MJ-12: Shadows

20

Zipporah Silverman walked through the Parliament building in the Syrian capital of Damascus with purpose, now fully used to being in the halls of power and representing the United States.

Oh, and The Jerusalem Post. And the Associated Press. And… well, she was Jewish in a land that now hated Jews. So, there was that, too. Long story short, she was busy.

By now, she was a familiar figure in Za’im’s inner circle — one of his pet reporters. Word was that he was cultivating her to keep a channel open to Israeli thinking, which many seasoned politicos in the capital felt was wise. Given that Za’im was America’s man — or at least Miles Copeland’s man — she felt she was doing her part.

And she was grimly determined to make the very most of her position now.

She was patted down and searched at the door to the conference room Za’im had taken as his own; the treatment was commonplace, and to her surprise and delight, the male guards hadn’t taken any liberties. Maybe they could tell she’d whack ’em but good. Maybe they really didn’t like Jews, even young, female, shapely ones. Either way, she’d rack up whatever small victories she could en route to the larger ones.

Smoothing out her blue dress and adjusting her red hat, she nodded at the soldier manning the door, who opened it to allow her into the gilt, ornate room. Za’im sat at the head of the table, looking sluggish and bored. She noted several new decorations on his military uniform since the last time she’d seen him; she’d just written about his plan to assume the military rank of marshal. Because… why not? Men and their ranks and baubles.

Al-Hinnawi and al-Shishakli were already there, sitting to Za’im’s right, while that strange little boy was reading a book in a chair against the far wall. You’d think a nation’s senior military commander could afford a nanny. The kid looked up at her with his big brown eyes, then went back to his book. The two other army officers rose, as did Miles Copeland, who’d arrived separately.

“Please, gentlemen, don’t let me interrupt,” Zippy said, waving them back down and taking her seat. “Miles will catch me up later.”

Al-Hinnawi grimaced slightly as he turned to her. “We were just talking about Israel, in fact,” the Syrian said, his face florid; he looked like he’d been upset a moment ago. “Mr. Copeland here is urging us to make overtures to the Israelis.”

“To what end?” she replied.

“Peace.” Al-Hinnawi practically spit the word out. “They come in, invited by the British and the Americans, take over all of Palestine, create a massive refugee crisis, and now they want us to be the ones to try to make peace.”

Za’im raised his hand, and al-Hinnawi fell silent. “I know you feel strongly about this, Sami,” Za’im said. “We fought hard against the Israelis. And you know what? They were tough.”

“Because we didn’t have the equipment!” al-Hinnawi replied.

“Because they had the better army!” Za’im snapped back, staring the other man down into silence. “We blamed the equipment because it made the old president look bad, and because we need the army to have pride in itself. But you know it’s true: we were beaten.” Za’im turned to Zippy and smiled. “And that is enough of that argument. What do you think of reaching out to Israel, Miss Silverman? You are a Jew, are you not?”

Zippy’s eyes widened a bit. “I’m an American, sir. You know who I work for.”

Za’im waved her argument away. “Yes, yes. I know this. But you’re also a Jew. Your fellow Jews suffered terribly in Europe under Hitler, yes?”

“Terribly doesn’t even begin to describe it,” she replied quietly. “It was genocide.”

“And in recompense, the Americans and English invited you to try to reclaim Palestine,” Za’im insisted. “Your people fought bravely and well, and Israel is a country now. One that we can’t wish to go away just because we don’t like it very much.”

“I would agree with you there, sir,” Zippy replied. “Israel fought for the territory and won.”

“So, I will make an overture to Israel,” Za’im said broadly and a little too loudly. “We have such plans for Syria, for Greater Syria. And I do not want an enemy at my southern flank if I can help it. There is no need to worry about Israel right now when Lebanon and Iraq are on either side of us. So, Mr. Copeland, what do you recommend?”

Copeland leaned back in his seat and smiled, giving Zippy the distinct impression that he was really enjoying his newfound role as kingmaker and advisor. “I can certainly get a message to the Israeli government that outlines your desire for… well, what exactly?”

Za’im shrugged. “We cannot call it peace, of course. Perhaps an armistice. A suspension of hostilities. Something with a name people here in Syria will tolerate. And you are willing to facilitate this?”

“To a point,” Copeland replied. “We shouldn’t be seen as being overly involved. You’ll need someone within your government to manage that.”

Za’im looked thoughtful for a moment. “What about al-Barazi?”

Zippy remembered the name: Muhsin al-Barazi. He was an advisor and minister under al-Quwatli, the old president, and Za’im had kept him on to help with the transition.

“Do you trust him?” al-Shishakli asked, his brow furrowed. “He worked for al-Quwatli, after all!”

“I trust him enough to do this,” Za’im replied. “He has served faithfully. A government is a large thing, Adib! Muhsin has been faithful in keeping everything running. Mr. Copeland, tell your contacts in Jerusalem that al-Barazi is your man.”

Copeland nodded, then turned to Zippy. “You know, we can do a little something in the Post about this, too. Place an article there about unnamed Syrian government officials hoping to discuss an armistice. Something that will make Syria look good and start driving public opinion there.”

“I can do that,” Zippy said. “Without anything official or quotable, I don’t think it’d make the front page, but if I had to rely on unnamed sources, I could get it in the first five or six pages, I’ll bet.”

Za’im nodded. “I like this.”

Zippy smiled. “Then, President Za’im, what does your government have to say officially about a possible armistice with the state of Israel?”

“No comment,” Za’im said. Everyone laughed. “All right, there is one other thing, Mr. Copeland, but I will discuss it with you alone. Thank you, Miss Silverman.”

Zippy rose and shook hands with all three men, her gloves off. It was her way of keeping tabs on them, what they’d seen and done lately.

First, al-Hinnawi. She clasped his hand and saw flashes of arguments and anger, of time spent at a firing range to relax, of yelling at his wife, of getting drunk. This wasn’t particularly new — al-Hinnawi was volatile. But it seemed he was getting worse.

Next, al-Shishakli. These images and sounds were more soothing, at least. Reading, smoking cigars, conversations with other officials, and the boy, always the boy, talking to him and taking care of him. If nothing else, Adib al-Shishakli was a doting father.

Finally, Za’im. She smiled as she clasped the President’s hand, excited to be part of something that might turn out to be historic — peace and security for Israel. They weren’t her people, per se, but yes, they really were. And it was powerful stuff.

Then the images came.

Darkness. Crying out. Feeling trapped. Powerlessness. Clawing at air. A man gasping to breathe. No… gasping to be heard. To exist.

Zippy managed to keep her smile on as she dropped Za’im’s hand. And with a quick “thank you,” she made a beeline for the door.

It was only when she reached the outer hall did she realize Copeland had followed her. She nearly jumped out of her skin when he put a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey! Whoa! Sorry! Take it easy there. What’s going on? What happened?”

He doesn’t know about Variants, she reminded herself. “I just… I’m getting the sense that Za’im is a little… off. Not himself. You getting that?”

Copeland put his hands on his hips and regarded his shoes for a long moment. “Yeah, I suppose, maybe,” he finally said. “He’s been eccentric lately. This al-Barazi thing isn’t sitting well with the other two in there. They want a completely new government, and they think al-Barazi may undermine them. Assigning him this new portfolio isn’t going to help.”

“What else?” Zippy pressed.

“Well, he’s erratic, like I said. Named himself marshal. More medals. He’s been throwing some pretty big parties. Delegating a lot of important things to unimportant people. I think he’s just tired, you know? Been going hard at it ever since March, without a break. I don’t think it’s serious.”

Zippy eyed him closely. “I do. Call it years of training and careful observation, call it a gut feeling, women’s intuition, whatever. Maybe it’s my psychic powers, right?” This got a smirk out of Copeland, as intended. “But something’s wrong with Za’im, and I don’t know that it’s gonna get better any time soon. You better be ready to jump in.”

Copeland nodded wearily. “I hear you. I am. It’ll be OK.”

Zippy nodded and, with a pat on his arm, left. She didn’t have the heart to tell him just how much she disagreed with the notion that it’d be OK.