MJ-12: Shadows

28

Frank was just about ready to pack it in — for the night, for the week, for the mission, you name it. It was 2 a.m. and sleep wasn’t happening. The week had been fruitless and frustrating; Copeland had been fretting endlessly about Za’im’s increasing… eccentricities… but refused to allow Frank, Cal, or even Meade to investigate. The last time Frank had seen the President, only al-Hinnawi was with him; rumor had it al-Shishakli was on the outs. Even Zippy was starting to get frozen out of Za’im’s increasingly small circle; her fears about the Syrian president’s mental fitness were starting to make more sense.

Over the past few weeks, Za’im had taken to wearing a far more ostentatious marshal’s uniform, decking himself out with everything from a feathered fez to gold-buckled riding boots. He’d thrown a couple of really over-the-top parties, too; Copeland had snagged an invitation to one and reported a scene right out of a bad Arabian Nights knock-off, complete with belly dancers, that would’ve felt right at home at a burlesque, and enough alcohol — a taboo for many Muslims in Syria, let alone many of those in attendance — to drown the Fifth Fleet.

The biggest issue, though, was Za’im’s public announcement of negotiations with Israel, which were definitely more taboo than any amount of Scotch around these parts. Without warning or any kind of discussion beforehand, he just up and talked about it on one of his radio addresses, a series of increasingly rambling, nonsensical homilies about the greatness of the Syrian people, the need for a united Middle East, the shiftless youth of the souks, the cleanliness of the streets, and the necessity of no longer wearing the fez because of its Ottoman legacy.

Which made it all the more confusing that he’d shown up with the feathered fez the next day, but Frank had stopped trying to make sense of Za’im after he had Saadeh sent back to Beirut. Frank, Cal, and Meade had risked a whole lot to get Saadeh to Damascus, and ultimately Za’im used the guy’s life to score political points with Lebanon. Frank could see the logic in it — if Saadeh had succeeded, then sure, maybe he’d have wanted a united Greater Syria under his rule instead of Za’im’s — but it was a cold, hard thing to accept. And that bullshit about Saadeh being a Middle Eastern Hitler? Please.

Frank ran a hand over his face and, grabbing a bathrobe, headed out to the Copelands’ courtyard. That was one thing Frank felt American houses needed — courtyards, with fountains in them. Shady and cool during the day, inviting and quiet at night. Frank idly thought about where a house with a courtyard might make sense — Nevada, for one. He’d heard nice things about Albuquerque, or maybe Phoenix. Maybe his time in Syria had given him a taste for the desert — or maybe he was just hankering to be alone with his thoughts, without the voices in his head chiming in about every little thing.

Odd noises coming from the street, said the former O.S.S. officer in his mind. Multiple bogeys, clustered near the door.

“Christ, it’s probably just some toughs out there,” Frank muttered, plopping down on a chair near the fountain. “Gimme a break.”

You should check the door.

“No, goddamn it!” Frank hissed, a little louder than he wanted to. “Shut the fuck up!”

Frank leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Maybe he was wrong and being alone would be the absolute worst thing for him. Without stimuli, maybe the voices would get antsy, start telling him how to cook his meals, trim the hedges, maybe even offer ideas for hobbies. Model trains, maybe, or collecting commemorative souvenir teaspoons. Maybe Damascus had a shop for those.

The sound of splintering wood shook him out of his rut, and fast. The door! Multiple bogeys entering the building!

Frank immediately dashed toward the staircase leading up to the second floor. His first priority was supposed to be Cal — the safety and security of Variants was always mission number one — but he found himself at the door to the kids’ room instead. Security be damned; there was a baby in there.

Only three ways down from here, all with line of sight to the front door, said one of the many voices in Frank’s head; it was getting hard to tell who was who anymore. Grab the kids and get them to Copeland’s room.

Frank entered the room and did his best to gently lift the baby from the crib, then woke little Miles as gentle as he could. “C’mon, kid. Wake up. Your dad needs to see you,” he whispered.

Young Miles rubbed his eyes. “Daddy?”

No time! Grab him! Jim said, practically shouting inside Frank’s skull. With one arm, Frank scooped the boy and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of flour, then did his best to run down the hallway toward Copeland’s room.

Thankfully, the break-in had awakened Lorraine, who was just opening the door. “Frank! What is it?” Then she saw her children in his arms and her eyes grew wide.

“Take the baby,” Frank whispered. Lorraine, however, was already scooping the child out of the crook of his arm. He put little Miles down at the door. “Lock this door. Put all the furniture in the room in front of it. Then call the office for help. You understand? Lock the door, move the furniture. Call for help.”

Lorraine looked dazed, but nodded. “Door… furniture… help. Come on, Miles. Come with Mommy, then? Come on.”

Little Miles walked into the room, while Lorraine gave Frank one last, panicked glance. He waited until she shut the door and he heard the click of a lock before turning back to the hallway. “OK, guys, tell me everything,” he muttered as he started moving back down the hall.

The voices came all in a rush.

At least six different people inside, telling from their voices.

With that many inside, high probability of backup on the street.

They’re speaking Arabic, and one of them addressed the other as “Captain.” Police or military, likely the latter.

If they’re Syrian regulars, expect bolt-action repeating rifles, revolvers as sidearms, and a short, curved dagger for each of them.

Sounds like they’re moving through the courtyard now.

Moving in twos. Smart.

Get your firearm. Use the suppressor. Only chance of picking off enough of them to escape.

Behind you!

Frank hit the deck immediately, a rifle butt missing his head by inches. He kicked upward, entangling the legs of his assailant, then grabbed the man’s belt and pulled him down. The soldier — or at least someone wearing a Syrian Army uniform — fell squarely on his ass and lost his grip on his rifle, which Frank then scrambled for.

“Stop!”

Moving in twos, remember?

The second soldier had his bolt-action trained on Frank’s forehead from a range of about a yard. Frank froze in place, hoping for any great ideas to come bubbling up.

Surrender for now.

Hands up.

Try to start a dialogue.

You’re fucked.

“Very funny,” Frank muttered as the first man got to his feet and angrily grabbed his weapon off the floor.

This time, the rifle butt landed squarely on the side of his head, and all the voices went quiet.

“There you go, Frank. There you go. Come on now.”

Frank opened his eyes and saw Cal hovering over him, looking mostly like the late-twenties young man he’d been lately, though maybe a little worse for wear. Frank braced himself for one hell of a headache, but it never came.

“What happened?” Frank asked, slowly sitting up. He’d been lying on a stone floor, and when he noticed the bars on the window, he figured he was back at Mezze Prison. Given what had happened to Saadeh, Frank figured their odds weren’t so great.

“They woke me up, grabbed me, pulled me out of Mr. Copeland’s house. You they carried out. Then they drove us here, tossed us in the cell, and that’s it. Soon as they were gone, I figured I’d heal you up and get you awake,” Cal said. “Probably just knocked you out some. Didn’t take much to get you going.”

“Copeland? The family?”

“They weren’t taken. Other than that, don’t know.”

“Recognize anybody?” Frank said as he looked around.

Cal shook his head. “No, just a bunch of soldiers, young fellows, led by a captain. Though I did hear someone mention Hinnawi.”

Za’im’s right-hand man, came the political scientist. Likely acting on his orders.

“No shit,” Frank muttered, then looked up at Cal’s confused face. “Sorry. Someone was stating the obvious. Anyway, good ears, Cal. Anything else?”

“Just that it’s been busy here. Lots of folks moving about. Everybody looks worried as hell. And I sure wish they’d give us some clothes.”

Frank did a double take at that, realizing that Cal had been taken in his undershorts. Frank at least had a T-shirt on.

“All right, we need a plan,” Frank said quietly. “Guard patterns?”

“Ain’t been here long enough,” Cal said. “But when we got here, they put us in a cell block with guards at either end of the hall, by the two doors. Plus the guards that brought us in.”

“Assume six minimum, all armed. Not good. Maybe if we…”

Frank’s idea died off as keys clanked against the metal door. A moment later, it opened to reveal two guards. “Get up. Move it,” one said in Arabic.

“We are diplomatic representatives of the United States government and entitled to fair treatment,” Frank replied in the same language. “We will not accompany you until the leader of our delegation, Mr. Keeley, is called.”

The guard laughed and pulled his revolver. “I was told you might try that, spy. Get up or I will kill you where you sit.”

Frank sighed and hauled himself to his feet. “Well, at least we know this all isn’t some innocent mistake,” he told Cal. “Play nice for now.”

The two were led out of the cell — there were actually eight guards in the hallway — and marched out one of the doors and right out of the building. It was still pitch-black outside, and Frank figured there were at least two hours before sunrise. They headed toward one of the soldiers’ barracks — the same barracks, Frank remembered, where Za’im had taken the former president to kill him in the shower, before Cal had talked him out of it.

He looked over at his partner, who’d clearly put two and two together as well. Frank imagined it’d be tough for even Cal to survive a shot to the head, but he hoped and prayed he’d make it out somehow. He was the one with a family, after all.

The two Americans were marched inside the barracks and, as Frank feared, taken directly to the soldiers’ shower room. “Guess Za’im went and got antsy again,” Cal whispered. It was gallows humor, but Frank couldn’t help but crack a smile.

The voices in his head were silent, and for once, Frank missed the chatter. Perhaps they knew a lost cause when they saw one. Or maybe they were just still thinking. He hoped they’d hurry up with something, anything, because Frank himself was drawing a blank.

Za’im was already in the shower room, waiting for them.

But he was in casual clothes, kneeling on the floor with his hands on his head, looking terrified. Next to him, pointing a gun at his head, was Colonel al-Hinnawi.

And next to al-Hinnawi was Karilov, the Russian.

“Mr. Lodge,” Karilov said with a smile. “I knew we’d meet again. Hello, Mr. Hooks.”

Frank’s stomach turned slightly; Karilov knew his real name.

Cal gave the man a confused nod. “Don’t know if this is the best thing for anybody to be doing right now,” he said. “Seems like it could cause a real big fuss for everyone.”

Frank admired Cal’s attempt at diplomacy but figured it for what it was — a fool’s errand. And both al-Hinnawi and Karilov ignored him, with the latter turning to the former. “Where is the third one?” Karilov asked in Arabic.

“She’s coming,” the colonel replied. “We have her.”

Frank and Cal traded a look. Zippy.

“What’s going on, Comrade Karilov?” Frank asked in perfect Russian.

Karilov smiled. “Ah, finally. The tongue of Tolstoy and Lenin! I cannot tell you how it pains me to speak in churlish Arabic. Tell me, Comrade Lodge, where did you study Russian?”

Frank ignored him. “You do realize that the United States government isn’t going to let this stand.”

“They will, because to contest your capture carries great risk, does it not?” Karilov replied. “Better to lose three than to risk the world knowing what you are, what you can do.”

Frank calmly turned to Cal. “Cover’s blown,” he said in English. “You, me, and Zippy. He knows. All of it.”

Cal’s face showed a sad resolve. “Always figured this job was more trouble than it’s worth.”

Suddenly, Zippy was shoved into the room, dressed in an ill-fitting Syrian Army uniform, probably a spare given to her to cover up. She looked shellshocked, and her expression changed to outright fearful when she saw Za’im and al-Hinnawi.

“Are you satisfied?” al-Hinnawi asked Karilov.

Karilov nodded. “You may proceed. I’ll take these three, as agreed.”

Without another word, al-Hinnawi turned and shot Za’im in the head at point-blank range.

Zippy screamed, and Cal’s hands flew to his mouth. Frank just closed his eyes and turned away. “Syria is now an ally of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics,” Karilov said in Russian.

“For now,” Frank replied. “I think you just saw how quickly things can change.”

“You have no idea,” Karilov said. “Follow me.”

Frank looked around, searching for something that might trigger some advice in his head. Eight guards, plus an armed Syrian Army colonel who had already proven he had the balls to shoot a man in cold blood.

Karilov walked off, and Frank gathered Cal in with a wave, then went up to Zippy. “Come on, Zip. We gotta go.”

She nodded and stood up straighter, sniffling and rubbing a sleeve of her uniform across her face. “Never seen a man killed before.”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

They walked out of the shower room — an improvement in odds from when they’d walked in, Frank had to admit — and out of the barracks toward a waiting army truck. The drivers, Frank noticed, didn’t look Syrian in the least.

“So, where are we going, Comrade?” Frank asked.

Karilov turned back and smiled. “Far away from here, Comrade Lodge. Far away indeed.”

They were ushered around the back of the truck, which was covered with a tarp. Inside were eight armed men dressed in Syrian Army uniforms — but their pale, long faces and shaved heads told a much different story.

“Good morning, comrades,” Frank sighed in Russian as he climbed into the truck.

The first sign of trouble for Maggie was when she got off the plane at the Damascus airport and her ride wasn’t there.

In fact, nobody’s rides were there. Instead, she and the rest of her fellow passengers on the flight from Istanbul were left standing on the curb in the early morning light, wondering just what the hell was going on.

Finally, one of the police officers guarding the airport entrance — and Maggie noticed there were far more than usual on duty — made an announcement. “There is a curfew today,” he said in broken English after presumably giving the same spiel in Arabic. “You will be taken on bus to area for interviews.”

Well, that won’t do. She walked up to the man after he’d finished speaking — he’d thrown in some French as well. “Sir, you know, I hate to trouble you, but I work at the U.S. embassy here. I really think I should give them a ring, let them know what’s going on.”

She reached out with her Enhancement, trying to give the man a little nudge in the right direction — helping out a young woman, a little fear of annoying an American diplomat — and he responded accordingly.

“Telephone inside. You tell them OK from me,” he said with a smile.

“Aren’t you so sweet! Thank you!” Maggie said, touching his arm and trying to channel Mrs. Stevens. A few minutes later, she was on the phone, dialing Copeland’s house.

“Yes! Tell me what you got!” Copeland answered quickly — and nervously.

“Miles, it’s Maggie Dubinsky. What the hell is going on?”

“Shit, Maggie. There’s been a coup. Al-Hinnawi took over. Za’im’s been executed as a traitor.”

Maggie paused as she took it all in, as well as Copeland’s complete abandonment of discretion on the phone — a sure sign that things were bad. “OK. Let me speak to Frank.”

“Maggie, they took Frank and Cal. Al-Hinnawi’s men. I can’t reach Zippy, either. I got a guy at the airport who said the three of them were seen there just after daybreak with Sergei Karilov, the Russian attaché.”

Maggie looked around quickly. “OK. I’ll try to find them.”

“Wait! Maggie!”

“What?”

“They took off. On a plane. A Russian plane heading east.”

Without another word, Maggie hung up, pondered things for another moment or two, then picked the receiver back up and dialed a long string of numbers.

After a pause, a prim-sounding British woman picked up. “Amalgamated Exports, to whom may I direct your call?”

“Victor Davies,” Maggie replied. Agent down. Director’s office. Now.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. Come again?” Request confirmation.

“Victor Davies.” No, really, get the director’s office now!

“One moment, please.”

There was a long series of whirrs and clicks, the telltale signs of trans-Atlantic phone lines switching. Finally, Hillenkoetter’s tired voice picked up the line. “This is Mr. Davies.”

“Mr. Davies, this is Miss Davenport calling from Damascus. Unfortunately, it seems three of your shipments aren’t here at the moment.” Three agents down in Damascus.

“I see, that’s… well, that’s unfortunate. Were these the special shipments you were sent to assist with?” All Variants?

“I’m afraid so. They seem to have been loaded onto a different plane here at the airport. I’m afraid they may be headed elsewhere, and I’m not sure where.” All three Variants assigned to this theater of operations have been captured and taken out of theater.

“Well, that’s not going to work. Did you happen to catch which plane?” Who took them and where?

Maggie swallowed hard before answering. “No, sorry, but someone here thinks they were loaded onto a plane with red livery. That’s all I know.” Soviets. Destination unknown.

“All right. Why don’t you head into the office over there? I’ll get folks working over here on my end.” Report to the nearest U.S. diplomatic post immediately and do not leave. Await further orders from Washington.

“Very well. Thank you, sir.” Without any further ado, Maggie hung up the phone. The consulate was the safest place for her to be, of course, if random Reds were kidnapping Variants.

But of course, if that were the case, all bets were off.