by Ward Larsen
Ludmilla steeled herself, and after a nod from Achmed to confirm the coast was clear, she bent down and wedged herself into the slot. Once she was inside, Slaton leaned down. Instead of climbing in, however, he whispered something in Ludmilla’s ear. She looked at him wide-eyed, then nodded.
Slaton stood straight. He saw Salma give a little wave behind her back. Two young women were approaching.
“Hurry!” Achmed prompted. “Get in!”
Slaton bent down a second time, his head and shoulders disappearing. He then backed out and stood straight. He was holding the MP5, but kept it low and out of sight.
The two young girls disappeared.
With the weapon in a casual grip, Slaton addressed Achmed. “I have one minor change to your plan…”
* * *
Sultan had managed little sleep on his overnight voyage. That being the case, when he arrived in Jeddah with five hours to kill before his appointed meeting, he knew how to spend it.
Much like his travel, the safe house had been prearranged. It turned out to be a three-bedroom townhome, one of four in a characterless row, that had been rented online. After the driver delivered him to the assigned address early that morning, it had been simplicity itself to enter a code on a keypad at the door. On first glance he’d thought the place needlessly spacious, but a gloriously comfortable bed erased any misgivings. When the bedside alarm went off slightly after noon, he was glad to have had the foresight to set it. The buzzer jolted him out of a sound sleep.
Sultan got up stiffly and stretched, the muscles in his legs knotted from yesterday’s exertions. As he washed at the bathroom basin, he heard the call to midday prayer beckoning from outside. He felt no urge to comply. Today he would do God’s work, but not by putting his knees to a mat.
He was on the street minutes later, keeping diligently to the directions he’d been given. He had never before been to Jeddah, although, like any Muslim, he knew it by reputation. The second largest city in Saudi Arabia, it was best known as the gateway to Mecca and Medina, the most holy sites in the faith.
He had no trouble blending in. His features were loosely Arab, and for men the local dress code was remarkably varied. Some wore Western clothes, while others preferred traditional white thobes. He himself had opted for a simple thobe. Two months earlier, during the hajj, a casual glance would have placed him as one of the millions making their once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage. Women, Sultan noted, were not given such freedom when it came to clothing—without exception, every one he saw was covered from head to toe in a flowing black abaya.
Sultan checked now and again to see if he was being followed. He saw shop owners outside storefronts, taxi drivers chatting in small groups. None of them held his attention. But then, counter-surveillance was hardly his forte.
He found himself studying the city, with its new streets and postmodern construction. The sidewalks were unbroken, the curbs freshly swept. The House of Saud’s largesse was evident on every corner. Sultan imagined that he might bring the same to his own homeland. The Saudis’ success, of course, was not attributable to hard work or ingenuity, but rather one stroke of good fortune. In fifty years, they had built an entire country from scratch, palaces and towers and condominiums risen from the sand. A tribe that had for thousands of years been sandal-clad on top of camels had, in less than three generations, found themselves stomping Guccis on the accelerators of Mercedes.
A gilded world derived completely from black gold.
But they are weak because of it, Sultan thought as he ambled down the spotless boulevard. And that, God willing, shall be their downfall.
FORTY-FIVE
The café was half a mile from the safe house, a modest space embedded in a modern commercial district. Sultan arrived five minutes early, and so he stood outside under what might have passed for a tree, a spindly acacia trimmed in the shape of an umbrella. Owing to the hundred-degree heat, the outdoor patio was deserted at midday, yet he saw a decent crowd inside through the broad front windows. His phone buzzed a message: I’m inside.
Sultan walked in and found Akeem Nazir at a high counter sipping milky coffee from an insulated paper cup. He was wearing civilian clothes—Sultan knew he was not scheduled for duty today. All the same, there was no mistaking his profession. Nazir had the regulation haircut and bearing of a soldier. They embraced like the old friends they were.
“It is good to see you,” said Nazir.
“And you, my friend.”
“How long has it been?”
“Four months, I think,” Sultan said. “Your last visit to Amman.”
Nazir nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I remember. I was home on leave.”
The two had not seen one another in months, this a matter of security. Yet one last meeting was required.
Nazir gestured to a second cup on the counter. “I bought you a coffee. Sugar, no milk.”
Sultan took it and smiled, not mentioning that he had recently given up coffee—one of the many deprivations he’d imposed on himself to promote a more pious image.
The two had grown up together on the outer fringes of Amman, Jordan. Nazir was one of the few boys in school who hadn’t belittled him for his crippled leg, and who hadn’t teased him for his strange accent. Everyone knew that young Ahmed Sultan al-Majid was not a native Jordanian. That he came from the north was a given, although just how far north would have come as a surprise.
The two boys had bonded as boys did, playing video games and watching movies, pilfering oranges from the grove on the way to school. For Nazir it was not an exclusive friendship. He occasionally diverted to play soccer with boys who were more athletic, and regularly attended a different mosque. Nazir had never been the most street-smart child—indeed, he’d been the kind of boy who always found himself looking right when life was on his left. All the same, he was the closest thing to a best friend Sultan had ever had. And perhaps ever would.
They were thirteen when Nazir’s father interrupted their friendship by taking a job in an oil field in Saudi Arabia. He moved the family away and, despite promises to stay in touch, the boys quickly lost track of one another. Three years later Nazir’s father was killed, along with two other men, when a coking tank at the refinery exploded. The Saudis responded as they typically did when foreign workers fell victim to industrial accidents—they wrote modest checks to the widows, hired replacement workers, and built a new coking tank.
It was here that fate intervened. Because Nazir and his mother were Muslims from a neighboring country, one further accommodation was made: they were offered citizenship in the Saudi kingdom. Nazir’s grieving mother was forced to make dire calculations. As a Muslim woman with no education and limited prospects, she saw but one chance for her only child: Nazir was about to turn seventeen, and if they took citizenship and remained in Saudi Arabia, he would be eligible for military service. There he could get training, a chance for a productive life.
These details Sultan had learned only recently. One year ago, he’d had a chance run-in with a cousin of Nazir’s in Amman. It came at a time when an improbable scheme had been brewing in Sultan’s head. He did a bit of research, reestablished contacts in his ancestral home. His plan progressed, at each juncture escalating into something larger, something more ambitious. Only when he learned of Nazir’s assigned duties in the Saudi Air Force did the final peg fall into place. A means to an end that had long seemed no more than a dream.
Sultan leveraged the networks of his extended family, and found a tribe who were only too willing to help. He discovered that Nazir still made annual trips to Amman to visit uncles and cousins. Also, that his boyhood friend was disenchanted with military life, and that he blamed the Saudis for his father’s death. It all fit perfectly. When Nazir next visited Amman, Sultan arranged a “chance meeting.” Their friendship rekindled quickly, and Sultan cultivated the relationship for months before finally making his pitch.
As hoped, he’d found a willing ear.
“I think we
should not talk here,” said Nazir.
“I agree,” replied Sultan.
“I have everything you wished to see in my car. On the way to our destination, we can drive past the air base.”
Sultan nodded benevolently, a gesture he’d been working on. “Then God willing, it shall be so.”
FORTY-SIX
A bird warbled somewhere in the tawny undergrowth, a warning to its equally invisible brethren. Slaton wasn’t the only one watching for threats. The desert was thick with life, robust species adapting continuously to harsh conditions. Creatures that found a way to survive.
He was out on point, leading the donkey by a tether—a compulsory skill for any operator who worked the Middle East. Salma and Naji were riding on the cart, their legs dangling over the back. They were sharing an orange plucked from one of the crates. A dumbfounded Achmed was crammed beside Ludmilla in the cart’s false bottom. Slaton could only imagine what that ride had to be like as the cart bounded over ruts like a bicycle over train tracks.
Achmed had been livid in the souk when Slaton refused to join Ludmilla in the compartment. That, however, was a line he would not cross. From Slaton’s perspective, to be trapped inside, unable to respond to threats, was entirely unacceptable. He would gladly have allowed Achmed to walk beside him as they made their way out of the city, but when he’d started protesting loudly, with another group of women nearing, Slaton made his decision—it was neither the time nor the place for negotiation. One silencing blow to the solar plexus later, he’d folded his guide into the compartment and shut the door. Since then Achmed had remained quiet. Whether it was out of common sense or fear, Slaton couldn’t say. They had cleared the souk uneventfully, seeing only one distant pair of policemen amid the outer ring of vendors. Twenty minutes after that they were absorbed by the desert.
It had been two hours now, and the last vestiges of Damascus were barely visible behind them. He guided the cart between shocks of tan scrub, keeping to lower elevations wherever possible for concealment. The terrain was rough, but positively pastoral compared to the volcanic plateaus he’d traversed the previous night in As Suwayda.
Slaton was fighting exhaustion, but happy to be clear of the city. The most treacherous part, he knew, still lay ahead—the Lebanese border would be watched closely. Mercifully, a high cloud deck had drifted in to frustrate the sun. It cut the heat to something bearable, and better yet, if the clouds remained in place they would have the benefit of a dark night.
He was sure their little troop would appear normal from a distance—a family heading home from the city. Unfortunately, the odds of passing any close inspection were virtually nil. For that reason, the MP5 was concealed between crates of oranges at the front of the cart, easily accessible.
“Naji has to use the toilet,” Salma called out.
Slaton brought the donkey to a stop. His eyes swept the horizon all around.
“Okay. Let’s all take a break.”
Salma and Naji dismounted, and she led her son off into the scrub. Slaton went to the right side of the cart. The hidden compartment could only be opened from the outside, a latch blended into the underside of the wooden deck. Since it was designed for hauling drugs, nothing else would have been considered.
Slaton opened the door and helped Ludmilla out. Achmed came next, but Slaton knew better than to offer a hand to the pissed-off Syrian. The smuggler looked weary. His eyes creased against the light and there was dust in his beard. He tried to stand straight, working his limbs like they needed oiling. He leveled a burning gaze on Slaton, but said nothing before meandering into the desert.
Ludmilla looked unsteady. “You okay?” Slaton asked.
“Yes. But it is very uncomfortable in there.” There was hollowness in her eyes, fatigue in her voice. She, too, worked her arms and legs to get circulation returning.
“I’m sure it is. Did Achmed have bad things to say about me?”
“He did.”
“I don’t blame him.”
“How much longer until we reach the border?” she asked.
“Sometime after midnight. We’re making good time.”
She seemed to think about it, then asked, “Once we’re with the Americans, where will they take us?”
“I don’t know. Probably either the Beirut embassy or an airport.”
“They will want to debrief me.”
“Yes. But they’ll also know you’re tired. You’ll have time to rest.”
“More, I think, than the SVR would give me.”
Slaton regarded her thoughtfully. “Are you going to miss it?” he asked.
“Russia?”
“Home.”
Ludmilla bent her head thoughtfully, as if she hadn’t considered it. “I have spent many years on overseas postings. My husband passed away a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
“It wasn’t a happy marriage. We had already separated, and there were no children. My only relative is a sister in Murmansk. I haven’t spoken to her in years. I keep a flat in Moscow, but it hasn’t felt like home in a very long time.”
He nodded. “I know how you feel. I once had the same problem.”
“And now?”
“Now I do have a home. I highly recommend it.”
“But still … here you are.”
“Yeah … here I am.” He gestured toward the desert. “Naji and Salma are on a call of nature. I suggest you do the same, then hydrate. There are water bottles on the back of the cart.”
Ludmilla walked away with her hand on her back.
He turned his attention to Achmed, who was standing alone in the distance. Slaton decided it was time to make amends. He walked over, and said, “I’m sorry about what happened back at the souk. There was no time to argue.”
The Syrian said nothing.
“I appreciate all you’ve done for us. If it’s any consolation, you’ll be rid of us soon.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
Slaton half grinned. “We’re not in the clear yet.”
“No, we are not. And if you put me inside that cart again, I will be of little use.”
“I was thinking the same thing. You and Ludmilla can walk with us. If we see trouble coming, she goes back inside. You’re our best chance to talk our way out of any bind.”
“If there is trouble it will come near the border—and talking with anyone we encounter there is pointless.” Achmed went to the cart for a water bottle.
Slaton took out the map. He’d chosen the southernmost of the two corridors Achmed had plotted. He saw Mount Hermon in the distance, an ever-present reference. With a compass he could have taken cross bearings on a few peaks and come up with a reasonably accurate position. It was only a fleeting thought, probably the product of training received years ago far to the south of that same mountain. Today, of course, he had a far more precise method of determining their position.
He turned on his phone, opened the special applications, and within seconds was looking at grid coordinates accurate to less than a meter. He plotted them on the map, then took it to Achmed.
“At the rate we’re going,” Slaton said, “we should reach Lebanon an hour or two after midnight.” He pointed to their destination: a notch in the border south of Deir El Aachayer.
“Yes, I would agree. And your people will be waiting?”
“Of course—they promised.”
Achmed looked at him doubtfully, not recognizing the black humor so common among operators. “Let us hope it is so. Lebanon also has secret police. I have been told they are not a welcoming lot.”
“I’ve met a few, and I can tell you they’re not.”
Achmed looked at him oddly, but let whatever was brewing pass.
Slaton gathered everyone near the cart and updated them on the plan. There were no objections. Minutes later, with the high clouds holding fast, the cart was again rocking westward into the deepening hills.
FORTY-SEVEN
The
re was no attempt at counter-surveillance as Nazir led Sultan two blocks to a parking garage. It could hardly be expected. What little Nazir knew about tradecraft he’d learned from the handful of messengers who had delivered Sultan’s instructions over the last year. They explained which messaging app was the most secure; implored him to pay in cash for anything related to the mission; told him how many times a throwaway phone could be used. Nazir had not made any glaring errors, and as a result the mission was on track. Sultan even surmised, with perhaps reaching optimism, that Nazir’s lack of training was a hidden advantage. At this point it hardly mattered—his position inside the Royal Saudi Air Force made him irreplaceable.
They passed an ornate mosque, and once again Sultan was reminded of prayer. He ignored it more easily than ever, and just before reaching the garage he was struck by a contrasting impulse when they came upon a small grocery store. He saw baskets of fruit lined up on the sidewalk, and just inside the door an overweight man sat on a chair drawing from a hookah. He had a fleeting urge to dare Nazir to steal an orange, much as they’d done as boys. It was, of course, nothing more than nostalgia. Neither of them would ever be so carefree again.
On entering the garage, Nazir guided him to a corner on the first level. He stopped at the trunk of a sand-colored sedan. It was an official vehicle of the Royal Saudi Air Force, a staff car with the service’s crown-and-wings emblem displayed on the door. After a cautious look around, Nazir popped the trunk.
Sultan stood staring at two gadgets. The most unique was a near twin to the one he’d installed in a remote building in Sudan. Two mismatched canisters, silver tubing, a few valves.
“It looks like the other,” he said.
“There are subtle differences,” replied Nazir, who had built them both. “I was forced to alter the mounting brackets, and the triggering mechanism is unique. But the essential operation is the same.”
“You modeled them on the equipment you work with?”
