Our chauffeurs were members of the Syrian Free Army, better known as the rebels who were fighting the current regime, literally to the death. They knew the landscape intimately and, most importantly, how to avoid the government checkpoints.
We drove through the Orontes River Valley under a cloudless blue sky. It was the rural heartland of Syria, with little hint of the danger we were heading into. But all that would change when we entered the eye of the storm.
Aleppo is the largest city in Syria, about two hundred miles from Damascus, and was one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world. It was once a key trading post between the Mediterranean Sea and Mesopotamia, but now it was an outpost of terror in the heart of the Syrian civil war.
As we entered the city, we were told to get ourselves back under the tarp, as we were sitting ducks for the government snipers. A long ten minutes later, the truck came to a stop on a street in the Salaheddin section of the city. The tarp was ripped away, and we were pulled out of the truck and urged—with guns in our backs—to move in the direction of what looked to be an abandoned bakery. It was the only structure still standing on that side of the street.
I quickly took in the scene before me. But the clanging of the bullet against the metal of the pickup was a sign I’d taken one moment too long. We were shoved toward the bakery entrance, as one of our guides fired back at a building across the street.
Before we could enter, there was one more reminder of where we were. A dead government soldier was propped up in a lawn chair by the front entrance, as if he were a security guard. And by the smell of things, I guessed he’d been on the job for quite a while. It was a rebel trophy. Carter and I covered our noses and looked away, but Christina couldn’t take her eyes off the dead soldier.
A few more shots were exchanged before the door was bolted behind us. The room was not filled with bakers in white chef hats removing another tray of hot cinnamon buns from the oven. But rather, a rag-tag looking group of bearded men carrying intimidating guns—much like everyone else we’d met since we left the club in Istanbul. The smell inside was bad, but it was more along the aromas of a sweaty football locker room, which was an upgrade.
The leader introduced himself in broken English, and marched us into what was once the kitchen. It was now a makeshift infirmary, filled with bandaged soldiers sucking on cigarettes like they were their last resort to stifle the pain. Some were missing limbs. Blood and guts were everywhere.
We passed through into a back room that looked to be an office. Standing behind a desk was another gun-toting bearded man with anger in his eyes. When he saw us, he began shouting at the leader. Christina translated—something along the lines of why did you bring those Western pieces of shit here? They don’t care about our cause, and are just using us.
Before we could respond to such a friendly greeting, an object appeared seemingly out of nowhere. And the man standing behind the desk was no longer standing.
“You will treat our guests with respect,” a woman said to the man who was now heaped in a ball on the floor.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. It was as if a superhero had swooped down from the sky. A real life Lara Croft. She released her boot from the man’s chest—the same boot that had just driven into his chest with such speed and veracity that I’m surprised it didn’t kill him—and he scrambled to his feet, desperately trying to suck oxygen back into his lungs.
She busted my stare. “You might want to close your mouth. Catching flies in Syria can be deadly.”
I was mesmerized. She had dark, exotic features, and her ponytail bounced as she stalked the room like a lion on the prowl. She wore a tank top and faded jeans—she was muscular yet feminine. I now knew what Carter meant when he said we had a secret weapon on our side.
“My name is Jovana,” she addressed us in perfect English. “And as long as nobody pisses me off, we can all get what we came here for.”
Chapter 17
Before we got what we came for, the rebels would get what they wanted.
Which was a PR-type story that described their plight in their struggle against the Syrian government. And that’s where Christina came in—preparing a report that would eventually be broadcast worldwide on GNZ. You help us, we’ll help you.
The report would include a firsthand look at the city’s ruins. We were escorted through the battered streets to a field hospital filled with rebel fighters, and then to what was left of a home—airstrikes had reduced it to rubble just last night. Devastated family members were sifting through the remains, looking for relatives that everyone knew were gone. Christina was provided a Nikon 3D camera, which didn’t have incorporated flash that would attract the government planes overhead. She was encouraged to film a dead child, maybe seven or eight years old, who had been pulled from the destruction. I thought she was going to be sick.
They knew only the greatest shock value would gain the attention of the world. I didn’t doubt the atrocities they showed us, but I always sought both sides of the story. My experiences told me that sometimes there were no good guys in these types of conflicts.
With each horrible image, Christina appeared to get more emotional, and her usual cool looked shaken. In a strange way, I envied it. These were the situations where I was able to separate the emotionless reporter and the human being. It’s a big part of what made me a great reporter, but it came at a cost. This was Christina’s first exposure to a war zone, and she was quickly learning that there was nothing romantic about being a war correspondent.
As nightfall approached, we returned to the bakery. Dinner was a falafel served in a stale pita. I could really have gone for a glazed doughnut.
Unlike Carter, who had no problem sleeping through airstrikes, I remained awake and on edge. I found my way to an apartment above the bakery. I strolled out on a small terrace, which was a risk, but I was feeling claustrophobic and needed some fresh air. The temperatures had dropped into the forties, but I felt comfortable as I sat and stared up at the brilliant stars above—I could swear the moon and stars were brighter in this part of the world. When I looked up, I saw Gwen—just as I had in similar circumstances during my past life, and like always, it gave me a feeling of hope.
But when I lowered my eyes from the stars, to the deserted street below, all I could see was Byron. I could hear his piercing screams, waking up the quiet night. I swelled with anger and my throat grew dry, thirsting for revenge.
Lost in thought, I didn’t sense my attacker. I felt a strong grip on the back of my collar, and another grabbed my hair. I was powerless as I was dragged back inside. Just as I did, a ceramic pot exploded, struck by gunfire. I had been leaning against it, just seconds ago.
“Do you have a death wish?” Jovana asked angrily.
There were those who thought I did. Before I could respond, she stormed out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more.
At dawn, Jovana rounded up the three of us. She led us into a tunnel built beneath the bakery, which looked and smelled like a New York City sewer. We returned to the daylight about a block away through a secret entrance in an alley, where a Toyota hatchback was parked. The rebels had gotten their story, and now it was time for unfinished business.
The morning traffic in Aleppo was surprisingly heavy, as if people hadn’t got the memo that a civil war was going on around them. For someone who had grown up in a place where they delay school if there is a dusting of snow, I was impressed by their resilience.
“Notice that taxi,” Jovana suddenly said, pointing to an American-looking yellow cab that had pulled curbside. Getting in was a man wearing traditional Middle Eastern garb, including a turban.
“That’s him,” she said.
I looked closer. There are things you remember about someone who held you hostage for weeks—his movements, the way he carries himself—that are impossible to fake. “That’s not Az Zahir,” I blurted, with the troubling feeling that we were being set up.
Jovana shook her
head with mild disgust. “I was referring to the driver.”
My eyes refocused on the man behind the wheel, also in disguise, and this time I was looking at the man we’d come all this way to see.
“Let me guess, the man he’s picking up isn’t a random customer?”
“He works for me. Zahir thinks he’s going to direct him to a meeting with the leadership of the Syrian Free Army. Al Muttahedah offers their services—weapons, soldiers, intelligence—to both the government and the rebels in exchange for safe harbor. Then when the two sides are done destroying each other, they can move in and rule the country.”
I noticed a detachment in her voice when she discussed the rebels and their cause, which confirmed what I’d thought since our first encounter. “You’re not Syrian, are you?”
“I’m from Serbia … a place I’m told you’re very familiar with. The rebels hired me for my expertise in these types of domestic disputes—one can learn a lot from monsters like Slobodan Milošević, as my family did.”
She seemed to know a lot more about us than we knew about her, which concerned me.
“The rebels are passionate, but not always the smartest,” she continued. “When I arrived, they were doing things like using walkie-talkies, whose frequencies were easily detected by government forces. Most of them are chauvinists, so they didn’t like the idea of being subordinate to a woman, but they eventually chose living over saving face.”
She looked directly at me. “Do you have any more questions, or can I do my job now?”
“One more—where did you learn to speak English so well?”
She smiled. “University of Michigan. Two things I’ve learned to despise in this world are war and the Ohio State.” She turned serious again, and chose her words carefully. “I never completed my degree—I had to return to Serbia when my family needed me. I would do anything for my family.”
We followed the taxi out of the city, into an area dominated by farmland and pistachio trees. We kept at a safe distance, and at one point Jovana stopped the car and observed with binoculars—watching the cab pull to a stop in front of a desolate farmhouse. Then Az Zahir and her contact got out and entered the house. Just the sight of Zahir made my blood boil.
Jovana stepped out of our vehicle. She replaced the cartridge in her Glock, before shoving it into the waistband of her jeans. She then outlined how things were going to go down. Carter would come with her—they would approach the farmhouse on foot. Christina and I were ordered to wait exactly five minutes, and then pull the Toyota up to the house. I didn’t like being relegated to driving the getaway car, but it was clear there would be no debate.
I moved behind the wheel, and quietly watched as they walked toward the farmhouse.
Christina was anything but quiet. “So this is how things get done? I guess all that rah-rah journalism stuff you drilled into me was nothing but BS.”
“What you did yesterday was journalism. This is a lesson about staying one story too long.”
“For someone who claimed to do his job without pride or prejudice, you sure made a quick transition to judge, jury, and executioner. That’s what this is, right? An execution?”
“It’s about sticking up for a friend.”
“This has nothing to do with Byron, and you know it! It’s all about you and your fragile ego. You can’t live with the mistakes you made, so now you have to drag everyone else into them. Why don’t we call Byron and see if he wants this … since it’s about him, and all?”
She pulled out a phone, and I knocked it out of her hand. “If you stick around this business long enough, you’re going to be forced to do things you’re not proud of. I guarantee it.”
“Nobody’s forcing you to do anything.”
“If you don’t want to be here, why don’t you go hitch a ride back to Aleppo? If you do some more PR for your rebel friends, maybe they’ll let you live.”
“I’ll bet Murray would be real proud of you right now.”
Bringing my mentor into this was a low blow. But our five minutes were up, and we would have to put our hostilities on hold. I drove the Toyota at an even speed toward the farmhouse, and parked beside the taxicab. Right on cue, Carter burst out of the house with Az Zahir in his clutches. Jovana was right behind, holding a gun at his head. They opened the trunk of the cab and tossed him in. It was straight out of a mob movie.
Jovana pushed me to the side and took over the wheel of the cab, while her contact got into the Toyota. Once Carter was inside the cab we were ready to go … except that Christina pulled the worst possible time to be Christina. She stormed out of the vehicle and trudged off—to where I had no idea, and I doubted she did either.
“Christina—get back here!” I shouted.
“Her funeral,” Jovana said, starting the vehicle.
I knew she wouldn’t lose a second of sleep about leaving her here. But I would never sleep again. So I got out before she could speed off. I caught up to Christina and grabbed her arm. “Stop acting like a baby—get your ass back in the cab before you get us all killed!”
She pulled her arm away and journeyed on. But she didn’t get far before we were hit by a sound so powerful it sucked the air out of the world, and dropped me to my knees. It was the unmistakable sound of a jet fighter, and I knew it was too late.
The Toyota was blown to smithereens, as was the farmhouse. I crawled to Christina and draped myself over her, as if that would somehow shield her from another bomb. It might have been illogical, but it was instinctive. I could feel her whimpering underneath me. Welcome to war.
We then lifted off the ground and began levitating. Are we dead?
I must have asked the question out loud, because I received an answer, “If you were, you wouldn’t be going up.”
It was Carter’s voice. He’d slung Christina and me over his shoulders like sacks of potatoes. He also grabbed Jovana, who remained in a trance, staring at the wreckage of the car in which her contact had been blown to bits. Carter knew this was no time for sentimentality—he tossed the three of us into the back of the cab, and sped away.
Chapter 18
It didn’t take long for Zahir to give up the location of his boss, Qwaui.
If Al Muttahedah was structured like an American corporation, Qwaui would be the president with Az Zahir being middle-management. They both work under the elusive Hakim, the founder and CEO.
We’d pulled to the side of the road, about ten miles from the farmhouse, where Jovana did the honors. Her emerald eyes were on fire, and I thought she was going to pump a round of bullets in him once he gave up the location. I was struck by how emotionally engaged she was—it seemed personal.
According to Zahir, the Syrian headquarters of Al Muttahedah was located in the mountainous region of Jabal al-Zawiya, about fifteen miles from Aleppo. It was a mud-house camouflaged into a hill, which included escape tunnels and secret hiding areas.
Our first obstacle would be the security guarding the entrance. About a mile from the location, Zahir was summoned from the trunk, and ordered to drive us in. The three of us would be stationed in the back seat, and he would claim he’d captured us following him. Jovana would take a different route.
Zahir drove up to the guards, who were posted at the foot of the hill in front of the barbed wire fence. More beards and AK-47s.
I don’t think they bought Zahir’s story, but it didn’t matter. Jovana had come up behind the guards, and dropped them to the ground, and then tied and gagged them with lightning speed and precision.
Zahir spoke into the intercom, asking for entry, adding, “I have a few old friends with me from Serbia.” The gates opened, and we drove up the mountainside to the compound. When we arrived, I instructed Christina to remain behind, and stay out of sight. It didn’t require a hard sell—she wasn’t going anywhere with me at the moment.
Az Zahir acting as our captor, forced us out of the vehicle, jabbing his unloaded gun into our ribs, making it look, or at least feel, a little too real.
We were met by armed guards, who took us into the compound.
The moment we entered, I felt the cold metal of a gun pressed to the back of my neck. It jolted me, even though I was expecting it. Carter got the same treatment. The first thing I saw was our old friend, Qwaui, dressed in his fatigues, and calmly playing chess. It was like we were picking up at the exact moment that we’d left off last summer.
“Mr. Warner and Mr. Carter … we’ve been expecting you,” he said in a calm voice. He looked much like his Egyptian mother, but his dialect was that of his British father.
“These stupid infidels thought they could fool us, but who are the fools now!” Zahir exclaimed in his usual bluster, and I detected the Chicago in his voice. Unlike many of these groups that are comprised solely of brainwashed kids from the Middle East, Al Muttahedah had many connections to the Western World, including its leaders, Qwaui and Hakim, who he met in school in England. Az Zahir was originally from the US.
Zahir slammed his fist into Carter’s kidney, making him flinch in pain.
Going back to our last encounter, I found Zahir’s over-the-top rhetoric a little fugazy. It was the calm zealotry in Qwaui’s eyes that had truly scared me. And nothing had changed.
Except this time we had a secret weapon on our side, I thought, as Jovana stepped into the room. But when she did, she sure didn’t seem in a hurry to save the day, and I suddenly understood why Qwaui might have been expecting us.
“A job well done,” Qwaui addressed her. “May you always be in Allah’s loving hand.”
“I’m not here for your Jihad nonsense … I’m here to get paid. And then I’ll be on my way,” she shot back.
We had been set up … again.
Chapter 19
Carter has a knack for putting things into perspective, and this time was no different, “It seems like Uncle Al brought along his little niece—Benedicta Arnold.”
Huddled Masses (JP Warner Book 2) Page 7
