Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 53

In better times, twin brothers Thoman and Mathan Hadid could have passed for DJs or owners of a trendy local nightspot.

The handsome young men were in their late twenties. They had olive skin and brown eyes. They wore their dark hair long enough to be swept back behind their ears.

Their father was a politician who had been brutally tortured and executed by the Syrian regime. His sons had been working for the opposition ever since.

Though they were young, McGee had assured Harvath that the Hadid brothers were two of the CIA’s best assets in the entire country. Before the war, they had been college students. Now, Thoman drove a cab and Mathan ran a small mechanic’s shop.

Harvath found Thoman’s taxicab idling three blocks from where Yusuf had dropped him. Sliding in back, he said, “I’d like to visit the Umayyad Mosque.”

“At this time of day,” the young man replied, “it is better to visit the Chapel of Saint Paul.”

“What about the Midhat Pasha Souk?”

“It is always a good time to visit the souk.”

With their authentication complete, Harvath leaned back in his seat and Thoman activated his meter and pulled out into traffic.

The young man took a long and circuitous route. Harvath watched as they passed through neighborhood after neighborhood, occasionally glancing down at the GPS on his phone to see where they were.

Eleven minutes into their ride, he made Thoman come to a stop and take a right turn. As he did, a white motorcycle zoomed past.

“He’s been following us for the last six blocks,” Harvath said.

“I know,” the young Syrian replied.

They drove for another fifteen minutes. The streets were full of traffic. Buses, cars, trucks, taxis — everyone was honking. They honked to change lanes, to signal where they were, and to allow others to pass. It reminded Harvath of Cairo, where they did exactly the same thing.

There were people everywhere. Many of them were smokers. Both men and women appeared partial to Western fashion. A majority of women, but not all, chose to cover their hair with the Islamic head scarf known as the hijab. Some also covered their faces.

Many of the buildings they passed were run-down, and some looked downright abandoned. One dramatic high rise looked as if it had been sitting unfinished for decades. Damascus was not a booming city. It was bleeding out. Dying.

They parked the taxi in a quiet neighborhood and Harvath and Thoman proceeded on foot.

The young Syrian was wearing canvas high-tops, black jeans, and a leather jacket. Underneath he sported a T-shirt emblazoned with the face of American comedian Bill Murray wearing a pair of 3-D glasses.

They walked silently down a narrow alleyway to a set of tall wooden doors. At some point, they had been painted blue, but all the paint had long since chipped off and faded away.

Thoman removed an old-fashioned skeleton key and opened the doors. It smelled like overripe garbage and cardboard boxes. Leaning against the wall was the white motorcycle Harvath had seen earlier.

There was a small, wrought iron staircase illuminated by a cracked skylight several stories up. Thoman motioned for Harvath to follow him.

They climbed to the third floor, where he knocked against a heavy, metal door. A shadow appeared at the peephole. Bolts were then pulled back and the door opened.

Mathan greeted them dressed in blue jeans, boots, and a T-shirt proclaiming KEEP CALM AND CHIVE ON. Tucked in his waistband was a 9mm Browning Hi-Power pistol.

He stood back so they could pass and then closed and locked the door behind them. Thoman made the introductions. In addition to Arabic, both of the brothers spoke English and French.

“Hungry?” Mathan asked as he led the men into the apartment.

It was long and narrow, with exposed brick walls and timber beams. There were no bedrooms, only a large living space. The kitchen was comprised of a deep utility sink, a small fridge, a microwave, and a camping stove attached to a tank of propane.

Nonperishable food and other necessities like candles, batteries, and toilet paper, were organized on commercial metal shelving. Cases of bottled water were stacked on the floor.

“Yes, thank you,” Harvath replied. He hadn’t eaten since before leaving Amman.

There was an old wooden table with mismatched plastic chairs. Thoman pulled one out and invited Harvath to sit.

Mathan went to work pulling a few things from the fridge and nuking them in the microwave.

In short order he set down a stack of warm pita bread, stuffed grape leaves, and a dish of lamb meatballs in tomato sauce. They were very fortunate not to be in one of the rebel areas blockaded by the regime.

Thoman offered Harvath a bottle of room-temperature water, which he gladly accepted.

After Mathan set the last item down and joined them at the table, he gestured for Harvath to begin serving himself.

As they ate, the Hadids peppered him with questions about the conditions he had seen on his drive in. Harvath recounted all of it, including the trouble on the Syrian side of the border.

When Harvath was done with his recap, he asked the brothers about the strength of the opposition and how their fight was going.

“Russia’s escalations have changed everything,” said Mathan as he brewed tea. “They’re here for one reason and one reason only — to protect the regime and their own interests. They do not care about anything else. Nothing.”

“They’re also incredibly brutal,” Thoman added. “Twenty-five regime soldiers could be killed in an attack and they would do nothing. But if a Russian was so much as scratched by a piece of glass, they go and unleash hell.”

Harvath nodded. “That’s the Russian way. They never forget, and they never forgive. You know the old joke, right?”

The brothers looked at him. “What joke?” Mathan asked.

“An angel appears to three men — a Frenchman, an Italian, and a Russian,” said Harvath, “and tells them that tomorrow the world is going to end.

“The angel asks what they want to do during their last night on earth. The Frenchman says he will get a case of the best champagne and spend his last night with his mistress. The Italian says he will visit his mistress and then go home to a last meal with his wife and children.

“And the Russian?” Harvath asks, cocking his eyebrow and adopting a thick Russian accent. “Burn my neighbor’s barn.”

The Hadids laughed. It was a good joke, and encapsulated who and what the Russians were.

“So,” said Thoman, “you’re here to help create hell for the Russians.”

“And hopefully ISIS too,” Harvath replied.

“How?”

He held up his hand. “First things first. Let’s talk about the person we asked your people to put under surveillance.”

The Hadids took Harvath through everything they had learned about the subject. They showed him a map of the man’s neighborhood, the photographs their people had taken, and their list of what they saw as their best options.

Harvath sat quietly and took it all in. They were about to mount a very serious operation. Nothing could be taken for granted. Every step they took had to be perfect.

When the brothers finished debriefing Harvath, he had only one question for them. “How soon can we move?”