Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 50

Wide, green fields interspersed with razor wire and long walls of concrete block created a no-man’s-land separating Jordan from Syria. Through the windshield, Harvath could see their next checkpoint up ahead.

“Money, please,” Yusuf said, extending his hand.

Harvath removed the final envelope and handed it to him.

“Thank you. No talking. Okay?”

Harvath nodded as they neared the checkpoint and Yusuf began to slow down.

Things looked a lot different here than they had on the Jordanian side. Every single structure bore battle scars. All the buildings were pockmarked with bullet holes. Many had been charred by fire or explosions. They were unquestionably entering a war zone.

Eight armed men swarmed the truck as they rolled to a stop under a large concrete awning. Yusuf cranked the smile back up.

The men were unshaven, their fatigues dirty and wrinkled. They clutched their Kalashnikovs in their hands, fingers on the triggers. They were sloppy, undisciplined. It was a powder keg just waiting for a spark. A very bad feeling began to grow in Harvath’s gut.

His Arabic was good, but not good enough to keep up with the rapid-fire dialogue being shot back and forth. Things were definitely not going as well as they had on the other side.

Finally, Yusuf nodded and put his truck in gear. Harvath had not seen any money change hands. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“They want me to pull ahead so they can search the truck.”

Damn it, thought Harvath. He had known this was a possibility, but he had hoped it wouldn’t happen.

As they pulled over to the side, men surrounded the truck. Yusuf was told to shut the engine down and get out. Harvath’s door was yanked open and he was ordered out too.

A man with horrible breath stood inches away from Harvath demanding his passport. Harvath held up the laminated press credential hanging around his neck.

The man slapped it away and repeated in heavily accented English, “Pazport. Pazport.”

Slowly, Harvath removed his Canadian passport.

The man snatched it from him and took a step back. He looked back and forth from Harvath to the picture several times. One of his buddies walked over and joined him.

The man seemed to be preoccupied with something. He directed his colleague’s attention to the photo and then over at Harvath. He then tugged on his own hair.

Fuck, Harvath thought. Not good. The guy didn’t like how recent his photo was.

“Journalist” Harvath stated, trying to take control of the situation. “Photo?” he asked, pantomiming the use of a camera. Turning, he reached back toward the truck for his camera bag.

The men did not like his sudden move. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” they began yelling in unison, bringing their weapons to bear on him.

Harvath raised his hands, palms out. “No photo? That’s cool. No problem. Journalist,” he repeated, pointing at himself and then the laminated card around his neck. “Journalist.”

Whoever these men were, they were very badly trained. Reaching for his camera bag had been a smart move. It had drawn them in closer.

Two of them were so close that he could have disarmed either and shot the rest before any of them had any idea what was happening.

Looking to his left, he saw that Yusuf had isolated a commander. They were off to the side discussing something. Probably money.

Everyone in the Middle East assumed Westerners were rich. And, by their standards, most were, which made them a prime target for extortion and kidnapping.

If for some reason the cash in the second envelope turned out not to be enough, Harvath had extra in the camera bag shoulder strap. But that was supposed to see him through the rest of his operation. If he showed up in Damascus without any cash, he was going to run into serious trouble.

Harvath watched their body language. Yusuf’s conversation with the commander didn’t appear to be going well.

As the commander turned and began to walk away, Yusuf reached out and put his hand on the man’s arm. No sooner had he done so than the commander spun and struck him.

The blow hit so hard that it knocked him out. Yusuf fell to the ground and his head slammed against the pavement.

Harvath moved to help him, but two of the men grabbed him by his arms and held him in place.

The situation had just gone from bad to worse. Then the commander came over to deal with him.

Harvath could tell that he was the alpha of this pack of wolves. He had cold, dark eyes. His brown, leathery face was crisscrossed with so many scars it looked like a road map. He sported a thick mustache so black that it had to have been dyed.

The armed man holding Harvath’s Canadian passport handed it over to the commander. He commented in Arabic about Harvath’s appearance in the photo.

The commander studied both him and his passport. He then scrutinized his press credential.

While he was doing so, Harvath’s mind was working overtime. He had kept the Winkler knife with him. It was tucked in his waistband, at the small of his back.

The men holding him had no clue what they were doing. He could easily break their hold. At that point, he could grab the commander, put the knife up against his throat, and it would be an entirely new ball game. But the chances of an overzealous, undisciplined recruit deciding he might try to take a shot anyway was pretty high.

What Harvath wouldn’t have given at that moment for a sniper covering him, over on the Jordanian side.

The commander looked up from the passport and locked eyes with Harvath. It was obvious that there was something about him he didn’t like. The feeling was definitely mutual.

Lowering his eyes, Harvath glanced over at Yusuf. He was still flat on the ground, out cold. He wanted to knock this commander’s block off.

When Harvath returned his gaze, the man held it for several seconds and then, without breaking eye contact, ordered his men in Arabic to open the trailer.

They all dispersed, except for the two holding on to Harvath.

Throwing the trailer doors open wide, several of the men climbed inside. When one of the men popped his head out to report what they had found, the commander yelled for them to empty it out.

Instead of traveling back with an empty truck, Yusuf had bought goods with his own funds. He had hoped to sell them in Damascus for a profit. There were cases of water, bags of flour and rice, batteries, toilet paper, soap, and shampoo — luxuries that citizens in the war-torn country would have paid handsomely for. Now he was getting cleaned out.

Yusuf had expected to lose some of the goods on the way back. It was the cost of doing business. Everyone took a cut. He hadn’t, though, expected to lose everything.

As the men unloaded the trailer, Harvath’s blood pressure continued to rise. Poking out of the commander’s tunic was the corner of the white envelope Yusuf had handed him. The man had accepted it, but he still wanted more. The greedy son of a bitch.

Harvath was pissed. He wanted to reach out and snap the commander’s neck. He hated men like this. Men who preyed upon the weak.

There was nothing, though, that Harvath could do about it. He had to suck it up and take it—all of it.

With the trailer emptied out, the commander told his men to search the cab. The vultures weren’t done yet.

But just as the men were climbing into the vehicle, two new trucks approached from the other direction.

The men paused and looked at their commander. He glanced at the incoming trucks. They were rolling heavy, which meant they had a buyer on the Jordanian side. They’d be carrying cash in order to be allowed to pass. It was shaping up to be a good day.

He handed Harvath his passport back, but held on to it for a fraction of a second longer than he should have as he fixed him with his icy stare.

Finally, he released the document and nodded for his men to turn Harvath loose. They turned and headed to the other side of the checkpoint to fleece their next victims.

Replacing the passport in his pocket, Harvath moved quickly to Yusuf, who had slowly regained consciousness.

“Are you okay?” he asked, helping him to his feet.

The Syrian nodded, but he was unsteady and needed to lean against him.

Harvath helped him back to the cab and loaded him into the passenger seat.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Don’t worry. You need to rest.”

“Can you drive?”

“Insha’Allah,” Harvath replied, closing his door.