tell Court the exact location, only the district of the city she lived in. Court suspected he understood why, but when he asked her outright for her address, his suspicion was confirmed.
Medina looked down to the floor for nearly a minute. Finally she said, “I will tell you where Jamal is being kept once you get to Damascus. If you are caught at the border you might give up information under torture. I can’t let Ahmed know I’m helping the people who’ve kidnapped me. If he knew that, he would definitely kill my son.”
Court realized this would make his job more difficult, but he also realized this was the right move for Bianca to make. It made Jamal a little bit safer, and it put Court at more risk.
If he had been the boy’s parent, he would have done exactly the same thing.
“I understand.”
Court stood, but Bianca said, “How do you plan on traveling with a four-month-old?”
Court cocked his head. He didn’t really understand the question. “I’ll just carry him, I guess. How much can he possibly weigh?”
Bianca closed her eyes. Suddenly Court could see disappointment on her face. “You haven’t even thought about this, have you?”
“Full disclosure . . . I’ve never snatched a baby before. This will be a first.”
“Do you have children?” When she didn’t get an answer, she said, “No . . . you wouldn’t, would you?” She sighed. “Well, I can tell you one thing. You can’t do this alone. He needs food, care. You don’t look like someone who can take care of a baby.”
Court just stared back at her.
“His au pair is there. She is with him all the time, and she can take care of him until you bring him to me. Her name is Yasmin. She will help you.”
“Why would she help me?”
Bianca said, “She will have no choice. Azzam would have her killed in an instant if Jamal disappeared while she was with him, and she knows that. If you take my baby, Yasmin will come with you.”
“Okay.”
“Sir . . . you hold Jamal’s life in your hands. As you do Yasmin’s. As you do mine.”
No pressure, thought Court.
He began to stand, but she reached out and put a hand on his leg.
“I lied to the Halabys.”
Court sat back down. “Lied?”
“I told them I knew nothing about Ahmed’s movements. It’s not true. I know things.”
“Why are you telling me this? I didn’t ask you any—”
“I know about a trip he will be taking soon.”
“A trip? Out of Syria?”
She shook her head quickly. “No. Other than our trip to Tehran, he hasn’t left Syria in years. He rarely even leaves Damascus. But he will leave the capital this time. He is going to review his troops at some bases, then he is going to a new Russian base somewhere.”
“Why?”
“The crown prince of Jordan spends time in the field with his troops. Shakira told Ahmed this makes him look strong, so Ahmed will do it, too. And this new Russian base . . . I think something is special about it; he said he wanted to be there to bask in the glory, but I don’t really know what he meant by that. This is all top secret, but Ahmed told me about it to impress me, and to tell me he wouldn’t be by to see his child for a few days.”
“So you don’t know where he’s going?” Court asked.
She shook her head. “No. But he did tell me when. He leaves next Monday. He will be gone until Tuesday.”
“Any chance he’ll cancel his trip now that all this is going on with you?”
“No chance. He would have to explain himself to the Russians, and he won’t do that. No . . . he will go.”
“Thank you,” Court said. “I’ll talk to you again when I’m in theater and in play.”
She climbed off the little bed and went to her knees, then hugged Court tightly while he sat on the chair. Tears dripped from her long lashes now. “Please don’t forget. My son is counting on you.”
Court took her by the upper arms and separated the two of them a little. He looked into her eyes. “He’s counting on you, too, Bianca, because when I do get back here with the kid, you better start singing to the Halabys. They’ve seen their country destroyed, a half million killed, their own two children blown to bits, chemical weapons used on their friends. They are desperate. For your sake and theirs, you need to give them what they want.”
“Monsieur, if you bring me back my Jamal, I will do anything I can possibly do to help them end Ahmed and Shakira’s rule.”
CHAPTER 22
Court climbed the stairs and stepped back into the living room, and there he saw the Halabys sitting and drinking tea with Vincent Voland. All three looked up to him. While Voland’s face was as impassive as only a veteran intelligence operative could make it, the Halabys could not hide their hopes and expectations.
Court said, “Surely you are all aware that Shakira Azzam is going to send people up here to try to find and kill Bianca.”
Voland said, “I’ve told the Halabys about Sebastian Drexler. The man who called himself E
ric. Obviously he controls members of the local police force. I think it likely he will come himself now that his earlier attempts have failed.”
“What about Ahmed Azzam’s men?”
Voland said, “French intelligence is watching the Syrian embassy here in Paris closely. We know who the GIS people are. Of course they have non-official cover operatives, not working at the embassies, and those men we can’t track.”
“Are they any good?”
“They aren’t bad. One of their number, an operative who used the code name Malik, killed four federal police officers in Belgium last year. There have been assassinations in Paris, but only of Syrians in exile. We don’t see them being able to put any numbers of non-official cover operatives together, and if they did, there is no way they could find us here at this safe house.
“A man like Drexler . . . perhaps he could find us. He is well connected throughout Europe, intelligent, and deeply cunning.” Voland smiled a little. “The good news is we know Drexler won’t be working with Syrian government assassins. He’s essentially on the opposite mission as they are.”
Court said, “But if Drexler comes to this house, he won’t come alone.”
Voland nodded. “He’ll put together some sort of force, yes. And the Syrians here protecting Bianca, while committed to the cause, aren’t particularly skilled. I am reaching out to an old friend who can help with security.”
Tarek said, “We’ll keep the woman safe, but our operation will only succeed if she talks.”
Court knew what he was suggesting. “Yes, Tarek. I will go to Syria to get the kid and his nanny.”
Rima said, “This is wonderful news. I can talk to our connections immediately. It will take them up to a week to get you the papers you need to pose as medical staff.”
“I’m not waiting a week, I’m not posing as a doctor, and I’m not using your connections. I’ll make my own way in.”
“Your own way?” Tarek almost shouted it. “Are you crazy?”
Vincent Voland looked stunned. “You speak fluent Arabic?”
“Just enough to get myself into trouble, actually.”
Tarek asked, “But then how are you—”
“I am going to leave here, and then in a few days I will contact you from Damascus. That’s all you need to know. When I call, you will put Bianca on the phone, and she will give me directions to where I need to go to get her kid. Once I have the kid and the nanny, I will make a run for the border.”
Rima and Tarek looked at each other. Tarek said, “Lebanon is to the west. Lebanon is Hezbollah, which means it’s almost as dangerous for you as Syria.”
“Right,” Court said. “Scratch that.”
Rima added, “To the north is Turkey, and the border is easy to cross, but that’s a long way away from Damascus. Plus, ISIS owns five times the territory the Americans, Kurds, and Free Syrians do, and it’s a fluid battlefield.”
“I’ll pass.”
Tarek said, “To the east is Iraq, three hundred kilometers distant, inhospitable terrain, and the war is being fought there, as well. Eastern Syria is populated with ISIS fighters, and then, if you did make it into Iraq, it’s another five hundred kilometers of desert to civilization.”
“Where I would find more people who probably wouldn’t mind killing me.”
“It’s very possible.”
“Yeah. No.”
Voland said, “That’s why south is your best option. It’s a five-hour drive to the Jordanian border from Damascus. There will be checkpoints along the way, which you’ll have to avoid on your own, but once at the border, I have contacts in the Jordanian intelligence services who can get all three of you across.”
Court asked, “Why would they do that?”
“They don’t know who you are, and they don’t know who Bianca is. But they know who I am, and they trust me. When they learn that getting three people over the border is the way to cause a split in the relationship between Russia, Syria, and Iran, they will be willing to help without question.”
Court nodded. “Jordan it is.”
Tarek stood up now, put his arm on Court’s shoulder. Court wished people would just stop touching him. The Syrian said, “If I were younger, stronger, faster. If I were trained.” He gave Court a little smile. “If I were you. If I were you I’d go in there, and I wouldn’t return until I was dead, or until Azzam himself was dead.”
“Let’s not get carried away. I go in for the baby and the nanny. I get them, find a way south down to the Jordanian border, and get out of the country. That’s it.”
Tarek reached a hand out now. “We thank you for what you are going to do.”
Court shook Tarek’s hand and said, “Save your gratitude for when I get back. I might get popped at the border, at a roadside checkpoint. My cover might get compromised and I could get tortured to death in a prison before I get within twenty klicks of that kid.”
Rima stood and put her hand on Court’s face, looking up at him with warm eyes. “Most people just don’t care. The fact that you care enough to try makes you someone worthy of my respect. My nation needs your help, monsieur. I’ve seen so many people die in my hands in the past seven years.”
Me, too, Court thought, but while she was thinking about those she’d lost on the operating table, he was thinking about those he’d killed.
* * *
• • •
In the car on the way back to Paris, Vincent Voland drove in silence. Court could tell something was on his mind.
“What is it?” he asked.
The Frenchman said, “The Halabys might not be battle-worn resistance leaders, but they do have contacts in Damascus, and you are making a mistake by not using them to get into the country and get around.”
Court said, “You think I’m going to trust a network of theirs? No . . . if I go in, I go in with my own resources.”
“Again . . . I must ask. What resources do you have in Damascus?”
Court didn’t answer. There was no need to tell Voland anything else about his plan to get in. Instead he pivoted. “You need to help them with Bianca and the safe house. With guys and guns, yes, but they also need training. Their tradecraft is nonexistent, and you can be damn sure that if Sebastian Drexler comes here, he’ll be ready for a bloody fight.”
Voland said, “We will be prepared for him if he finds us here. I have four men joining us. All ex–Foreign Legion, masters in weapons and tactics. These four, along with the six armed Syrians here on the property, mean we will be ready for anything.”
Court hadn’t liked the layout of the property at all from a defensive standpoint. The woods all around would make it easy for infiltrators to get close to the farmhouse, and he had only noticed the one way into Bianca’s room in the basement; this made retreat impossible. But all he could do was hope the men Voland said he was bringing in would take steps to minimize the problems with the location.
Something else was bothering Court, so he changed gears. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“What do you mean?” asked Voland.
“There are parts of your story I’m not buying. The handler in Monte Carlo, for instance. You went to him to find someone to grab Bianca, and he told you he just happened to have access to the Gray Man?”
Voland shrugged his shoulders. “Not exactly. When you first contacted him and established your bona fides, he came to French intelligence. They notified me.”
“French intelligence again,” Court said. “They seem to be more involved in all this than even the Halabys.”
Voland simply said, “As I have told you many times, I am not directly affiliated with any agency of any nation. But my contacts have been very helpful in my work with the Halabys. Remember, if Sebastian Drexler comes up here looking for Bianca, a lot of agencies around the world will be happy.”
“They’ll be happy only
if you kill him,” Court corrected.
Voland made a face of displeasure. “We do not have the death penalty here, like you do in America. If he comes up here, our intelligence services will pass the information on to the Police Nationale, who will simply try to arrest him.”
Court said, “From what I know of the guy, he won’t go down without a fight.”
“D’accord.” Agreed, said Voland.
“Too bad I’ll be out of town.”
To this Voland smiled gravely. “Yes . . . too bad, indeed.” After a few seconds Voland added, “Maybe you should stay here. Not go to Syria.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can pressure Bianca to work with us. We can tell her you have gone, and are working on getting her son back. We can salvage something out of the Medina operation, and you can help us with Drexler.”
“You sound concerned suddenly about how much trouble Drexler can cause here.”
“It’s not that. I am concerned about your chances in Syria. I know your reputation, but still . . . you are going into a war with many sides, and you have no side of your own.”
Court said, “I have to see this through. For all their failures in this operation, the Halabys are good people, and their cause is honorable. And from what I can tell, I’m the only good guy in the Halabys’ corner.”
Voland made an annoyed face. “Present company excluded?”
“Hardly.”
The Frenchman sighed. “Then let me talk to my former counterparts at DGSE, foreign intelligence. If you don’t trust the Free Syria Exile Union to support your operation, perhaps you will let someone with more experience provide you with assistance while you are down there.”
Court just stared out the window. “You’re forgetting one thing.”
“What is that?”
“I don’t like you, Voland. You’re the asshole who sent me in on top of an ISIS operation. And I don’t even trust people I do like, so there is no way I’m going to have you, or the DGSE, working as my handler on my operation down in Syria.”
“So you are just going to Syria on your own?”
