MJ-12: Shadows

13

Ever since Cal had arrived in Syria, the dawn call to prayer woke him up just as the sun was rising. He found it exotic and kind of soothing, and certainly better than the bells of an alarm clock.

Tank treads made a noisy alarm look meek by comparison.

It took a moment for the noise to register, but once he’d figured it out, Cal jumped out of bed and ran to the window, looking down from his second-floor perch onto the dusty street below, where three tanks were rolling through the neighborhood. At the intersection, a couple of soldiers were putting signs up on the street poles. Cal wasn’t close enough to read them, and he couldn’t have read Arabic either way, but given the circumstances, he figured it wasn’t because the circus had come to town.

Cal ran from his room to find Copeland already awake and trying to comfort his pregnant wife and little boy. “You just stay here today, all right? I have some men from the consulate coming over to stand watch. I’m going to have to go do things here, OK?”

“You be careful,” Lorraine replied, giving him a kiss. “Don’t do anything heroic out there. You run if it gets bad, you hear me?”

“I will, I promise.” Copeland smiled as Cal cleared his throat — partly to get attention, and partly to not burst out laughing.

“Is this what I think it is?” Cal asked. “What’s the good word?”

Copeland nodded. “This is it. Let’s go. Meade’s coming around to pick us up.”

Ten minutes later, with Cal fully dressed and Frank by his side, they were out the door and in Meade’s comfortable BMW 321. The streets were quiet and largely empty except for a handful of storefronts and market stalls where the proprietors were making their prayers, their carpets pointing south-southeast toward Mecca. The Syrian Army, however, was too busy securing major roads and bridges to pray. Cal had studied up on Islam a little bit, and wondered if the soldiers would gain absolution later, or if Za’im had given the country’s Christians and Kurds coup duty that morning.

“Well, they’re not stopping the prayers,” Frank ventured, obviously thinking along similar tracks. “I figure if the people felt threatened or angry, they’d do something about it.”

Meade nodded. “We saw a little of that in Turkey and the Balkans during the war. Prayer time trumps most things, but not self-preservation.”

Cal couldn’t help but smile. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Quick trip around town,” Meade said. “I want to make sure they went through the to-do list, like the state radio station on your right.”

Frank and Cal turned to see a small sandstone building with a large metal transmission tower sprouting up from around and inside it, completely surrounded by soldiers with weapons drawn. So it was across the rest of Damascus: the newspaper, hospitals, power plants, the presidential palace, major intersections, and various military barracks and bases, all locked down tight.

The last stop was Parliament, where a large crowd had gathered at the front steps. Meade pulled over a block away, and the four of them began walking toward the area. They were stopped by a young Syrian Army officer, but a flash of their diplomatic credentials — they didn’t even look at Cal’s — let them through.

The crowd, as they got close, consisted of government bureaucrats and parliamentarians, many of whom seemed to have dressed up for the occasion — three-piece suits, pocket watches, shined shoes, and velvet fezzes were the order of the day. A fair number of journalists were there as well, trading information and likely playing a big game of telephone. Cal spotted Zippy in the middle of an interview ahead and waited patiently until she was done before heading over.

“Miss Zippy,” Cal said quietly. “How you doing this morning?”

To his surprise, she gave him a big smile. “This reporter thing is a lot more fun than I thought it would be. Really easy way to get information without looking suspicious. I’m surprised we don’t use it on all our jobs.”

Cal shrugged. “I imagine I wouldn’t be as good at it as you. I’m no writer. What’s the word out there?”

She flipped open her notebook. “Syrian Army is in full control of Damascus, and reports out of Aleppo say the same thing. They say President al-Quwatli was taken into custody — protective custody, I should say — and that he’s been transported to one of the army barracks for his own safety.”

Cal frowned. “Good Lord. They’re gonna kill him there.”

Zippy shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Some of the crowd here still believe he’s the father of Syrian independence from France, while others think he’s been a terrible president, especially lately. I think we have Copeland to thank for that. But I really don’t think killing him would be a good idea. If this group is any indication, they like the fact that nobody’s dead. We should try to keep it that way.”

“Amen to that, Miss Zippy. I’ll pass it along. Anything else?”

“I think they’re tired of fighting,” she said, seeming sympathetic with the people there. “I think they want peace. Tell Za’im that.”

Cal smiled and wandered back toward Frank and the others. Peace would be a fine, fine thing indeed, though the look on Frank’s face when he found him wasn’t encouraging.

“Za’im isn’t here. He’s at one of the barracks with al-Quwatli. We’re a little worried,” Frank said. “Especially Copeland. We don’t know which one.”

“Zippy says al-Quwatli’s at the Mezze Prison barracks. And she says this crowd wouldn’t be very keen at all if he ended up dead at the end of all this,” Cal said.

Frank dashed off toward Meade, who was in the middle of an animated conversation with three Syrians. Cal kept pace easily and not without a little pride in his borrowed youth — though he always felt a little bad about that, too, no matter how good it felt for a fifty-five-year-old man to keep up with a thirty-year-old trained soldier.

“We gotta go,” Frank said, pulling Meade aside. “Za’im’s got al-Quwatli at Mezze Prison. We don’t want it getting messy.”

Meade nodded and, literally pulling Copeland away from another group, dashed back to the car, everyone else in tow. He drove quickly and, at times, dangerously through the still — largely deserted streets of Damascus.

“Was this part of the plan?” Cal asked from the back seat. “Locking down the old president like this?”

Meade’s eyes darted to the rearview, but he left the question for Copeland to answer. “No, it wasn’t, Mr. Hooks,” Copeland said. “The plan was to keep al-Quwatli at the presidential palace and try to convince him to transfer power peaceably in exchange for leading a small, muzzled opposition party. I thought we had agreement on that. Didn’t we have agreement on that, Steve?”

Meade shook his head. “Sorry, guys,” he said to Cal and Frank. “This must be Miles’s first coup. It never goes how you want it to go.”

Cal smiled ruefully. “I ain’t been at this long, but nothing I’ve been part of ever went a hundred percent according to plan. May want to drive a bit faster there, Mr. Meade.”

A few minutes later, the car pulled up to a gated compound where several Syrian Army soldiers stood guard. They immediately trained their weapons on the car, but Miles frantically waved his diplomatic credentials out the window and, after a few minutes of rapid-fire Arabic, got the guards to radio their superiors. It took less than thirty seconds for the weapons to be lowered and the gate opened.

“At least Za’im remembers who his friends are,” Meade said, trying to put up a veneer of good cheer as he aimed the car toward the largest cluster of buildings.

“Or we’re loose ends to tie up,” Frank said. Cal caught his eye, and Frank opened his coat — he had his CIA-issued gun in a shoulder holster, and the silencer was right there in a pouch next to it. Cal nodded back — his own gun was stowed at the small of his back.

It was also unloaded, except for a single bullet in the chamber. Cal wanted to be damn sure that he didn’t rely on a weapon when there could be a better way to solve your problem. Frank would probably chew him out something fierce for it… which was why Cal kept his ammo situation to himself. The good Lord had given him the ability to put people to sleep with a touch, steal a bit of life from them in the process, so it stood to reason that nobody had to get killed in most cases.

They’d just pulled up to one of the larger barracks when they spied al-Shishakli outside, al-Hinnawi on one side… and a boy not older than maybe ten on the other. Cal recognized the officers from the mission briefings, but… “What’s that boy doing here?” he mused.

“Apparently, that’s Shishakli’s kid,” Frank said, getting himself out of the car. “I don’t even ask anymore.”

Miles immediately rushed over and started talking in Arabic. The two officers looked worried, and there were a lot of hands moving about. “Apparently, Za’im’s acting up,” Frank muttered, translating for Cal. “He brought the President here and meanwhile already moved his family into the presidential palace. He has people cataloging museums and galleries, too.”

Cal frowned. “Now ain’t the time to redecorate.”

A minute later, all four Americans were ushered inside the barracks. But instead of going somewhere more appropriate — an officers’ quarters or mess hall, say — they ended up in a bathroom. There they found Za’im pacing, with al-Quwatli tied to a chair and placed in the wide-open shower room.

“Why is he in there?” Copeland asked, more to himself than anyone else.

Nonetheless, Frank answered. “Easy place to wash away the blood, Miles. Now fix this.”

When Za’im saw them, he rushed over and gave Miles a huge hug, then heartily shook the hands of Meade and Frank. When he got to Cal, though, the Syrian stopped. “And who is this?” he asked, still smiling but with a wary look in his eye.

“One of ours, Colonel,” Frank said calmly. “He’s been looking out for you for the past month, watching your back. Just like us.”

Za’im’s smile grew wider and he extended his hand. “Then you are welcome, African man. I thank you for your service to your country and to mine!”

Cal shook but tried to gauge the look in the man’s eye. Za’im was sweating slightly, his movements manic and erratic. It was only then, as he shook Za’im’s right hand, that Cal noticed the pistol in his other hand.

“Well, it’s my pleasure, Colonel,” Cal said slowly, desperately wishing Miss Maggie was still around. “It’s real nice to be able to help the Syrian people like this, and without any bloodshed. Can’t abide bloodshed when it ain’t necessary.”

Cal knew it was ham-fisted the moment he said it, but he was no diplomat. Za’im looked at him curiously but then walked back toward the shower room. “Yes, my friend, only a lunatic or criminal would want blood to be shed. But there are times, unfortunately, when it is necessary.”

Copeland took a step forward. “Colonel, you’ve won. The army is in control of Damascus. We checked everything — your plan was flawless and executed brilliantly. There’s no reason for the President to be tied—”

“I am the President!” Za’im shouted, his humor evaporating.

“Yes, of course, Mr. President. My apologies,” Copeland said, hands outstretched. “But there’s no reason for the former president to be killed here today. In fact, it may only make things worse for you if that happens.”

Cal looked over to Frank, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest — and one hand burrowed in his jacket. With all the skills and memories Frank had at his command, Cal knew he could probably handle the situation on his own in a matter of seconds. But then all the effort Copeland had put into cultivating Za’im would be lost.

Of course, Cal thought, maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

“Al-Quwatli is a traitor to the Syrian people!” Za’im said, practically shouting. “He gave us our independence only to squander Syrian blood in a fruitless battle against Israel. Had he given us the arms and men we needed, we would all be praying in Jerusalem by now! But he is weak and wants to see a weakened Syria when our country should be the most powerful nation in what you call your ‘Middle East.’ How can I let him live? How can I let him become the head of the opposition, Mr. Copeland, to have him sniping at me and biting at my ankles all the time? This is no way for a leader to run a country!”

Cal thought furiously. By now, Za’im was standing just a few feet from al-Quwatli, who was sitting with his eyes closed, breathing exaggerated breaths. He’s preparing to die, Cal thought. He’s making peace with his Maker.

There had to be another way.

“Mr. President, if I may?” Cal said before he even realized words were coming out of his mouth.

Za’im looked at Cal quizzically. “You disagree, African man?”

Cal frowned. There was a time when being called a lot worse than “African man” was simply a way of life. But being a Variant, with his kind of power, made him a lot less tolerant of it lately. “My name is Calvin Hooks, Mr. President, and maybe there’s a third way here, between what had been planned originally and this… new plan.”

“And what way is this, Mr. Hooks?” Za’im demanded. “How long have you even been in my country?”

“Oh, about a month now,” Cal said, slowly walking toward Za’im and al-Quwatli, his hands out. There were half a dozen other Syrian Army men in the room, so Cal figured he’d be riddled with bullets if he made a sudden move to try to even touch Za’im. “But I’ve done my reading. That there former president is still a symbol to a whole lot of your people, even the ones who are out there celebrating right now that he’s gone. Am I right?”

“What of it?” Zai’m asked.

“Well, you kill him, even if you set it up to look like you didn’t, well, they’re gonna blame you. Now, I’m not a leader, but seems to me it’s easier to rule a country where the people like you, rather than a country where they think you killed their George Washington.”

“Who? Who is George Washington?”

Cal closed his eyes and cursed himself. “Sorry. Their hero. The father of their country. George Washington was the first president of the United States. This gentleman here is the first president of an independent Syria, am I right? You can’t kill a symbol, sir. It’s just… too big. Too big. They’ll get angry and they’ll blame you and then you won’t be able to do anything else except spend the rest of your days lookin’ over your shoulder in fear.”

Cal looked over to Frank, who was staring right back, surprised. Cal thought he’d messed up somehow, but Frank gave him a small grin and cocked his head back toward Za’im. Keep at it.

“So. Mr. Hooks,” Za’im said, walking toward Cal with the gun in his hand by his side. “You are not a leader. You are not even given full rights in your own country. But I respect this, because you know what it is like to be led, and led poorly. What would you have me do?”

Well, damned if I know, Cal thought. “You can’t kill him. Doesn’t sound like you want him around anymore either, though. Right?”

“This is correct, Mr. Hooks.”

“Then kick him out. Exile him,” Cal said. “I’m sure the United States would be happy to put him up for a while. Get him out of your hair.”

Copeland and Meade looked over at Cal in complete shock, and Cal realized he’d just made a serious promise on behalf of his entire country. Not how he thought his day would’ve gone.

But Za’im was smiling again. “And I will tell the people he fled. Yes, Mr. Hooks… I like this. We can even show them! Shishakli! Get the film crew! We will show al-Quwatli getting into a car and driving off with our American friends here.”

Frank stepped forward. “Um, Colonel… sorry, Mr. President… we shouldn’t really be captured on film, you know.”

At this, Za’im actually chuckled and put a finger to the side of his nose. “I understand you, sir. I understand you! We will stage it, then. And then you may do whatever you wish with this traitor here. Untie him!”

The Syrians scurried to release al-Quwatli, who had a look on his face that was part utter confusion, part immense relief. Copeland, however, appeared rather put out. “Mr. Hooks, that was not part of the plan,” he whispered through gritted teeth.

“Neither was seeing that man executed in a shower,” Cal replied under this breath. “Go on and send me home if you want, Mr. Copeland, but I wasn’t gonna just sit there and let him do it.”

Meade smiled. “Honestly? Best of a bad situation, Miles. And now we get a chance to chat with al-Quwatli for a few days of interviews before we pack him off wherever.”

Copeland considered this, then nodded, even if it was begrudgingly. “All right. And yes, this is better than having him executed. Thank you, Mr. Hooks.” The OPC man then turned and started speaking Arabic again with Za’im and his officers.

“That was pretty damn good, Cal,” Frank said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m impressed.”

Cal looked down at his hands, which were trembling. “That was mighty stupid, I think.”

“It was brave and it saved a man’s life,” Frank said quietly. “Solved everybody’s problems, too.”

Cal shook his head. “Yeah, well, except for one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“What are we gonna do the next time Za’im gets antsy?”

Frank grimaced. “No idea. But we better be ready.”