by Ethan Jones
“Of course, of course, I wasn’t implying that. But from the preliminary results, who should I be mostly watching for?”
“Everyone, Javin. Anybody could be leaking that intel.”
Javin frowned. That was not the answer he expected. “Everyone? That doesn’t include . . .” His voice trailed off.
“You’re not suggesting what I think you are?” Martin’s voice rose with a clear hint of anger.
“If it can be anybody . . . Perhaps it was a slip of the tongue or—”
“Javin, I didn’t betray you. I didn’t give Fox your identities, or your location, or confirm you have the flash drive.”
Javin moved the cellphone away from his ear to protect his hearing from Martin’s shouts.
“I’ve always looked for your team’s best interests, as I’m expected to do. So even the notion that I may have something to do with this betrayal is offensive and an affront to my integrity.”
Javin shook his head. “I . . . I certainly didn’t mean any of that, sir. I have nothing but the highest respect for you and—”
“Then show it by not making false accusations or even insinuations. There are other people who want to harm you, Javin, not me. Not now, not ever.”
“I understand, sir. I . . . I overstepped. Apologies.”
A moment of tense silence, then Martin said, “Water under the bridge. But keep your eyes peeled. In case it wasn’t clear from our previous exchange, Saif is also under close scrutiny.”
“Yes, about him. Saif will strongly object to my decision to infiltrate Deraa City, if that’s what the decision is.”
“Yes, that’s to be expected. Call me when you’ve decided, and I’ll deliver the news to Saif. I will let him know that the authorization comes from me.”
“Good. Thank you, Martin.”
“No worries. Make it home, Javin.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
CIS Safehouse
Damascus, Syria
“This is crazy, crazy, and will kill us all,” Saif blurted.
“No, it’ll be a difficult op, but very doable,” Javin replied in a relaxed tone.
“You’ve never faced Daesh thugs. You don’t know what that snake pit is like.”
Javin drew in a deep breath trying to stay calm, but Saif was testing Javin’s patience. He glanced at Claudia and Zeki sitting across the dining room table and said, “Folks, can you give us a moment?”
“Sure, we’ll go get some coffee or something.” Claudia was the first to stand up.
“Put some honey in mine,” Javin said. “Saif, you want anything?”
Saif shook his head.
After the sound of their feet disappeared, Javin leaned forward closer to Saif. “What’s your problem with the Deraa op?”
“It’s a suicide mission, that’s it.”
“But why do you say that? You’ve been in harder ops, with fewer chances of survival and greater odds against you.”
“I have, yes.”
“So, what’s different this time?”
“I had no choice at those times. My team came under siege or was ambushed.”
“So the problem is that you’re being ordered to Deraa?”
“No, I have no issue with receiving or obeying orders. But this mission will kill all of us, including you.” Saif pointed his large finger at Javin.
He nodded. “That’s true, but we can be killed at any time. You know about the firefight in Istanbul, right?”
Saif nodded.
“And Claudia survived a brush with death. Then, even the French intel station was attacked by Syrian terrorists. We can’t let fear paralyze us.”
“I’m not afraid of Daesh dogs.”
“What is it then? Do we not have a large enough team? Are we outgunned?”
“Yes, to both.”
“So let’s add to our firepower. Find us another man or two. People you trust and know the area.”
Saif gazed deep into Javin’s eyes, giving him an uncertain look.
Javin realized Saif could be the one that had betrayed the team, and Javin was not going to blindly accept anyone Saif would suggest to join the team. Javin would vet all the names Saif might suggest. At this moment, Javin was trying to get Saif to accept the operation. It was better if Saif was committed to its success, rather than ordered to be a part of it.
Javin continued, “Anything we can do to make this mission non-suicidal. We have the money to pay handsomely for a guide. Let’s do so.”
Saif gave Javin a slow head nod. “I might have someone who can help.”
“Great. Let’s call him. The sooner we head to Deraa, the sooner we can come back.”
“If we come back.”
Javin ignored Saif’s comment. “So, we’re good, now?”
Saif hesitated for a moment, then said, “Yes.”
“Okay, excellent. Next time you have a concern about our op, do it in private, like we’re talking now. Face-to-face.” Javin gestured toward Saif, then toward himself. “Don’t mouth off in front of my team.”
Saif’s face remained expressionless. “I’ll be careful not to harm your reputation.”
Javin shook his head. “This isn’t about my rep, but about the team. We can’t go into a mission with a defeatist mindset. If we think we can’t do it, we won’t do it.”
“Got it,” Saif said clearly annoyed.
“You’re sure about it?”
“Yeah, yeah, I am.”
Javin nodded. “Alright, glad we cleared the air.”
“I’ll make a few calls; see who might be able to help.”
“And get us weapons, lots of weapons. I hope we won’t need them, but it’s good to be fully loaded.”
“Oh, we’ll be loaded to our teeth.”
Javin smiled. “I’d like that. Everyone in our team would like that.”
Saif grinned. “I’ll get that done. I hope Daesh doesn’t get in our way, but if they do, we’ll kill them all.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Three miles north of Deraa City
Syria
The two-vehicle convoy left Damascus close to midnight. Claudia, Zeki, and Ajaz drove in the Land Rover at the back, while Javin, Saif, and two associates led in a white Toyota truck. Javin had run a background search of the two men whom Saif had introduced as “good friends.” The search indicated they were not on any databases identifying people with potential links to terrorists or supporters of terrorism in Syria or elsewhere in the region. According to Saif, the two men had worked for a short time as the security detail for a politician in Damascus, but had parted ways after the man had lost his seat in the recent elections for the newly formed assembly. There was nothing in their past about serving with the previous government.
Javin was as suspicious as ever. The words of MI6’s Deputy Director filtered through his thoughts. There had to be a traitor in Javin’s team, but he could not find the person leaking the sensitive intelligence to MI6. As much as Claudia tried to reassure him it was an MI6 tactic to throw him off balance, and Martin’s team had found nothing conclusive so far, Javin could not sit still. His mind was running all kinds of scenarios, bordering on paranoia, as he suspected everyone, including Claudia. He had seen operatives betrayed by long-time partners, by people they trusted. It was that paranoia that had kept him alive for so long, in and out of field operations.
But why would she do it?
While he could not find a reason that would justify her betrayal, Javin also could not easily shrug off his doubts. Claudia had returned to field operations after a long break. Perhaps something had happened during that time. Was she coerced? Or was this a matter of money? Neither of those motives fit with Claudia’s personality, but then people changed.
Javin shook his head as if to clear his mind. Then he glanced through the window at the blackness surrounding them. They had been driving for over three hours, avoiding the M5—the highway connecting Deraa City to Damascus—and taking secondary roads. In order to avoid runni
ng into checkpoints, a few times they had driven through fields and deserts, where Javin thought more than once that the truck might get stuck.
That had not happened, and the convoy had pressed on. They were driving without headlights, guided only by a faint moonlight glow and the driver’s knowledge of the area. Both the truck and the Land Rover had been rigged for all the lights to go dark at the flip of a switch, including the cabin lights. The truck was going slowly, slithering through the darkness, making as little noise as possible.
There was very little talk in the cabin, and Javin wondered what was going through Saif’s associates’ mind. They had been to Deraa City before and were going there again, as a favor to Saif. Javin thought, Some people find excitement in fighting. And why do I do this job? Because I don’t want this mess to overrun my country.
He nodded to himself, then looked at Saif, who was gazing intently through his window. “How far is Deraa?”
“Maybe five kilometers,” replied the driver. “We should be at the edge of the city in ten, fifteen minutes, insha’Allah.” If God wills it.
Javin nodded and muttered a short prayer. He wished it was God’s will for them to find Erkan and get out of this place alive.
The driver said, “Then there’s another half an hour to get to the mosque.”
“Yeah, because he wouldn’t meet us up here,” Saif said in a bitter tone.
Erkan’s safehouse was at the southern outskirts of the city, by Mansour Mosque. Javin had requested Erkan meet them somewhere else, closer to the north side of the city, but Erkan had refused, insisting it was not safe.
Javin opened his mouth, but then glanced through the windshield and saw a couple of dim lights in the distance. The driver had seen them as well. He sat straighter, then spoke in rapid Arabic to the gunman sitting in the front passenger seat. “Looks like trouble. Get ready.”
Javin understood Arabic and spoke it like a native of Tunisia, where he had been stationed for two years in his early days with the agency. Even if he had not grasped the meaning of the words, the tense tone made clear the driver’s concern about the lights up ahead. And the gunman cocking his M4 assault rifle was an unmistakable sign that trouble could be waiting for them.
“Claudia, we’re coming to what looks like a checkpoint,” Javin said onto his radio.
“Copy that. We see the lights,” Claudia said.
“Could be bad.”
Saif nodded. “It will be bad. Daesh runs this area.”
“Didn’t the army push them back three days ago?” Javin said, remembering the CIS reports.
“The army didn’t clear the area. Many fighters hid; some left, then returned.”
Javin clenched his teeth, then tightened his hands around the C8SFW assault rifle across his lap. He rolled down the window and got ready for action.
The driver flipped on the small headlights, and the truck slowed down as it neared the crude checkpoint formed by a large scorched army truck and two heaps of dirt surrounded by a cluster of barbwire. Two trucks with machine guns mounted on the back stood about fifty yards away from the checkpoint. A group of seven or eight gunmen stood around the trucks. Two of them had small flashlights pointed at the truck Javin was in. The rest of the gunmen readied their weapons.
“I’ll do the talking,” the driver said in a wary voice. “Maybe we can pay them off.”
The tactic had worked when they had left Damascus. A government-backed militia group had allowed the convoy to pass through with barely a glance at their Charité Sans Frontières paperwork after receiving a generous payment.
The man in the front passenger seat, whom Saif had introduced as Ali, slid an envelope with a wad of cash toward the driver. “And here are the papers.” He handed the driver a bundle of papers. They identified everyone as security personnel for the French humanitarian organization, which had a large presence in southern Syria.
Javin drew in a series of shallow breaths. His palms began to sweat, and he rubbed them quickly against his khaki pants. Adrenaline shot through his body. His eyes focused on the two gunmen slowly approaching the truck. Javin heard their boots crunching on the hard-packed sand. His senses were on overdrive; his heart was beating faster; the rifle felt like an extension of his arms.
One of the gunmen—a man in his early twenties wearing a black-and-white headdress and sporting a long thin beard—neared the truck’s driver’s side. The other bearded gunman, not much older than the first, but who wore an olive-green military-styled cap and a black jacket, stood behind, about ten yards to the left of the truck. He raised his assault rifle and pointed it at the truck.
“Salam alaikum, brother,” the driver said to the gunman in a warm, cheery tone. Peace be with you.
The gunman offered a small nod. “Alaikum wa salam,” he said in a gruff voice. Peace to you too. “Show me your permit to enter the city.” The frown remained stamped on his face.
The driver shrugged, then handed the gunman the documents. “This is the paperwork.”
“Turn on the light,” the gunman said to the driver.
He did as ordered.
The gunman examined the papers. He skimmed through the first page, then flipped it around. His hands trembled nervously, while his rifle was hoisted on his left shoulder. “The pictures, where are the pictures for you, and you?” he said in a loud voice to the driver and Ali.
The driver had anticipated the question. “We had to leave in a hurry. There wasn’t any time to—”
“And the permit? Where’s the permit?” the gunman shouted.
“That’s all the documents,” the driver said in a calm tone.
“You don’t have a permit?”
“No, but maybe this can help clarify our situation.” The driver showed the gunman the envelope, making sure he could see it was full of American dollars.
The gunman hesitated for a moment. He turned his head toward the second gunman, who was paying close attention to the exchange. “Is there a problem?” the second gunman shouted.
The first gunman shook his head. “No, just making sure everything’s in order.”
He reached inside the truck, seemingly to hand back the papers to the driver. Very discreetly, he picked up the envelope and moved it toward his chest. He turned his back slightly toward the second gunman and began to slid the envelope inside a large pocket of his robe.
As he did so, his eyes went to the back of the cabin and fell upon Saif’s face. The gunman looked at Javin, then did a double take. There was a spark of recognition in the gunman’s face, then his hands went for his rifle. “Spies, they’re s—”
A gunshot cut off his words.
The driver had fired a round at the gunman, who fell to the ground.
The second gunman opened fire. His bullets pounded the windshield and the left side of the truck. A few rounds pierced the supposedly bulletproof glass and struck Ali in the head and chest.
Javin fired a single round at the first gunman, who was reaching for his rifle. He stopped crawling and breathing.
Then Javin turned his attention to the checkpoint. The gunmen had spread out, securing positions around their trucks and laying a heavy curtain of fire.
Bullets hammered the truck, shattering the windshield.
The driver stepped on the gas and yanked at the wheel. The truck roared to life and jerked forward.
Javin had switched his rifle’s fire selector lever to automatic. He squeezed off a long burst, firing at the muzzle flashes flickering around the checkpoint.
Saif also blasted the gunmen with his assault rifle. His bullets cut through the second gunman, who dropped to his knees. Another volley from Saif, and the gunman was dead before his head hit the sand.
Then a rocket-propelled grenade sliced the night’s darkness with its fiery and smoky trail.
The driver swerved at the right moment.
The grenade narrowly missed the truck and exploded somewhere in the distance.
The barrage of bullets continued to batte
r the truck.
One of them must have struck the driver, because he shouted in pain. He clenched his chest with both hands.
“Drive, drive the truck,” Saif shouted.
The driver’s head fell to the side, and he was gasping for breath.
The truck began to slow down.
Saif cursed the driver. He grabbed the steering wheel and straightened it, then he reached for the door. Once he opened it, he shoved the driver’s body out.
“Hey, he was still—”
“Dead weight,” Saif shouted.
He slid into the driver’s seat, and stepped on the gas.
The truck swerved through the desert, away from the checkpoint.
Javin kept firing until he emptied his magazine, reloaded as fast as he could, and resumed firing.
The gunmen never stopped their onslaught.
A bullet pierced the door.
Saif screamed in pain and cursed the gunman. His hands began to tremble, and the truck began to lose speed.
Javin shouted, “Hold on, Saif. Hold on!”
Saif kept his grip on the steering wheel.
Javin fired round after round.
More bullets struck the back of the truck, but did not bounce around the cabin.
Saif turned the wheel again.
Gunfire erupted from the Land Rover.
Javin could not see who was firing, but he assumed it was Claudia and Zeki. Their barrages helped the escape. No more bullets thumped against the truck. “Saif, Saif, how are you?” Javin shouted.
Saif did not answer as the truck rolled to a stop.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Three miles north of Deraa City
Syria
“Saif, Saif, answer me!” Javin shouted.
Saif wheezed, then let out a bloody cough. “Eh . . . I’m . . . I’m dying.”
Javin shook his head. “No, you’re not. It’s a scratch. We’ll patch you up.”
Saif grinned. “I’m gone, Javin.”
“Hey, stay with me, stay,” Javin shouted.
