Her eyebrows shot up. “You mean I don’t have to drive the three miles to stay in the barbed-wire playpen?”
“Not this trip, Mags,” Danny replied. “Need you handy. You won’t be here long.”
Maggie looked at him, expecting more information, but Danny didn’t feel like repeating himself later, so he motioned for her to walk ahead toward the waiting jeep. “We buttoned up here?” he asked Hamilton quietly when she was out of earshot.
“I think so. Tell you more in a bit.”
The five-minute ride to the main base was spent in silence. When they arrived, Danny urged Maggie to settle in and “freshen up,” which she seemed to take with some bemusement. Then, with Hamilton in tow, Danny made a beeline for his office, where Detlev Bronk was already waiting for them.
Danny made sure the door was closed before he started talking. “Really good job, gentlemen. I figured Montague would try to pull something while I was gone. Just didn’t think Forrestal would involve himself personally.”
Hamilton handed over a teletype. “Resigned this morning. Health reasons.”
Danny couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Hope he’s feeling better. Now, what’s the latest?”
Bronk went first. “We didn’t discover that Schreiber had been visiting POSEIDON until the third or fourth time. Apparently, the last few times he was down there he actually drew blood and then used the samples in various vortex experiments—late at night, while everyone who would have known he was up to something was asleep. Schreiber was a night owl to begin with, so it wasn’t seen as such a big deal when he came in to do work at 2 a.m.”
Danny frowned. “New rule: at least three people are in the room with the vortex at all times, and I want it locked down between 11 p.m. and 7 a.m. unless specifically requested and signed off on by at least two of the three of us. What else?”
“We’re still trying to figure out what the results of his testing were, and if POSEIDON’s blood had any effect. I have a team going over the readings now, and all of Schreiber’s notes.”
“Where’s Schreiber now?” Danny asked.
“House arrest,” Hamilton said. “We took everything out of his room, searched it, and then gave back only some books and stuff, nothing related to his work. He’s out of the picture for now, but he hasn’t exactly been completely transparent about what he was up to and whether it worked or not.”
“I really wish we could get Mrs. Stevens on the vortex study,” Bronk added. “She’s far too smart to be creating underwear for Variants.”
Danny smiled. “Did the underwear work?”
“Of course it did,” Bronk replied. “She even got pockets in ’em.”
“Handy. And we may earn some extra trust on this next assignment I have for her. Meantime, I’ll need you to take the lead on the vortex and, most importantly, figure out what Schreiber was up to. John, how are we looking on security?”
The tall, good-looking man shrugged. “Nothing beyond that direct call to Schreiber. The rest of Forrestal’s orders came through normal channels. We let ’em through and then watched like a hawk. Most of it came from Montague, but he said he was acting under orders from the secretary. So, he’s clean.”
“Sure he is,” Danny remarked. “All right. Great job, gentlemen. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to do a quick mission briefing for a detached team.”
Hamilton stood to go, but turned back. “Detached team?”
“Keeping this one close. Maggie and Mrs. Stevens. Sorry, all I can say.”
Hamilton shrugged and left, leaving Bronk to linger a moment. “I thought we were keeping Mrs. Stevens out of fieldwork. She’s doing incredible things in the labs here, Dan. Incredible things.”
“Not my call, Doc,” Danny said, making it clear it wasn’t up for further discussion. After Bronk left, he had his clerk run out to find both women. It took fifteen minutes before both of them were sitting in his office and reintroductions were made.
“So what can I do for you two?” Mrs. Stevens said. “I always love creating things for your little business trips.” She added little finger-quotes around “business trips” for good measure.
“Well, actually, this time you’re the one on the business trip, Mrs. Stevens. I have a sensitive assignment for you and Miss Dubinsky here. I think you’ll like it.”
Maggie leaned over. “That means you’ll hate it,” she interpreted.
“I’m sorry, Commander, but I just can’t up and leave on some kind of assignment!” Mrs. Stevens protested. “I have several experiments running in my lab right now. And who’s going to take care of Mr. Stevens while I’m gone?”
“Mr. Stevens will be given full privileges at the mess hall for the duration of your absence, and we’ll have someone come in and clean house every so often,” Danny said, making a note to himself to actually deliver on these promises. “If all goes well, you won’t be gone very long.”
“Well, I’m sorry again, Commander, but when I took this job, it was with the understanding that your assignments wouldn’t conflict with my duties at home. My most important duty is to my family, sir!”
Danny shot a look at Maggie, who was ready to burst out giggling. “Mrs. Stevens, I couldn’t agree with you more. But this assignment doesn’t come from me. It comes from the very top. From President Truman himself.”
Mrs. Stevens, who had been sitting up straight with reserved and proper anger, suddenly settled back into her chair. “The President? Why does he even know about little old me?”
“You’re a Variant, Mrs. Stevens. He’s read dossiers on all of you. More importantly, you’re the most intelligent person ever measured in IQ, and this assignment needs your smarts and discernment.”
“And what does it need from me?” Maggie asked.
“Your warmth and way with people, of course,” Danny cracked. “This isn’t a combat op, Mags.”
“Damn shame,” she replied, earning a look of horror from Mrs. Stevens. “What’s the op?”
“What I’m about to tell you is sensitive as hell, and you’ll be involved in a domestic matter for the first time. That means that you cannot, repeat cannot, allow yourselves to be discovered as Variants under any circumstances. You’ll be covered as special Secret Service investigators under a new program for women.”
“Do they even have women Secret Service agents?” Mrs. Stevens asked.
“They do now,” Danny said. “Your job—and yes, this comes from Truman himself—is to investigate potential leaks regarding Area 51 and the MAJESTIC-12 program by the now-former Secretary of Defense, James Forrestal.”
For once, Maggie seemed genuinely shocked. “The Defense Secretary sold us out?”
“We don’t know that yet, but there have been some activities here at Area 51 under his purview that violated direct orders from the President. Luckily, I had people watching for it while we were in Damascus, and we caught it. But now the President wants a full-on security review, and you two will be part of that.”
Mrs. Stevens nodded gravely. “You want me to analyze his behavior and his friendships and acquaintances to find any potential patterns, then see if other people’s patterns check out as well.”
“Bingo,” Danny said.
“And you want me to talk pretty to them,” Maggie said.
“Doesn’t have to be pretty. But we need the truth,” Danny said. “We’ve worked very, very hard to give Variants a place to live and a chance to serve their country. For all your sakes, you need to find any potential leaks, if only to protect other Variants.”
“And if we find a leak?” Mrs. Stevens asked.
“I can only assume it will be dealt with accordingly,” Danny replied neutrally. “But I should add, plugging the leak is not your purview here. Read me?” He said the last part, looking directly at Maggie.
“Loud and clear,” Maggie replied, but Danny knew full well she was fiercely protective of her fellow Variants. In fact, he was counting on it.
March 30, 1949
Ever since Cal had arrived in Syria, the dawn call to prayer woke him up just as the sun was rising. He found it exotic and kind of soothing, and certainly better than the bells of an alarm clock.
Tank treads made a noisy alarm look meek by comparison.
It took a moment for the noise to register, but once he’d figured it out, Cal jumped out of bed and ran to the window, looking down from his second-floor perch onto the dusty street below, where three tanks were rolling through the neighborhood. At the intersection, a couple of soldiers were putting signs up on the street poles. Cal wasn’t close enough to read them, and he couldn’t have read Arabic either way, but given the circumstances, he figured it wasn’t because the circus had come to town.
Cal ran from his room to find Copeland already awake and trying to comfort his pregnant wife and little boy. “You just stay here today, all right? I have some men from the consulate coming over to stand watch. I’m going to have to go do things here, OK?”
“You be careful,” Lorraine replied, giving him a kiss. “Don’t do anything heroic out there. You run if it gets bad, you hear me?”
“I will, I promise.” Copeland smiled as Cal cleared his throat—partly to get attention, and partly to not burst out laughing.
“Is this what I think it is?” Cal asked. “What’s the good word?”
Copeland nodded. “This is it. Let’s go. Meade’s coming around to pick us up.”
Ten minutes later, with Cal fully dressed and Frank by his side, they were out the door and in Meade’s comfortable BMW 321. The streets were quiet and largely empty except for a handful of storefronts and market stalls where the proprietors were making their prayers, their carpets pointing south-southeast toward Mecca. The Syrian Army, however, was too busy securing major roads and bridges to pray. Cal had studied up on Islam a little bit, and wondered if the soldiers would gain absolution later, or if Za’im had given the country’s Christians and Kurds coup duty that morning.
“Well, they’re not stopping the prayers,” Frank ventured, obviously thinking along similar tracks. “I figure if the people felt threatened or angry, they’d do something about it.”
Meade nodded. “We saw a little of that in Turkey and the Balkans during the war. Prayer time trumps most things, but not self-preservation.”
Cal couldn’t help but smile. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Quick trip around town,” Meade said. “I want to make sure they went through the to-do list, like the state radio station on your right.”
Frank and Cal turned to see a small sandstone building with a large metal transmission tower sprouting up from around and inside it, completely surrounded by soldiers with weapons drawn. So it was across the rest of Damascus: the newspaper, hospitals, power plants, the presidential palace, major intersections, and various military barracks and bases, all locked down tight.
The last stop was Parliament, where a large crowd had gathered at the front steps. Meade pulled over a block away, and the four of them began walking toward the area. They were stopped by a young Syrian Army officer, but a flash of their diplomatic credentials—they didn’t even look at Cal’s—let them through.
The crowd, as they got close, consisted of government bureaucrats and parliamentarians, many of whom seemed to have dressed up for the occasion—three-piece suits, pocket watches, shined shoes, and velvet fezzes were the order of the day. A fair number of journalists were there as well, trading information and likely playing a big game of telephone. Cal spotted Zippy in the middle of an interview ahead and waited patiently until she was done before heading over.
“Miss Zippy,” Cal said quietly. “How you doing this morning?”
To his surprise, she gave him a big smile. “This reporter thing is a lot more fun than I thought it would be. Really easy way to get information without looking suspicious. I’m surprised we don’t use it on all our jobs.”
Cal shrugged. “I imagine I wouldn’t be as good at it as you. I’m no writer. What’s the word out there?”
She flipped open her notebook. “Syrian Army is in full control of Damascus, and reports out of Aleppo say the same thing. They say President al-Quwatli was taken into custody—protective custody, I should say—and that he’s been transported to one of the army barracks for his own safety.”
Cal frowned. “Good Lord. They’re gonna kill him there.”
Zippy shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Some of the crowd here still believe he’s the father of Syrian independence from France, while others think he’s been a terrible president, especially lately. I think we have Copeland to thank for that. But I really don’t think killing him would be a good idea. If this group is any indication, they like the fact that nobody’s dead. We should try to keep it that way.”
“Amen to that, Miss Zippy. I’ll pass it along. Anything else?”
“I think they’re tired of fighting,” she said, seeming sympathetic with the people there. “I think they want peace. Tell Za’im that.”
Cal smiled and wandered back toward Frank and the others. Peace would be a fine, fine thing indeed, though the look on Frank’s face when he found him wasn’t encouraging.
“Za’im isn’t here. He’s at one of the barracks with al-Quwatli. We’re a little worried,” Frank said. “Especially Copeland. We don’t know which one.”
“Zippy says al-Quwatli’s at the Mezze Prison barracks. And she says this crowd wouldn’t be very keen at all if he ended up dead at the end of all this,” Cal said.
Frank dashed off toward Meade, who was in the middle of an animated conversation with three Syrians. Cal kept pace easily and not without a little pride in his borrowed youth—though he always felt a little bad about that, too, no matter how good it felt for a fifty-five-year-old man to keep up with a thirty-year-old trained soldier.
“We gotta go,” Frank said, pulling Meade aside. “Za’im’s got al-Quwatli at Mezze Prison. We don’t want it getting messy.”
Meade nodded and, literally pulling Copeland away from another group, dashed back to the car, everyone else in tow. He drove quickly and, at times, dangerously through the still–largely deserted streets of Damascus.
“Was this part of the plan?” Cal asked from the back seat. “Locking down the old president like this?”
Meade’s eyes darted to the rearview, but he left the question for Copeland to answer. “No, it wasn’t, Mr. Hooks,” Copeland said. “The plan was to keep al-Quwatli at the presidential palace and try to convince him to transfer power peaceably in exchange for leading a small, muzzled opposition party. I thought we had agreement on that. Didn’t we have agreement on that, Steve?”
Meade shook his head. “Sorry, guys,” he said to Cal and Frank. “This must be Miles’s first coup. It never goes how you want it to go.”
Cal smiled ruefully. “I ain’t been at this long, but nothing I’ve been part of ever went a hundred percent according to plan. May want to drive a bit faster there, Mr. Meade.”
A few minutes later, the car pulled up to a gated compound where several Syrian Army soldiers stood guard. They immediately trained their weapons on the car, but Miles frantically waved his diplomatic credentials out the window and, after a few minutes of rapid-fire Arabic, got the guards to radio their superiors. It took less than thirty seconds for the weapons to be lowered and the gate opened.
“At least Za’im remembers who his friends are,” Meade said, trying to put up a veneer of good cheer as he aimed the car toward the largest cluster of buildings.
“Or we’re loose ends to tie up,” Frank said. Cal caught his eye, and Frank opened his coat—he had his CIA-issued gun in a shoulder holster, and the silencer was right there in a pouch next to it. Cal nodded back—his own gun was stowed at the small of his back.
It was also unloaded, except for a single bullet in the chamber. Cal wanted to be damn sure that he didn’t rely on a weapon when there could be a better way to solve your problem. Frank would probably chew him out something fierce for it … which was why Cal kept h
is ammo situation to himself. The good Lord had given him the ability to put people to sleep with a touch, steal a bit of life from them in the process, so it stood to reason that nobody had to get killed in most cases.
They’d just pulled up to one of the larger barracks when they spied al-Shishakli outside, al-Hinnawi on one side … and a boy not older than maybe ten on the other. Cal recognized the officers from the mission briefings, but … “What’s that boy doing here?” he mused.
“Apparently, that’s Shishakli’s kid,” Frank said, getting himself out of the car. “I don’t even ask anymore.”
Miles immediately rushed over and started talking in Arabic. The two officers looked worried, and there were a lot of hands moving about. “Apparently, Za’im’s acting up,” Frank muttered, translating for Cal. “He brought the President here and meanwhile already moved his family into the presidential palace. He has people cataloging museums and galleries, too.”
Cal frowned. “Now ain’t the time to redecorate.”
A minute later, all four Americans were ushered inside the barracks. But instead of going somewhere more appropriate—an officers’ quarters or mess hall, say—they ended up in a bathroom. There they found Za’im pacing, with al-Quwatli tied to a chair and placed in the wide-open shower room.
“Why is he in there?” Copeland asked, more to himself than anyone else.
Nonetheless, Frank answered. “Easy place to wash away the blood, Miles. Now fix this.”
When Za’im saw them, he rushed over and gave Miles a huge hug, then heartily shook the hands of Meade and Frank. When he got to Cal, though, the Syrian stopped. “And who is this?” he asked, still smiling but with a wary look in his eye.
“One of ours, Colonel,” Frank said calmly. “He’s been looking out for you for the past month, watching your back. Just like us.”
Za’im’s smile grew wider and he extended his hand. “Then you are welcome, African man. I thank you for your service to your country and to mine!”
Cal shook but tried to gauge the look in the man’s eye. Za’im was sweating slightly, his movements manic and erratic. It was only then, as he shook Za’im’s right hand, that Cal noticed the pistol in his other hand.
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