Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 49

The Nasib Border Crossing marked the international border between Jordan and Syria. It sat right on the Amman — Damascus highway and had long been known as one of the busiest crossings for either country. But while the Jordanians had been able to keep their side under control, the Syrians hadn’t been as successful.

The Syrian side of the checkpoint had changed hands so many times throughout the civil war, there was no telling which interest might be in charge once you rolled up on it, or if it would “technically” even be open.

But in Jordan, as in Syria, and everywhere else, the right amount of money opened all doors.

Williams had arranged for Harvath to ride up to Damascus with a Syrian truck driver. The agency had used him multiple times in the past.

He’s “reliable.” That was the best that Williams could say about him. “Don’t expect him to stick his neck out.”

Harvath didn’t expect anything more than a ride.

Williams pulled into a small roadside gas station and café a few kilometers from the border. He had one more thing to give Harvath.

Reaching behind his seat, he retrieved a gray nylon camera bag and handed it to him. “The camera is to further backstop your cover, but whatever pictures you can get, the Agency would be glad to have.”

“Got it,” Harvath replied.

“There are two envelopes in the outer compartment. All the border guards know the going rate for safe passage. One envelope is for the Jordanian side, the other is for the Syrian.”

“And the rest of the money?”

“Inside the shoulder strap,” said Williams.

Harvath felt along the padding. They had done a good job layering the bills between the thin pieces of foam.

“You’ll keep that in the cab of the truck,” he continued. “Along with your backpack. The gun and everything else, though, is going in a hidden compartment in back.”

Harvath had figured as much. That said, he had already removed the knife and was going to keep it with him. If they caught him with it, then they caught him with it. Culturally, a knife for the Jordanians or the Syrians was not that big a deal. A gun or a Taser, on the other hand, was a big deal.

“If you want to hit the head,” Williams said as he put his car in park and turned off the ignition, “now would be a good time.”

He nodded and followed him inside. As Williams went to locate his contact, Harvath used the restroom.

Removing the camera from the bag, he checked to make sure the batteries were charged and a memory card was installed.

Satisfied that everything was in order, he left the men’s room, bought a bottle of water at the counter, and walked back outside to the parking lot.

Williams was chatting with a heavyset Syrian in a green, sweat-stained T-shirt, gray polyester trousers, and tan sandals. When he saw Harvath, he waved him over. “Yusuf, this is Russ. Russ, this is Yusuf.”

The men shook hands and Williams spent several more moments speaking with Yusuf in Arabic.

When he was done, Williams looked at Harvath and said, “Best of luck on your article. Don’t forget to take lots of pictures.”

“I won’t. What about the rest of my gear?”

“Already taken care of,” Williams replied. Then, pulling Harvath in for a hug, he quietly said, “False compartment above last set of wheels. Passenger side.”

“Got it,” said Harvath as Williams backed away and waved him toward the cab.

“Ready?” Yusuf asked.

He had a mouthful of yellow teeth and wide eyes that showed the whites all the way around. He swept them back and forth, constantly assessing his surroundings.

“Ready,” Harvath responded.

They climbed into the cab of the truck. It was thick with the odor of cigarettes. The ashtray was crammed with butts. Several strings of beads hung from the rearview mirror.

Harvath’s backpack had already been placed behind his seat. He laid the gray camera bag at his feet.

Yusuf started his vehicle and pulled out of the parking lot. Lighting a cigarette, he pointed out the window at the sky. “Good day for making a drive.”

Harvath nodded. “Yes. Good day. Where did you learn English?”

“University,” the man replied. “Aleppo.”

“What did you study?”

With the cigarette hanging from between his lips, Yusuf changed lanes and said, “Transportation engineering. Now I drive truck.”

“Do you have a family?”

He nodded. “It is why I drive this truck.”

“Someday, the fighting will stop.”

“Insha’Allah.”

“Insha’Allah,” Harvath repeated.

“Hal tatakallamu alloghah alarabiah?” Do you speak Arabic?

“Qualeelan.” Only a little.

Yusuf smiled and took a drag on his cigarette. “Why you want to go Syria?”

Harvath fished out his press credential from beneath his shirt and held it up. “Journalist.”

They both knew that wasn’t true. “Why Syria?” he repeated.

“I’m looking for some people.”

“Bad people?”

Harvath nodded.

“Syria has many of those,” Yusuf replied, removing the cigarette from his mouth and picking a piece of stray tobacco from his tongue.

“What about you, Yusuf? Are you a bad man or a good man?

He thought about it for a moment and then, flashing his yellow smile, said, “It depends on the day.”

Harvath liked him and smiled back. “How big is your family?”

Yusuf’s smile faded as he saw the Jordanian checkpoint up ahead. “We talk after we cross,” he said.

Harvath nodded.

“You have the money?”

Harvath nodded again.

“Give to me.”

Unzipping the side compartment of his camera bag, he removed the first envelope and handed it to him.

“No talk,” Yusuf cautioned. “No Arabic. No Insha’Allah.”

Harvath understood. Better for him to play dumb. Let Yusuf do all the talking. This is what he was paid to do.

Arriving at the checkpoint, they were surrounded by a team of four very serious-looking Jordanian soldiers. Yusuf cranked his yellow smile up to full wattage.

They spoke for only a few moments. Then Yusuf discreetly passed the envelope out the window.

After looking inside the envelope, the lead soldier tucked it inside his tunic, smiled, and waved them through.

Yusuf put the truck in gear and accelerated forward.

As they rolled past the last of the troops and military barricades, Harvath looked in his side mirror. “That was easy,” he remarked.

Yusuf crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray and quickly lit another one. “Jordan is always easy,” he said. “Now comes the hard part. Now comes Syria.”