by Mark Greaney
Still Court didn’t reply. The man stepped away, then muttered something to someone in the room, but this Court couldn’t make out.
Again the interrogator tried. “You were with the Desert Hawks, but you don’t wear their uniform. Where do you come from? Are you Syrian?”
It occurred to Court that if this asshole just pulled the bag off Court’s head he’d probably be able to figure out for himself that he wasn’t a local.
He received another smack to the side of his head, and although he had fantasies about launching himself up and head-butting his interrogator into a coma, he did not react to the hit.
From the far corner of the room Court heard the sound of a wooden chair being pulled across the concrete floor slowly. He tracked the sound all the way up to him; whoever was dragging it along was making a dramatic show of coming closer, slowly and ominously. The chair stopped just a couple of feet in front of where Court sat, and then it was swung around; again Court could hear its placement by the scraping sound.
The wood creaked as an obviously large man sat down on it.
It was already dark inside the bag, but it suddenly got even darker, as the man seated in the chair in front of him leaned right into his face.
Nothing was said for several seconds. Whoever this guy was, he was patient, intense, and he knew how to intimidate a prisoner.
Finally he spoke.
“English?”
Court did not reply.
A few seconds later, the man repeated himself. “English?”
Despite his decision to show no reaction to his interrogator, Court cocked his head a little. Something was off about this guy’s accent.
The man spoke a third time, and this time as soon as the words left his mouth, Court felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, because the accent was unmistakable now. “Hey, dickhead. I asked if you spoke English.”
This asshole was from the United States.
Court hesitated just a moment, and then he replied, “Dude, you take this bag off my head, I’ll quote Shakespeare.”
The bag came off slowly. Court blinked away the brightness of the room, even though the only light came from a large opening in the plywood ceiling of the stone block room that looked like it had been created by a direct hit from a mortar round. He then focused his eyes on the man sitting three feet in front of him. He was American, clearly, in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore a gray T-shirt under tan body armor. There were tats on both forearms, and he had sandy brown hair and a thick beard that looked like it had been growing for months.
His green eyes looked at Court with absolute suspicion, but Court was almost overcome with relief. The man wore no insignia on his gear or clothes, but he was clearly a member of the U.S. military.
The man said, “Well, well. Aren’t you an interesting son of a bitch? What’s your name, Slick?”
“Why don’t you just call me Slick?” Court found he could barely talk, his throat was so dry.
“All right then, Slick. What’s your story?”
He swallowed roughly, then said, “No story. Just passin’ through.”
“Sweet. Thanks for dropping in on our little corner of paradise.”
“Pleasure’s mine. Got any water?”
“Yeah, loads. But we don’t hand it out to terrorists.”
“I’m not a terrorist.”
“Oh, cool. Then I guess you can go.”
Court looked past the American and saw a half dozen smaller Arab men back by the door of the dim room looking on. Some had AKs and some were unarmed, but to a man they all wore black tracksuits with no uniformity, and some wore headbands. They looked like a sloppy soccer team.
A couple had short beards or mustaches, but most were clean-shaven.
Court could tell in an instant this wasn’t a jihadi group, like he’d first thought when he saw them from a distance in the low light the evening before.
No . . . these guys were likely FSA, the Free Syrian Army. And this was the best news he’d had in a very long time.
Court tried to determine exactly who the American was now. Most likely he was U.S. Army Special Forces, a Green Beret, though he could have been from one of the “White Side” SEAL units, or possibly even the Army’s special-mission unit, commonly referred to as Delta Force.
The bearded man just looked Court over, saying nothing, so Court added, “Let me help you out. This is the part where you ask me who I’m working for.”
The man smiled. “Is it? Okie-doke. Thanks for the tip. Who are you working for?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Is that because you’re workin’ for ISIS, workin’ for Jabhat al Nusra, or working for the SAA?”
“None of the above.”
The big American stood up fully, reached into his belt, and pulled out a pair of thick contractor gloves. As he began putting them on, he said, “Let me tell ya ’bout a little unwritten rule we have around here when it comes to prisoners.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Talk shit . . . get hit.”
“I wonder why you haven’t written that one down.”
The soldier laughed, genuinely enjoying the repartee. “Bunch of tightasses at the State Department and Pentagon send us memos tellin’ us we can get in trouble for coldcocking a prisoner without cause, but somethin’ tells me I can get away with it as long as the prisoner is another gringo. I think I might have to bust your smartass mouth just to find out.”
Court smiled. He liked this guy. “You’re SF. Fifth Group? Third? No . . . you’re Tenth Group.”
The American blinked when Court said the third number, so faintly the man didn’t realize it himself.
Court said, “Yeah, Fort Carson, but doubt you’re seeing much of Colorado these days.”
“Who the hell are you?” the man asked. He sat back down in the chair, forgetting about his gloves and his plan to punch his prisoner in the face.
“Can’t tell you that, but I bet you twenty bucks I can guess your name.” Court squinted in the sunlight beaming through the hole in the ceiling, looking over the man’s face. “Bobby? Billy? Randy . . . Ronnie? You look like a Ronnie.”
The bearded man now made a slight but obvious reaction.
Court took this to mean he’d nailed it. “Okay, Ronnie. How about you have one of your little guys back there bring me some water? It will help me talk.”
The American in the body armor called out to the men behind him without taking his wide eyes off his prisoner. “Meyah lal shereb!” Water!
A young man with a wispy beard and a shiny black Adidas jacket with white stripes pulled a bottle of water out of a pack on the floor and brought it over. He spoke English to the soldier as he handed it to him. “Who is this guy?”
“Dunno yet.”
Court was not untied, but the American soldier squirted several ounces of water into his mouth. Court drank it down, closing his eyes a moment as he let the water bring him back to life. Then he said, “Ronnie, you’ve got a tough job. But I’m going to make it a little bit easier today.”
“Are you?”
“I’m going to give you a phone number that will connect you to an office building in McLean, Virginia. Call it yourself, or kick it up to your command and have them call it. This will get straightened out and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“McLean, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re saying you’re CI—”
Court shushed him before he could finish it.
The SF man scratched his beard. It was clear to Court that the man wasn’t sure what to do.
Another bearded American with body armor and forearm tats entered the room and spoke before he looked up and saw his colleague in the middle of an interrogation. “Hey, Robby, second platoon snipers spotted SAA helos about ten klicks n
orth of—”
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Court nodded to him. “Hey, man. Any chance you could run and grab the sat phone for Robby? He’s got a really important call to make.”
The new Green Beret stared at the prisoner for several seconds before turning to the big man sitting with Court. “What the fuck?”
“He says he’s an American.”
Court chuckled. “Either that, or I’m a Bedouin camel herder who just watched a shit-ton of Sesame Street growing up.”
Robby said, “And he’s tellin’ me he’s OGA.” OGA meant “other governmental agency,” and it was the “down low” way of saying CIA when out in the field.
Court shook his head. “Didn’t say that, Rob. Said they’d vouch for me. Look, you’re obviously in charge here, so that makes you, what, a captain?”
“None of your business, Slick.”
Court said, “Lieutenant, then. Got it.”
The other man in the room laughed despite himself. Court was clearly the last thing they’d expected to run into in the hills of the Syrian Desert. He said, “You want me to get the phone?”
Robby said, “Negative. Take the FSA guys and give me a few minutes alone with my new friend here.”
When the room was empty other than Robby and Court, the American Green Beret said, “You gotta help me out, man. You’re saying you are, or are not, CIA?”
Court shrugged. “I’m something, Robby, that’s really all I can tell you. Just put me on the phone with them. That’s not me playing tricks, that’s me doing you a favor. The person on the other end of the line is going to be really pissed off that I’m right here, right now, in your custody, and there is no sense in them taking out their anger on you.”
Robby just stared at Court another minute, still in silence.
Court said, “All right. I’ll cut you in just a little, but I’m code word, so your TS/SCI clearance doesn’t get you into the party. You can’t even know I exist, understood?”
Robby nodded, a dazed look on his face now.
“I’m on the job. I was in cover as a contractor for a regime-backed militia, but one of your little buddies RPG’d me and I ended up right here. Now I’ve got to get back on my time-critical mission, and the only way I can see to do that is to have you talk to Langley so they can tell you to let me go.”
Robby said, “The other guy the FSA picked up?”
“He goes by Broz; he’s a Croatian mercenary, working for KWA.”
“Those bastards.”
“Yep. They shot civilians yesterday at the refinery along the M20 highway. Don’t know what you can do about it.”
Robby shrugged. “Me, either, in the grand scheme of things. But I sure as hell can make him miserable while I’ve got him.”
Court said, “Talk shit, get hit?”
The man smiled. “I bet a merc who just committed war crimes is gonna talk some serious shit.”
“Before you tune him up, you mind making that call?”
Robby nodded slowly. “Okay, Slick. I’m curious enough to play along.”
He was on board now, at least partially. He squirted some more water in Court’s mouth, radioed for the sat phone to be brought to him, and then went out into the hall, leaving Court tied up alone in the room.
Robby was curious—he wasn’t stupid.
* * *
• • •
A half hour later Robby and three other Americans walked purposefully back into the room. Robby pulled a knife off his chest rig and cut Court free.
As Court stood, the soldier extended a hand. “Captain Robert Anderson, Tenth SF. Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Court shook his hand. “I was pretty happy to run into you myself.”
“I apologize about the treatment. We hear some tall tales in this job, and I’ve run into a couple of Brits running with ISIS and Al Nusra, so even your American accent didn’t prove you were on the level.”
“You’d have been a fool if you acted any other way.”
“I checked with my command, and they okayed me calling the number you gave me after they checked it out to make sure it went to Langley. I spoke with a woman there, she wouldn’t give her name, but she confirmed you were one of hers. She didn’t seem too happy to hear from me.”
“Her name is Suzanne, and I’m only telling you that because it would piss her off if she knew that I did.”
“Yeah, well, she wants you to call her ASAP. Here’s the phone.”
Court took the phone. “I’ll call her boss. He’ll be just as pissed about this, but he’ll also be a little more helpful.”
“I don’t really have much of an office, but you can use my hooch for some privacy.”
* * *
• • •
Captain Anderson led Court out of the little mud, stone, and plywood building and through a warren of similar structures, all built deep in the hills. This Special Forces forward operating base was well hidden here, protecting it from possible Russian or Syrian aircraft above, and the FSA unit they were embedded with held a solid-looking defensive perimeter. Robby told Court there was one ODA here, or Operational Detachment, Alpha—meaning a dozen Green Berets working with some seventy-five FSA fighters. The Americans were here fighting against ISIS, not the Syrian regime, but the FSA fought against both groups.
Anderson led Court into a small room on the ground floor of a bombed-out building and told him no one would disturb him during his call.
Court sat on the cot, looked at the phone in his hand, then took a deep breath.
He dialed a number from memory, but he wasn’t really sure what he would say when the call went through.
CHAPTER 65
As the director of the National Clandestine Service of the CIA, Matthew Hanley often worked late into the evening. Today had been no different. He’d arrived at his office in McLean, Virginia, just before eight a.m., and it was just after nine p.m. when he crossed the Potomac River on his way home to D.C.
His driver got him back to his Woodley Park neighborhood by nine fifteen, but just a few blocks from home, Hanley changed his mind and decided to go out to dinner instead.
Hanley was a bachelor in his midfifties, a former Green Beret, and he didn’t splurge on much in life apart from good food and wine. Tonight he made the last-minute decision to indulge at the Bourbon Steak restaurant in the Four Seasons hotel, not because he had anything special to celebrate, but rather because the pressures of his job had him certain it would kill him one of these days, so why shouldn’t he enjoy a good meal while his heart was still beating?
He and his four-man security detail entered without a reservation, but a table for one was found in the center of the room, and Hanley ate while his detail maintained a discreet 360-degree watch over the dining room and the street out front.
Apart from an urgent call from the office, he enjoyed the first half of his meal in silence at his table while he listened to the soft murmur of conversation from others seated around him. Well-heeled couples talked about their kids and marriages, businesspeople discussed their work, and foreign travelers to D.C. spoke in foreign languages, most of which Hanley understood, and the big man in the middle listened in on it all while he dined alone.
At ten thirty he poured the last of his first full bottle of cabernet into his glass, and was just about to cut off another slice of his twenty-two-ounce bone-in rib eye, when his cell phone rang. The sound of the ring told him it was on his encrypted app, so he decided he should answer it.
This was his second encrypted call of the past forty-five minutes, and he was certain it would have some relation to the first.
“Hanley.”
“Hey, Matt. It’s me.” It was Violator. Courtland Gentry. Hanley’s wayward lone-wolf asset.
Hanley put his fork on his plate and leaned back from the table. “Yeah, I know.
Brewer called. She’s about to have an aneurysm.”
“Fingers crossed.”
Matt smiled but didn’t let Court hear him chuckle. He took a sip of his cabernet with his free hand. “So . . . last I heard you were in Frankfurt, about to go on vacation. Did you get off at the wrong bus stop on the way to the beach?”
“Yeah, the one in the Syrian Desert.”
“Right. Some indigenous forces working with an A-team captured you in the middle of a firefight, thought you were ISIS or Al-Nus. I trust you’ve charmed the hell out of them and smoothed things over.”
“Yes, sir. We’re all gonna get matching tats when this is over.”
“And you want my help in getting the hell out of there.”
There was a pause on the line.
“Court?”
“I don’t want to leave, but I do need some help.”
“You are on the job?” Hanley said it as a question. “Aren’t you getting support from your employer?”
“Negative. The guy running me is untrustworthy. I might just go it alone from here on out.”
Now Hanley put his glass down. “If you were going it alone, we wouldn’t be talking. What do you need?”
“Not sure how much I should tell you, actually.”
“The line is clean, but you know that. You don’t know how much you should tell me so that I maintain plausible deniability over what you are about to do. Is that it?”
“In a nutshell.”
“Well . . . maybe keep it vague. Theoretical. Hypothetical.”
Court breathed into the phone a moment. Then, “Let’s say an opportunity arose where someone could eliminate a very bad actor at the center of a very bad situation.”
Hanley looked around for the waiter, and when the two men met eyes, the big man lifted his empty wine bottle. He had a feeling he was going to need some more alcohol in the next few minutes. Court was talking about assassinating Ahmed Azzam; there was no question in Hanley’s mind. He controlled his own breathing and said, “Go on.”
“The elimination of this bad actor might well help things . . . but it might not have any real effect. Who knows . . . things could conceivably get worse.”
