Thunderstrike in Syria

Chapter Five

Although Damascus is said to be the oldest continually inhabited city in the world, it does not look old. Modern apartment and office buildings rise on either side of broad landscaped boulevards while the residential area is laid out with small green squares and broad lawns. Flower gardens surround attractive villas.

This was not my first visit to Damascus, so I knew that the most beautiful view of the city was at sunset from the Salihiya Hill, a ten minute drive from the center of the city. Below the hill lies Damascus, the Barada River fanning out into seven branches, traced by poplar trees which line their banks and by the nearby green of the gardens. Damascus' shining white houses and its many domed mosques are encircled by green parks and fruit groves which end abruptly at the desert's edge. Tall, slim minarets push skyward and, as the sun drops below the horizon and the sky reddens, muezzins appear everywhere on the balconies of these minarets, summoning people to evening prayer with the unforgettable call, "Allah el Akbar" — "God is great, God is great, there is no God but God."

But I wasn't the least bit interested in the sights of Damascus. I was too concerned with making my way to the shop of Ahmed Kamel. I glanced at my wristwatch: 3:35 in the afternoon. I had made good time and hadn't encountered any difficulty.

Walking in the old section of the city, I thought of how everything had gone as planned. The two Hamosad agents and I had crossed the Sea of Galilee; then they led me across the highly dangerous Golan Heights, that strip of land that is occupied by the Israelis. Once across the Heights, I had been met by another agent, a Syrian Jew who drove me in his vegetable truck to the little village of El Ruad, an uncomfortable trip, since I had been in the back surrounded on all sides by crates of tomatoes and grapes. Much later in the day, when the roads were thick with traffic, another Syrian Jew had driven me the rest of the distance to Damascus, some seventy miles. I had left the back of the truck while the vehicle was parked not far from the enormous Kaddha market.

Only once had I been stopped by one of the Fazets, a member of the regular police. Seeing that I was not Syrian, the man, speaking broken English, had asked to see my identification.

"Certainly," I had replied in Arabic, immediately producing my forged, English passport in the name Joseph Allen Galloway. Along with the passport I handed him the forged Syrian visa, all properly stamped, all so authentic looking I almost believed it myself. Just in case, I had forged ticket stubs to prove that I had entered Syria the morning of that very day, arriving on the Josi-Dan Express, a train that runs from Amman, Jordan, to Damascus, Syria.

Pleased that I could speak Arabic, the man smiled. "You are in Syria as a tourist, Mr. Galloway?" he had asked politely, handing me my passport and visa. "Or on business."

"On business." I had replied promptly. "I'm an importer in London. I've come to Syria to buy rugs and brass and copper items. 1 I had then added another big lie. "This is my tenth trip to your marvelous country."

My only real concern was that the policeman might search me, in which case he would find Wilhelmina in her shoulder holster and Hugo nestled against my right arm.

The policeman had smiled, had wished me a pleasant stay in Syria and had gone on his way. I had continued on mine, thinking that if worse came to worst, that if the Syrian secret police grabbed me by some fluke, I'd «confess» to being a member of the Irish Republican Army, and say that I had come to Syria to learn methods of terrorism from the SLA. It was no secret in the world intelligence community that the IRA had links to all the larger Arab terrorists groups, Al Fatah, Black September, the P.L.O. and the SLA. Whether or not the Syrians would have believed me was another matter. If they did, they would release me. Not that the Syrians loved the IRA. But Damascus hated Israel and the SLA was doing all in its power to bring down the Israelis. Conclusion: any friends of the SLA were looked upon with favor.

I was now approaching the Hamidiyyah Bazaar, the famous "Long Market" which extends for almost a mile. All around me were people from various nations — mostly tourists, although many were Arabs. Motor vehicles threaded their way through the dense crowds, their horns perpetually sounding but gaining little attention from the bargaining masses. Other than the main road, the entire bazaar was a veritable warren of crisscrossing lanes and winding streets. White-bearded, turbaned men with faces like patriarchs of the Bible sat cross-legged in front of their shops, selling calico and stripped gallibiyea cloth from bolts neatly stacked on shelves behind them. Other shops sold handmade artifacts such as inlaid chests, engraved copper wares, ceramics and embroideries.

I forced my way through the throng, now and then asking directions, until I finally saw the long sign: FINE RUGS. ENGRAVED BRASS, BRONZE & COPPER. AHMED KAMEL. PROPRIETOR.

Constantly on the lookout for the darting hand of a pickpocket, I pushed and shoved until I reached the entrance of the shop, which was larger than most, indicating that Ahmed Kamel and his sister did a thriving business.

Inside there were numerous customers milling around and four clerks, two men and two women. Ahmed Kamel was not among them. I was positive because, before I left Tel Aviv, the Hamosad had shown me photographs of Kamel and his sister. But one of the women clerks was Miriam Kamel, who, at the moment, was waiting on a tourist couple. In spite of the fact that I might be walking into a cleverly set trap. I couldn't help but have erotic thoughts about her, all generated by 'the tight, black dress which showed her figure to its best advantage.

Following Hawk's instructions, I walked up to the counter and handed her my forged Joseph Allen Galloway. Importer business card. She looked at it, for a moment then her dark eyes swept over me, appraising me calmly.

"I should like to see Mr. Kamel," I said in Arabic, trying not to stare at her breasts.

"One moment, Mr. Galloway." Giving me a quick smile, she went across the wide room and whispered something to one of the male clerks. Nodding, the hawk-faced man glanced at me, and I wondered if the woman had instructed him to call the police. If she had, she'd be the first to get one of Wilhelmina's 9 mm hollow points. But the clerk only turned to a customer while Miriam walked back to me.

"Follow me. Mr. Galloway," she said with a slight smile. She turned and moved toward a curtained archway at one end of the room. Undressing her with my eyes, I followed, well aware that if I had walked into a trap, I was doing it with all of the helplessness of a lamb being led to slaughter.

Beyond the archway was a short hall and three closed doors, one on either side and one at the end of the passage. Miriam chose the door to our right, and after we entered, I saw that we were in a sitting room. There were several fancy cushioned chairs, and an intricately carved teak table was centered between two blue sofas.

I sat down in the center of one sofa. Miriam positioned herself opposite me and crossed her long legs, her dark eyes measuring me intently. I played it cool, deliberately refraining from mentioning her brother. For a moment there was silence, except for the faint sound coming from the air-conditioning duct in one corner of the room.

"We can talk freely here; no one will hear us," she said at length. "I told the chief clerk that you were an importer from England and to see that no one disturbed us. Unfortunately, my brother is not available. He's in the hospital with a case of stomach ulcers."

I stared at her, letting my intuition have a free hand and watching how she was moving her left foot in little circles.

"Does your brother's illness change any part of the plan?" I asked.

"I can lead you to the SLA base in the As-Suwayda hills. Ahmed's being in the hospital does not pose any problems in regard to your mission. Would you like a drink?" she added, her voice sultry.

She didn't wait for me to answer. A teasing smile playing around the edges of her mouth, she got up, went across the room and stopped by a small table. She pressed a button in the wall, and slowly the bar moved forward from its hidden compartment. Seeing my surprise, she explained that she and her brother had many Western friends who drank and that many of their Moslem friends did, in spite of the Moslem prohibition against alcohol.

I looked at the bar. "Well stocked, I see." I deliberately moved closer to her, inhaling her faint perfume and eyeing the thrust of her nipples against the thin material of her dress. I pulled out a pack of Syrian Triangle cigarettes as she put her lush behind on a stool, indicated the other side of the bar with a hand and gave a tiny laugh, her upper lip rising to show the tip of small, evenly shaped teeth.

"Help yourself," she said. She looked at me as I moved behind the bar. "Nothing for me. I don't drink, not only because of my religion but because I consider drinking a weakness."

I lit the Triangle, vaguely wishing I could have had my own monogrammed brand which I had imported from Turkey.

"I'll buy that," I said, placing a fifth of Scotch on the bar. "Booze is almost as bad as smoking. Cigarettes killed my grandfather. He died at ninety-six." I poured a generous slug of scotch into a glass, then reached for the ice cubes in the West German-made ice maker underneath the bar.

"You don't seem to be concerned about getting to within sight of Karameh's main base," she said. "Or could it be that you're only being polite and really think that I can't do the job?"

"You said you could do it," I shrugged. "I assume that you can. I am interested in how dangerous the journey will be and what method of travel we'll use. I certainly don't look like an Arab and I can't see myself bouncing up and down on a camel."

Miriam laughed. "Transportation is not a problem. You see, I have an American van. I believe the make is a Dodge. It was once used as a laundry delivery van. It will be very comfortable."

"A van," I repeated. "What some Americans refer to as a sin-bin, and yet you say we'll be comfortable in it!"

Miriam looked at me in astonishment.

"I suppose I didn't make myself clear," I said, laughing. "Actually I meant the heat. We'll roast in a van."

"No, we won't," Miriam said. "My brother had the van completely renovated. It's air-conditioned, and the rear has been turned into living quarters — small but comfortable. The van is also equipped with heavy duty springs and Land Rover tires for rough country travel."

Tired from all the walking I had done, I took my drink, went back to the sofa and said, "How far is it to the As-Suwayda hills, and what kind of country will we be going through?"

Before leaving Israel, I had studied a detailed topography map of Syria and had discussed the entire situation with Hamosad experts; therefore, I knew that the distance from Damascus to the As-Suwayda region was roughly 50 miles. I also knew that, while there was a road part of the way, the last several miles would have to be travelled over very rough terrain. But I wanted to hear Miriam tell me her version. Her information was similar, although she wasn't sure about the distance.

"Much of the way is a well-travelled trade route," she said. "The rest will be over rough country, rocky but not impassable. As for the sand dunes, the true desert is farther to the east." She got up from the sofa, walked across the short space and sat down beside me. "There could be some problems though."

I frowned. "The Syrian Desert Patrol? It was my understanding that the Syrian government more-or-less ignores the SLA!"

"The government soldiers won't bother us," she explained, sliding closer to me. "They know the van. Ahmed is an amateur archeologist and he and I often go out into the desert to poke around old Roman ruins." I saw her face tighten with solemnity. "The trouble might come from bandits, either Syrian or Jordanian bandits. It is difficult for either our own government or the Jordan government to control the Bedouin scavengers. We'll have automatic weapons, but we'll have to be constantly on guard, especially after we leave the trade route. We can leave tomorrow morning, unless there is some reason why we shouldn't."

"What kind of automatic weapons?"

She looked at me in annoyance, as if I had asked a dirty question.

"An AK-47 assault rifle and a Skorpion machine pistol," she said. "And before I forget — Ahmed obtained the other things you will need for ascertaining the exact location of the camp, although the sextant and the celestial computer were not easy to get. "Her voice softened. "Like I said, we can leave tomorrow morning. Naturally, you will spend the night here."

I began to get ideas that had nothing to do with finding the Syrian Liberation Army base; yet I had to be sure that I had not misread the subtle invitation in her low voice, or that she wasn't just a teaser.

"Yes, with your brother in the hospital, his room is empty," I said with an innocent smile.

"Ahmed would not like a stranger sleeping in his bed, any more than I would want you to sleep on one of these uncomfortable sofas." Her voice was low and tinged with faint mockery.

Watching her smiling at me, her crimson lips curled slightly in amusement, I decided that it was time to make my move. I began to run my hand along her forearm, over skin that was soft, almost like silk. She sighed deeply and began to breathe faster as I moved my hand to her back, my fingers pulling the zipper tab downward. Then my fingers found smooth, cool flesh, while my other hand began pulling the black dress over one shoulder. My lips closed over hers and opened again, and she reached inside my mouth with her tongue. She helped me pull the dress over her other shoulder, and then wriggled out of it completely.

Laying back on the couch, she laced her arms around my head and neck, drawing me close as I moved my face down between her full heaving breasts. I traced the delicate curve of one with my tongue while her fingers fumbled with my belt, unfastening it. She writhed against me and moaned softly, as I slipped out of my pants and shorts. Her eyes were closed as though in some kind of trance, her lovely breasts indicating her increasing passion, rising and falling with greater rapidity, the nipples as hard as stone.

I began to stroke and kiss her eyelids and fine-boned nose, moving my lips, tongue and fingers slowly over her body — down over the bared neck, the heaving breasts, and smooth belly. With deft fingers I probed the wedge-shaped area of curly hair at the meeting of the inside of her thighs.

I carefully edged myself over until I was on top and my legs firmly entrenched between her warm thighs… Both my hands enfolded her body and I lowered my head to hers until my lips met her trembling mouth and she accepted my anxious, darting tongue. Then and only then did I arch forward, pushing the lance full length into her begging orifice. She gave a tiny cry of mingled pain and delight; her arms tightened around my neck, her legs over mine, and carefully I began those vital in-and-out motions. We were both starving for that supreme moment, that final, explosive sensation, and rapidly the pace became more furious.

It was — now! The rapture of our two bodies had merged fire and flame together, so that when it was time for one it was time for the other… pure passion overflowed and swallowed us both in a strange but beautiful exhaustion.

Miriam stared into my eyes and whispered, "We're going to enjoy the trip to the As-Suwayda hills."

Sure we would, I thought. But what about the return trip?