by Mark Greaney
When the Mi-28 passed low overhead, Court climbed back up to his knees. Even without the scope of the SA80 he could see that both technicals were scattered and burning along the southern hillside.
As every surviving member of the convoy sprayed rifle fire up onto the two hills, the Russian helicopter circled above, using its machine gun and rocket pods to destroy enemy targets of opportunity.
Minutes later an Arabic speaker on the radio called a cease-fire, and the order was repeated in Russian. Court and Saunders loaded fresh magazines into their weapons, then rolled onto their backs, exhausted by the effort and adrenaline flow of the previous ten minutes.
Saunders reached out a bloody gloved hand. “Cheers, mate. Good shootin’.”
“Got lucky.” Court shook Saunders’s hand, and he saw the blood. “You’re hit.”
“Nah.” The Brit lifted his arm to show it to the man he knew as Wade. “Cut me elbow on the rocks. It’s nothing.” It was bleeding from shallow scrapes. His T-shirt was torn at the shoulder, as well. He kept looking Court’s way. “Done a lot of this sort of thing, have you?”
“Once or twice,” Court said as he climbed laboriously to his feet.
“Southeast Asia, did you say? Can’t say I’ve seen much in the news in the past fifty years that looks this intense coming from bloody Southeast Asia, and you don’t look like you were even a sparkle in your daddy’s eye back in the Tet Offensive.”
Court knew his cover was being challenged. He just said, “I’ve been other places, too.” He left it there, and Saunders did not pursue, but Court could feel the man’s eyes on him behind his dark sunglasses. To change the subject Court added, “For the record, I didn’t use all my AK ammo.”
Saunders sniffed. “We aren’t even halfway to Babbila, are we?”
The man had a point. “No. We’re not.” Court added, “That was a large attack, but they did a lot wrong, which is the only reason we’re alive.”
“I’ll take a bit of good luck, though; God knows I’ve had my share of bad.”
As they walked back to the truck the Englishman said, “And since you were so bloody curious about it, I can tell you who we were fighting. The only force around here that’s got technicals with ZU-23s on them is Jabhat al Nusra.”
“The local branch of AQ?”
“That’s right.”
Court made no outward reaction, but a weight was lifted off him knowing he hadn’t just flown into Syria and killed a group of democratic forces fighting against Ahmed Azzam.
* * *
• • •
Minutes after the firefight, five Syrian Arab Army two-ton trucks, carrying some forty infantrymen in all, rolled slowly through the traffic jam of civilian vehicles, then made their way between the broken vehicles and scattered bodies to take up security positions. The dead and wounded were attended to, and Saunders was told equipment trucks were on the way to move the wrecked vehicles and to create a path in the brush to bypass the massive hole in the highway.
The wreckage of the convoy was horrific: vehicles smoking and burning, bodies and blood everywhere, thousands of spent shell casings and dozens of empty magazines lying on broken asphalt. The wounded moaned and men shouted orders to keep eyes on the hills in case the attackers decided to brave the helicopter circling overhead and return for more.
Three of the four Desert Hawks soldiers survived, although one of the survivors had taken an AK round through a hand. Court himself expertly bandaged the man’s wound, and he helped the other two Hawks load their injured comrade, as well as the dead one, into the back of the SAA truck.
Two of the Russians had died in the fighting, and five more were wounded, including the platoon’s medic. Three Syrian Arab Army soldiers were dead, with six more injured.
Six dead, twelve wounded, but Court knew that number could have been a hell of a lot higher.
While Court was bandaging an eighteen-year-old Syrian private’s shredded but intact leg, word got around the area about the Western security contractor who shot both ZU-23 gunners, possibly saving the lives of everyone in the convoy. The three Mukhabarat men, who all managed to survive unscathed by finding a ditch to hide in on the north side of the highway, all came over to shake Court’s hand.
Men that Court would gain great pleasure from killing in other circumstances smiled at him, tried to give him cigarettes, and patted him on the back.
Court found it surreal.
CHAPTER 31
Sebastian Drexler had spent the day traveling, and while doing so he did everything in his power to keep from touching anything with his new fingertips. In this endeavor he had been mostly successful. He’d touched little other than his mobile phone and his luggage while leaving Syria on his four-hour chartered flight to Moscow. In the bathroom of the aircraft he’d donned gloves to gently handle the zipper of his slacks.
Russia was the easiest way into Europe from Damascus, so he chose that route. He found it unfortunate that he had to fly hours out of his way to get to France, but sanctions against Syria meant only certain nations were allowing airline transport into and out of the Middle Eastern nation.
In Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport he went through a VIP line for customs and immigration, out into the Arrivals hall, and then he immediately walked over to Departures and checked in for his flight to Paris. He took care to keep his new fingerprints as shielded as possible, even when hurrying through the airport to board his 3:10 p.m. Air France flight to Charles de Gaulle.
In the first-class cabin he drank a vodka on the rocks, carefully holding the drink away from his fingertips, but he’d declined anything to eat, knowing that the most important part of his return to Western Europe was fast approaching, and the less he did that involved his hands, the better.
His flight landed at 6:15 in the evening; he was one of the first passengers to arrive at the immigration kiosks, and here he slid his passport across the desk to the official with a tired smile. He was asked to put his fingers on the reader, and he did so carefully, making certain to place them straight down so none of the glued areas would be recorded.
The immigration officer looked at the clean-shaven Drexler, then at the bearded man on the Finnish passport of Veeti Takala, and he made a little face, but he did not react with any noticeable suspicion. Then he looked over to his screen, presumably to make sure the fingerprints matched.
“How long will you be staying in France?” the officer asked.
“Three days. Then a train home to Helsinki.”
The sound of the stamping of Takala’s passport almost filled Drexler with ecstasy. He was home . . . or at least close enough for now.
* * *
• • •
Sebastian Drexler had told Malik he’d contact him the second he arrived in Paris, but his plane had landed forty-five minutes earlier, and he’d yet to make that call. Instead he sat in a plush living room in a suite at the Hilton Hotel Paris Charles de Gaulle, smoothing out the wrinkles of his navy Tom Ford sharkskin suit. A cup of coffee sat in front of him, but he ignored it and instead concentrated on what he was about to say.
The door to the suite’s small dining room opened, and an attractive blonde in a business suit stepped out. Drexler detected an Austrian accent in her German. “The principals will see you now, Herr Drexler.”
“Vielen Dank.” He stood and stepped by the woman on his way through the door.
There were four sitting at the table, all stern-faced men. He made the rounds with officious handshakes, though he worried that his borrowed fingertips might be damaged with all the touching. But after the greetings he realized he needn’t have worried; he found these four to be in possession of the weak handshakes of weak men.
He knew all these men by name, although he just thought of them as “The Bankers.” They were with Meier Privatbank, Drexler’s employer, and they had flown in to Paris Charles de Gaulle o
n this Saturday evening at his request. It was not a small thing to summon the directors of one of Switzerland’s oldest and most secretive banks to travel some six hundred kilometers for a meeting, and as Drexler sat down at the mirror-polished table, he couldn’t help but revel in the thought that he commanded that level of respect from these men.
The revelry faded as he thought about it. No . . . he didn’t command their respect. She did. These men were here because of Shakira Azzam. They thought of Drexler as a necessary evil. A cutout between her dirty money and their sanitized and perfect lives in Switzerland.
The man at the head of the table was forty-year-old Stefan Meier, the great-grandson of Aldous Meier, the bank’s founder. Stefan was vice president, behind his older brother, Rolf, in the company and familial pecking order, but he was the only Meier who ever got his hands remotely dirty, which meant he was the only family member involved with the institution Drexler had ever met.
Meier said, “We know you are here on an important assignment for our client in Damascus. Is everything on track with that?”
Drexler assumed Meier didn’t want to know any details about the work he was here to do. The vice president would only know that Shakira had demanded he fulfill an obligation to her, and if he completed the obligation to her satisfaction, she would reward the bank with more deposits and more business. If he failed to do the work, she could pull her accounts from the bank.
Drexler said, “I expect to have the job completed this evening.”
“Excellent,” Meier replied. “I know our client is rewarding you handsomely for going above and beyond your duties to her accounts, and our client’s husband has been pleased with your work in maintaining his foreign interests, as well.”
“I’m gratified to hear that.”
Stefan Meier said, “The bank is more than satisfied with your work.”
The words coming from the vice president were flattering, but none of the four men across the table were smiling. Drexler knew they were all here waiting for the other shoe to drop, to learn why their agent in Syria had demanded a meeting with them right in the middle of an operation.
Enough of the bullshit, Drexler thought. He’d just tell them. “I asked you all here because I would like to request immediate reassignment.”
In the silence that ensued he scanned all four faces. There was no surprise, no alarm, no discernible emotion.
Drexler continued. “I’ve spent over two years in Syria. I’ve done everything asked of me. It’s time for me to move on.”
“I don’t understand,” Meier said. “We positioned you in Syria because it was the safest place for you due to your . . . legal troubles. I am certain Interpol hasn’t lost interest in you in two years, and there aren’t many locales like Syria that offer both freedom of movement for you and a crucial business need for us.”
“Syria has simply become too dangerous an environment for me.”
“Hogwash,” said Ian Pleasance, the thick-jowled English director of bank operations. “The civil war is being won by the regime, and won handily. ISIS is on its last legs, ditto the Kurds and the FSA. Russia will protect Azzam, and by extension, it will protect you.”
Drexler acknowledged Pleasance with a nod but said, “I’m not worried about ISIS or the FSA. I’m worried about Shakira and Ahmed. My work has positioned me directly between them.”
Meier pursed his lips. “In what way?”
“It’s about the job I am here to do in Paris. If I do it correctly, and Ahmed finds out . . . I will be killed when I return to Syria.”
Stefan Meier flashed a glance to the director of operations. A look of annoyance that something so crass as murder would come up in this meeting. Stefan leaned back in his chair now, and Ian leaned forward.
“Perhaps this is something you and I should discuss in—”
“I have protected billions of dollars of assets at Meier in the past several years, and the bank knew of my, as you call them, legal troubles, the day I was hired. I only ask to be brought in from the cold, taken out of imminent danger, and set up somewhere secure. I will continue to work ceaselessly for the bank, just not in between the president and first lady of Syria.”
The oldest man in the room, Bruno Olvetti, was the vice director of finance. He was there only because he served as the older Meier brother’s eyes and ears. Bruno came to meetings like this to watch over Stefan and to report back to Rolf. He said, “This perilous position you speak of, how much of it is your own doing?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Are you having an affair with Shakira Azzam?”
Drexler could not possibly imagine how Bruno could know about that. He thought it possible, likely even, that the old man was just bluffing. Assuming a relationship because he knew Drexler worked closely with Shakira on discreet matters. Shakira was an attractive woman, and Drexler considered himself a very desirable man.
He said, “Nice try, Bruno, but there is no affair.”
To his surprise, Stefan Meier spoke up now. “You wouldn’t be calling our client’s word into question, would you?”
Drexler said nothing.
“She told my brother herself that the two of you are involved.” Stefan laughed a little. “According to Rolf, she genuinely seems fond of you. Well done. You’ve somehow melted the heart of the First Lady of Hell.”
Drexler recovered quickly. “All the more reason, gentlemen, to pull me out. There has been certain . . . pressure . . . placed on me by the first lady over the past year or so. It has put me at odds with the president and—”
Ian Pleasance took off his glasses and rubbed his drooping eyes. “Oh, come now, man. Are you here to tell us you are being sexually harassed by your client?”
Stefan and the others chuckled now.
The muscles in Sebastian Drexler’s neck flexed, but he kept his composure. “I have told you what I’ve come to tell you. If I return to Syria, it is likely I will be killed, and it is likely the president will hold my employers . . . yourselves, that is, responsible for actions taken against him and his interests. He does still hold sway over his wife, you know. He could simply coerce her into moving assets from your bank.”
Meier replied, “Shakira is free to remove her assets at any time, irrespective of what her husband knows, or suspects, or insists upon. Even if we comply with your request. If we simply recall you from Damascus, or never send you back there, then what is to keep her from getting angry with us and making other arrangements with her money?”
“That is a fair question. The bank will be safe when I don’t return, because Shakira will be convinced that I died here in France. I don’t need your help to do that; I just need your help after the fact. Shakira will learn of my demise only after learning of the success of my operation, and she will be indebted to Meier Privatbank.”
“Such subterfuge,” Stefan said with a smile. “You certainly have a flair for the dramatic, don’t you? Sleeping with the Syrian president’s wife, and devising a plan to simulate your own death.”
Drexler did not bat an eyelash. “Herr Meier, in the employ of your firm I have killed or ordered the deaths of more than two dozen men and women. There is drama here that is not of my doing, as well.”
Meier glowered at Drexler, but he made no immediate reply. Pleasance was about to speak when Drexler held up a hand.
“Gentlemen, I only ask for a way out of this posting. You need someone to do the work I do. Allow me to do it in Hong Kong, in Rio, in the Caymans. Just don’t send me back to Damascus.”
Stefan Meier continued his hard stare for several seconds, then nodded slowly. He said, “All right, Sebastian. You are a key element of the success of our bank. Accomplish your mission in France. Save Shakira’s place in the palace. Then . . . only then, we will get you out of there.”
“So I don’t have to go back to Damascus?”
Stefan said, “You don’t want to go and wish your lover adieu and bon chance?”
Drexler knew the bankers were toying with him. He was a fascinating character in their boring lives, exactly the man any one of these fat, weak men would love to be for just one day, so of course they would mock him, pretend his actions were beneath their station.
Drexler said, “I have no need to see her ever again.”
Stefan shrugged. “Very well. Your plan to fake your death in Paris is approved. We will hide you in Switzerland until such a time as we find a posting for you that is to your liking.”
Bruno Olvetti pointed a finger across the table. “Don’t ever forget, Drexler. You may be our best fixer and hatchet man, but Shakira Azzam is more important to us than you are. As long as she is happy, we are happy. And as long as we are happy, you are safe. If you don’t succeed in your mission here, or if you don’t pull off your subterfuge with your little trick in faking your death, then we send you back to Syria.”
Drexler stood, gave a courteous bow to the bankers, and headed for the door. He was motivated now like he had not been in years. A lifeline had been thrown to him, and all he had to do in order to take it and pull himself to safety was kill a fashion model being hidden by a pair of doctors and an over-the-hill ex–French intelligence official.
He thought about the American who’d caused him so much trouble, but he told himself Malik and his boys had enough men and guns to handle him.
Tonight he’d link up with Malik, the Mukhabarat assassin sent by Ahmed Azzam to help find and rescue Bianca, and the bent French police captain, and together they’d get their hands on Bianca Medina. He’d be threading a very small needle with his operation after that, but when he finally managed to kill Medina, and Shakira was both satisfied with Drexler’s work and convinced he’d died in the execution of it, then he’d be able to be rid of Syria once and for all.
But first things first. He wasn’t leaving Europe, not any time soon, at least. As soon as he climbed into his rental car, he would rip the dead flesh off his fingertips and say good-bye to poor Veeti Takala.
