Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 51

It was a rugged, desolate landscape. The brown, rocky soil was punctuated by thin, sickly trees. The only other life was an occasional goat tied up outside a crumbling, mud brick dwelling. The pitted, four-lane highway they were on had seen better days.

When Harvath felt he had put enough distance between them and the checkpoint, he pulled the truck over to the side of the road.

“What are you doing?” Yusuf asked.

“I want to check you over. Make sure you’re okay.”

“I am okay.”

“All the same—”

“No,” the Syrian insisted, opening his door and climbing down.

Harvath opened his door and followed.

Yusuf walked to the back of the trailer and opened the doors. He knew they had taken it all, but he needed to see for himself.

He stood there for a long time, staring at the emptiness. A heavy black bruise had begun to grow beneath his right eye. Harvath stood next to him, but didn’t speak.

“I have nothing now,” he uttered.

“You’ll make the money back.”

The man shook his head. “This was my last chance.”

“What do you mean your last chance?”

“I have no more money. I used everything we had to buy products in Jordan. Now those are gone.”

“You’ll figure something out.”

“I don’t think so,” Yusuf replied. “I owe too many people too much money.”

Removing a package of cigarettes, he lit another and looked out across the fields. “Syria,” he said, shaking his head.

Harvath felt terrible for the guy, but there wasn’t anything he could do. He let him have a couple more moments of quiet and then helped him close up the trailer.

“I think I will drive,” Yusuf said.

“You sure you’re okay?” Harvath asked.

He attempted a smile. “Insha’Allah.”

Before they got back in the cab, Harvath had him open up the hidden compartment where his pistol and other items had been hidden.

Once he had transferred everything to his backpack, they climbed back in and got back on the road.

Yusuf didn’t feel much like talking. Harvath didn’t blame him. He was content to ride in silence.

The silence didn’t last long. Ten minutes later, Yusuf changed his mind. “Before the border, you asked about my family.”

Harvath, who had been looking out the window, turned and faced him.

“I have a wife,” said Yusuf. “One son and two daughters.”

Flipping his visor down, he removed a photo from inside the fabric and handed it to him

Harvath looked at Yusuf’s family. They were on the chunky side, just like him, and had big, bright smiles. It was taken somewhere near the ocean. They looked happy.

“They’re beautiful,” Harvath said. “How old are your children?”

“The boy is nine and the girls are eleven and thirteen.”

Harvath handed the photo back to him. “I’m sure you are very proud of them.”

Yusuf looked down at the photo and smiled for a moment. But as soon as his smile appeared, it disappeared. He was obviously still very upset about having been robbed.

“You’ll figure something out,” Harvath assured him. “Don’t give up.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Never mind. Tell me about Ottawa.”

Harvath laughed good-naturedly. “It’s the capital of Canada. Now let’s talk about your situation.”

Yusuf shook another cigarette free from his pack, placed it in his mouth and reached for his lighter. “The money I lost today. I really needed it.”

“That’s the great thing about money, you can always find a way to make more.”

The Syrian took a deep drag on his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs for a long time before exhaling it toward his partially lowered window. “I have lung cancer.”

Harvath felt horrible for the guy. Life in Syria was tough enough without cancer. “I’m sorry to hear that, Yusuf. What’s your prognosis?”

“Without treatment, it’s anybody’s guess. Six months maybe.”

“That’s what the money was for?”

He nodded and took another deep drag.

“You know, maybe you want to lay off the cigarettes.”

Yusuf expelled another cloud of smoke through the window. “At this point, what difference does it make?”

The man was probably right, but still. “Tell me about your wife. What does she do?”

His face momentarily lifted into a smile. “She used to have a dress shop.”

“And now?”

“The dress shop is gone. Like everything else in Aleppo. I moved my family to Damascus to find work. My wife is still looking.”

Harvath wasn’t a soft touch, but this guy was breaking his heart. Though he made his living pulling a trigger, he hated war. He absolutely hated it.

For the last twenty minutes of their trip, Yusuf turned the conversation back to Ottawa. Harvath only knew a little about the city, so the rest he simply made up. He didn’t like lying to the guy, but Yusuf wouldn’t know.

As they got closer to Damascus, everything became greener and more prosperous. This was, without a doubt, the seat of Syria’s power. Or, more appropriately, the seat of non-ISIS power.

Passing a rather nice new building that looked like a school of some sort, Yusuf derisively snorted, “Iranians.”

“They own that school?”

“Madrassa,” Yusuf corrected him. “They have built them all over Damascus.”

“What for?” said Harvath. “You have that many Iranians?”

Yusuf shook his head as he slowed for a stoplight. “The Iranians came to help prop up the regime. They want to convert everyone to Shia Islam. They set up madrassas and mosques, buy real estate, and import other Shia to live here. I think that’s why the Syrian government invited the Russians in. They don’t care about religion. They only care about power.”

The man had no idea how right he was.

As they rolled into the city, the landscaping grew even more dramatic. Full, healthy trees were everywhere. Grass lined the medians. Palm trees lined the sidewalks. Flowers spilled from planters.

There were large apartment buildings, cafés, boutiques, and taxicabs. There were cars everywhere, as well as people walking and riding bikes.

It reminded Harvath a bit of Washington, D.C. No matter how bad things were in the rest of the country, it managed to carry on as if nothing was wrong. It was astounding.

He knew, though, that rebel-controlled neighborhoods outside the city, like Douma in the northeast, looked completely different. They were frequently targeted for shelling by the regime and resembled parts of Berlin after World War II.

“You didn’t expect this,” said Yusuf as he watched Harvath taking it all in.

“No.”

“Have you been to Damascus before?”

He shook his head. “I have been to other parts of Syria, but not Damascus.”

“Looking for bad people?”

“Yes,” said Harvath.

Yusuf made another turn. “We’re getting close. Where do you want me to drop you?”

Williamson had given Harvath a prepaid Syrian cell phone. Powering it up, he texted the number he had been given.

“Stop up there,” Harvath said, indicating an area big enough to accommodate the truck.

While Harvath waited for a response, Yusuf pulled off the street and parked.

A few seconds later, Harvath’s phone chirped. After reading the text, he asked Yusuf, “Where are we?”

The Syrian told him and Harvath typed a reply into his phone.

“Do you have another trip planned yet?” Harvath asked.

“Why? Will you need another ride?”

“Maybe. Do you have access to any other kinds of vehicles?”

“Yes,” said Yusuf. “But this is supposed to be my last journey for a while.”

“Because of your treatment.”

The man nodded.

“How can I reach you if I need to?”

Yusuf gave him his cell phone number.

“Thank you,” Harvath replied, as he reached behind his seat and grabbed his backpack.

“Are you sure you want to get out here? It’s not a very good neighborhood.”

Harvath smiled at him. “I’ll be okay. I know what I’m doing. I’m a journalist.”

The Syrian laughed.

“You’re a good man,” Harvath said, extending his hand.

“It depends on the day,” Yusuf replied, extending his.

Harvath gathered up his backpack and camera bag. Opening his door, he climbed down.

He slung his pack, reached up for the door, and smiled once more at Yusuf. “Keep your phone turned on,” he said.

Then, shutting the door, he turned and disappeared into the crowded neighborhood.