MJ-12: Shadows

6

Maggie stepped out into the cool afternoon air and was immediately grateful for the light coat she’d lugged all the way from Washington. All the photos she’d seen of Damascus showed men in Arab robes, camels, and palm trees, so she assumed that she’d be stepping into a sweltering desert, like something out of Lawrence of Arabia. Instead, like nearly every other airport she’d seen, she emerged out of customs and into a swarm of people speaking half a dozen different languages, all trying to find a ride into the city.

And it was chilly! She bundled her blue coat around her and adjusted the bright-red hat she’d bought for the occasion. She was posing as an American diplomat’s fiancée, excited to rejoin her love here at the edge of the Middle East, though thinking of Frank as anything other than a colleague was something of a stretch. Nice guy, sure, but a little too muscle-bound and meatheaded sometimes. Plus, she doubted any woman could compete with the ghosts in that man’s head.

She smiled as she walked out into the sun and saw a palm tree — finally! — and a horse-drawn cart being loaded with crates and boxes, fighting for space with cars and trucks of seemingly every vintage made since Henry Ford started production. Looking around, she tried to find her own ride, but found there were enough white faces mixed in with the Arab-looking folks to make it more difficult than she’d thought. At least they won’t be wearing fezzes or headscarves, she thought bleakly as she craned her neck to see above the crowd.

“Miss Jones! Miss Jones! Is that you?”

It look a moment for Maggie to register that yes, here in Damascus, that was her name — Maggie Jones. She’d have to work on that, she thought as she turned toward the voice. A somewhat short, round-faced man with dark round glasses and slicked-back hair ambled up to her with a genial smile on his face, one hand in the pocket of his rumpled, off-the-rack suit, the other hand extended. “Miss Jones! There you are!”

She smiled and turned, gently taking his hand in a way she hoped would be appropriately demure. “My hero! Thank you for rescuing me. You must be Mr. Copeland?”

“Yes, yes, Miles Copeland from the consulate. So glad you made it! Frank will be terribly pleased to see you again. How was the trip?” he asked, deftly grabbing her suitcase and motioning for her to follow as he made his way through the throng.

“Oh, you know. Washington to Halifax to Iceland to Scotland to Paris to Venice to Istanbul to here. I surely hope I don’t have to travel in an airplane again anytime soon!” she said airily, slipping into the role a little better now. “Is the consulate far? I am hoping to freshen up.”

Copeland stopped next to a rather dispirited-looking Volkswagen, popping the front hood and heaving her suitcase inside. “Depends on traffic,” he said with a smirk. “It’s market day. But you’ll definitely get to see the sights.”

Maggie saw there were two others already in the car — one was a rather wiry, muscular man sitting in the passenger seat, and the other was Frank Lodge, in the back. She nonetheless waited for Copeland to open the door for her, as she imagined “Maggie Jones” would expect of any man.

“When’d you get in, Frank?” she asked as she settled in.

“This morning — went through Rome and had some delays. Maggie, this is Stephen Meade,” Frank said, nodding toward the front of the car.

The man in the passenger seat turned and extended a hand. He seemed compact yet strong, with a weathered, tanned face that could’ve been on a cigarette ad. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Dubinsky. I hear tell you’re quite the asset.”

Maggie shook hands — he had a strong grip that she could tell was held back for her expense. Through her Enhancement, she could also tell he already had taken a bit of a fancy to her, and she resisted the urge to tamp it down in his head. “I get by,” she said shortly. “And call me Miss Jones. I have enough trouble keeping the names straight.”

Meade nodded and turned back toward the front of the car without another word. Copeland got in, gunned the engine — “gunned” being a relative term for what surely had to be the sickliest vehicle in Damascus — and swerved into traffic with all the gusto of a practiced cabbie.

“Nice outfit,” Frank remarked. “You usually don’t get all fancied up.”

“Playing the part. I had a friend help me pick it out.”

Frank arched his eyebrow and smiled. “You have girly friends now?”

Maggie frowned. Frank didn’t need to know that it was really just a super-helpful girl at Woodward & Lothrop in downtown D.C. “You could use a good makeover yourself, pal. That suit of yours looks beat to hell.”

Frank smiled, and Maggie caught Copeland and Meade trading a look, their amusement palpable to her senses. She didn’t care; she wasn’t going to keep the lady act up for a minute longer than she had to.

“All right, mission briefing time,” Copeland said. “We know for sure nobody’s going to listen in on a moving car. You two all read up?”

Frank nodded. “Your buddy Colonel Za’im is trying to stir up opposition against President al-Quwatli, hoping he can take over. If we back him, he’ll then be in a position to clamp down on any efforts by the Reds to stick their noses in the Middle East.”

“And he’ll also approve the Trans-Arabian Pipeline project,” Maggie added. “That means a short trip to the Med for all that oil in Saudi Arabia. So, how’s your buddy making out?”

Copeland maneuvered deftly between a tram and a camel as the car entered the outskirts of Damascus proper. “He’s got enough of the army with him to make a proper move, what with al-Quwatli’s mishandling of the war with Israel last year. But they need a reason. Al-Quwatli is still pretty popular on the street, even though the politicos wish he hadn’t run for reelection last year. He’s been cozying up to the Syrian Communist Party lately and, well, we can’t have that. But that doesn’t matter to the army — they need something more damning to hang their hat on.”

Maggie watched out the window as they drove, noting the beautiful array of stone buildings — some new, some looking as old as time — huddled together on the narrow streets. Colorful awnings stretched over stands of fruit and trinkets for the people strolling by. There were men in full Bedouin robes, men in dapper suits and fezzes, women in swaths of cloth that covered all but their eyes, and ladies in the smartest fashion this side of Paris. Signs in English, French, and Arabic all fought for attention amid the bustle. “And we’re here to give them the reason,” she said absently. “Without making it look like the U.S. is involved because, at the moment, most of the Middle East hates us for Israel.”

“And for all the colonialism,” Meade reminded her. “They hate the French and British far more, but we got lumped right in there with ’em. There’s a strong Arab nativist movement going on. Toss the Turks, toss the French, toss the British, toss everybody. Us, too.”

“And the Russians?” Frank asked.

“Different story there,” Copeland said, a touch of frustration evident in his voice. “The Reds are seen as being more like the Arabs — once ruled by elites, having taken power for themselves. There’s still some mistrust, but the Syrians just don’t have the bad history with Russia that they’ve had with the West.”

“And we’re sure that Za’im is gonna play ball?” Frank asked. “Seems like he’s going against the tide here.”

“Husni al-Za’im got his start in the Ottoman Army, then went into the occupation French forces before finally siding with the nationalists and ending up in charge of the Syrian military, such as it is,” Meade replied. “He’s far more of a secularist than a lot of the Arab nativists. Syria has a strong Christian minority, some Jews — a mix of everybody, really. He wants a modern state with no official view on religion or ethnicity, unlike a lot of other folks who want the whole thing to be driven by Muslims. Za’im’s a Kurd from up by the Turkish border. He’s a Western guy, very level-headed. He’ll be fine.”

Copeland muttered something ugly under his breath as he nearly avoided a collision with a bicyclist carrying a ridiculously large basket strapped to his back. “Like you said, Miss Jones, we need something he can hang his hat on. Al-Quwatli won the election because he was seen as a hero of Syrian independence and a steady hand at the helm. We have to shake that perception, make him look like he’s not in control.”

“And how do we do that?” Maggie asked.

She could sense the satisfaction emanating from Copeland. “You’re gonna love it.”

Cal sat upright as Lorraine Copeland refilled his teacup. “Really, ma’am. I can manage just fine myself. You should sit down and rest some.”

The young blonde, at least seven months pregnant by Cal’s guess, simply smiled at him as she finished pouring. “Nonsense, Mr. Hooks,” she said in a light Scottish accent. “You’re a guest in my home, and I’ll not leave any of Miles’s friends to fend for themselves. Honestly, I’m delighted for the company.”

Cal leaned back and returned the smile, marveling at the hospitality. Crying shame he had to travel halfway around the world to be treated this well in a white woman’s home, but he was grateful for it regardless. Maybe it was because she was European, or maybe because he was an official guest of the American Consulate.

“Well, you got that fine young man to take care of,” Cal said as Lorraine finally and carefully took a seat. “Named after his daddy?”

“Miles the Third and three times the trouble,” she laughed. “Oh, that boy. So glad we have Haya to help me out with things. I just can’t keep up with him these days. Little whirlwind, he is.”

Cal remembered the little blond boy’s curiosity when he’d arrived the previous day, his flights having taken him through Africa en route to Damascus. He’d been covered as an African businessman seeking investment in Ethiopia, the former Italian holding on the Horn of Africa. This was Cal’s first outing without explicit diplomatic protection, which made him distinctly nervous, but Copeland had assured him the consulate would step in to help if things got sticky.

“So, how’d a young man like you end up working with, well… your particular agency?” Lorraine asked.

“Well, I ain’t that young, ma’am, but thank you for saying so,” Cal said, remembering that he looked a good twenty years younger than his actual age, thanks to his Enhancement. “They just needed someone with my skills, I suppose. And there are times when having a Negro around is a good thing — either I draw all the attention away from other folks, or nobody pays attention and I do what needs doing.”

“You’re like me, then,” she said with a mischievous grin. “Miles has people in and out of here at all hours, but I’m the one who does what needs doing.”

“And you’re mighty fine at it. It’s a wonderful home.”

That wasn’t just a shallow compliment; Cal really loved the place. The house was the light beige of desert clay, with a central courtyard featuring a small fountain that gurgled quietly into a brightly tiled basin. Tile work adorned the trim around the place, and creeping vines kept things looking lush. Inside, parquet wood floors and arched windows brought in breezes, while fans — likely a critical necessity during the summer — hung motionless from the high ceilings. Overall, it was a small, modest house but well appointed.

They’d been enjoying the courtyard earlier, but the evening chill had driven them inside to Copeland’s study, which was adorned with French furniture, and the walls were lined with books. A Decca turntable had pride of place on a beautifully wrought credenza next to a radio. There were a fair number of albums there as well, mostly jazz. A trumpet stood on a stand next to the credenza — Copeland had already boasted of the time he played fourth trumpet with the Glenn Miller Orchestra. Cal was more of a Dizzy Gillespie fan, but that still seemed pretty good.

Cal looked up to see Danny and Zippy come in. “They’re here, finally,” Danny said. “Miles said they had some traffic. Be here in a moment.”

Zippy went over to Lorraine. “How’s the little one doing today?” she asked with a smile.

“He’s a kicker, this one,” she replied. “Or she, I suppose, but no girl would bat me around like this one.”

Danny was wearing his U.S. Navy-issued shipboard khakis — he had official cover as a defense attaché — while Zippy wore a dark-gray lady’s suit. She was covered as a reporter from The Palestine Post in Jerusalem, which Cal figured was a right fine idea, given how reporters were always poking their noses into things.

“How was your walk around town?” Cal asked Danny with an arched eyebrow. Any other Variants around?

Danny wrinkled his brow a bit as he took a seat and waved away Lorraine as she tried to get up to pour more tea. “It was fine, I guess. May want to check it out again tomorrow.”

Cal couldn’t get a read on what that might’ve meant, but was distracted as Copeland and Meade entered the study with Frank and Maggie in tow. Cal shook hands with his newly arrived teammates, and was surprised when Maggie gave him a brief hug. That wasn’t really her thing, but maybe she was still playing her cover.

“Lorraine, darling, why don’t you check on little Miles for a bit,” Copeland said. “I’m afraid we have some things to discuss.”

Lorraine smiled and stood, gratefully taking Zippy’s offered hand, then excused herself quickly. Cal figured Miles had a fair number of interesting folks at his house. Meanwhile, Copeland walked over and put a record on the turntable — Cal was delighted to see it was Coleman Hawkins’ “Picasso” — and soon the sounds of the master saxophonist provided background music to their discussion. “Just in case there are ears out there,” Copeland said with a smile.

Drinks were poured — Copeland had some Scotch and gin stowed on one of his bookshelves — and then Copeland sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette, waving the others toward the sofas and chairs around the room.

“All right, let’s get to it. In one week, al-Quwatli is having a diplomatic reception at the Syrian House of Representatives. That’s our next, best chance to have a meaningful sit-down with Za’im and a couple of his supporters. Two of you should be there so we have the numbers. Who’s coming?”

Frank looked around. “We could probably only get away with one of the ladies, not both. So, how about me and Maggie? Or do you think Zippy would be better, Danny?”

“I think Zippy would be better off,” Danny said. “Maggie can get a bead on him during the reception. Cal and I will do the perimeter work. Sound good?”

“Fine,” Copeland said. “Colonel Meade here will join you on watch. And I think Miss Silverman will be great. We can add in the pressure to get an armistice with Israel going.”

“And what else will we be discussing?” Zippy asked.

“Well, every time we meet, I make sure we get commitments on the big three, as I like to call them: keeping the Reds out, peace with Israel, and getting the TAPline done. No doubt Za’im will ask for money — he always asks for money. But aside from a little bit of a slush fund, we’re not committing anything until he’s settled in as president. We’re not throwing good money after bad.”

“Anything else?” Frank asked.

“We want to be sure, of course, that his coup planning is going well, and we’ll pore over it afterward to see if there’s any holes we can help plug,” Copeland said. “And finally, we’ll get to our own operation, which I think will tip the scales against al-Quwatli and give Za’im the excuse he needs to take over.”

“Right,” Danny said, leaning forward with interest. “And what is this op, exactly?”

Copeland smiled. “It’s kind of an open secret that I’m the American you talk to when you really want to get things done. Jim Keeley is the official envoy here, though al-Quwatli still hasn’t let him present his credentials — it’s been months. That’s another reason we’re doing this; al-Quwatli isn’t even listening to our official envoys, let alone me or anyone from England or France.

“So, anyway, like I said, I’m kind of the operations guy, and most of the folks in the Syrian government know I’m probably the liaison to State and CIA. I don’t mind — Meade here has a deeper cover. It’s good to have a figurehead. And that’s what we’re going to use in a few weeks when we trick the Syrian government into raiding my house.”

The words hung silently in the room for several long moments before Cal couldn’t take it anymore. “You mean to say, Mr. Copeland, you’re going to try to get the Syrians to actually break in? Right here?”

Copeland grinned. “That’s exactly right, Mr. Hooks. Like I said, they know I handle some of the intelligence work. All I have to do is make it known that I have some intel here at the house, something that has to do with the Syrian government itself. I’m thinking something on the Ba’ath Party, which al-Quwatli hates. Everybody hates the Ba’athists. He’s going to want to know exactly what’s going on and how much I know, and he’ll send some goons to try to grab it from my safe here,” he said, pointing to a squat metal box in the corner of the room.

Frank furrowed his brow. “And how, exactly, can you be sure that the government’s going to go for this? I mean, you’re an accredited diplomat. They can’t be seen breaking in here, no matter how badly they want the intel.”

“Exactly, Mr. Lodge! That’s exactly the point. If we catch them in the act, then we’ll have the goods on al-Quwatli and expose him as paranoid and weak. It’ll encourage the opposition parties to back Za’im’s coup and definitely encourage other countries to eventually recognize his government afterward. As for getting them to do it, well, Za’im is going to help take care of that for us. He has some people close to al-Quwatli who can nudge him in the right direction.”

Cal looked over to his teammates, all in some state of disbelief except for Maggie, who simply had a smirk on her face. Of all his teammates, Cal figured Maggie would be the one to find the humor in such a terrible idea.

Zippy cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Copeland, but what about Lorraine and little Miles? They can’t be here when this happens.”

“Oh, we’ve thought of that,” Copeland said. “She’s heading over the mountains to Beirut to visit friends. It’s an easy drive, nothing at all to worry about there, Miss Silverman.”

“And so when the Syrians break in, we just… grab ’em?” Danny asked.

“Like a police sting, exactly.” Copeland looked at his watch. “Excuse me a minute. I want to say good night to Miles before we get on with the planning.”

Copeland got up and hurried out of the room, leaving the Variants looking at Meade, who simply shrugged. “He’s crazy, but believe me, I was in O.S.S. during the war. You’d be surprised how often crazy works.”

Danny frowned. “You know, I was originally going to be here for a few days, but now I think I’m going to stay until this op is done,” he told the others. “Honestly, I think it’s insane, but Colonel Meade here has a pretty good reputation. If he’s on board, we can do it. But I want to see it through.”

“That all?” Cal asked.

“No. I need to do some more recon before this goes down,” Danny said, looking him squarely in the eye. “Not entirely sure the coast is clear.”

Meade sat up at this. “We have the Reds well accounted for, Commander,” he said pointedly. “I’ve personally lined up all the best anti-Communist guys in the Syrian Army. We have this in hand.”

“I’m sure you do, Colonel,” Danny replied. “But they’re not the only ones I’m worried about. And before you ask, no, you’re not cleared for it.”