by Mark Greaney
Ten minutes later, Sauvage leaned against the hood of his car parked at a flower market in the town of Saint-Forget. The Volkswagen van pulled up and the sliding back door opened.
Sauvage just stood there. “Non. I’m not getting back in that van.”
Malik rolled his eyes. “Of course you are, man, because if you don’t, we shoot you right now.”
He heard the shick-shick sound of a pistol’s slide being racked in the darkness of the van, and his fantasy of retaining some control over his life melted away in an instant.
Sauvage climbed into the vehicle.
The van pulled out of the flower market parking lot and Sauvage sat on the bare floor against the wall, facing two of Malik’s men. The plastic tarp had been removed, which should have made Sauvage feel better, but he figured these men would shoot him and just hose out the back if it came down to it.
Malik himself climbed out of the passenger seat and into the back, squatting down in front of the French police captain. “Tell me how you know the woman is being held at that property.”
“Everyone has been looking for the Halabys since my colleagues were found dead in their flat. A team at La Crim has spent a hundred man-hours watching videos of the Free Syria Exile Union, and they have identified thirteen key members of the outfit. They tracked the phones of all these men and women, and physically surveilled some of them, but so far they haven’t found any connection to here.”
“So?”
“I did find a connection. I expanded my search to family members of the Halabys. A nephew of Rima was geotracked to this estate last night, and he is still inside. I arrived here at five thirty this morning, and shortly after seven a.m., a European man in his sixties pulled in. I took a photo of him, blew it up so I could see it, and determined I was looking at Vincent Voland, former intelligence official and currently employed by the Halabys.”
Malik was impressed. “So . . . he’s in there right now?”
“Yes. Along with two men who look very much like Syrians. Not the nephew I’d originally targeted, so apparently there are more people in that house.”
“What do you know about the residence?”
“I know nothing, which means I know a lot.”
“Elaborate.”
“The property is registered to a shell corporation in the Cook Islands. Any research into the ownership, who is living there, what goes on there, just dead-ends.”
“And to you this means . . .”
“It means it’s either owned by a business with an interest in hiding its physical property, or it’s some sort of a DGSE or DGSI safe house. The fact that Voland is here leads me to the latter assumption. He’s officially retired from the government, but my assumption is he’s working with the FSEU while retaining contacts in French intelligence.”
Sauvage could see the worry in Malik’s eyes, and this relaxed him. Thank God the Syrian realized they were all in over their heads. Sauvage pressed. “That’s right. The French government might be involved. Are you guys really going to roll into that estate with your guns out, ready to make off with that woman?”
Malik did not answer. Instead he asked, “How long until the police find this place?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Eric will not like that response.”
Sauvage sighed. “Je ne sais pas.” I don’t know. “There’s no surveillance on the place by us, yet, no chatter about it around La Crim, but it’s just a matter of time before someone connects the dots. If there are other members of FSEU here, and the federal police are investigating them, then either my people at La Crim or the federal police will find their way here, sooner or later.”
Malik said, “Eric has communicated with us. He will be here tonight.”
Sauvage said, “And then what will you do?”
“I’ll do whatever Eric orders me to do. Same as you, if you are smart.”
“I was brought into this for intelligence, surveillance.”
Malik said, “And I’m sure that will remain your main role. But we will need you close by.”
Sauvage shrugged. “Just call me when he gets here and I will—”
“No.” The van stopped. The door opened. As before, the driver had gone in a circle, and they were now back at Sauvage’s car in the parking lot of the flower market. “One of my men will accompany you until Eric arrives.”
“For what purpose?”
“I see how scared you are. Your attendance this evening is required. We would not want you running off.”
“Of course I’m scared! I’m not a killer. Not an accessory to murder, either.”
“Interesting. Eric tells me you are one of his best.”
Sauvage closed his eyes. “I didn’t want any of this.”
“Did you want this?”
Sauvage opened his eyes. Malik held a rolled-up wad of euros the size of a grapefruit.
“The fuck is that? I have an account in Cyprus where I—”
“Walking-around money. From Eric. A way to show our gratitude, and perhaps an easier way to help you get out of town when this is over. Tonight.”
Sauvage took the money. He always took the money.
CHAPTER 29
Saunders and Gentry drove in the center of the small convoy to the southeast, first through zones of unquestioned regime control, rolling through checkpoints that parted for the Russians and did not close back up until the SAA truck at the rear of the procession passed. Court remained vigilant every second of the way by keeping his eyes on the sector Saunders instructed him to cover, but also by listening in to radio traffic. Saunders had a handheld radio tuned to the convoy’s channel, but most of the transmissions were between the SAA units, in Arabic, and Court only picked up words here and there. Still, he figured he would be able to tell from the tone of the other men speaking if someone saw real danger ahead.
Court spoke reasonably good Russian, though he didn’t want Saunders to know. He hoped the Russians would be the first to spot any trouble, because that way he knew he’d have more of a heads-up and better intel about any threat.
He found himself surprised by the quality of the highway they rolled along, even out here in the sticks of Syria. It was as good as most he’d seen in the United States, and although the traffic was extremely light, the vehicles that were on the road were making good speed.
Saunders wasn’t a chatty man, but neither was Court, so for the first hour barely any words were exchanged between the pair. Court just rolled with the silence, establishing his cover legend as a grizzled and stoic mercenary. But eventually he decided he needed to mine this guy for any information he could get about what he could expect after they made it down to the Desert Hawks’ base, and he wanted to feel the man out to see about options for getting off base once he got there.
While still eyeing the roadside, farmland, rural buildings, and the distant hills, Court said, “I’ve been working in Southeast Asia, mostly.”
“Heard me ask, did you?”
“No.”
“That’s right. Ya didn’t.”
“I was just mentioning it to say I don’t know much about what’s going on around here.”
“You’ll learn. Everybody learns. Or else you die.”
“Wouldn’t mind avoiding the ‘or else.’ Anything you can tell me that might help?”
“You were hired to train the Hawks. I wasn’t hired to train you.”
“I know we’re training Desert Hawks . . . but I also heard we’re deploying with them.”
Saunders glanced across the cab of the pickup at Court for an instant, then looked back to the windshield. “Where’d ya hear that?”
“From Lars Klossner himself.”
Saunders shrugged now. “Almost every bleedin’ night they send us out with Desert Hawks special forces units.”
“To do what, exactly?”
“No-knock raids, arrests, and good old-fashioned hits.”
“In Damascus?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes not.” He looked at Court again. “Does it matter?”
“No . . . just curious.” Court pressed his luck. “Who’s the oppo?”
Saunders repeated himself. “Does it matter?”
“Only to avoid blue on blue.” Court couldn’t let on that he had misgivings about targeting certain opposition groups in this conflict, but he needed information about just what, in fact, the Hawks had the KWA men involved with.
When Saunders didn’t respond to this, Court turned to the man. “Look. I’ll be a hell of a lot better at this if I get some kind of a sitrep on what we’re dealing with. You might even persuade me to watch your back in the process.”
“I didn’t ask you to watch my back.”
“No . . . but would it hurt?”
Saunders looked like he’d rather just sit and drive, to be alone with his thoughts. But after a moment he sighed. “Blimey. All right, just to shut you up, I’ll give you a two-minute lesson on who’s who around here.”
“That would be helpful.”
“But keep scanning your sector. If you get killed before we get to Damascus, I will have just wasted my breath.”
“Copy that.”
The Brit rolled down the window and spit, then rolled it back up. “All right, school’s in session. First let’s talk about our side, the regime and its loyalist supporters. Russia’s ’ere in country, they are the patrons to the regime, helping to prop it up, but Russia hates most of the militias fighting for Azzam, especially the Sunni militias. Especially the Desert Hawks Brigade. They think the Hawks are too big and too powerful now, so they figure it’s just a matter of time before the Hawks turn their guns around and start fighting the regime itself. Russia has a stake in Azzam; they are here in the country by his order and they have him by the bollocks, so any potential threat to him is seen as a threat to Russian interests here.”
“Makes sense.”
“Most of the Christians here support Azzam, because even though he’s an Alawi, which is a Shiite tribe, he belongs to a minority and runs a secular government. He doesn’t persecute other religious minorities as long as they support him. If the Sunni jihadists took over, it would be bad for the Christians, just like what’s happened everywhere else the jihadists took over. The Christians might not love the Alawites, but they know that without them in power, they’re fucked.”
“Got it.”
“It’s short-sighted, of course. Azzam will kill Christians the same as he’ll kill anyone else if they so much as complain about the weather, but that’s the way it is.”
“Right.”
“The Russians do like the Syrian Arab Army, Azzam’s regular troops, and they work with the Desert Hawks from time to time, but there isn’t any love between the groups.
“Then you’ve got your foreign Shiites. Hezbollah is fighting here, blokes from Lebanon, and they support Azzam, but they stick to themselves. Ditto Iran. They have battalions of fighters here, and they use Russian air in their attacks, but they don’t fight alongside the Syrian Arab Army or the Sunni militias like the Hawks.”
“Why are the Shiites fighting for Azzam?”
“Because he’s an Alawi, which is a Shia sect. Iran knows Shias are outnumbered in the Middle East by Sunnis, so even though Azzam isn’t much of a Shiite, he’s closer to them than any other national leader around here, so they help him out. It helps that the Iranians are in bed with the Russians, too, but that might all change soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s rumors floating about that Azzam is trying to get Iran to expand into Syria in a permanent presence. The Russians won’t take kindly to that, since they are trying to use the nation as their Middle Eastern outpost, so if Iran moves in and stakes a claim to bases and territory, the three-way love fest of the past four years will turn into a right bloody mess.”
This tracked with what Court had learned from Voland about Azzam sneaking into Tehran to negotiate with the Supreme Leader.
Saunders adjusted his rearview as he drove. The convoy was rising into some steeper hills now, and the British mercenary seemed to tighten up his focus on his surroundings. Court turned away from his lesson and began scanning the thick pines on the hills on his side of the highway.
Saunders continued, “So, that’s the friendly forces. Now on to the rebels and terrorists. The rebels are ten times more fractured than the loyalists, which is the only reason the regime is still around. You have the FSA, the Free Syrian Army, but really it’s just dozens of groups and clans, most of which aren’t anything like an army, and many of which aren’t even remotely free. Then there’s ISIS, who used to be just in the east and north, but now they’re in little pockets around Damascus, too. And there’s Al Nusra . . . that’s Al Qaeda. They are in the north mostly but tend to pop up wherever you don’t want them. They’ve been active around here, too.”
Court just muttered, “Jesus.”
“The Americans are way up north and way out east, fighting ISIS, which is good, but they are supporting the Kurds, which is not good.”
“And what about the Kurds?”
“Yeah, they are up north, mostly fighting ISIS, but also the Azzam regime, and they also have their own section carved out of the country. And when you talk about the Kurds, you have to split them up into tribes, factions, political groups, and the like. They aren’t just one entity, either. The Kurds fight in the SDF, the Syrian Democratic Forces, which is a group of Kurds, Sunnis, Assyrians, and Turkmen.”
“And the foreign mercs? Us. Does anybody like us?”
Saunders looked at Court and laughed. “That’s a good one, Wade. Yeah, all the militias like their own foreign contractors, but nobody likes anybody else’s. The Desert Hawks like us, because we train their special operations forces, and they use us to help fight their little denied battles.”
“Like these raids you mentioned?”
The convoy raced past a row of slower-moving cars also heading southeast; Court and Saunders looked over each vehicle as it passed.
Saunders said, “The Hawks have a particular beef with a Syrian Army unit called the Tiger Forces.”
“What kind of beef?”
“Regular old mob shite. Remember, they ain’t fightin’ a war down here.”
Court furrowed his eyebrows. “They’re not?”
“No, it’s a gang fight. The Hawks are run by a criminal overboss, and so are the Tigers. They fight over oil smuggling routes; they get into it over turf wars. In a country as mad as this, with twenty-five groups trying to kill one another, the Desert Hawks Brigade still finds time to pick fights with would-be allies. It’s bloody mad.”
Court knew all he could do was pray he would be able to get the hell out of his cover identity and on with his real job, otherwise he might get himself killed in some arcane Syrian mafia turf war that he didn’t even understand.
Before Court could speak, Saunders leaned over the wheel and looked through the windshield intently. “Have you noticed any buses on the highway in the past couple of miles?”
Court cocked his head. “Buses? I don’t remember seeing any. Why?”
“Bus drivers are the best intelligence agents on the highway. They know what’s going on. If you see buses, you know the road is considered safe enough. If you don’t see buses . . .” Saunders began scanning his mirrors. “Well . . . you tighten up your chin strap and flip off your safety.”
Saunders looked back to Court. “I don’t see buses.”
It was true. Court realized he’d seen small sedans and hatchbacks, plus a few commercial trucks, but he didn’t remember passing a bus in the past several minutes.
Just then a large, white tractor-trailer approached in the opposite lane. The vehicle was on Saunder
s’s side, so Court wasn’t focused on it. He was in the process of checking his rifle again when the radio came alive with animated Arabic. Court turned back around, understanding from the tone of the transmissions that something was going on.
Saunders said, “Look at the lorry.”
Court did so. The big vehicle was riddled with bullet holes. It had clearly been attacked up the road, and even though it had managed to survive, it was heavily damaged.
“Eyes open, Wade. We’re heading into it.”
After an order given over the radio, first in Russian and then in Arabic, all the vehicles in the convoy began racing faster along the road, including Saunders’s pickup. Court thought it to be a wise move, to accelerate through any potential kill zone. The enemy would be dug into fighting positions that they had chosen, whereas Court and the others in the convoy had no choice in the matter, and if fighting came, they would be fighting at a distinct disadvantage.
Court looked through the windshield to the Desert Hawks technical, just ahead. The gunner stood behind his belt-fed machine gun, and he pulled the charging handle back on the weapon to rack a round. He began swiveling the barrel left and right, ready for a fight.
Court jammed his own rifle barrel outside the open window of his vehicle and aimed it on the terrain to the south. The high rolling hills were completely covered in green trees and shrubs; Court couldn’t see a man-made structure in any direction. It seemed like the right place for an ambush, and all he could do was hope that whatever force was waiting up there in the trees would take one look at the line of Russians, Syrian soldiers, militiamen, and machine guns and decide to hold their fire till some helpless vehicle passed.
The convoy had to slow for a turn and cross a twenty-foot-long bridge that went over a small drainage culvert, and Court’s hope that the attackers passed on his convoy died when puffs of dust pocked the highway ahead of the Desert Hawks technical. An instant later he heard the unmistakable cracks and zings of incoming rifle fire.
“Contact left!” Saunders shouted, and he one-handed his bullpup rifle out the driver’s-side window and began squeezing off rounds with his right hand while he controlled the steering wheel with his left.
