“I say to you that none of these are deserving of your loyalty, because none of these will give you the freedom to be who you really are. We, the people of Greater Syria—of Lebanon, Syria, Palestine, Transjordan, Iraq—yes, we are all one people! We are Christians and Muslims and, yes, even Jews. We are all Greater Syrians. For a thousand years, we were at the forefront of civilization! Our cities were home to learning and innovation, and we were a powerful yet tolerant people. We can bring this about once again!
“Our nation, our Greater Syrian nation, is the key to solving all the things that divide us. We will not be divided by religion! We will not be divided by politics or economics! We will unite as one people and take our place among the world’s great powers! We will show these Americans, these Russians, the Christians and the Muslims and the Jews, we will show them all the power of true social justice, of a nationalism that brings us together, not divides us!
“Some say we are fascists. Some say we are communists. How can we be both? We do not easily fall into these little boxes. Once again, I say that the system of the Syrian Social Nationalist Party is neither a Hitlerite nor a fascist one but a pure social nationalist one. It is not based on useless imitation but is instead the result of an authentic invention—which is a virtue of our people. We are a Syrian nation, one that embraces a unique philosophy born of centuries of civilization. And we will forge our own path as one nation!”
The crowd, at least two hundred strong, went nuts. Saadeh jumped down from the bench and began glad-handing the masses, while a couple flunkies began passing out copies of his newspaper, Al-Jil Al-Hadid, or “The Iron Generation.” What is it with nationalists and iron, anyway? Frank wondered. He immediately regretted it, as no fewer than three voices in his head began explaining the iconography. At least he was getting better at shutting them down quickly.
Frank spotted Cal walking over to him, now dressed as any other worker bee in the city; there were small Sudanese and Ethiopian communities in Beirut, so he didn’t stand out too much. And to Cal’s delight, nobody paid him any heed at all, for good or ill.
“They’re taking names,” Cal said quietly as he leaned against an iron fence near Frank. “Looks like addresses and phone numbers, too. Heard a lot of folks saying, ‘Alrrabie min yuliu. Kunn Jahiza.’ Something like that.”
Frank nodded. “‘July fourth. Be ready.’ I think they got something going. Maybe another rally, or a march or something. Maybe more.” Frank was about to say something more when he noticed a familiar figure walking over toward him. “I’ll be damned.”
“What?” Cal asked.
Frank just nodded at the slightly pudgy man in the bad suit and tie, puffing away on a cigarette as if it were a snorkel. Karilov smiled as he approached, and Frank gave a half-smile back. “You get around, Mr. Karilov.”
The Russian just shrugged. “Beirut is a very interesting city. Vibrant cultural life here. Though a bit too bourgeois for my tastes. The proletariat has much to do here, yes?”
Frank just laughed. “What, you don’t like Damascus anymore?”
Karilov’s smile ebbed a bit. “I am disappointed in recent events there, I have to say. But I remain impressed by your work, Mr. Smith. Or rather, I am impressed with your success despite your bumbling colleague.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Karilov,” Frank replied. “Except maybe for the colleague thing. Civil service being what it is and all.”
“And now I find you here,” Karilov said. “I cannot help but wonder why.”
“I could say the same.”
Karilov nodded and took another greedy pull on his cigarette. “So, what do you make of this Antoun Saadeh?”
Frank shrugged. “He gives a fine speech.”
“Yes, he does. I find his politics … interesting. Can you cross true social justice with nationalism, I wonder? Marxism-Leninism argues that Communism is international in scope, uniting all the workers of the world. Your American capitalism is likewise global in its pursuit of profit at the expense of those workers.”
“Says you.” Frank grinned. He had to admit he was kind of enjoying all this.
“We can argue this all day if we wish. Maybe we will someday, you and I,” Karilov said, equally amused. “But here, this Saadeh believes that the distinction between people is not economic, political, or religious but simply geographic. That there is something special about these people here in Syria and Lebanon.”
“Maybe there is, tovarishch. They may be the best folks around, for all I know.”
Karilov chuckled and dropped his cigarette butt, grinding it into the stones of the square. “The ‘best folks’ are never what they seem at first. This is why the workers are always underestimated, because nobody believes they can rise from nothing, that they have no gifts to bring to bear. But we know better, you and I. Don’t we, Mr. Smith?”
Frank froze for a moment too long, wondering if the implication meant that Karilov was on to them as Variants, or if he was just going fishing for something. Frank chose the latter and prayed he was right.
“Absolutely. Like me with languages. And you with … well, talking, I guess.” Frank smiled a perfectly un-genuine smile. “What is it you do again, Mr. Karilov?”
Karilov opened his mouth to say something more, then seemingly thought better of it. “I’m sure I will, as you say, see you around, pal. That is what they say, yes?”
“Not bad,” Frank allowed. “See you around.”
Karilov sauntered off, lighting another cigarette as he went, while Cal leaned in a bit closer. “I think we just got our pictures taken, Frank.” He tilted his head a fraction toward a couple of tourists in the square, in different directions, each lugging a different style of camera. “Couple others watching too. We’ve been made.”
“And we made them,” Frank replied. “Hopefully, Meade got some photos too.”
“You think they know who we are?” Cal asked as they began to casually walk toward a side street. “What we are?”
Frank grimaced. “Depends. Anderson didn’t give up our names or photos to the Russians last year—just the fact that we existed and what we could do. Small blessings, right? But I bet the MGB is really keen on putting names and faces on us. And then there’s the question of whether an operator like Karilov would even be cleared for something like a Variant program.” With a sigh, Frank threw his hands up in frustration. “Hell if I know.”
Twenty minutes later, they met Stephen Meade at their rendezvous, a little café with some of the best espresso in the whole goddamn Middle East. Frank eagerly worked on his cappuccino as they quietly gave each other an update; Meade had gotten photos of Karilov as well as three other Russians in the square, and he recognized one of them as a goon from the Russian embassy in Damascus.
“Makes sense,” Cal observed. “If this Saadeh fellow and our Colonel Za’im want the same thing—putting Syria and Lebanon together, right?—then sure, the Russians would be interested. Maybe they try to back up Saadeh, too. Play him against Za’im.”
“So, Saadeh’s the wild card,” Meade said. “The Russians want to play him off Za’im, and we want him because Za’im wants him in his corner. And the Lebanese just want him to go away. They’re cracking down on SSNP members daily now. This situation’s gonna blow any day now.”
“On July fourth, maybe,” Frank said. “Cal overheard something about it in the square from Saadeh’s people. Maybe some fireworks in store.”
“Good day for a revolution,” Cal agreed. “Course, we gotta protect Saadeh if he fails. How are we gonna do that?”
Frank downed the rest of his cappuccino. “We go talk to him. Now.”
“Frank?” Meade asked warily. “What are you thinking?”
“You’ll see. Come on.”
The three men left the café and began walking through Beirut’s warren of closed-in side streets, bisected every so often by broad, tree-lined thoroughfares. It was a pretty city, and Frank was heartened to see mo
sques, churches, and even a synagogue together as they walked. Lebanon was trying to do something interesting there at the intersection of millennia-old religious tensions and new postwar political strife. He hoped they’d pull it off. Maybe even Saadeh might help them do it.
Frank arrived at a small intersection that had become familiar to them all during weeks of surveillance—Saadeh’s newspaper offices were there, in a small, old stone building that looked ready to fall over. Revolutionaries rarely had a budget.
“Frank,” Meade said again, warningly. He didn’t listen.
Instead, he walked right up to the newspaper offices and went inside, Cal following. Meade had apparently had enough by this point, because he kept walking down the street—probably not to blow whatever cover he had left. It was probably a smart move.
“What do you want?” asked a man at a desk at the front of the building. He wasn’t quite a receptionist, in that he was far too big, muscular, and menacing for that job. His French, though, was pretty good.
“We wish to see Mr. Saadeh,” Frank replied in perfect Arabic. “We are Americans and we want to help.”
Perplexed, the man nonetheless picked up the phone at his desk and spoke in rapid-fire Arabic for several long moments. At one point, the man asked if a representative of Saadeh’s would be sufficient; Frank assured him it would not. Finally, the man hung up and glared at them. “Sit in that room,” he said, pointing to an unoccupied office down the hall.
Frank and Cal walked into the office and sat down, situating their chairs so they could take in the door, the window, and everything else in the room between them. There they sat for a good thirty minutes, mostly in silence, until Antoun Saadeh came into the room in a burst of energy, his hand extended before him.
“I am so sorry to keep you,” Saadeh said in accented but otherwise very good English. “It is a busy time for us. Please, please, sit down. They tell me you are here to help, yes? I will take all the help I can get.” Saadeh sat down at the desk and looked the two of them over quickly and efficiently. “You’re not the usual Americans I get here.”
“What are the usual ones like?” Cal asked.
“Not African like you. That’s one,” Saadeh said with a smile. “The way you are treated in your country is an international disgrace. I hope your presence here is a sign of changing times. Especially since, unlike the other Americans who arrive here hoping to help, you are not students or idealists or castoffs. So, you are different.”
Frank noticed three men in the room outside the office, all with pistols at their sides. They weren’t taking any chances, which was good.
“Yes, we are,” Frank said. “And we’re here to help in more concrete ways.”
“I’m listening,” Saadeh said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers.
“You’re about to do something, something big, and the fact that we’ve put it together over the past few weeks means that everyone else has too—the Russians, the Israelis, the Syrians, and most definitely your own government here in Lebanon. You may want to rethink some things, for starters, though I doubt you will.”
Saadeh smiled. “You’re probably right on that. What else?”
“When this goes south and your revolution fails, we want you to know you have friends. We’ll help you get out of Dodge.”
“Get out of where?” Saadeh asked, his brow furrowed.
Right. “We’ll help you escape if need be. We’ll keep you safe and alive. Live to fight another day.”
Saadeh frowned a little at this. “And?”
“And … you have friends here in the region. They want to see you succeed.”
“So, what will they do to help us succeed? What will you do to help us succeed? Because I only hear how you will help me if we fail. And we cannot fail. It is not an option.”
“Failure’s not only an option; it’s a likelihood in most circumstances,” Frank retorted. “You see enough of these things, you know what kind of odds you face. Something somehow is gonna go wrong. And if you don’t adapt to that, then you’ll be happy we’re around.”
Saadeh nodded and looked thoughtful for a moment. “So, you are my guardian angels, then, and nothing more?”
Frank and Cal traded a look, and Cal smiled. “Something like that, sir, yes,” Cal said.
The revolutionary stood and extended his hand again. “I appreciate your visit,” he said, shaking both men’s hands. “But I will not be looking to you in the case of failure. I will be looking for ways to turn that failure into success.”
Frank nodded. “We’ll be around, just in case,” he said.
They were quickly ushered out of the room, but Frank nonetheless caught wisps of conversation between Saadeh and another man as they climbed up the stairs to another floor of the building.
“First the Russians, now the Americans. Everyone wants to help me survive, but nobody wants to help us succeed!” Saadeh said in French.
Frank hustled out of the building and headed back to the café rendezvous, with Cal hurrying to keep up. “What’d I miss?” Cal asked. “What’d you hear in there?”
Frank turned around to look back at the way they’d come. “Looks like everyone wants a piece of Antoun Saadeh. Guess we can only hope to be the first in line when it hits the fan.”
June 17, 1949
Zipporah Silverman walked through the Parliament building in the Syrian capital of Damascus with purpose, now fully used to being in the halls of power and representing the United States.
Oh, and The Jerusalem Post. And the Associated Press. And … well, she was Jewish in a land that now hated Jews. So, there was that, too. Long story short, she was busy.
By now, she was a familiar figure in Za’im’s inner circle—one of his pet reporters. Word was that he was cultivating her to keep a channel open to Israeli thinking, which many seasoned politicos in the capital felt was wise. Given that Za’im was America’s man—or at least Miles Copeland’s man—she felt she was doing her part.
And she was grimly determined to make the very most of her position now.
She was patted down and searched at the door to the conference room Za’im had taken as his own; the treatment was commonplace, and to her surprise and delight, the male guards hadn’t taken any liberties. Maybe they could tell she’d whack ’em but good. Maybe they really didn’t like Jews, even young, female, shapely ones. Either way, she’d rack up whatever small victories she could en route to the larger ones.
Smoothing out her blue dress and adjusting her red hat, she nodded at the soldier manning the door, who opened it to allow her into the gilt, ornate room. Za’im sat at the head of the table, looking sluggish and bored. She noted several new decorations on his military uniform since the last time she’d seen him; she’d just written about his plan to assume the military rank of marshal. Because … why not? Men and their ranks and baubles.
Al-Hinnawi and al-Shishakli were already there, sitting to Za’im’s right, while that strange little boy was reading a book in a chair against the far wall. You’d think a nation’s senior military commander could afford a nanny. The kid looked up at her with his big brown eyes, then went back to his book. The two other army officers rose, as did Miles Copeland, who’d arrived separately.
“Please, gentlemen, don’t let me interrupt,” Zippy said, waving them back down and taking her seat. “Miles will catch me up later.”
Al-Hinnawi grimaced slightly as he turned to her. “We were just talking about Israel, in fact,” the Syrian said, his face florid; he looked like he’d been upset a moment ago. “Mr. Copeland here is urging us to make overtures to the Israelis.”
“To what end?” she replied.
“Peace.” Al-Hinnawi practically spit the word out. “They come in, invited by the British and the Americans, take over all of Palestine, create a massive refugee crisis, and now they want us to be the ones to try to make peace.”
Za’im raised his hand, and al-Hinnawi fell silent. “I know you feel strongly abou
t this, Sami,” Za’im said. “We fought hard against the Israelis. And you know what? They were tough.”
“Because we didn’t have the equipment!” al-Hinnawi replied.
“Because they had the better army!” Za’im snapped back, staring the other man down into silence. “We blamed the equipment because it made the old president look bad, and because we need the army to have pride in itself. But you know it’s true: we were beaten.” Za’im turned to Zippy and smiled. “And that is enough of that argument. What do you think of reaching out to Israel, Miss Silverman? You are a Jew, are you not?”
Zippy’s eyes widened a bit. “I’m an American, sir. You know who I work for.”
Za’im waved her argument away. “Yes, yes. I know this. But you’re also a Jew. Your fellow Jews suffered terribly in Europe under Hitler, yes?”
“Terribly doesn’t even begin to describe it,” she replied quietly. “It was genocide.”
“And in recompense, the Americans and English invited you to try to reclaim Palestine,” Za’im insisted. “Your people fought bravely and well, and Israel is a country now. One that we can’t wish to go away just because we don’t like it very much.”
“I would agree with you there, sir,” Zippy replied. “Israel fought for the territory and won.”
“So, I will make an overture to Israel,” Za’im said broadly and a little too loudly. “We have such plans for Syria, for Greater Syria. And I do not want an enemy at my southern flank if I can help it. There is no need to worry about Israel right now when Lebanon and Iraq are on either side of us. So, Mr. Copeland, what do you recommend?”
Copeland leaned back in his seat and smiled, giving Zippy the distinct impression that he was really enjoying his newfound role as kingmaker and advisor. “I can certainly get a message to the Israeli government that outlines your desire for … well, what exactly?”
Za’im shrugged. “We cannot call it peace, of course. Perhaps an armistice. A suspension of hostilities. Something with a name people here in Syria will tolerate. And you are willing to facilitate this?”
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