MJ-12: Shadows

23

It took six long hours to drive from Beirut to the outskirts of Damascus — a trip usually done in well under three. Instead of taking them east along the main road, Meade chose a more winding path that led them south through farm country, then over the cedar-lined Mount Lebanon range on a road that seemed more like an ambitious goat path. Frank looked down at one point and saw the Packard’s tires were inches from a precipice that would’ve ended them, but Meade drove as efficiently and automatically as a New York City cabbie in rush hour. Frank just closed his eyes and leaned his head back, praying for flat land.

They were in the Beqaa Valley by sunset. As they drove, Saadeh inexplicably began talking about Lebanese wines — apparently, they were the best in the Middle East. Frank really felt for the guy; his pride in his homeland was palpable, and the sadness and weariness in his voice felt like his soul was in a vise. Saadeh even offered to have them stop for a meal at a vineyard owned by a friend, but that was quickly vetoed. Instead, they found a lonely looking gas station at a major intersection — they had to cross a well-traveled road at some point — where Meade had to barge in on the proprietor’s dinner to fuel up but managed to wrangle some bread and grapes out of him as well. Meanwhile, Frank took the opportunity to use the phone to dial a nondescript number in Damascus.

“Yes?” came a tired voice in Arabic-accented English.

“Mr. Hawley, please,” Frank said, using one of the code phrases Copeland had established.

That perked up the man on the other end of the line. “Yes, of course. One moment.”

There were several clicks and a bit of static, then a phone that rang six times before it finally picked up. “Yes?” It was Copeland’s voice.

“Hawley!” Frank said in his best salesman voice. “It’s Jack Rittenhouse! I know it’s late and all, but are you up for a drink tonight? I’m coming to town and got my hands on some actual Scotch. Had to practically wrestle a bear for it, but it’s the real deal.” We’re coming in, and we have Saadeh with us. Things went south in Beirut.

“Oh. Oh! Yes, hello! How are you?” Copeland said, and for a minute there, Frank thought he wouldn’t keep up with the ruse. “So, you’re on your way?”

“Might take a bit — customs, you know, but yes. Shall I come by the house? Or maybe Morty’s in town and would like a drink?” On our way, still in Lebanon. Meet at the consulate or go straight to Za’im?

“You know, I imagine Morty would love to see you. Let me ring him up. You can meet me at the house and we’ll go from there.” Za’im wants him. Pick me up at the consulate before you go.

“Right, then. See you soon. Bye, Hawley!” Frank hung up with a grimace. He hadn’t been in the spy game for long, but amateurs rankled him as if he were a pro.

Back in the car and munching on bread and grapes, they crossed the Beqaa Valley on a dirt road, still heading east and headed for Mount Hermon, which straddled the Lebanese-Syrian border and was within spitting distance of the heavily fortified Israeli border. Frank wasn’t worried about his own safety should Meade take a wrong turn, but he was pretty sure the Israelis wouldn’t mind keeping Saadeh for themselves, what with his whole vision that a newly formed “Greater Syria” would also include all of Israel. But Meade had mapped out his escape routes even before they arrived in Beirut, and the crossing over Hermon into Syria was uneventful — though Frank really wished someone would’ve put some goddamn guardrails up.

Once in Syria proper, with the Packard now heading northeast toward Damascus on the main road, everyone relaxed a little bit. Well, Frank and Meade did — Saadeh was still looking forlorn, staring out the window blankly, while Cal had managed to go right to sleep about an hour outside Beirut.

“So, why does Colonel al-Za’im wish to ally himself with me?” Saadeh said finally. “I feel as though this is not, as you say, a fit like a glove.”

“How come?” Frank asked.

“He gained power through a military coup, against a president elected by the people. I wished to empower the people of Lebanon against the government that ruled them. I would simply think he would wish to side with that government instead.”

Frank thought about this a moment before replying. “Well, I suppose you have a point there. But I also think Za’im thinks the same as you about the whole Greater Syria thing. He’s more, I guess, cosmopolitan when it comes to religion and social issues, kind of like how you’ve described it. Maybe you have more common ground than you think.”

“I guess that depends on what sort of man he is,” Saadeh allowed. “Have you met him?”

“Yep.”

“And?”

“You’re asking what, exactly? If he’s a good guy?”

“I suppose that’s a place to start,” Saadeh said.

Frank sighed. “He’s an army officer. You served in the army, Mr. Saadeh?”

“I have not.”

“The army’s rough. Not a lot of room for debate or thoughtfulness when bullets are flying. You make a decision, you expect it to be carried out, no questions asked. I think he’s a good example of that sort of mentality. He wants stuff done and makes it happen. And that’s what he did in Syria, I guess.”

Frank looked back to see Saadeh smiling. “Either you don’t know him well at all, or you are trying not to tell me something.”

“Look, we’re not pals, so I can’t tell you if he’s good to his wife or goes to church every week,” Frank said. “He took Syria without firing a shot. Isn’t that saying something?” Frank left out the part about Za’im nearly murdering the old president.

“Yes, that is a good thing,” Saadeh said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “I suppose I will have to meet him myself.”

It was well past midnight when the glow from Damascus’s lights were spotted over the horizon. Frank nudged Cal awake so they’d have an extra set of eyes as they entered the city, then told Saadeh to hunch down again. Saadeh’s SSNP no doubt had some friendlies in town — and Frank figured the Lebanese might have some folks stationed there as well. Maybe it was paranoid, but more and more, it had been paying off to play it safe.

The trip into the city center was blessedly uneventful, and soon the Packard pulled up in front of the consulate. Meade ran inside to fetch Copeland, who came out looking disheveled and generally tired, a sight that amused the hell out of Frank. “We mess with your beauty sleep, Miles?” Frank said as Copeland crammed into the back seat with Saadeh and Cal.

“What the hell happened?” Copeland said, then caught himself and extended a hand toward Saadeh. “Miles Copeland, U.S. State Department.”

“Mr. Copeland,” Saadeh said, shaking his hand. “Unfortunately, it seems the Lebanese government knew of our intentions and sent soldiers to deal with us — truly a sign of their animosity to the people of Lebanon!”

Copeland looked over at Cal, who just shrugged. “They tried a revolution. Didn’t work.”

Saadeh looked as though he was ready to punch Cal but seemed to think better of it.

“All right,” Copeland said. “We’re going to Mezze.”

“What?” Frank said. “Why there?”

“Well, we can’t just march him into the presidential palace, now, can we?” Copeland said impatiently as Meade hit the gas. “Za’im’s refurbishing one of the buildings there as a kind of retreat for these kinds of meetings.”

Yeah, that’s convenient, Frank thought, but held his tongue. Why the hell would a country’s president want a safe house at a prison? On the other hand… well, it was pretty well secured and it was the last place you’d look. Maybe it was a sharp move, even if it was creepy.

The Packard rolled out of the city center toward the hills outside town. Mezze Prison was situated on a particularly forbidding hillside overlooking a poorer neighborhood. A wide swath of land separated the prison from the barbed wire and walls that set it off from more respectable sorts. Meade drove up to the gate, and Copeland rolled down the back window to give some kind of password to the guards; they were let in without any hassle at all. Another guard inside pointed them toward a separate building set apart from the main prison. It looked like some kind of administrative building. Outside, Frank saw al-Hinnawi there, looking as brutish and pissed off as ever.

“Colonel al-Hinnawi,” Copeland said as he practically jumped out of the vehicle. “I assume the President is here?”

“He is, Mr. Copeland,” al-Hinnawi said gruffly. “Do you have him with you?”

“We do, yes. Shall we?”

Al-Hinnawi held up a hand. “Just Mr. Copeland and Mr. Saadeh.”

Frank walked over to the Syrian and stood just close enough to make his point. “Colonel,” he said in Arabic, “with all due respect, we work for the United States, not you. My colleagues and I went through a lot to get him here safely, and we’re going to make sure he’s safe and sound inside, God willing.”

The colonel narrowed his eyes and tried to stare Frank down for several long moments, and Frank had to admit, al-Hinnawi looked like one tough bastard. Finally, though, the colonel just turned on his heel and stalked inside. Frank motioned for everyone to come along. “Let’s go. It’s fine.”

Cal looked at Frank with an eyebrow raised. “Don’t seem fine.” But he followed nonetheless, as did the rest of the Americans; they practically surrounded Saadeh on all sides as they entered the building and proceeded down a short, nondescript hallway lit by dusty lightbulbs from above, toward a nondescript door.

When al-Hinnawi opened it, though, it was as if they were transported to a different world.

The room they entered — likely once a conference room or some such — had been turned into something out of Arabian Nights. There were a couple of couches, several overstuffed chairs, and enough throw pillows to start a pillow fight. Tapestries hung from the walls and helped curtain the windows, and the lights came from beautiful Tiffany lamps. A hookah sat idle in one corner, and incense wafted through the air. In the middle of it all, seated in a leather club chair with his back to a massive bookshelf, Za’im was reading a book and smoking a cigarette. And on one of the couches…

“Miss Silverman!” Cal breathed. “What are you doing here?”

Zippy smiled. “Good to see you, Cal. The President asked me here.”

Frank had to pick his jaw up off the floor. Immediately, he wondered how Zippy had managed to get into Za’im’s good graces so quickly, and was quickly ashamed of where his mind went. He didn’t know Zippy all that well but knew enough to figure she wasn’t the type to use her feminine wiles that way. Besides, she was dressed in a pretty plain dress suit, like you’d expect a reporter to wear — not a gun moll or something.

“Did he, now?” Frank said. “Interesting.”

Zippy merely shot him a look and moved her hand a fraction. I’ll explain later.

Meanwhile, Za’im looked at Frank and Cal with surprise — and displeasure. “What is this?” he quietly asked al-Hinnawi in Arabic.

“They insisted on accompanying him,” the colonel said, his frown deepening.

To Za’im’s credit, his smile instantly returned. “My American friends,” he said in English. “I thank you, on behalf of the people of both Syria and Lebanon, for delivering our friend from danger. And Antoun Saadeh! Welcome, my friend!”

Za’im got up and walked over to Saadeh, wrapping him up in a bear hug. Saadeh shot Frank a perplexed look but returned the hug nonetheless. “You do me honor, Mr. President.”

“You honor me, Antoun,” Za’im said, his hands now on Saadeh’s shoulders. “I am saddened to hear of what happened in Beirut. Come, we have tea here. I wish for you to tell me all about it so that we may decide what happens next.”

Tentatively, Saadeh allowed Za’im to lead him over to one of the couches, seating him next to Zippy, and the Syrian leader personally poured tea for the revolutionary. Copeland cleared his throat. “President Za’im, would it be all right if I stayed for this conversation? Perhaps I can offer further assistance.”

Za’im looked over at Copeland and smiled. “I believe your compatriot here can best represent the interests of the United States in this matter. Do not worry. Mr. Saadeh is my guest, and I simply wish to hear his thoughts on the Syrian Social National Party and Lebanon.” Za’im handed Saadeh his tea, then walked over to Copeland, hand extended. “You have done Syria a great service, and I thank you. The friendship between the United States and Syria will endure for many years to come, thanks to you.”

Meanwhile, Frank was staring holes into Zippy’s head, and she most definitely noticed. “I can do this, Frank,” she said in Hebrew, knowing that they were likely the only two Hebrew speakers in the room. “Long story. I’ll tell you later.”

“You better,” Frank replied, then looked over to Copeland, who was staring back, seemingly looking for guidance. All Frank could do was nod.

Copeland smiled and shook Za’im’s hand. “Very well, Mr. President. I’ll make an official visit in a few days. Thank you.”

And with that, Copeland turned to go, pulling in Meade, Cal, and Frank with a look as he left. Frank turned around for one last glance at Za’im, sitting across from Zippy, and a more relaxed Saadeh, smiling and chatting in Arabic.

“All right, then,” Frank said quietly as he closed the door behind him. “Hope you’re right.”