MJ-12: Shadows

7

Frank was grateful the Syrians didn’t seem to place high value on the tuxedo, but the three-piece suit he’d reluctantly put on wasn’t significantly better. It didn’t help that there were multiple opinions floating through his head at any given moment, from the sartorial advice of a Turkish academic (I think tweed, yes? For authority) to the lament of a WWII commando (Your range of motion is shot to hell, and if it goes down in here, you’re gonna die unless you lose the jacket).

As he surveyed the room closely, Frank couldn’t help but wonder if his control over his ability was slipping somehow. Since he’d picked up the knack for absorbing the memories, skills, and knowledge of the recently deceased four years earlier, comments like the ones jostling around inside his head usually came when faced with a direct application of that knowledge — combat, mechanical repair, surgery. Only then would the appropriate voice and memory chime in, as if the deceased were whispering instructions in his ear.

Honestly, it was handy. Frank had access to at least several PhDs’ worth of know-how, the skills of the best fighters, drivers, pilots, and strategists in the military, and the ability to survive and thrive in nearly any climate and geography known to man. He was up to seventeen different languages as of Friday, when he’d sat at the bedside of a Kurdish woman who’d been hit by a car. Before then, he hadn’t even known there was such a language as Kurdish. Now he was a fluent speaker and knew more about the culture than the guys back at the Smithsonian did.

The thing about the languages was that, somehow, the whispers in his ear were never there. Frank just knew Kurdish. And Arabic. And Hebrew, Russian, Spanish, French, Flemish, German, Turkish, Czech, Icelandic, and others.

He didn’t know how it worked or why. It just did. But lately, well, all those voices seemed to have opinions on things only tangentially related to the skills he had absorbed. He’d learned to pick and choose what he wanted, but still… stuff slipped through. Like about the suit he was wearing.

Over the past several months, Frank had taken to saying “good night” to the voices before his head hit the pillow in the small but comfortable apartment the CIA rented for him in Foggy Bottom. He’d occasionally say “good morning” too. It was almost a challenge to the people he was carrying around with him. So far, they were silent in the face of such modest pleasantries. He figured he’d shit a brick if they actually started replying. Maybe they knew that.

“Frank,” Danny said. “You all right?”

Smiling, Frank turned to his boss. “Yeah, sorry. Situational assessment. Had to do some sifting in my head. Apparently, this suit jacket is gonna get me killed if it goes south in here.”

Danny smiled back. “Yeah, well, apparently Za’im has his men covering the place pretty well. I half-expect him to try the coup here and now, but Copeland’s really trying to pull this off without bloodshed,” he whispered, the clink of glasses and convivial chatter masking his words.

“Ambitious,” Frank replied. “Never heard of a coup without blood on the streets. How’s your own situational assessment going?”

For the past week, Danny had been hitting the streets of Damascus, covering the bulk of the city by foot and bicycle. His Enhancement — known only to a few Variants, the CIA Director, and the President himself — was that if he concentrated hard enough, he could locate other Variants. It was Danny who’d rounded up the entire group that turned into the MAJESTIC-12 program. Hell, he could walk into a mid-sized city and make a beeline for a Variant sitting at a bar in the most nondescript neighborhood. Frank had seen him do it.

But this time was different. Danny had caught a “flicker” of something in Damascus — a Variant whose presence only registered for a short moment — on his first night in town. No other Variant had ever produced such a signal in Danny’s mind. He’d been searching ever since but to no avail.

“Nothing new,” Danny sighed. “We’re the only five Variants in town. And I don’t think there are any null-zone generators here, either. The Soviets have bigger fish to fry.”

“You hope,” Frank grumbled.

“I hope,” Danny agreed. “Where are our people?”

Frank nodded toward the room. “My fiancée, Miss Jones, is over there being charming toward some Syrian politicians, and they’re eating it up. I would have expected nothing less. Then our African trade ambassador there is primarily staying out of the way by the snacks table. I think he’s going to try to get his missus to make Syrian lamb safiha when he gets back, because he’s been putting them away at a good clip.”

“We gotta get Cal out there more,” Danny muttered.

“Ain’t his thing, Commander,” Frank replied, a surge of protectiveness coming over him. “He’s an honest man who just wants to do the right thing, and that isn’t what this is by any stretch.”

Danny sighed. “And Zippy?”

“Just saw her a moment ago. She’s been talking to everyone, got her little notebook out and everything. Shaking a lot of hands, too. Very touchy-feely. Where’d she go?”

Frank felt a hand on his shoulder. “Right here,” Zippy replied. “Care to comment on Syrian-Israeli relations for The Jerusalem Post, gentlemen?”

“Relations would be a great thing to have,” Danny said. “But don’t quote me on that. What’s the scoop?”

Zippy deftly slid her notebook and pen into her purse. “Well, I’d say maybe one in five parliamentarians would be willing to make peace with Israel so long as all the Israeli gains in the 1948 war were given back. The other four would be quite happy to try to invade again.”

“And?” Danny prompted.

“Three members of Parliament are having affairs with other women, one with another man, the dirty boy. Two others are on the take, along with at least a third of the senior military officers present. Some of the bribes are us — I saw Copeland in one of ’em — and some aren’t us, which means it’s either the British, French, Soviets, or… well, OK, could be anybody.”

Frank marveled at Zippy’s Enhancement. Danny called her ability psychometry, which he defined as the ability to glean information about a person or object just from touch. She was getting pretty good at looking for intel, just as Frank had learned how to focus his death watch experiences so that he got only the skills or knowledge he wanted. The drawback for Zippy, though, was that she could never really shut it off. Hence the gloves she usually wore when she wasn’t on duty.

“That reporter cover’s pretty handy,” Danny said. “Let’s get over to Copeland. I think we’re gonna start the show in a few.”

“We know how the colonel’s feeling?” Frank asked as they started toward Copeland, who was holding court among several Syrians and, apparently, telling some pretty good jokes.

“Maggie says he’s angry and nervous,” Zippy replied. “Apparently, al-Quwatli didn’t show up for this one, and Za’im thought he would. Now he’s wondering what the hell the President is up to.”

“Great, angry coup leader,” Frank muttered. “This’ll be fun.”

Copeland excused himself and walked over to Frank and Zippy just as Danny faded away into the crowd. “You two ready?” he asked cheerily.

“Sure,” Frank replied. “Where to?”

Copeland smiled and walked toward one of the exits of the large, ceremonial foyer and down a corridor. A few guests mingled on the sidelines, and some of them seemed to note their passing with just a touch more than casual interest. Several of the voices in Frank’s head took interest.

Male, mid-thirties, Arabic descent, unarmed, English-made watch. Looking at Zippy. No threat.

Female, late twenties, Caucasian, Turkish-made dress, French-made shoes. Either English or French. Likely from the consulate, possible ally.

Male, late thirties, Caucasian, shoulder mount, Russian-tailored suit. We’ll see him again. Not an ally.

Frank glanced back at the guy with the bad Russian suit, who looked like he was glaring at them as they passed, but he’d already turned a corner to rejoin the party. “Who was the sourpuss back there?” Frank whispered.

“Karilov,” Copeland replied, his voice a touch too loud for Frank’s tastes. “Soviet Consulate. Probably my opposite number. Not much of a talker. Now, Vasiliev, his boss? Great fellow, really. I think he likes the game as much as I do. Much more interesting than Keeley.”

“You’re social with the Soviet consul?” Zippy asked incredulously.

“Well, sure, Miss Silverman. We all go to the same parties. We all visit the same politicians. We attend sessions of Parliament and go to major court hearings and all those things. It’s just rude not to be social. Vasiliev isn’t rude. Karilov is. Ah, here we are.”

By now, they were alone in a side corridor, in a maze of offices surrounding the parliamentary chamber. Copeland opened the door and immediately smiled at the two Syrian Army officers inside. “Evening, fellows. He knows we’re coming,” Copeland said.

They were ushered into the room — a secretary’s anteroom — and quickly frisked by one of the officers as the other stood with his hand on his holstered pistol. Even Zippy was frisked, and her purse searched — they were nothing if not thorough.

Frank looked over at Zippy, but she alleviated his concern with a glance — she hadn’t gleaned anything particularly troublesome from the guard. Copeland, meanwhile, was already heading for the inner office.

“Colonel al-Za’im, it is wonderful to see you again, my friend.”

Behind the desk, a large man in a garish military uniform rose to take Copeland’s hand. Za’im was taller than average and built like a brick house — thick and stocky, no neck, balding hair, full face. Frank couldn’t help but think that he looked like Edward G. Robinson, the actor who defined gangsters in the movies.

“Who are these people?” Za’im asked in passable, accented English. “Your friends from Washington you told me about?”

“Why, yes, Colonel, this is—”

Frank interrupted with a raised hand and a step forward. “You can call me Frank, Colonel. And this here is Miss Silver. And if it’s all right with you, we’ll leave it at that. You understand, of course.”

Za’im smiled slightly, and Frank relaxed. He wasn’t going to let his real name get around, and he figured a truncated “Silver” rather than “Silverman” would go over better with the Syrian military leadership — the same leadership that got their asses handed to them by the Israelis just the year before.

“Of course. Mr. Frank, Miss Silver. We thank you for your support of the Syrian people,” Za’im said, almost as if he were bored. “May I present Colonels al-Hinnawi and al-Shishakli, my friends and fellow Syrian patriots.”

Everybody shook hands cordially. Al-Hinnawi was, if anything, stockier and more dour looking than his boss, while al-Shishakli was quite different — tall, lean, with a politician’s smile and a clever look about him. Al-Shishakli gave both the newcomers a thorough once-over behind his smile and his patrician-sounding “A pleasure to meet you.”

Chairs were brought in, seats were taken. “Now, Mr. Copeland, how will these individuals help retake our nation from the criminal al-Quwatli? You know it was terrible supplies, inferior weapons, and unreasonable orders that prompted our defeat last year — certainly not the heart of the Syrian soldier! Can you help us with the supplies and weapons? We can handle the orders, of course.”

Copeland sighed and smiled. “My friend, you know that the United States cannot directly give you arms and supplies as you prepare to replace a democratically elected government — no matter how terrible that government has become!” he added quickly. “Once you have taken power and set new elections, then we would be happy to discuss a wide variety of aid packages, including rewards for completing the TAPline agreement that the current administration has set aside.”

“And so, I ask again, why are these individuals here?” Za’im asked. “This one, Mr. Frank, is he some kind of military advisor? And Miss Silver? Surely not military!” The colonels in the room had a good chuckle at this, while Zippy forced a smile for her audience.

“No, Colonel. These two will be helping me with our little operation at my house. We’re still on, yes?” Copeland asked.

“Ah, yes. Our pretext for the rest of the world,” Za’im said. “It is clever. And these two will help you catch the thieves we will send to your home?”

“They are both highly trained operatives and will not only assist in capturing the burglars but also in interrogating them to bring the truth of the current administration’s involvement to light,” Copeland said proudly.

At this, al-Shishakli leaned forward, worry on his face. “Now, understand clearly, Mr. Copeland. We will not stand for any Syrians seriously injured in this operation. You may defend yourself and your home, but we expect the return of our… operatives, let’s say… without lasting damage.”

Al-Hinnawi chuckled slightly and spoke in Arabic, which Frank understood quite clearly. “Adib, do you expect him to invite the burglars in for tea? All that matters is that al-Quwatli is blamed. If our men are a little worse off, is that not more believable?”

“I will not have good men harmed if I can help it, not at the hands of these Americans!” al-Shishakli hissed in Arabic. “Colonel al-Za’im, you cannot stress this enough.”

Za’im looked at his two subordinates, one on either side, then addressed Copeland in English once more. “Again, casualties are to be avoided, and we would prefer no lasting harm to anyone involved. But capturing the burglars in the act is most important.”

“We can do that,” Frank reassured him. “Mr. Copeland here has a great plan.”

The doors opened again, and a small boy — couldn’t have been more than ten to Frank’s eye — walked in, dressed like a sheik from Lawrence of Arabia, complete with headscarf. He walked over to al-Shishakli, and whispered in his ear.

“Ah, I think it is time to return to the party,” the colonel said. “Someone was just asking for you, Colonel al-Za’im.”

Za’im nodded and stood. “We will aim for March seventh for our operation,” he told Copeland. “A day on either end, perhaps, depending on how quickly al-Quwatli wishes to strike. I will try to send word, but be ready.”

Copeland shook hands with all three colonels. “My family will be out of the house starting the second, just to be sure. Good luck to us all.”

More pleasantries were exchanged, and the colonels filed out, the little Arab boy in tow. “Who’s the kid?” Zippy asked Copeland when they were gone.

“I think he’s Shishakli’s boy. Learning the family business from the ground up.”

“You keep your eye on Shishakli,” Frank said to Copeland. “He’s the brains of this whole operation.”

Copeland smiled. “Very good, Mr. Lodge. You’re absolutely right. Now, shall we get back to the party?”

Frank followed Copeland and Zippy back through the halls, wondering just how much Copeland wasn’t telling them about his plans — or whether the man was just winging it all along on a cloud of bluster and bullshit.

As Frank approached the bar, he saw Maggie chatting amiably with a number of Syrians and assorted Europeans — she’d bitch about it later something fierce, but you never know who might be useful later on. Cal could learn a thing or two from her.

“A drink, my friend,” said the man next to him. “To strong international relations.”

Lost in his head, Frank turned to suddenly find the Russian-looking fellow from earlier standing next to him, eying him with a curious smile and holding out a glass of champagne — it was Karilov, from the Soviet embassy. Cursing himself for being careless, Frank nonetheless smiled back and took the proffered glass.

Leningrad accent, came a voice in Frank’s head. College educated, but not in the West. With so many voices in his head, Frank wasn’t always sure who was talking at any given moment, but the information was useful. “I think I’m hearing a Leningrad accent, if I’m not mistaken?” Frank said cordially.

The Russian’s eyebrows shot up. “Very impressive, Mister… ”

“Smith. U.S. State Department. Linguistics. And you are?” Frank asked, trying to sound pleasantly ignorant.

“Karilov. I work at the embassy of the United Soviet Socialist Republics. A pleasure, Mr. Smith.” The two shook hands and Frank got the distinct feeling that neither of them believed the other’s last name for one second. “So, what brings an expert in Russian languages to Damascus, of all places?”

Frank smiled. “I speak many languages. You’d be surprised.”

“I have no doubt. And I see here this evening a few other new faces as well. Very interesting.”

Frank looked around with what he hoped passed for an innocuous expression. “Well, my fiancée is over there, but otherwise? I wouldn’t know. I imagine there’s always a rotating cast of characters around here.”

“Indeed, but it is wise to take note. Something for you to consider as you settle into your new position,” Karilov said. “There’s always someone taking note.”

The Russian sketched a little bow, then walked back among the partiers, leaving Frank looking for exits and praying Copeland wasn’t as sloppy as he seemed.