by Mark Greaney
Court looked at the man through the window with the door closed. He hoped if he got stopped at a checkpoint he could talk his way through with a story about how the major had passed out and Court was taking him home.
This was not a good plan, Court knew, but he didn’t know what else he could do.
He got back on the road, and while he drove, he opened the secure communications app on the cell phone and dialed a long number. It took a full minute for the call to go through, but when it did, Vincent Voland answered quickly.
Court said, “It’s me. I’m here.”
“In Damascus? Already?”
“Yep.”
“Incredible. Any problems?”
“Nothing but problems. Problems all over the fucking place, as a matter of fact. But I made it, I’m operational, and I need to talk to Bianca, now.”
“Of course. I’m heading downstairs to her room to put her on the phone.”
Court drove the Hyundai one-handed, holding the phone to his ear with the other. While he waited he asked, “Any sign of Drexler?”
“No sign at all, but that means nothing. He’s coming. I feel it in my bones.”
“Have you beefed up security there at the house?”
“Oui. We are ready should he bring associates.”
Court could only hope Voland had the situation in hand up there, because Court had more than his share of problems of his own down here.
Seconds later Bianca came on the line. She had a hopeful sound to her voice, which buoyed Court to hear. “Is it you?”
“It’s me. I’m in Damascus.”
“I did not think I would ever hear from you again.”
“No time to talk. I need your address, and I need you to tell me the best way to get to your place.”
“Of course. Where are you, exactly?”
“I’m leaving Old Town, heading west, towards Mezzeh. I’m going for Jamal right now.”
“Now? You . . . you can’t be on the road at this time of night! They’ll spot you.”
“Unfortunately, this is something I can’t take care of on my lunch hour tomorrow.”
Court saw a line of brake lights on the road ahead, and he worried it might indicate a checkpoint. He scanned around quickly for some way to turn off, and he looked down at the map on the phone for help, as well.
He slowed and took a left turn down a darkened side street. This led him to the south, and on the phone he saw he could pick up an east/west street that would put him back on course.
Bianca spoke through the speakerphone. “Hello? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Please listen to me.” He could hear the worry in her voice. “I drive at night from Old Town and must pass through several roadblocks. My security detail gets me through, but who’s going to get you through without them catching you?”
Court turned and looked at the passed-out militia major slumped against the passenger door next to him. “Let me worry about that,” he said, but the truth was he was very worried about that.
“What street are you on?”
The street signs were in Arabic and English, and Court rolled past an intersection with his eyes on the signs. “I’m on Fawaz al Laham.”
“There is a checkpoint on Fawaz al Laham where it turns into Omar bin Abdulaziz!”
Court made another turn to the south that took him down a quiet street with tall apartment buildings on both sides. He gave her the name and she said, “No checkpoints, but that won’t get you to my house. I live in Mezzeh district in the Western Villas neighborhood. You’ll have to turn around.”
“Shit. Okay, I’m going to keep picking my way west, and I’ll tell you what I see. Get Voland to pull up a map on a computer or a phone, and you can talk me to your neighborhood.”
In under a minute Voland relayed that he had his computer open to an interactive map. “All right,” Bianca said, “I am ready. The good news is I know where the checkpoints are, but the bad news is that to get into my neighborhood, you have to pass a guard shack and gates. I live on Zaid bin al-Khattab, number thirty-six.”
Bianca was adamant that he should not drive all the way into her neighborhood. She claimed there would be a large checkpoint and security officers patrolling in a truck within a few blocks of where she lived, so she convinced him to go to a less active neighborhood a kilometer away and use the night to his advantage to close on the property.
She spent several minutes giving relative details of her home, and while she talked Court listened, but he also focused on avoiding any roadblocks, busy intersections where he might be spotted, or major thoroughfares.
It was slow going, but he kept heading to the west.
Minutes later he found a place to park up a hill from her home. Over the sound of a snoring Walid, Court asked Bianca more questions about the walls, windows, guards, neighbors, vehicles on the street, and police and military presence in the area. He committed it all to memory and tried to think of any possible information he might need in the next couple hours.
When Court had exhausted all his questions about the property, the personnel, and the area around it, he changed focus. “Tell me about your situation there.”
“I’m still in the room in the basement, but Rima is coming down and talking to me two times a day.”
Court imagined there was some indoctrination or deprogramming going on during those talks, but he didn’t bring it up.
“How many guards does Voland have around you?”
“I have no idea. I saw some European men today, two or three of them, but there might be more. They had guns.”
He wished he knew more about just what Voland and the Halabys were doing to protect Bianca, but he had no time to dig into the matter further.
Court said, “Tell me something that only you and Yasmin know so I can establish to her that you sent me.”
Bianca thought of something, told Court, then said, “If she refuses to go with you, call me and I’ll talk to her.”
Court had no illusions that he would be able to make phone calls while in the house confronting Yasmin; he had to just hope like hell he could convince her to comply. If not he figured he’d tie and gag her, throw her in a closet, and leave her for the security men to sort out the next morning.
Bianca said, “Good luck. Please hug and kiss Jamal for me when you see him and tell him his mommy misses him.”
“This ain’t the movies.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Let me talk to Voland.”
Court expected Voland to come back on the line, but instead Rima Halaby’s voice crackled over the connection. “Sir, I know you don’t want to use any of my connections, but I must give you the name of someone there in the city who can be a great help to you if you have any difficulties.”
“You don’t know that this person is not compromised.”
“He’s been living in the capital for years while helping us move aid to the rebels from abroad. If his actions were known to the authorities, there is no chance he wouldn’t have been thrown in Saydnaya Prison long ago.
“He is a surgeon at a regime hospital. He spends his days saving the lives and limbs of young soldiers, but he knows what’s going on in other parts of the nation, and he refuses to turn his back on any Syrian in need. He’s helped relief agencies get supplies into the war zones in the north, and he’s saved thousands of lives by his actions. He is a good man . . . and if you tell him we sent you, he will help you in any way he can.” She then gave him the address and phone number of the doctor. Court had to commit both to memory.
“Are you in contact with him?” Court asked.
Rima replied, “I haven’t spoken to him directly in two years. But I am able to get messages to him.”
“Do not reach out to him about me. If I get desperate, I’ll know where to fi
nd him.”
Court spoke with Voland a moment more, and then he hung up.
* * *
• • •
In the dark parking garage he went through Walid’s car quickly. He found the backpack the major had put his uniform in when he changed into civilian clothes outside Bar 80, and while Walid was a much thicker man than Court, Court knew the uniform would give him at least a momentary advantage when walking through Bianca Medina’s neighborhood. He quickly dressed in the Hawks Brigade uniform and put his own boots back on, leaving Walid’s boots in the trunk of the Hyundai.
In the trunk he also found Walid’s emergency bag, set up for if the major was caught off base during a terror attack or civil strife. It was filled with food, water, and medical supplies, as well as other items.
From the bag Court took a pair of binoculars, a flashlight, and a long but cheaply built fixed-blade knife in a sheath.
Then he went around to the passenger side and pulled Walid himself out of the car. He tied the unconscious man’s hands behind his back with rope pulled from the emergency bag, then hogtied his hands to his ankles and gagged him. Court then dragged and hefted the big man from the passenger seat and rolled him into the trunk of the car.
He closed the trunk lid on the major, put the extra items into the uniform backpack, and threw it onto his shoulder.
At one a.m. he began walking off through the neighborhood.
CHAPTER 38
Captain Henri Sauvage wanted to smoke, but the Syrian communications team working around him forbade it. The tension was high here on the dark wet country road in the center of the woods, so Sauvage didn’t know how he was going to survive without a cigarette. But he didn’t press the issue; the Syrians were dangerous-looking men with intense, angry demeanors, their hands never far away from the submachine guns under their leather jackets or the small hooked knives in the sheaths near their belt buckles.
The two men here with Sauvage were tasked with using the big heavy jamming equipment in the car to kill the cell phone and Internet traffic in the area. Another man was on a telephone pole on the northern side of the property, waiting for the cue from Malik to cut the hard lines into the house.
In front of Sauvage six more men, all dressed in dark clothing, moved off through the thick trees, separating as they walked through the rainy night. Drexler was at the center of the group, picking through the foliage next to Malik, and both men were easy to distinguish because, unlike the others, they wielded pistols.
When they fully disappeared from view through the dark and the woods, Sauvage leaned back against the white sedan. As the two Syrians worked on laptops on the hood, the Frenchman’s only job was to sit here and wait.
Sauvage told himself this would all be over soon, but he didn’t really believe it.
This event was going to be big and loud, he was certain. An outcome that involved him staying both alive and out of prison was getting harder and harder to imagine.
* * *
• • •
One hundred meters to the east, Sebastian Drexler adjusted the night vision optics over his eyes and moved along with the rest of the Syrian commando force.
He’d been on special forces raids in a half dozen African and Middle Eastern countries over his career, usually without night vision, but always with a weapon and surrounded by paramilitary forces that rushed through the desert, jungle, urban center, or grassy plains towards some objective. From this expertise he’d determined that these Syrians were unquestionably well trained. Even with the fuzzy, two-dimensional image afforded by the night vision, they were able to negotiate their way adroitly through the thick flora, they kept their separation from one another, and they advanced on the target location in near-complete silence.
Five more Syrians would be making their way through the woods around the southern end of the property, with the objective of hitting the farmhouse on the front side. The communications team, along with Sauvage, was also ready to move vehicles around to the front of the house or even to provide a follow-on attacking force if the situation called for it.
Drexler struggled to keep up with the Syrian commandos, but he knew he needed to exert his authority over all aspects of this operation. Malik was the epitome of an alpha male, and if Drexler backed off at all, Malik would walk all over him. If that happened, he’d lose his chance at achieving his true objective here.
He did not want or need a large battle this evening. Too much noise would bring a lot of law enforcement, and that would make flying out of Paris tomorrow difficult if not impossible. If he could get out of here with the woman without this turning into a loud and flashy massacre, then he could more easily get out of France and get to Serbia, where he’d eventually be free of the Syrian GIS men and have the time, space, and opportunity he needed to take care of Bianca Medina.
* * *
• • •
After moving through the trees for ten minutes, Malik called a halt over his radio, and the line of men stopped as one. Malik and Drexler picked their way forward carefully until they came to the edge of the woods.
Sebastian Drexler saw the back of the French country estate now. It was completely enshrouded in darkness, with the windows blacked out and all the external lighting extinguished. But even though it was sprinkling and overcast, the house could not hide from the night vision goggles, which pulled the tiny amount of ambient light from the stars above and enhanced it. The home appeared as a large, barely distinguishable green haze, but soon movement caught the attention of Malik and Drexler both. A pair of men stood on a patio; they held short-barreled weapons and shifted from one foot to another, bored and unaware of the danger in the woods one hundred meters from their position.
As Drexler looked on, a white-haired man stepped outside and spoke with the two guards for a moment.
Drexler reached over to Malik. “Hand me your five-power night vision binoculars.”
Malik did so, and Drexler swiveled his unenhanced goggles up on his forehead so he could bring the binos to his eyes.
He looked at the white-haired man for some time through the night vision binoculars. Slowly, a smile widened on Drexler’s face. “Vincent Voland is here.”
“Yes. We know.” Malik looked at Drexler. “You two know each other?”
“We’ve never met, but I know who he is. An ex–French intelligence man, both foreign and domestic. He’s been after me for years. Tonight he’ll get his wish to see me up close. Doubtful the event will go as he had dreamed it might.”
Malik took the binos back and looked through them himself. “He won’t see you up close. We’re not here for you to participate in some old feud. We’re here to rescue the girl, and then we leave.”
“Believe me, I know exactly why we are here,” Drexler replied.
Malik took his eyes out of his binoculars and looked at Drexler, but he made no reply. He looked again through the night vision. After a few seconds, the silver-haired man by the pool turned and stepped back into the house.
Malik radioed his communications team and ordered them to begin jamming operations in the area. He then brought two members of his team forward and whispered to Drexler, “I’m sending a pair of men closer to eliminate the rear sentries silently. They’ll use knives. We need to be ready to advance quickly when this is done.”
“How are your men going to get across one hundred meters of open ground? It’s dark, but it’s not that dark.”
“They’ll low-crawl. It will take a half hour, and I’ll have sharpshooters ready to drop the guards if my men are spotted. That will not happen quietly, so in that case, we need to be prepared to attack the house from right here.”
Drexler didn’t want to attack the Syrian expat safe house from here; it would be noisy and exponentially more dangerous to do so. And he knew a gunfight would bring authorities into the area, and that could waylay his plan to reach Bianca M
edina.
But the fact that Vincent Voland was at the property now gave him a new idea.
He said, “No. Tell your men to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For me to negotiate the terms of Voland’s surrender.”
Drexler removed the holstered Beretta from inside his jacket and put it down on the ground. He removed the revolver from his ankle and the extra magazines and a folding knife from his jacket. He took off his night vision goggles and stacked them with the other items. He then pulled out a tiny tactical flashlight from his pocket. Turning it on, he stood and began walking across the back lawn alone.
Malik called out to him in a whisper. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Drexler ignored him.
CHAPTER 39
Court had wanted high ground that would give him a good view of the movements inside Bianca Medina’s walled property, and he found it by heading up a hill to the east of her neighborhood, entering the open parking lot of a pool and fountain supply store, and climbing the wall of the building by using hand- and footholds afforded by a stone planter, a PVC pipe protecting electrical wiring, and a wooden sign.
Court was a nimble climber, and in seconds he was kneeling on the roof, Walid’s binos in his hands, looking some four hundred yards down the hill. Past a mosque, past an upscale pizza parlor, and past several other private homes, he could see right into the gated rear grounds of Bianca’s walled property. From his vantage point there were areas within her property he could not see, but the entire back half of the compound—including a tiled swimming pool, the garden around it, and the back windows of the large, two-story home—was in view.
The villa had Mediterranean architecture and was built in a U-court shape, with wings extending back perpendicularly to the main house on both sides, a courtyard in the center, and a high wall in back that closed off the courtyard.
