MJ-12: Shadows

22

Stephen Meade reached across the café table and handed Cal a telegram paper. “You care to tell me anything about why I should be keeping an eye on you?”

Cal took the paper and gave it a quick read. The wording was clipped and awkward, but the gist was clear: We don’t fully trust Hooks and Lodge. Watch them carefully.

“Well, I don’t rightly know,” Cal said with a sigh, putting the paper down on the table. “I suppose maybe something’s going on back in D.C., some kinda turf war between your folks and mine?” It was a bit of a gamble, pinning it on squabbling between bureaucrats at CIA and OPC, but it was the first thing that came to Cal’s mind — other than the truth.

Meade frowned as he folded up the paper and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. “I suppose. But I guess I gotta keep an eye on you regardless. Try not to do anything too scary, OK?” The words came with a smile, but Cal could tell the former soldier — officer, he remembered — had a little bit of fire in his eyes about it.

Obviously, the good Lord thought Cal didn’t have enough going on as is.

“I’ll do my best to behave, sir,” Cal replied. “Besides, I just had a call with my wife this morning. My boy did well in his first year of school, so I’m not of a mind to mess that up any time soon.”

Meade’s eyebrows went up. “College?”

“Grambling,” Cal said. “Though he’s looking to transfer to Howard so he can be closer to home when I’m away.”

“Agency set that up for you?”

Cal stirred a little in his chair and tried not to feel too defensive. “Boy got in on his own. Agency just made it possible to pay the bills.”

Meade smiled, and this time it seemed genuine — though he looked a little puzzled, too. “Well, that’s pretty swell. Hope he does well. Though I gotta say, you look awfully young to have a boy in college.”

Inwardly, Cal cursed himself for sharing too much with Meade, even if it was to get his suspicions back down; he’d forgotten how young and strong his Empowerment made him. Some mornings, he even startled himself when he looked in the mirror, in those moments before he remembered the strange journey he’d been on the last few years. “Well, I’m gonna take that as a compliment, sir. Started young, hard work kept me strong.”

Thankfully, Frank Lodge arrived at that moment, preventing Meade from asking any more questions. Frank plopped down a package of the doughy, sweet, sticky batlaywee snacks that Cal had taken a shine to while in town. Cal in turn waved over the waiter to bring a coffee, while Meade excused himself to use the facilities.

“Meade got a cable from his bosses,” Cal said quietly. “Said to keep an eye on us, like they don’t trust us.”

Frank frowned. “Think it’s because of the program?” The program was their shorthand for MAJESTIC-12 and all things Variant that were too classified to discuss aloud.

“That’d be my guess, but I can’t say for sure. I just passed it off as bickering between the Foggy Bottom folks. Hope that holds, but I think he’s taking it seriously.”

“Maybe it’s just that,” Frank said, shrugging. “I’ll send a cable to Danny and ask what’s up. Meantime, we—”

He stopped short to watch Meade dash past. “I think it’s happening!” the man shouted as he ran out the door of the café and onto the street — where Cal could see several young men thundering by.

“Here we go,” Frank muttered, downing his coffee in one gulp as he rose to his feet. Cal stuffed a piece of batlaywee in his mouth and shoved the rest of the package in his suitcoat pocket as he followed.

Outside, Frank pointed to a satchel next to Meade. “You got your radio?” Frank asked.

Meade nodded. “I’ll get the car. You find Saadeh and let me know where to go.” He sprinted off, away from the stream of men heading down the street. Frank and Cal joined them, going as quickly as possible and taking side streets wherever they could. Frank led the way — he’d sat with a dying Beirut deliveryman the week prior and now had a local’s map of Beirut in his head.

Their route took them once again to Martyrs’ Square, where a large crowd had gathered and was chanting in what Cal took to be Arabic. Not only was Martyrs’ Square the central-most open space in the city, it was also just a short walk to the Lebanese Parliament building — and where else would you stage a coup, if not at the center of government?

Given the line of heavily armed police Cal saw in front of the Parliament building, the government knew it too. He wondered if the growing mob was armed, or if they were getting reinforcements. And if so, from whom. Revolution, Cal thought in that moment, was one hell of a messy business.

“Find Saadeh and stick with him,” Frank said as they pulled up and began surveying the crowd. “Tap in if you find him.”

Cal nodded and felt for the small cigarette case radio in his pocket, then turned toward the edge of the square, where a number of streetlamps lined the edge of the walkways. He ran over and began climbing the pole, his long arms and ropey muscles making easy work of it. He couldn’t help but feel a little satisfaction at the way his rejuvenated body tackled the job, as easy as climbing a tree had been when he was a boy. A few moments later and he was hanging off the top, looking down on the crowd, searching for Saadeh’s gray, frizzy pompadour.

There. Near the center of the square, slowly making his way toward what Cal assumed was his favorite park bench. Saadeh was waving and shaking his fist, and while Cal couldn’t hear over the crowd, he was pretty sure Saadeh was getting them good and riled up.

Hanging off the arm of the lamppost, Cal reached into his pocket and pulled out the cigarette case radio, giving it two urgent taps. A moment later, a tinny voice came through. “Where is he?” Frank said.

“Usual spot. Crowd’s thick on him. You seeing weapons down there?”

“Nothing useful. Only a few guns. Bunch of broom handles and tire irons. Some idiot brought a cricket bat.”

“Cricket’s a dumb sport,” Cal remarked. “I’m coming down. Gonna make my way to him.”

“Stay on him,” Frank said. “If he gets himself wounded, keep him stable until we can get him out of there. Don’t compromise yourself.”

“Try not to. Out.”

Cal swung down from the lamppost with all the vigor and nimbleness his youthful body could provide and started running toward the center of the square. The crowd was moving now, an undulating and living thing, pushing toward the line of police in front of the Parliament building. The cops had helmets and rifles like soldiers, but even as the crowd surged, they seemed unsure as to what to do — despite being armed to the teeth, they were severely outnumbered.

Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, don’t shoot, please God, don’t let them shoot, Cal thought as he pushed and shoved his way closer to the center of the swirling mob, toward Saadeh. He had to be forcefully rude to a few people on the way as he cleared himself a path — even muttering “sorry” as he manhandled someone aside to push ahead — but he had orders. Za’im wanted Saadeh safe, and the U.S. wanted Za’im as a happy partner. Simple enough.

Finally, Cal saw a familiar face, one of the goons from their little visit a few weeks back. “I’m a friend, I’m a friend,” he panted, getting up close. “Here to help. Keep him safe.” The goon had an automatic pistol in his hand and glowered at Cal with disdain but ultimately shoved him into what seemed to be Saadeh’s inner circle, a group of tweedy-looking older men who looked an awful lot like college professors. That seemed to fit the bill of revolutionaries these days — bunch of older college boys trying to convince the worker bees to follow along.

As Cal fell in beside them, he couldn’t help but think that the American Revolution had been kind of the same thing, though — college-educated men getting a bunch of farmers and dockworkers to go along with a radical idea.

The edges of the crowd reached the line of police and started to move to the sides, allowing Saadeh and his entourage to get closer. Cal was now just about four or five people away from Saadeh as the revolutionary approached the police line, shouting something long and wordy in Arabic. Cal didn’t understand — but the crowd immediately cheered loudly when he was done. No wonder Za’im likes this guy, he thought. The policemen holding the line began to fidget and look at each other for support as Saadeh continued to exhort them, presumably, in the name of unity and prosperity or whatever it was they wanted.

There were others in the crowd talking to individual policemen, trying to argue their case or plead with them. A few even put their hands on the cops’ shoulders, which Cal couldn’t help but tense at the sight of; where he was from, touching a cop was a good way to get your nose broken. Yet the police here did nothing; in fact, a few started to relax and lower their weapons in response.

And then, one by one, members of the crowd started walking past the police line, in between the individual officers. The trickle soon became a wave, and all of a sudden, Cal was walking with Saadeh past two armed policemen looking out at the crowd with tears in their eyes.

“Cal, come in,” came the tinny voice from his cigarette case.

“I’m here, Frank,” Cal said. “Just got past the police line.”

“I know. I circled ’round. It’s a trap. You need to get Saadeh out of there.”

Cal looked around for several long moments, trying to see what Frank was talking about. “Frank, come again. I don’t see nothing out here.”

“I’m telling you, it’s a trap,” Frank said. “I got army troops around the back of the Parliament building and — shit, they’re moving! They’re moving, Cal! Get him out of there!”

Cal reached out with a long arm towards Saadeh, who was walking briskly toward the Parliament building, the bulk of the crowd at his back. “Mr. Saadeh! Mr. Saadeh! You got to come with me, sir. It’s a trap up ahead.”

Saadeh turned to give Cal a bemused look. “The only trap here is laid by men like you, Mr. American,” he said with a smile. “Watch as we take back Syria for the Syrians.”

But then Saadeh stopped cold, his smile evaporating as several columns of soldiers emerged around each side of the Parliament building, carrying rifles. Officers on horseback shouted at the armed men in Arabic, and they formed a new line, several rows deep, in front of the building.

“Like I said, Mr. Saadeh, this here’s a trap. You need to come with me,” Cal insisted, taking him by the arm.

Saadeh wouldn’t move, but the crowd around him slowed as well, the shouting and hollering dying down almost instantly.

One of the men on horseback drew his cavalry sword and shouted — and with his orders, the lines of soldiers began to shift. They were three deep, and the first two ranks immediately knelt down and raised their weapons. Two hundred rifles were suddenly pointed out at the crowd.

“Sweet Jesus,” Cal muttered, grabbing hold of Saadeh’s arm again, this time tighter. “Sir, we got to go now. You understand me?”

“They will not fire,” Saadeh muttered in disbelief. “They cannot.”

The man on horseback shouted again, and two hundred rifle bolts clicked into position.

First ready, now aim. “They sure seem like they’re gonna, Mr. Saadeh. You need to get out of here. Come on.” Yet nobody around them was fleeing, and Cal suddenly understood — these folks weren’t gonna move until Saadeh did, and Saadeh was frozen still. “Sir, you’re gonna get a whole lot of people killed if you stay here,” Cal said, trying a different tack and moving around to place his body between Saadeh and the rifles — because that, he figured, was his job at the moment.

Finally, Saadeh raised his fist in the air and shouted something in Arabic, then again in French. The crowd cheered once more.

“Aw, Lord,” Cal said quietly as he screwed his eyes shut and waited.

The cavalryman barked orders a final time.

Two hundred rifles erupted as one.

“Aw, Lord,” Cal said again, a bit louder, pulling Saadeh to him in a bear of a hug and using his body to shield the revolutionary.

Cal’s upper thigh blossomed into agony as a bullet pierced him with a roar of pain. He staggered forward, pushing Saadeh along with him even as men began dropping all around him and screams erupted from the crowd. Cal tried to put weight on his leg, but it gave way from under him in a searing white-hot blast of agony, sending him to the cobblestoned plaza.

Next to him on the ground, Cal found himself face to face with another man staring back with the glassy-eyed look of the freshly dead, blood pooling in the cracks between the cobblestones under his head. In his haze of pain, Cal reached out and touched the man, praying to God that he was indeed dead instead of merely injured, and pulled as much healing life out of the man as was left.

The pain subsided somewhat as he felt himself grow stronger, and Cal looked up to see Saadeh surrounded by his own men pushing him away from the lines of soldiers. Knowing there would almost certainly be a second volley, Cal pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. His thigh still throbbed, but he managed to get to his feet and hobble after Saadeh, pushing his way through the now chaotic, panicked throng.

There was shouting all over, and another round of shots pierced the air. Cal winced but somehow missed getting shot again. The young man next to him — no older than his own boy — wasn’t so lucky, falling to the cobblestones with a cry of agony. Cal paused, wanting to reach out and help, or at least alleviate the pain, but caught himself — God help him, that wasn’t his job right now. His job was Saadeh.

The knot of burly men with Saadeh in the middle was falling back toward the edge of the plaza, away from the Parliament building, and Cal managed to get there just as they reached an alleyway — a dead-end one at that.

Cal shoved through the mob around the revolutionary. “Mr. Saadeh, this ain’t no good. You got to come with me if you want to live. Come on!”

Saadeh made eye contact from behind the line of men protecting him. “Where?” he shouted.

“We got a car. Come on!” Cal raised his radio and keyed it on. “We’re in the alleyway off the plaza, next to the shops. Where are you?”

“I’m almost there,” Meade replied. “It’s a madhouse here.”

“Hurry up,” Cal said, looking over his shoulder to see the line of government troops now systematically marching into the square, using truncheons to beat up anyone damn fool enough to confront them. They had two, maybe three minutes. “Frank, you better get over here.”

His reply was a tap on the shoulder. “Right here, Cal,” Frank said, panting from exertion. “Let’s get these boys lined up.” Frank turned to Saadeh. “Too many men in here. Get them to stand at the street. They may have to buy us some time.”

Saadeh looked dismayed, and for a moment, Cal wondered if he was going to play ball after all. But finally, Saadeh barked out some orders in Arabic, and several of his bodyguards fanned out back through the alley. Some of them pulled pistols, which Cal figured wouldn’t do anything except piss off the soldiers and turn the alley into a shooting gallery. “Tell ’em to act scared, hide behind things,” Cal said. “If they look like they’re gonna fight, the fight’s gonna come to them.”

This time, it was Frank who gave the orders, and to Cal’s relief, Saadeh’s men obeyed. They now had a clear path to the street — so long as Meade showed up with the damn car.

Finally, with the soldiers now marching into the middle of Martyrs’ Square, the trusty blue Packard screeched to the curb, Meade behind the wheel. “OK, Mr. Saadeh, you keep your head down,” Cal said. “Get your jacket up over your head so they don’t see you right away. Ready?”

Saadeh, wide-eyed and sweating, nodded quickly and pulled his suit jacket up. “Ready,” he said quietly.

Cal looked over to Frank, who had his Regina .32-caliber pistol out, the suppressor already screwed on. Cal thought to reach for his own, but figured against it — the man next to Saadeh shouldn’t be a target. Wasn’t like Cal had it loaded anyway.

“OK, go!” Frank yelled.

Cal grabbed Saadeh by the arm and took off fast as he could down the alley toward the street, his thigh getting more painful with each step. Meade reached back and opened the rear door, and they quickly shoved Saadeh into the back seat, Cal right behind him. Frank clambered in up front, and Meade was driving again before the doors even closed.

“My men!” Saadeh yelled as he sought to untangle himself and sit upright. “What about my people?”

“You’re a wanted man now, Mr. Saadeh,” Frank said. “And — hell, keep your head down! We can’t have anybody seeing you in this car. Better you get out of town than get arrested with the rest of them.”

“But I need to regroup! This isn’t over!” Saadeh protested as he nonetheless slouched down in the backseat.

Meade swerved onto a side street. “Sir, I just drove across town to get here, and let me tell you, it’s over for now, OK? There are troops at every major intersection. They’re looking for you. I think you had a leak in your ship.”

“Leak? Ship?” Saadeh asked impatiently.

Cal put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Means the government had someone on the inside, spying on you. We got to assume they know everything you got going. All your bolt-holes and safe houses. Everything. That’s why you got to go, leave Beirut, figure things out away from everything.”

Saadeh looked miserable, on the verge of tears. “My own people. I cannot believe it.”

“Honestly, sir, your security was shit,” Frank said, no recriminations in his voice. “If we could wander around and figure out what your plans were, no doubt the government could too. Or the Russians. Anybody, really. Next time, you have to be smarter.”

Saadeh looked as though he wanted to strangle someone but instead just closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the seat. “So, where are we going now, Americans?”

Cal smiled at him. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Saadeh. You got friends in Damascus. We’re going to take you there.”

“I don’t have friends in Damascus,” Saadeh said quietly.

“None that you know of,” Cal replied. “But you do.”