MJ-12

by Michael J. Martinez

  “Husni al-Za’im got his start in the Ottoman Army, then went into the occupation French forces before finally siding with the nationalists and ending up in charge of the Syrian military, such as it is,” Meade replied. “He’s far more of a secularist than a lot of the Arab nativists. Syria has a strong Christian minority, some Jews—a mix of everybody, really. He wants a modern state with no official view on religion or ethnicity, unlike a lot of other folks who want the whole thing to be driven by Muslims. Za’im’s a Kurd from up by the Turkish border. He’s a Western guy, very level-headed. He’ll be fine.”

  Copeland muttered something ugly under his breath as he nearly avoided a collision with a bicyclist carrying a ridiculously large basket strapped to his back. “Like you said, Miss Jones, we need something he can hang his hat on. Al-Quwatli won the election because he was seen as a hero of Syrian independence and a steady hand at the helm. We have to shake that perception, make him look like he’s not in control.”

  “And how do we do that?” Maggie asked.

  She could sense the satisfaction emanating from Copeland. “You’re gonna love it.”

  * * *

  Cal sat upright as Lorraine Copeland refilled his teacup. “Really, ma’am. I can manage just fine myself. You should sit down and rest some.”

  The young blonde, at least seven months pregnant by Cal’s guess, simply smiled at him as she finished pouring. “Nonsense, Mr. Hooks,” she said in a light Scottish accent. “You’re a guest in my home, and I’ll not leave any of Miles’s friends to fend for themselves. Honestly, I’m delighted for the company.”

  Cal leaned back and returned the smile, marveling at the hospitality. Crying shame he had to travel halfway around the world to be treated this well in a white woman’s home, but he was grateful for it regardless. Maybe it was because she was European, or maybe because he was an official guest of the American Consulate.

  “Well, you got that fine young man to take care of,” Cal said as Lorraine finally and carefully took a seat. “Named after his daddy?”

  “Miles the Third and three times the trouble,” she laughed. “Oh, that boy. So glad we have Haya to help me out with things. I just can’t keep up with him these days. Little whirlwind, he is.”

  Cal remembered the little blond boy’s curiosity when he’d arrived the previous day, his flights having taken him through Africa en route to Damascus. He’d been covered as an African businessman seeking investment in Ethiopia, the former Italian holding on the Horn of Africa. This was Cal’s first outing without explicit diplomatic protection, which made him distinctly nervous, but Copeland had assured him the consulate would step in to help if things got sticky.

  “So, how’d a young man like you end up working with, well … your particular agency?” Lorraine asked.

  “Well, I ain’t that young, ma’am, but thank you for saying so,” Cal said, remembering that he looked a good twenty years younger than his actual age, thanks to his Enhancement. “They just needed someone with my skills, I suppose. And there are times when having a Negro around is a good thing—either I draw all the attention away from other folks, or nobody pays attention and I do what needs doing.”

  “You’re like me, then,” she said with a mischievous grin. “Miles has people in and out of here at all hours, but I’m the one who does what needs doing.”

  “And you’re mighty fine at it. It’s a wonderful home.”

  That wasn’t just a shallow compliment; Cal really loved the place. The house was the light beige of desert clay, with a central courtyard featuring a small fountain that gurgled quietly into a brightly tiled basin. Tile work adorned the trim around the place, and creeping vines kept things looking lush. Inside, parquet wood floors and arched windows brought in breezes, while fans—likely a critical necessity during the summer—hung motionless from the high ceilings. Overall, it was a small, modest house but well appointed.

  They’d been enjoying the courtyard earlier, but the evening chill had driven them inside to Copeland’s study, which was adorned with French furniture, and the walls were lined with books. A Decca turntable had pride of place on a beautifully wrought credenza next to a radio. There were a fair number of albums there as well, mostly jazz. A trumpet stood on a stand next to the credenza—Copeland had already boasted of the time he played fourth trumpet with the Glenn Miller Orchestra. Cal was more of a Dizzy Gillespie fan, but that still seemed pretty good.

  Cal looked up to see Danny and Zippy come in. “They’re here, finally,” Danny said. “Miles said they had some traffic. Be here in a moment.”

  Zippy went over to Lorraine. “How’s the little one doing today?” she asked with a smile.

  “He’s a kicker, this one,” she replied. “Or she, I suppose, but no girl would bat me around like this one.”

  Danny was wearing his U.S. Navy-issued shipboard khakis—he had official cover as a defense attaché—while Zippy wore a dark-gray lady’s suit. She was covered as a reporter from The Palestine Post in Jerusalem, which Cal figured was a right fine idea, given how reporters were always poking their noses into things.

  “How was your walk around town?” Cal asked Danny with an arched eyebrow. Any other Variants around?

  Danny wrinkled his brow a bit as he took a seat and waved away Lorraine as she tried to get up to pour more tea. “It was fine, I guess. May want to check it out again tomorrow.”

  Cal couldn’t get a read on what that might’ve meant, but was distracted as Copeland and Meade entered the study with Frank and Maggie in tow. Cal shook hands with his newly arrived teammates, and was surprised when Maggie gave him a brief hug. That wasn’t really her thing, but maybe she was still playing her cover.

  “Lorraine, darling, why don’t you check on little Miles for a bit,” Copeland said. “I’m afraid we have some things to discuss.”

  Lorraine smiled and stood, gratefully taking Zippy’s offered hand, then excused herself quickly. Cal figured Miles had a fair number of interesting folks at his house. Meanwhile, Copeland walked over and put a record on the turntable—Cal was delighted to see it was Coleman Hawkins’ “Picasso”—and soon the sounds of the master saxophonist provided background music to their discussion. “Just in case there are ears out there,” Copeland said with a smile.

  Drinks were poured—Copeland had some Scotch and gin stowed on one of his bookshelves—and then Copeland sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette, waving the others toward the sofas and chairs around the room.

  “All right, let’s get to it. In one week, al-Quwatli is having a diplomatic reception at the Syrian House of Representatives. That’s our next, best chance to have a meaningful sit-down with Za’im and a couple of his supporters. Two of you should be there so we have the numbers. Who’s coming?”

  Frank looked around. “We could probably only get away with one of the ladies, not both. So, how about me and Maggie? Or do you think Zippy would be better, Danny?”

  “I think Zippy would be better off,” Danny said. “Maggie can get a bead on him during the reception. Cal and I will do the perimeter work. Sound good?”

  “Fine,” Copeland said. “Colonel Meade here will join you on watch. And I think Miss Silverman will be great. We can add in the pressure to get an armistice with Israel going.”

  “And what else will we be discussing?” Zippy asked.

  “Well, every time we meet, I make sure we get commitments on the big three, as I like to call them: keeping the Reds out, peace with Israel, and getting the TAPline done. No doubt Za’im will ask for money—he always asks for money. But aside from a little bit of a slush fund, we’re not committing anything until he’s settled in as president. We’re not throwing good money after bad.”

  “Anything else?” Frank asked.

  “We want to be sure, of course, that his coup planning is going well, and we’ll pore over it afterward to see if there’s any holes we can help plug,” Copeland said. “And finally, we’ll get to our own operation, which I think will tip the scales
against al-Quwatli and give Za’im the excuse he needs to take over.”

  “Right,” Danny said, leaning forward with interest. “And what is this op, exactly?”

  Copeland smiled. “It’s kind of an open secret that I’m the American you talk to when you really want to get things done. Jim Keeley is the official envoy here, though al-Quwatli still hasn’t let him present his credentials—it’s been months. That’s another reason we’re doing this; al-Quwatli isn’t even listening to our official envoys, let alone me or anyone from England or France.

  “So, anyway, like I said, I’m kind of the operations guy, and most of the folks in the Syrian government know I’m probably the liaison to State and CIA. I don’t mind—Meade here has a deeper cover. It’s good to have a figurehead. And that’s what we’re going to use in a few weeks when we trick the Syrian government into raiding my house.”

  The words hung silently in the room for several long moments before Cal couldn’t take it anymore. “You mean to say, Mr. Copeland, you’re going to try to get the Syrians to actually break in? Right here?”

  Copeland grinned. “That’s exactly right, Mr. Hooks. Like I said, they know I handle some of the intelligence work. All I have to do is make it known that I have some intel here at the house, something that has to do with the Syrian government itself. I’m thinking something on the Ba’ath Party, which al-Quwatli hates. Everybody hates the Ba’athists. He’s going to want to know exactly what’s going on and how much I know, and he’ll send some goons to try to grab it from my safe here,” he said, pointing to a squat metal box in the corner of the room.

  Frank furrowed his brow. “And how, exactly, can you be sure that the government’s going to go for this? I mean, you’re an accredited diplomat. They can’t be seen breaking in here, no matter how badly they want the intel.”

  “Exactly, Mr. Lodge! That’s exactly the point. If we catch them in the act, then we’ll have the goods on al-Quwatli and expose him as paranoid and weak. It’ll encourage the opposition parties to back Za’im’s coup and definitely encourage other countries to eventually recognize his government afterward. As for getting them to do it, well, Za’im is going to help take care of that for us. He has some people close to al-Quwatli who can nudge him in the right direction.”

  Cal looked over to his teammates, all in some state of disbelief except for Maggie, who simply had a smirk on her face. Of all his teammates, Cal figured Maggie would be the one to find the humor in such a terrible idea.

  Zippy cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Copeland, but what about Lorraine and little Miles? They can’t be here when this happens.”

  “Oh, we’ve thought of that,” Copeland said. “She’s heading over the mountains to Beirut to visit friends. It’s an easy drive, nothing at all to worry about there, Miss Silverman.”

  “And so when the Syrians break in, we just … grab ’em?” Danny asked.

  “Like a police sting, exactly.” Copeland looked at his watch. “Excuse me a minute. I want to say good night to Miles before we get on with the planning.”

  Copeland got up and hurried out of the room, leaving the Variants looking at Meade, who simply shrugged. “He’s crazy, but believe me, I was in O.S.S. during the war. You’d be surprised how often crazy works.”

  Danny frowned. “You know, I was originally going to be here for a few days, but now I think I’m going to stay until this op is done,” he told the others. “Honestly, I think it’s insane, but Colonel Meade here has a pretty good reputation. If he’s on board, we can do it. But I want to see it through.”

  “That all?” Cal asked.

  “No. I need to do some more recon before this goes down,” Danny said, looking him squarely in the eye. “Not entirely sure the coast is clear.”

  Meade sat up at this. “We have the Reds well accounted for, Commander,” he said pointedly. “I’ve personally lined up all the best anti-Communist guys in the Syrian Army. We have this in hand.”

  “I’m sure you do, Colonel,” Danny replied. “But they’re not the only ones I’m worried about. And before you ask, no, you’re not cleared for it.”

  February 28, 1949

  Frank was grateful the Syrians didn’t seem to place high value on the tuxedo, but the three-piece suit he’d reluctantly put on wasn’t significantly better. It didn’t help that there were multiple opinions floating through his head at any given moment, from the sartorial advice of a Turkish academic (I think tweed, yes? For authority) to the lament of a WWII commando (Your range of motion is shot to hell, and if it goes down in here, you’re gonna die unless you lose the jacket).

  As he surveyed the room closely, Frank couldn’t help but wonder if his control over his ability was slipping somehow. Since he’d picked up the knack for absorbing the memories, skills, and knowledge of the recently deceased four years earlier, comments like the ones jostling around inside his head usually came when faced with a direct application of that knowledge—combat, mechanical repair, surgery. Only then would the appropriate voice and memory chime in, as if the deceased were whispering instructions in his ear.

  Honestly, it was handy. Frank had access to at least several PhDs’ worth of know-how, the skills of the best fighters, drivers, pilots, and strategists in the military, and the ability to survive and thrive in nearly any climate and geography known to man. He was up to seventeen different languages as of Friday, when he’d sat at the bedside of a Kurdish woman who’d been hit by a car. Before then, he hadn’t even known there was such a language as Kurdish. Now he was a fluent speaker and knew more about the culture than the guys back at the Smithsonian did.

  The thing about the languages was that, somehow, the whispers in his ear were never there. Frank just knew Kurdish. And Arabic. And Hebrew, Russian, Spanish, French, Flemish, German, Turkish, Czech, Icelandic, and others.

  He didn’t know how it worked or why. It just did. But lately, well, all those voices seemed to have opinions on things only tangentially related to the skills he had absorbed. He’d learned to pick and choose what he wanted, but still … stuff slipped through. Like about the suit he was wearing.

  Over the past several months, Frank had taken to saying “good night” to the voices before his head hit the pillow in the small but comfortable apartment the CIA rented for him in Foggy Bottom. He’d occasionally say “good morning” too. It was almost a challenge to the people he was carrying around with him. So far, they were silent in the face of such modest pleasantries. He figured he’d shit a brick if they actually started replying. Maybe they knew that.

  “Frank,” Danny said. “You all right?”

  Smiling, Frank turned to his boss. “Yeah, sorry. Situational assessment. Had to do some sifting in my head. Apparently, this suit jacket is gonna get me killed if it goes south in here.”

  Danny smiled back. “Yeah, well, apparently Za’im has his men covering the place pretty well. I half-expect him to try the coup here and now, but Copeland’s really trying to pull this off without bloodshed,” he whispered, the clink of glasses and convivial chatter masking his words.

  “Ambitious,” Frank replied. “Never heard of a coup without blood on the streets. How’s your own situational assessment going?”

  For the past week, Danny had been hitting the streets of Damascus, covering the bulk of the city by foot and bicycle. His Enhancement—known only to a few Variants, the CIA Director, and the President himself—was that if he concentrated hard enough, he could locate other Variants. It was Danny who’d rounded up the entire group that turned into the MAJESTIC-12 program. Hell, he could walk into a mid-sized city and make a beeline for a Variant sitting at a bar in the most nondescript neighborhood. Frank had seen him do it.

  But this time was different. Danny had caught a “flicker” of something in Damascus—a Variant whose presence only registered for a short moment—on his first night in town. No other Variant had ever produced such a signal in Danny’s mind. He’d been searching ever since but to no avail.

 
“Nothing new,” Danny sighed. “We’re the only five Variants in town. And I don’t think there are any null-zone generators here, either. The Soviets have bigger fish to fry.”

  “You hope,” Frank grumbled.

  “I hope,” Danny agreed. “Where are our people?”

  Frank nodded toward the room. “My fiancée, Miss Jones, is over there being charming toward some Syrian politicians, and they’re eating it up. I would have expected nothing less. Then our African trade ambassador there is primarily staying out of the way by the snacks table. I think he’s going to try to get his missus to make Syrian lamb safiha when he gets back, because he’s been putting them away at a good clip.”

  “We gotta get Cal out there more,” Danny muttered.

  “Ain’t his thing, Commander,” Frank replied, a surge of protectiveness coming over him. “He’s an honest man who just wants to do the right thing, and that isn’t what this is by any stretch.”

  Danny sighed. “And Zippy?”

  “Just saw her a moment ago. She’s been talking to everyone, got her little notebook out and everything. Shaking a lot of hands, too. Very touchy-feely. Where’d she go?”

  Frank felt a hand on his shoulder. “Right here,” Zippy replied. “Care to comment on Syrian-Israeli relations for The Jerusalem Post, gentlemen?”

  “Relations would be a great thing to have,” Danny said. “But don’t quote me on that. What’s the scoop?”

  Zippy deftly slid her notebook and pen into her purse. “Well, I’d say maybe one in five parliamentarians would be willing to make peace with Israel so long as all the Israeli gains in the 1948 war were given back. The other four would be quite happy to try to invade again.”

  “And?” Danny prompted.

  “Three members of Parliament are having affairs with other women, one with another man, the dirty boy. Two others are on the take, along with at least a third of the senior military officers present. Some of the bribes are us—I saw Copeland in one of ’em—and some aren’t us, which means it’s either the British, French, Soviets, or … well, OK, could be anybody.”