by Ward Larsen
“The police don’t keep a presence?” Slaton asked.
“They make rounds in the market, but more to put down petty thieves and pickpockets. The other major cities in Syria are all to the north, Beirut to the west. That means little commercial traffic passes through Darayya.”
“And beyond Darayya? I thought the police had the city locked down.”
“In most areas checkpoints have been doubled. But I talked to my contacts this morning, and they tell me the watch in Darayya is less than usual—I think units have been shifted to more promising sectors. We have seen this before. There were very strict blockades of Damascus during the war, but traffic in and out of Darayya was mostly unchecked.”
Slaton studied the map. The souk had been circled. From Achmed’s house, it could be reached by traversing the city’s southern neighborhoods. This avoided the central districts that were under greater scrutiny, as well as the major arteries leading north and east. The topographical map showed the desert beyond Darayya to be flat and featureless, a few tiny villages dotting the landscape. He noted two corridors marked in black that led west toward Lebanon.
“These routes you’ve marked—they’re not far from the Golan Heights.”
“Which is why they are useful. The police leave the protection of those hills to the army. Fortunately for us, the army units near Mount Hermon always look the other way.”
“Waiting for the Israeli invasion?”
“Exactly. We will pass right behind their backs.”
“Have you used this corridor before?” Slaton asked.
“Yes, but rarely. There is usually no need. I have friends who run licensed transport companies. They keep a few trucks with hidden compartments, and I pay a gratuity to the inspectors at the border—no one looks too closely. Of course, I am more an importer than an exporter. The kinds of things I bring into Syria … no one much cares about them. Mobile phones, videos, designer clothing.”
“So, you’ve never moved people in the other direction?”
“Never. But the principle is the same.”
“You’re wrong,” Slaton countered. “If you lose that kind of shipment, people die.”
For the first time Achmed’s confidence seemed to waver. “Salma and Naji are my only family. I would do anything to keep them safe.”
“Good. Because it might come to that.”
The Syrian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I think I can get you to the border. But I must ask—what then? You say you work with the Americans, but this gives me little confidence. I see how they have treated my country.”
Slaton nodded. The man had a point. America’s involvement in Syria had been anything but committed. They’d provided aid and assistance to a handful of rebel groups, only to cut them off at critical junctures. They’d drawn red lines on the use of chemical weapons, then backed away. Announced troop withdrawals, then changed their minds. It wasn’t the kind of strategy that built trust. In truth, however, Slaton was encouraged by Achmed’s skepticism. It implied the mindset of a man who really did care about his niece and her son.
Slaton said, “The fact that I’m here is proof the Americans want Ludmilla. If I can get her to the border, they’ll be waiting. Get me that far, and I promise to do everything in my power to convince them to take Salma and Naji as well. For what it’s worth … I’ve got a little boy at home myself. He’s about a year younger than Naji, and I’d like very much to see him soon.”
Achmed met Slaton’s gaze.
“In the end,” Slaton said, “I think our objectives are the same. But to make it happen, we both need to trust a stranger.”
FORTY-ONE
The skipper made good on his promise, pulling behind a spit of sand on the far side of the Red Sea just before sunrise. The narrow coastal plain along the western shores of Saudi Arabia was known as Tihamah, one of the few regions of the country where vegetation prevailed.
Sultan looked out and saw land that showed not a single human mark, the most distinguishing characteristic being a narrow ribbon of beach separating land and sea. Having already furled the sail, the skipper killed the tiny engine. The boat came still twenty yards offshore, and he flicked his finger down toward the gunnel. His intent seemed clear: Out you go.
Sultan looked into waters that were famously crystalline, yet there wasn’t enough light to gauge the depth.
“No problem,” the young man said as if reading his mind. “Only to your knees.”
Sultan took off his shoes, socks, and pants and bundled them into a roll. Wearing only his underwear, he wondered if the Rashiduns before him, in their day, had suffered such indignities. He supposed they had—and probably far worse.
With one leg over the side, he paused, and asked, “Tonight?”
“I will be here,” the young man promised, “one hour after sunset.”
Sultan looked all around, saw nothing but low sandstone cliffs and sea. He slipped silently into the water—it came nearly to his hip. He looked back and asked, “Will you stay in the cove all day?”
“No. The Saudis patrol these waters. It would also be a waste of time. Today I will do real work.”
Sultan raised his eyes inquisitively.
“I promise to not catch so many fish that there will be no room for you.”
With that, the young man lifted a long pole and began pushing the dhow silently back to sea.
Sultan waded awkwardly through the warm water. On reaching land he sat in the sand to put his pants and shoes back on—the simplest of tasks, but one he’d never been able to manage while standing.
When he was done, he stood and regarded the coastline. The sun was breaking the horizon, capturing the coast in its welcoming glow. He had never set foot in Saudi Arabia, and it occurred to him that he, like any good Muslim, was obliged to make a pilgrimage to Mecca. At that moment, he was no more than fifty miles from the Kaaba, and on reaching Jeddah he would be closer yet. Would this be his best chance? No, he decided. One day, soon enough, he would complete the hajj on his own terms.
Sultan began walking, the light of a new day showing him the way. It seemed an affirmation. The spit of land where he’d been dropped bent softly inland, a crescent of sand and crushed shell. Where the crescent joined the mainland, he discerned a worn path leading north. So far, everything precisely as briefed.
He spotted the car five minutes later. It turned out to be a standard white taxi parked on an uneven dirt apron. He saw the driver behind the wheel, his face illuminated by the glow of a mobile screen. The driver glanced up, saw him coming, and put down his phone. Neither man went through the contrivance of a wave or a nod. There likely wasn’t another taxi, or for that matter another passenger, within twenty miles.
Sultan climbed in back and exchanged a traditional Arabic greeting with the driver. He then said, “You know where we are going?”
“I was given an address.”
With nothing more said, the car set out into a fast-rising morning.
* * *
As Sultan was nearing Jeddah, across the Red Sea three Iranians were on the verge of success. They had earlier that morning received the most specific directions yet for a delivery. On the three previous days, they’d embarked on cross-country journeys, only to return empty-handed.
Today, they were sure, would be different.
They set out before dawn, driving north out of Khartoum on a secondary road. At the prescribed location they found their marker: a blue plastic grocery bag fluttering from the branch of a thorny scrub. On face value, it was the kind of thing one encountered on any drive through the desert. Yet this particular bag was not a random bit of wind-driven jetsam. They knew because it was directly behind a distinctive roadside culvert, and because the culvert itself was precisely thirty-two kilometers beyond the Blue Nile Bridge.
The Iranians had followed their directions to the letter.
All three got out of the Land Rover and began walking. The desert here seemed familiar, little different from what existe
d outside Tehran. Spindly, tough-looking shrubs nipped at the cuffs of their trousers, and every footfall sent tiny stones over ferrous dirt.
They found the canister directly behind the bush, lying in the dirt near a discarded soda bottle. Roughly the size and shape of a household fire extinguisher, the cylinder was shiny and smooth, clearly constructed of high-grade steel. At the neck was a complex valve with twin activation handles that appeared to operate in series—both would have to be activated to disperse whatever was inside. Also like a fire extinguisher, the valves were secured by safety pins, and the pins themselves retained by zip ties. Three levels of precaution, all reassuring.
The Iranians stood staring for some time. Finally, they had what they’d come for. After so many false trails, it seemed a shock to succeed so suddenly and completely.
All that was left was to deliver the canister safely to Tehran.
The technician took over—after being little more than a tourist for the last week, his raison d’être was now realized. He performed a perfunctory test with a small portable sensor. The negative results seemed a moot point: if there was a leak or contamination, none of them would still be standing. He carefully lifted the canister and carried it to the Rover. In the rear cargo bay, he packed it in a hardened Pelican case, cradled in foam inserts designed specifically for their prize. For extra measure, he stuffed in two thick hotel towels—the witless maid, they agreed, would never miss them. To the approval of his companions, the technician took particular care in protecting the valve. After closing the case, he eased it under a mesh cargo net that would keep it from shifting.
Everyone climbed back into the Rover.
The drive to the airport was unusually quiet. One hour after collecting their prize, the Iranians pulled into a quiet corner of Khartoum International Airport. Their private jet was fueled, the crew waiting, a flight plan to Tehran already filed. They collected their baggage, including the new acquisition, and headed into the corporate terminal. The keys to the Rover were dropped with the receptionist, a pleasant young woman who bid them a happy journey and promised that their vehicle would be returned to the rental company. The rest was simplicity itself.
As was often the case in Third World states, the government of Sudan gave loose oversight to who was granted access to the country’s lone corporate aviation terminal. Visiting dignitaries and royalty were routinely welcomed, so too the occasional shady arms merchant. The departure of the three guests from Tehran turned out to be a non-event. They had experienced negligible scrutiny on entering Sudan—a concession, no doubt, to the Iranian government—and leaving proved even easier. In the main building all three men showed their passports to a lonely immigration officer who waved them through with barely a glance. There was no inspection of luggage, including the custom-built Pelican case.
Ten minutes later, the sleek business jet, whose provenance was as murky as its generic paint scheme, began taxiing toward the active runway. Minutes later it was airborne, arcing northward into a cloudless sapphire sky.
While the departure of the Iranians raised few eyebrows that morning, it would be scrutinized far more intensely in the coming days. For the most part, the inquiry would be unproductive. The investigation into how authorizations for the visit had been granted would go nowhere, lost to a byzantine bureaucracy and an uncooperative regime in Khartoum. The receptionist at the terminal would be questioned, as would the staff of the Corinthia Hotel. Little would be learned, although the untimely death of the housekeeper who’d cleaned the Iranians’ rooms would be tagged as highly suspicious.
Yet one track of inquiry would prove useful.
As a rule, the comings and goings from executive terminals were monitored with great discretion. High-net-worth individuals abhorred being subject to surveillance, and governments seeking foreign investment were generally happy to comply. The most discreet operations kept no cameras at all. Those that did employed state-of-the-art systems that were tightly managed. The best networks were virtually impenetrable, and could be disabled or wiped clean on orders from above.
The executive terminal at Khartoum International, as it turned out, was not up to these standards. An aging network of cameras recorded everything that happened on the private jet ramp, and the server on which those images were stored was protected by laughable cyber security measures.
The one thing investigators would never realize was that Sultan was perfectly aware of all these deficiencies.
FORTY-TWO
Achmed left the house without mentioning where he was going. To Slaton’s relief, he returned fifteen minutes later driving a blue-and-white taxi.
He parked it in back near the garage, and came inside carrying a full black garbage bag. He hauled the bag to the green couch and spilled out a pile of well-worn clothes. “There are abayas and hijabs for the women—it is best not to draw attention in the souk.”
“What about me?” Slaton asked.
From the pile Achmed extracted an extra-large sweatshirt with a hoodie. “You will have to manage with this—be thankful it is not summer. Only old men wear robes anymore in Damascus.”
Ludmilla and Salma began sorting through a dozen robes of various colors and sizes. Slaton didn’t ask where the clothes had come from, nor the taxi. He guessed it was probably owned by a neighbor, someone who could be counted on to not ask questions. As was the case in all countries run by cruel and oppressive regimes, trust began next door.
Naji ran to the pile and began throwing garments in the air. He squealed something in Arabic. Probably, What about me? Slaton guessed.
Achmed shooed him away. Children required no disguise. The unpleasant truth, Slaton knew, was that Naji was the best bit of camouflage they had.
“We should hurry,” Achmed said. “The Mukhabarat have been seen in a nearby neighborhood.”
“What about Salma’s car?” Slaton asked. “If they find it here they’ll know you’re involved.”
“After we leave a friend is going to take it away.”
“Does he know to keep it out of sight?”
“His shed is bigger than mine … with a bit of paint, a new license plate, he will have a new car by this evening.”
Not for the first time, Slaton recognized the instincts of a seasoned trader. He tried the hoodie on for size.
* * *
They were on the road ten minutes later, and Slaton was once again struck by the digression of his situation. His actions at the salon had been necessary, but also a kick to the proverbial hornet’s nest. He was now riding through one of the most dangerous cities on the planet in a borrowed taxi. He had two weapons at his disposal, and his team consisted of a hairdresser, a linguist, a four-year-old child, and a man who smuggled mobile phones and pirated Hollywood movies.
Achmed, who was driving, said, “I made calls before we left the house. It is as expected. There are police around the souk, but fewer than usual.”
Slaton sat next to him in the front passenger seat, and the women and child were in back—all in accordance with local customs. Salma and Naji looked perfectly convincing. She wore a drab abaya, her son the same shirt and jeans he’d been wearing for two days. The bottoms of Naji’s pants left a two-inch gap above his shoes—Slaton remembered seeing Davy in the same predicament only a few weeks ago. Ludmilla was also abaya-clad, and would probably get by as long as she kept her hijab loosely over her Slavic cheeks. Even if challenged, she could respond in fluent Arabic. Yet she did have one handicap: the MP5 Slaton had duct-taped to her side. There had been no choice but to secure it beneath one of the robes, and Ludmilla had volunteered. Fortunately, the weapon was relatively compact. The stock was collapsed and he’d detached the suppressor—the two spare magazines were in his own pockets. He didn’t like not having the weapon immediately available, but it seemed the best compromise.
Slaton himself was the least genuine of the group—he had the hood pulled over his sandy hair, and a pair of wrap-around sunglasses were ready on the dash in front of him
. In his past life with Mossad he’d taken up far more elaborate guises, to include hair dye and agents that darkened the skin. Today, there was no time for such contrivances. As a group, they were relying heavily on Achmed’s experience to keep them out of trouble.
There had been little conversation since leaving the house. Slaton glanced in back and saw tension in two partially covered faces. The same with the smuggler next to him. The only thing lightening the mood was the endearingly off-key singing of Naji who was stuck on the looping chorus of a preschooler’s tune he’d heard on TV.
Achmed navigated a winding path through neighborhoods, and so far had avoided main roads. More than once he turned into what looked like a dirt driveway, only to emerge on yet another street. At one point he veered into the parking lot for the city sanitation department. Slaton saw row after row of garbage trucks, many derelict and clearly out of commission. Achmed explained that during the war the entire operation had been abandoned, garbage no longer being a priority. Now the main lot had fallen to a veritable graveyard of garbage trucks—with the smell to prove it. Achmed used it well. They traversed a half-mile-wide apron of dirt without seeing a soul.
It was invaluable local area knowledge, the kind of advantage that could never be gleaned from reconnaissance photos or maps. The more Slaton saw, the more he liked the strategy. The police might be scouring the city and locking down chokepoints, but in the residential warrens of Darayya it was Saturday as usual. Women hanging clothes on lines, men fixing cars. Kids darting from one dusty courtyard to the next.
“Can we reach the souk entirely on secondary roads?” he asked.
“We will have to join a boulevard to cross the river,” Achmed said. “But it is not a busy street. After that, the souk is only minutes away. We will leave the taxi there.”
