Patriot Dream

by Stephen Templin

  Religious nuts, Max thought, but he knew he might still need these religious nuts, so he didn’t utter it.

  Sami unlocked the back door, and Max and Tom exited. The door locked behind them with a loud click. Tom at his side, Max hoofed it around a graveyard of gutted buildings. He paused to examine a massive pile of busted-up concrete and dirt with weeds growing out of it—it was if someone with a tractor loader had picked up the remains of the destroyed buildings and dumped them in the courtyard. Max jogged around the mound of concrete in the courtyard and into an abandoned structure with half of its walls missing and no roof. He stepped lightly past an apartment building where a few of the lights were on and voices of an arguing couple emanated from within. He continued to shadow the couple’s building as it extended under an overpass. At a busy road, he waited for a break in the headlights, and then he crossed, Tom close behind.

  Max crept to the back of the mosque and found a brown door adorned with square shapes stacked on top of each other, each square filled with more intricate designs. He turned the doorknob—it was locked. He could go soft and pick the lock. On the other hand, there were no hinges on the outside, meaning that the door swung inward. He’d already made noise exchanging shots with the sniper, and time was wasting, so he went hard and kicked close to the doorknob. Crack. The door burst open. Bang. The door hit the wall.

  The rear interior of the mosque was dark, but the front was well lit. Max located the stairs to the minaret and sneaked up them. At the top of the stairs, a cleric stood over a body lying in a dark puddle on the deck. Max and Tom aimed at him.

  The cleric turned to them and shouted, “What are you doing in Allah’s place of worship?!”

  “Masaa’ al-khayr,” Max said. Good evening.

  “You can’t bring weapons in here!” the cleric shouted.

  Max pointed at the dead sniper. “Should’ve told him that.”

  Tom motioned for the cleric to step away from the body. Reluctantly, he did.

  Then Max ordered him in Arabic: “Turn around and sit with your hands behind your back so I can see them.” The cleric huffed and puffed but complied. In Max’s line of work, there were talkers and fighters, and this cleric was a talker.

  Just to be safe, Tom aimed his AK at the cleric while Max searched him for weapons—none. He confiscated the cleric’s cell phone. “Wait, you can’t take that,” the man protested.

  Max ignored him.

  While Tom continued to train his weapon on the cleric, Max turned the body over and was startled by what he saw. “What the hell, he’s white!” Max took out his own cell phone to snap a close-up photo, but he was so jacked up at having killed a sniper and so surprised that the sniper was white that he had a hard time keeping his hand steady. He took the picture.

  “Is he European?” Tom asked.

  “Don’t know.” Max turned the sniper’s head and took his profile. Next, he snapped a full body photo. Then Max encrypted the photo and sent it to his CIA boss, Willy, a Cajun good-ole-boy and old family friend who treated Max and Tom as if they were the sons he never had. Finally, Max took a Q-tip and swabbed some of the blood from the sniper’s chest for a DNA sample, which he sealed in a collection bag and pocketed.

  ID done, Max picked up the sniper’s rifle, a Russian SVD similar to his own, and ejected the round from the chamber. In the world of snipers, now Max held the round that was meant for him; now he was immortal. He put it in his pocket. He’d become a combat HOG—Hunter of Gunmen. His father had been a HOG, too, but he was dead. Becoming immortal was only a superstition.

  “Dad would be proud,” Tom said quietly in French, disguising their American nationality.

  “The world isn’t the same without him in it,” Max said.

  “I miss him, too.”

  Max took the sniper’s rifle so no one else could use it, and he told the cleric, “Don’t go downstairs until the next call to prayer, or we’ll shoot you.”

  With that, Max and Tom went downstairs and quietly left the mosque.

  But a question gnawed at Max: Who is this sniper?

  Chapter Seven

  Max and Tom rumbled through the streets of Jobar in the back seat of a Toyota Land Cruiser with Sami at the wheel. The rising sun lit parts of the streets in gray, which alternated with the blackness created in the shadows of bombed-out buildings. Max felt as if they were traveling across an abstract chessboard.

  Sami said, “This time, Azrael wants to meet you at his place. It is a wonderful honor for you.

  Their Toyota truck continued with the power of a rook, capable of taking out obstacles that stood in their way. In this game of chess, there were multiple kings belonging to various tribes, and it was common for battles to break out among pieces of the same color.

  Sami drove along a twisted road to a fortress wall, where they parked and got out. He led them to an iron gate, where a guard waved them through. In the middle of a spacious courtyard gurgled a star-shaped fountain, and beyond it stood a kingly marble palace with long, narrow vertical windows. Another guard greeted them in Arabic and ushered them inside. Seven meters above, the ceiling of the entranceway was decorated with a massive honeycomb, called muqarna.

  Music played, and Max was gobsmacked. “Is that reggae?” he whispered.

  “Sounds like Bob Marley,” Tom said.

  Max preferred the classic rock of groups like AC/DC over reggae, but he recognized this song, “I Shot the Sheriff,” and he liked it.

  Sami escorted the brothers along a red carpet, under a golden chandelier, and through a wide hall lined on both sides with mirrors, repeating their images to infinity. The red carpet spilled into a living room where black velvet tapestries hung from the ceiling. The only light came from moonbeams passing through scarlet-tinted windows, shining a bloody hue inside the room. The pendulum of a massive ebony clock swung heavily as it ticked off each second.

  On a black velvet sofa sat Azrael, a man in his thirties, who looked like Omar Sharif in Lawrence of Arabia, but he wore a dark suit and a Saddam Hussein moustache. Leisurely, he puffed a Cuban cigar before setting it down on a crystal ashtray on the end table next to him. Beside the ashtray was a glass of dark golden amber liquid in a whiskey glass and a bottle of Jim Beam Black. Azrael flashed a wicked smile before he took a sip.

  He might be evil, but he’s got good taste in whiskey, Max thought.

  On the panoramic TV screen in front of him played a grainy black-and-white video of Saddam Hussein’s 1979 Ba’ath Party Purge. Hussein called about four hundred of his leaders into an auditorium and made one of them, whom he’d tortured, announce the name of a traitor, and the “traitor” was taken from the room. One by one, more traitors were announced and arrested, and they departed with confusion and fear on their faces. Max didn’t have to see the rest of the video to know how it ended. Sixty-eight in all would be arrested. Hussein would congratulate the leaders remaining in the auditorium. Soon twenty-two of those arrested were found guilty of treason. The forty-six who were spared were ordered to execute the twenty-two. Shortly after, hundreds more would be executed, and Hussein took control of Iraq. There was no sound on the video, only Bob Marley’s reggae and the ticking of the pendulum. Max’s stomach knotted itself.

  In Arabic, Azrael’s name meant “angel of death.” He motioned for Sami to fetch two whiskey glasses.

  “No, thank you,” Tom said.

  Max wanted a drink of the Jim Beam Black, but he supported his brother this time. “We’re on duty.”

  Sami brought the glasses and set them on the table beside Azrael, who poured whiskey into them from his bottle. Then he held out the glasses to his guests.

  Max took one and savored its oak fragrance, but Tom hesitated.

  Azrael spoke cultured English without a noticeable accent: “It is polite to refuse once, but it is rude to refuse twice.”

  Max gave his brother a hard look: Dude, take the drink.

  Reluctantly, Tom accepted the drink.

  “Sami to
ld me that you two got the sniper,” Azrael said. He held his drink up in a toast. “Well done.”

  “Fi sihtik,” Max said in Arabic.

  “Fi sihtik,” Tom repeated.

  “Cheers,” Azrael said.

  The three of them took a drink. The Kentucky bourbon went down Max’s throat creamy smooth, with a taste of caramel.

  “When we spoke on the phone, you said the sniper was Syrian, but he didn’t look Syrian,” Max said in Arabic.

  Azrael switched to his native Arab tongue. “I said he worked for the Syrian government, but I did not say he was Syrian.”

  Max and Tom took another drink. “You should’ve told us he wasn’t Syrian,” Max said.

  Azrael drank, too. “Okay, I will tell you now. He was Russian.”

  Max’s muscles stiffened.

  Tom had a dazed look in his eyes, as if he’d been struck with a stun grenade.

  Azrael seemed to notice their surprise. “If I had told you earlier, you might not have killed him.”

  “You lied,” Max said. “Are you trying to start a war between us and the Russians?”

  Azrael remained cool and calm. “He was killing my men. I did what I had to. Survival in Damascus is a complex business. I do not know why I expect Americans to understand that.”

  Two surly men entered the room, and one asked, “Is everything okay, Boss?”

  Azrael waved them off, and they left the room.

  Tom looked around at the place. “You seem to be doing better than surviving.”

  The furnishings appeared expensive and Max agreed with his brother. “Business is booming.”

  Sami stood still in the corner of the room like a potted plant, and Max and Tom handed their empty glasses to him.

  Azrael set down his glass, picked up his cigar, and had a smoke. “The name of the new assassination poison you seek is BK-16. A man known as the Surgeon experiments with it on captured enemies of Assad’s dictatorship. Some of my men were captured and experimented on—none of them survived. It is rumored that the Surgeon conducts his experiments at a location known as Hospital 175.”

  Max waited for Azrael to say more.

  “That is all,” Azrael said.

  “We just killed a Russian sniper for you, and that’s the best intel you can give us?”

  “I am working on it,” Azrael said. “As soon as I find out more, I will let you know.”

  Max clenched his fist in disgust, and he wanted to coldcock Azrael. He felt like he’d just been screwed by the devil.

  Chapter Eight

  After killing the Turkish gendarme, Minotaur ducked into the Russian consulate in Istanbul, where he lay low for a few days. The Rezidentura, the FSB officer who headed operations in Turkey, outranked Minotaur. Even so, Minotaur reported directly to Moscow, and the Rezidentura’s responsibility was to support Minotaur, not supervise him. The Rezidentura told Minotaur that a young Spetsnaz sniper assigned to harass anti-Assad forces in Damascus had been killed, and Moscow’s orders were for Minotaur to sail to Syria, find whoever killed the Spetsnaz sniper, and terminate him.

  Minotaur sailed through the night on a medium-sized supply ship and arrived at the Russian naval base in Tartus, Syria. On the pier sat a black Toyota Land Cruiser with exhaust clouding up behind it. Minotaur disembarked the ship, sauntered to the truck, and tossed his kit in the back. Then he sat in the passenger seat. “Long time no see.”

  The man in the driver’s seat was Bear. His real name was Orel Oglyevich. In 2011, he and Minotaur had tracked down and killed some of the Islamic terrorists responsible for the bombing at Russia’s Domodedovo International Airport. Then and now, Bear’s steel paunch pushed out his black T-shirt and hung over the waist of his blue jeans. He looked more like a good old American country boy than a Spetsnaz operator, but Bear was one of the deadliest commandos Minotaur knew. A permanent scowl on his face, Bear didn’t smile for anyone. He carried a Serbu Super Shorty Remington 870 shotgun concealed in a shoulder holster that could swing out for immediate use.

  Minotaur discreetly studied Bear. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—that shotgun only carries three rounds—what do you do if you run into more than three enemies?”

  Bear put the vehicle in drive. “I’ve got six extra rounds mounted on a sidesaddle. If I need more than that, there’ll be plenty of weapons lying on the ground to choose from.”

  Minotaur smiled. “Any new intel on the countersniper who shot our sniper?”

  “I found someone who might know something.” Bear’s window was rolled down and he spit tobacco juice as if he’d chewed someone up and spit out their blood. “I’ll take you to him.”

  In a fair fight, Bear would likely kill Minotaur—but Minotaur never fought fair. He was happy that Bear was on his side.

  It was a short drive across base, where Bear parked at one of the warehouses. Bear got out of the SUV, and Minotaur followed him to a warehouse door. Bear unlocked it. Then the pair walked inside.

  The interior was dark and smelled like tar, and Bear hit a switch. A dim light burned. Then Bear locked the door behind them.

  Next to a pile of rope, a gagged man hung upside down, locked into a pair of gravity boots. He had a thick Stalin moustache. Bear introduced him: “This is Azrael, King of Damascus.” Then Bear removed the ball gag.

  “You capture him all by yourself?” Minotaur asked.

  Bear spit tobacco juice on the deck. “Yep.”

  Minotaur smiled. “Gravity boots—so eighties—I like it. How long has he been upside down?”

  Bear showed three fingers.

  “Three hours.” Minotaur leaned toward the man and looked down on him. “Every king should know what goes on in his kingdom, don’t you agree?”

  Azrael said nothing, but his breathing was labored, and there was fear in his eyes.

  “I understand,” Minotaur said. “Your vision is blurred, and your heart has to work harder because you’re upside down. All that blood is starting to accumulate in your brain, and your heart can’t pump it all out—that’s why I’m sure that your head hurts. And your brain might be hemorrhaging. Your blood pressure will continue to rise—soon you’ll have a stroke. But I think the greatest danger is the pressure on your lungs, causing asphyxiation. That’s why you’re struggling to breathe.”

  Azrael wheezed. “I know who killed your sniper.”

  “Who?”

  “Let me down and I’ll tell you,” Azrael said.

  “You tell me, and I’ll let you down.”

  “Two Caucasian men in their late twenties, about six feet tall and fit,” Azrael said. “They spoke Arabic.”

  “Anything else?”

  “They wanted information about the BK-16 virus.”

  “And?”

  Azrael caught his breath. “That is all.”

  “For a king, you don’t know very much about your kingdom,” Minotaur said. He nodded at Bear, signaling that they were finished.

  With one hand, Bear pulled out a knife and flicked open a long, thick blade.

  Azrael jerked with surprise, and the intonation rose in his words: “You do not have to worry about those two anymore. I poisoned them with BK-16. Gave them drinks from a bottle of whiskey laced with it.”

  “Now why would you do a thing like that?”

  “I wanted to show your people that I’m on Russia’s side.”

  Minotaur ground his teeth. “I think you’re lying. I think you had those two kill our sniper. Then you poisoned the two men to remove the evidence of your actions. Avoid having to repay them.”

  Azrael continued to plead his case. “I had nothing to do with your sniper’s death—I swear.”

  “I don’t care whether you did or you didn’t. And you shouldn’t have BK-16—it’s not yours to have.”

  “This isn’t necessary.”

  Minotaur’s pulse sped up, and his heart pounded hard. “That’s what so many of them say.”

  “What?” Azrael asked.

  “This isn’t necessa
ry.”

  You could release me, and you’ll never see me again.”

  “I could. In Istanbul, I considered it—releasing a man.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was in a bar where a Turk stared at me the whole time I was there. It was an ugly stare, as if he wanted to beat me up. His buddies were laughing—they thought it was funny. I couldn’t stay in the bar all night, so I got up to leave. When I walked past them, he continued to stare, and his friends kept laughing. You know what I did next?”

  “I think I know.”

  “I kept walking. It was freeing to know that I could ignore him. If I wanted to. When I reached the door, he was still staring and his friends laughing. I didn’t want them to get the wrong impression—that I was leaving because of them. I wanted them to know I had choices—choices that they didn’t have. So I motioned for the staring man to come outside and join me. I wanted to show him and his friends. I went outside. There I waited, breathing in the city air. The staring man and his friends came out, and I punched him once in the temple, and he died. His friends went to him and tried to revive him. They thought he still had choices, but he didn’t. They couldn’t understand he was dead. They said some of the same things to him in Turkish. And some different things. They tried to wake him up—slapped his face. But it was no use. I was bored and didn’t wait to see their final realization of the situation.”

  Azrael’s red face seemed to brighten. “You have choices.”

  “Yes.”

  Azrael wiggled and struggled for each breath. “I can get anything you want in Damascus.”

  “So can I.” Minotaur casually studied his prey and experienced a rush of rhapsody. He enjoyed watching Azrael squirm—enjoyed hearing his last words. He’d seen it all, and he was sure Azrael had seen it all, too. “You think we’re alike, but we’re not. You’re greedy; I’m simple. But you can’t understand that.”

  “I can give you part of Damascus,” Azrael said.

  “What would I do with part of a city? You should accept your fate. It would be far nobler. I’m giving you that choice.”