MJ-12

by Michael J. Martinez

  But he never made it to the front door. Instead, someone tapped him on the shoulder amidst the slot machines. “Mr. Schreiber?”

  Steeling himself, he turned to find a short, round fellow in an ill-fitting suit. “Can I help you?” Schreiber asked.

  “I apologize for being late,” the man said, sporting a light Slavic accent. “I think it’s best if we conduct our discussions elsewhere. If you’ll come with me?”

  Schreiber looked around suspiciously for a moment but couldn’t see anyone who looked odd or out of place. And this man looked the part well—a slightly rumpled, off-label suit, scuffed shoes, monochrome tie. It was a look designed to be inconspicuous. Just another lost soul in America’s cultural wasteland, with only the accent to give him away. And yet … would there not be a little more conversation before this? Would this man not wish to determine Schreiber’s bona fides? It made Schreiber feel uneasy. “Why don’t we have dinner?” he asked. “I admit, I’m starving.”

  “Not here,” the man replied. “I have a car. Let’s go.”

  Schreiber frowned, standing very still for several long moments and looking the man in the eye. The bus to New York was looking better now; he wished he had gotten more information from his contact. On the other hand, he knew that Wallace—that ignorant pup—would already have begun searching for him. Finally, Schreiber nodded and followed the man through the casino. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was trading one prison for another. But on the bright side, he imagined the Soviets were much further along in their Variant program than Wallace, Bronk, and the bumbling idiots they called a team.

  Just before the front door, Schreiber felt another tap on the shoulder—but the man was still in front of him. “I thought there was just going to be one of you,” he said, then turned …

  … to find Danny Wallace behind him, smiling.

  “Don’t even think about it, Doc,” Danny said, grinning.

  Four other men suddenly appeared among the masses of gamblers, weapons drawn and aimed at Schreiber and his contact.

  He turned to the Russian. “This is why you should’ve been on time!” he shouted, all pretense of civility gone.

  “Oh, please,” Danny said, pointing at Schreiber’s contact with his one good hand. “This guy? He’s from Brooklyn. It’s only his family that’s from Leningrad.”

  “St. Petersburg,” the would-be contact said in a suddenly very American accent. “The Reds just changed the name.”

  “Right,” Danny said as the other man began frisking Schreiber. “Anyway, lucky me—he’s an MP on base. Figured you’d sell us out, and the Reds are really the only game in town. Vegas P.D. had eyes on you four hours ago. Sloppy, Doc. Very sloppy.” Schreiber was thoroughly patted down, and his wallet and other belongings were handed off to Danny, who dumped them on an unused blackjack table to rifle through them. And then the damned Navy man laughed. “What’s this? Taking in a show?”

  Danny held up the papers the two men at the bar had given him—tickets.

  “And what if I was, Commander?” Schreiber said. “There is only so much house arrest one can take.”

  Danny just shrugged and put the tickets in his pocket. “Whatever, Doc. OK, let’s get him out of here.”

  Schreiber was marched toward the front entrance of the casino by two burly men, each gripping an arm. He could feel the eyes of bystanders and pedestrian gamblers all around him, which infuriated him—he was just one more spectacle in their evening, nothing more.

  “Hey, what’d he do?”

  Schreiber looked up to see the two men from the bar approaching, but Danny stepped in front of them. “Sorry, gentlemen. Please step back. He’s a dangerous guy.”

  The two men craned their necks to look over at Schreiber. “Him? Why, Jerry here is more dangerous than that pencil-neck. Aren’t you, Jerry?”

  The short man, apparently named Jerry, put up his fists in a mock fighting stance and gave a ludicrously buck-toothed grin. “I’m the most dangerous man here!” he squeaked. “Put up your dukes!”

  Danny smiled. “I think I’ve seen you guys on the television,” he said, pulling Schreiber’s show tickets out of his pocket. “I don’t think he’ll need these anymore, fellas.”

  “You keep ’em,” Dino said. “You can make the late show.”

  Danny extended his hand farther. “Sorry. Wish I could. But your friend’s given me a whole lot of work to do.”

  July 15, 1949

  When Cal had first arrived in Damascus, back when the days were temperate and the nights cold, he had wondered why folks seemed to be scarce during the best part of the afternoon. Now, in the heat of the summer sun, he understood completely. Too many years on second and third shifts, he thought to himself. Forgot what summer felt like. And it’s sure a hellacious summer around here.

  The one benefit to the heat was that with fewer people on the streets, it was easier for the Americans to meet with Za’im—and with Zipporah Silverman. Apparently, while Cal and Frank were busy in Beirut, she’d burrowed herself deep into President Za’im’s confidence—so much so that it was almost impossible to get in touch with her these days. Needless to say, the radio silence had folks back in Washington all kinds of worried about her—and wondering about what exactly she might be up to. So was Copeland, though for different reasons; the OPC man thought Zippy was after his job, trying to take over as the go-between with Za’im and Washington.

  Course, she’d have to actually be in regular contact with Washington to do that, and she was only barely making her weekly scheduled dead-drop reports. Copeland was, of course, out of his mind about this, but her report after seeing Cal and Frank at Za’im’s little harem room was spooky once they decoded it.

  Helping Za’im with Israel question. He’s increasingly paranoid. I’m being followed. I think there’s something wrong with his mind. Split personalities? Like working with two people. Al-Hinnawi frustrated. Watch him.

  Frank was still mighty angry about what Za’im had done to Saadeh, and Cal was right there with him. You don’t save a man from being shot, promise him friendship, then stick a knife in his back, try him for treason, and hang him.

  Cal had heard that SSNP stuff for a month while they were in Beirut, and while he wasn’t a political scholar or anything, he was pretty damn sure Saadeh was no fascist or Nazi or anything like that. The man had just been trying to unite his people—Syrians, Lebanese, Palestinians, Druze, folks with the same color skin. Unite them against the Europeans who’d given them back their freedom but still tried to tell them what to do.

  Cal could definitely relate to that.

  He shook his head, dodging a cart of produce being pushed up the street by a bunch of young Syrian boys. He had to keep his mind on the game, especially with D.C. getting antsy about Zippy. Copeland had gotten the same note Meade had about keeping an eye on the CIA folks, which had only seemed to give the man more reason to be paranoid. In fact, Copeland had told Cal and Frank that he was feeling good about Za’im at this point, despite what had happened to Saadeh, and was going to cable Washington to let them know that everything was under control and Cal, Frank, and Zippy could all go home.

  Frank wasn’t having any of it, though, pointing out that things weren’t as tidy as Copeland was making them seem. Zippy had finally made contact and explained how she’d gotten close to Za’im—apparently, she was more adept with her feminine wiles than she let on but insisted it was just flirtation, along with the promise of better press in Israel. Frank and Cal had both felt bad for not trusting her—it was getting harder to trust anyone, it seemed—but they still insisted on more regular meets with her, if only to keep tabs and offer help as she got in deeper with Za’im. Frank wanted to be damn sure he and Cal were there for her, and reminded Copeland that having someone that close to Za’im was a great asset. Copeland had backed down after that, but Cal didn’t have to be told outright when someone was getting tired of having him around.

  Making matters worse, they’d gotten a cry
ptic cable from Danny the other day. Something about shadows? Danny had a problem back in Nevada—a security violation of some kind—and Maggie sounded like she was wrapped up in something similar in Bethesda—which Cal wasn’t cleared to hear more details on. So on top of worrying about Syria’s stability, Lebanon’s revolutionary party, Za’im’s mental health, and Zippy’s safety, well … there was one more thing to put on the list.

  This spy stuff was stressful. California was starting to look real good.

  Cal arrived at the Syrian parliamentary building and availed himself of a service entrance—even in the Middle East, a Negro would always get a lot more grief going in the front door, no matter his diplomatic passport. Even so, he got stopped three times in the building before he made it to Za’im’s offices. At least the folks there recognized him, and he was ushered into a waiting area. To his surprise, he was the first to arrive—Copeland and Frank were expected as well, and he assumed Zippy would be there now too.

  Cal happily availed himself of a glass of water from the ewer on the coffee table, and picked up a magazine to read. It was in Arabic, but at least there were photos. In fact, he was so engrossed in looking at the details of a mosaic in some mosque that he failed to notice another person enter the room until they were a few feet in front of him.

  It was Zippy. Some spy I am!

  “Hey there, Miss Zippy!” Cal said as he rose, smiling at her. “Been a while. You doing all right?”

  She looked … tired. Rings under the eyes, a little thinner than usual, though she wasn’t all that curvy to begin with. “I’m OK, thanks, Cal,” she said with a weak smile. Then her voice dropped to a whisper. “Za’im is in trouble.”

  Cal nodded and waved her to the couch next to him and poured her some water. “You gotta tell me. And make it fast.”

  “You won’t believe me,” she whispered.

  Cal actually smiled at that. “You’d be surprised.”

  “I think he’s possessed.”

  Cal turned that over in his head for a few minutes. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for a Variant to do something like that, he figured, since Miss Maggie could already screw around with folks’ emotions. And without Danny around, Cal supposed a new Variant could’ve shown up—maybe a Russian, maybe someone else, and who knew what they might be capable of.

  “What makes you think that?”

  Zippy simply took off one of her kid gloves and wiggled her fingers, and Cal understood at once. She’d been shaking hands with him and catching something from it with her Enhancement.

  “Who’s doing it?” Cal asked.

  “I don’t know. But the weird side of Za’im—the one I’m not sure is Za’im at all—that’s the one that cut a deal with Lebanon for Saadeh, and the one pushing for peace with Israel,” Zippy whispered. “That one’s erratic but very single-minded about getting what it wants.”

  Cal nodded and had a million questions, but right then, Copeland and Frank entered the room in the company of al-Shishakli, chatting amiably. Zippy put her hand briefly on Cal’s knee to cut off any further conversation.

  Copeland grimaced at Zippy, but Frank immediately made his way across the room. “You OK?” he whispered.

  She nodded. “Yeah. Cal can fill you in later. Be careful.”

  Al-Shishakli walked over as well, hand extended, his smile tight. “Miss Silverman, our liaison with the Israelis. I trust you’re well,” he said.

  “I am, thank you, sir,” she replied, taking his hand with her ungloved one. “And really, all I’m doing is passing along messages.”

  The Syrian colonel nodded. “Of course you are. Shall we go in? I think the President is in another meeting elsewhere at the moment.”

  Cal followed the rest of the group into Za’im’s ornate meeting room. The only person there was that boy that kept hanging around the three Syrian Army officers. Still odd, Cal thought, that the men running the whole damn country couldn’t get a maid or a nanny or someone to take care of that child. And why was he never in school?

  While the others sat down at the conference table, Cal went over to where the boy was sitting along the wall. “Hey there, son,” he said quietly. “You OK?” The child looked at him blankly, and for the umpteenth time, Cal kicked himself for forgetting the language barrier. “No English, huh? English?”

  The boy just stared, his hands fidgeting slightly.

  Cal pulled a coin from his pocket, a little Syrian one, and thought back to his spycraft training at Area 51. In particular, he remembered his sleight-of-hand session with the stage magician John Mulholland. “OK, I got something I can show you here, something my daddy taught me. You see this?” Cal held the coin between his two fingers and then, with a flick of his wrist, made it vanish.

  The boy’s eyes widened slightly, and the faintest ghost of a smile briefly crossed his face. Cal wondered just what made a child so sullen like that. Even growing up poor and black in the South, Cal had never felt that listless.

  “Well, all right. Let’s see if we can find that coin now,” Cal said, reaching for the boy’s ear. Immediately, the child shrank back. “Oh, hey, hey, it’s OK. It’s OK. Look! It’s here!” Cal gently tapped the boy’s ear, and once again produced the coin. “See? There you go.” Cal offered him the coin, which he took gingerly.

  “Well done, sir,” al-Shishakli said from behind him. Cal rose and turned to see the colonel smiling—a genuine smile.

  “I’ve seen him around a few times now, just wanted to say hello,” Cal said. “He your boy?”

  Al-Shishakli cocked his head a bit. “I help take care of him. He’s a Bedouin, part of the Hasana tribe. He is … different from the others.”

  “I see that,” Cal said, his heart breaking for the child.

  “His father, one of the sheikhs of the tribe, brought him to us a year ago, asked for our help. The support of a major tribe was critical to our success, and so we agreed. We have tried, sought out many specialists,” al-Shishakli said.

  Cal nodded. “Hope I didn’t disturb him, sir.”

  Al-Shishakli put a hand on Cal’s shoulder. “Kindness is never disturbing. Come, the President is on his way.”

  Cal joined the others at the table, taking the seat Zippy pulled out for him. A moment later, a small, tightly folded slip of paper fell into his lap. Cal snatched it up quickly and made it disappear just like he had with the coin earlier. A few discreet movements later, and the paper was tucked safely away in his jacket breast pocket. He was sure it would make for fine reading later on.

  Then the doors to the room burst open, and President Za’im entered at a brisk pace, smiling and energetic and speaking in rapid-fire Arabic. He moved his hands as he talked, and he seemed absolutely bursting with energy.

  What’s more, Cal noticed the man’s military uniform was all kinds of shined up and decorated now. The last time he’d seen him he was wearing a plain, kind of Spartan-looking uniform, but now there were multiple medals and badges, extra piping, fringed epaulets, and even a sash.

  Cal glanced over at Zippy, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod. That’s the crazy personality.

  “My friends!” Za’im bellowed, switching to English. “You are well? You look well.” He then looked from Cal to Frank and back again. “I must apologize to you both. Mr. Copeland tells me what happened with Saadeh did not sit well with you. Understand that I did what I had to do in order to preserve the integrity of my nation, and that of Lebanon. These are not easy choices a leader must make, and know that I did not make this one lightly.”

  Frank opened his mouth as if to say something, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he gave Za’im a curt nod, and for want of anything better to do, Cal did the same.

  “Good. Thank you. Now, Miles, I know you’ve worked very hard on my behalf, and I know the United States wishes to maintain the security of the State of Israel, is that right?” Za’im asked.

  “That is correct, Mr. President,” Copeland said genially. “And we appreciate you
r recent efforts, facilitated by Miss Silverman, to assist in that regard.”

  “We need peace, first and foremost,” Za’im said as he began to pace behind his chair. “And we cannot have peace in our lands if we continue to fight Israel. That is not because I am in support of the Jewish state—it was taken from the Palestinians, make no mistake! But tell me, which were the first two countries to recognize the State of Israel as a legitimate nation?”

  Copeland replied: “The United States was the first, of course.”

  “And the Soviet Union was the second,” Zippy added.

  “Precisely! How can we, Syria, recently independent and still finding our way after a period of inept rule, defy both the Americans and the Soviets?” Za’im said. “How can anyone in this region—all of our nations, recently freed from the shackles of European colonialism—how can any of us defy the two great powers in the world?” The President turned to look at al-Hinnawi, who was sitting with his arms folded, grimacing in his direction. “Sami, you know this to be true. If we move against Israel, we move toward our own destruction.”

  To Cal’s surprise, al-Hinnawi suddenly sprang up like a bolt had hit him. “Then why did we fight last year? Why did we seize power this spring against a government we saw as weak against Israel? What are we even doing here?”

  “We are preserving Syria!” Za’im bellowed, marching over to al-Hinnawi. “Do you think the Soviets will last forever? Do you think the Americans will have a thousand-year empire? The British and French are reduced powers, and the Americans and Russians soon will be as well, and then, if there is still an Israel, we can liberate it from the Jews! But until that day, do we fight a war we cannot win? Do we?”

  The two men stared hard at each other, fists clenched, and Cal wondered who’d take a swing first. Instead, Zippy rose from the table and quickly pushed herself between the men. “Mr. President, Colonel! Please! Enough of this!” She put her hands on each man’s chest and literally pushed them apart.