Damascus Station Read online

  Her eyes frantically moved from bag to bag, searching for any differences. It was more terrifying that she found none, because it meant she should keep going. She shoved the papers into the new bag and set it back where the old one had been. She put the old bag in her purse and quickly left the office. She hadn’t experienced any physical tics during the operation, she’d been so focused, but now she felt sweat on her back and noticed how heavy the purse felt over her shoulder. She winced at each loud footstep as she turned the corridor, almost running now, trying to clear Bouthaina’s office and reach her own.

  Turkmani’s door began to open. She heard Atiyah’s voice. She made a snap, instinctive decision and ducked into Bouthaina’s office. She stood by the desk, breathing heavily, as Atiyah approached. She imagined him asking what was in the bag. Such a nice purse. Show me what’s inside, dear, he might say as he reached in. She backed farther into the office and watched as his passing footsteps briefly blotted out the light seeping through the crack in the bottom of the door. After a minute, Mariam took a single step forward, then another, moving toward the door.

  She had her hand on the knob when she heard two familiar voices in the hallway, though, unlike most of the conversations on which she had eavesdropped, the current subject was not sexual. Mariam pulled her hand off the knob, backed into the office, and closed herself in Bouthaina’s washroom. She’d tried to get out of sight, but as Bouthaina’s office door opened she kicked herself for not just leaving the office and making up a story for Bouthaina about why she had been inside. As Mariam sat on the closed toilet in the darkness, she heard Rustum and Bouthaina bickering as they entered. Someone turned on the light. Should have said I was bringing a document into her office and forgot it. Should have said I sleepwalked here. Should have done anything but hide. Her whole world was on fire and now she’d probably doomed herself by stupidly wandering into Bouthaina’s washroom. She stood still, feeling her heartbeat in the darkness. Why were they here? If it was for sex, she was completely out of luck, because they’d open the washroom door and find a CIA spy sitting on the toilet, sweating, holding a purse containing a stolen document bag.

  “What couldn’t wait?” Bouthaina said. “And had to happen here? I was halfway home.”

  “We had a problem at Jableh. You remember the shipments?”

  “Of course. What problem?”

  “The Americans found it. We had to evacuate and move all of the sarin to a new facility. A backup. At Wadi Barada. I wanted to make sure you knew, in case you were sending anything else to Jableh.”

  “I see. Is the attack still moving forward?”

  “Yes. We’ve made enough. But please keep this between us, habibti.”

  From behind the door, Mariam could imagine the glare she must have given him. Bouthaina didn’t even respond.

  SHE LISTENED TO THEM SCREW for at least thirty minutes, Mariam’s discomfort overpowered by the relief that the animal noises coming from the couch would easily drown out any sounds inadvertently made in the washroom. She heard fabric tearing out there, probably Bouthaina’s panties, and the sound brought Mariam back to her apartment when Razan had her leg up on the balcony, dress ripping, ready to kill herself. Then they were on the floor, crying, screaming, gazing up at a rare starry sky. She’d saved her cousin, for what? The dungeon. She’d failed everyone she loved. Razan. Sam. Uncle Daoud. And now she was locked in a washroom. What was she doing? What had she done? She closed her eyes and tried to blot out the noise.

  She had betrayed Sam to Ali Hassan, a man she hated, to save her cousin. In the darkness she saw Razan in her black ruffle dress, though it was not ripped. She twirled. Then she heard Razan say: Why are you helping these monsters for my sake? I’m already free, okhti. You need to free the others: Fatimah, Uncle Daoud. Yourself. And who is going to help you? Ali Hassan? Please, girl. Sam is the only one you can trust. And you’ve screwed it all up.

  She’d selfishly tried to protect her cousin, and now, finally, she realized that Razan never would have approved. Razan would tell her to keep fighting. Mariam had been trying to save Razan, first from joining the rebellion, then from the clutches of Ali Hassan. But now she knew that to save her cousin she had to free herself.

  She opened her eyes.

  Mariam stayed put for another half hour after they left, just to be sure. Sweaty and edgy, she emerged from Bouthaina’s office and hugged the wall for support as she returned to her own. Mariam lay down, pressing her cheek onto the cold floor. She had to tell Sam, but Ali had the device and the drop site would take too long. A mortar landed outside, close enough to shake her windows.

  She checked the time. Sam might still be at the embassy. She gathered the purse and left.

  She would do it tonight. She would atone for her mistake. She would collect his promise.

  42

  THE FUCK ON THE COUCH HAD HELPED CLEAR HIS MIND. In his office rereading Ali’s reports on the Samuel Joseph surveillance disasters, Rustum felt a moment of extreme clarity. The evaporation of the CIA officer into the night. The mix-up with the Frenchman. The ransacking of the apartment. The shit all over the bed was a nice touch, but it did not compensate for the fact that Ali had failed. And his little brother had the gall to rub his nose in it by having the President write a decree forcing him to pass that silly message to Bouthaina. Rustum felt himself descending into anger, his jaw clenched tightly. He was a boy again, pushing Ali down the stairs, jumping on him in bed with a kitchen knife to slit his throat. He was vengeance. He was Syria’s salvation.

  He would have to clean up the mess.

  He had to arrest Samuel Joseph. The President would understand once it came to light, even if Ali still had time for his silly operations. It would only take a few hours for Basil to cut the traitor’s name from the American. Then, sure in the knowledge that no spies lurked inside his army, Rustum could unleash his attack to end the war. The Americans had dropped atomic bombs to defeat the Japanese and end the Second World War. Why could he not kill the terrorists with gas?

  He picked up the phone and barked Basil’s name. An aide patched him through.

  “I have a job for your boys,” Rustum said

  “Certainly.” Rustum heard the scratchy sounds of Basil cradling the phone between his head and shoulder. “What is it?”

  “There is an American, a CIA officer, here in Damascus. Samuel Joseph. I will send you his file. He’s running a traitor. I want him brought in.”

  “Understood. Militia?”

  “Yes. No paperwork.” Rustum thought again of the dishwater eyes, Hama, the scalps. “And no wet work on this one, so make sure the boys you use are clean. No heroin. I need him talking, not dead or in the hospital. Understood?”

  “Will your brother be watching him with the Russians?”

  “I will call them now and order them to back off, give you some space to work.”

  “Yes, Commander. How soon?”

  “Now.”

  Rustum hung up, dialed Ali’s office, and was patched through to the assistant. “Get me Ali,” he growled, but ­instead of Ali he heard the assistant stammer that Ali is not here. “Then get me the Russian,” Rustum growled.

  A moment later, Rustum was greeted by a thick Slavic accent.­ “Yes, Commander.”

  “Back the surveillance teams off the American for the rest of the night. I need them elsewhere.”

  43

  THE EMBASSY’S CONTRACTOR CLEANING CREW WAS still at his apartment—“Never seen anything like this, Mr. Joseph, never seen anything like this,” one of the men had mumbled on repeat as they toured the ruined apartment—so Sam stayed at the Station later than usual and used the time to check for messages on the ATHENA database. It was empty, like every day since Italy. Exhausted and worried, he put on his suit coat to leave. Inside the pocket, he felt the Marlboros he’d purchased for Ali. Even though Vegas was one of the last places in America you could smoke in public, he’d never taken to it. He’d always preferred dip. But this was better than
nothing.

  Outside the chancery building, he bummed a light from one of the Marine Guards and felt obligated to bullshit with him about the deteriorating security situation. The young Marine, Sam thought, looked genuinely excited about the prospect of the collapse of law and order in the capital. “Mind if I borrow this?” Sam said, holding up the box of matches, and the jarhead said go right ahead. Facing up toward the sheer cliff of climb-resistant fencing, he debated when the mukhabarat would toss him from the country. The excitement he’d felt during the first days of his tour had vanished, replaced by the ominous feeling that his work in Damascus was collapsing.

  Procter had charged him with two jobs: kill Ali Hassan, run ATHENA. He had failed at both.

  First, Ali. They’d come close. Sam still did­ not understand why the Russian had run after him on the street, or where they’d gone, but he knew from the words on the Slav’s lips (“We’ve found him”) that they’d been hunting him. Ali’s warning and the trashing of his apartment meant he was on thin ice. Stick another thumb in Ali’s eye, and you may not be able to gouge it out. He’ll just bite it off. PNG you. Maybe worse, like he’d done to Val.

  Two, ATHENA. Mariam. She had hidden something from him in Tuscany. They hadn’t heard anything from her on the device for more than a week. Something was very wrong. Sam lit another cigarette and gazed at the American flag, flapping against the mortar-streaked sky. He thought of the protester who had climbed the roof to tear it down. He thought of Mariam’s fearful eyes in Italy. He remembered his promise.

  His time in Damascus had run its course. He had no clue what would happen to his career after this night. It might be over. But he knew what he had to do.

  Sam stubbed out the cigarette. He punched the code to enter the chancery building and walked down the steps toward the Station. Entering another code, he swung open the metallic vault door, collected his bag from his desk, and walked into Procter’s office. She was yelling at someone on the phone, but when she saw Sam, she hung up. The embassy walls shook as a regime artillery barrage picked up. He leaned in the doorway.

  “I know I’m on thin ice here, Chief. Maybe we talk to Bradley in the morning and figure out what to do next?”

  She stared at him and did not answer the question. “Take care of your agent and get the intel,” Procter said. “It’s all that matters.”

  Sam nodded. He exited the Station, strolled into the motor pool, back through the metal detectors, and left the embassy compound. Tonight he would keep his promise.

  FROM A BENCH ON THE other side of the circle, Mariam watched Sam leave the embassy. She had to speak to him without watchers, without surveillance. Tricky, because she thought he would be followed by a mukhabarat tail. Maybe she could swing up alongside and give the message quickly, pretend like she was passing him on the street. It might work. She knew he would not be startled by her presence, he would play it smart. She was also fairly certain she was clear of the Security Office team. She’d run the moves from France upon leaving the Palace.

  Sam walked along the river toward Adnan al-Malki, the broad, tree-lined avenue funneling cars and pedestrians into Umayyad Square and the Sheraton. The streets were emptier than usual, the fighting and the mortars keeping everyone inside. Mariam wished there had been thick crowds, the kind of crowds the area used to draw. She felt naked by herself, trying to trail a CIA officer. As Sam cut onto a remote sidewalk along the river, it registered that she did not see a mukhabarat tail. Odd. He was fifty yards ahead, still along the river, walking at a brisk pace. Mariam quickened her stride, cursing her heels and her stupidity. The street was poorly lit and empty, the bustle of the embassy a distant memory.

  Then she saw them. Three men emerged from behind a dumpster to block Sam’s path. It was not a checkpoint. She knew what it was. She pulled a nail file from her purse, clutched it into her wrist so they would not see until it was too late, and dumped the bag on the ground. Thankfully, she’d already trashed Atiyah’s old briefcase.

  She kicked off her heels and ran.

  SAM STOPPED IN HIS TRACKS as the three men appeared on the crumbling sidewalk. They did not have proper uniforms. A burly guy in an I NY T-shirt held a club. The other two held AK-47s, one in flip-flops, the other wearing camo fatigues. The guns were not pointed at him—yet. He couldn’t figure out the vibe. Militia? Criminals? Rebels? The lines had blurred in Damascus. Not that it mattered. Then he saw the handcuffs on NY’s belt. Whoever they were, they wanted to abduct him.

  “Good evening,” Sam said in Arabic. “What do you want?”

  “Mr. Joseph,” NY said. “We need you to come with us.”

  Well, shit, Sam thought. They knew his name. Good news was they wanted him alive, otherwise why bring cuffs, so maybe he had some leverage. Just a little.

  “Who are you?” Sam said, still in Arabic.

  “Military.”

  Sam glanced down at the other man’s flip-flops, then up to the gun, then again met NY’s eyes.

  NY looked past him. Sam heard the steps, the sound of bare feet on pavement behind him. He braced himself.

  RETZEV, BENI HAD SAID IN Paris, was one of the core principles of Krav Maga. A seamless explosion of violence. She picked up speed, feet burning on the pavement as confused looks formed on the faces of each militiaman.

  Three men, two guns drawn. She needed to take the weapons out of play.

  They kept staring, uncertain how to handle the barefoot, fashionably dressed, wild-eyed woman running toward them.

  At twenty feet out, the one with the club and the New York T-shirt yelled stop. She ran faster.

  Then she was on them as the nail file flashed and she drove it into the scrotum of one of the men holding an AK, the one wearing flip-flops. He wailed as blood soaked his pants. She swung her right arm down onto the gun, clattering it to the pavement. He collapsed, clutching the file in his groin as he sank to the sidewalk.

  SAM HAD BARELY REGISTERED THAT it was Mariam who’d leapt into the fray when he stepped toward the guy in camo fatigues, currently staring in horror at the castration of his friend.

  Sam drove his fist toward the man’s sternum, but the bag around his shoulder caught his arm as he swung, and the blow missed by an inch. Camo stumbled a step back, then started to lift the gun. Sam kicked the man’s shin, then turned his hand into a claw and jabbed into his face, searching for a cavity. He lodged his middle finger in Camo’s left eye and began twisting, his fingertips slickening as the man shrieked, still clutching the gun and trying to steady it at Sam.

  Sam’s right shoulder exploded in pain. He lost purchase on Camo’s eye socket and stumbled. The club came down on his right kidney, then again. He tried to get up and NY hit him again, this time on his shin, bellowing something in deep bass notes that Sam could not understand as he crumpled to the street.

  MARIAM, KNEELING, PICKED UP THE rifle from the sidewalk and pointed it at the man in the I NY T-shirt beating Sam with the club. She compressed the trigger and heard the AK’s distinctive rattle and saw the bullets tear into his pelvis and thighs and knee. He fell.

  The man in camouflage clutching his eye stumbled toward the short limestone wall between the sidewalk and the fifteen-foot plunge down to the riverbank. She fired a volley into him but started too low, rounds skittering on the sidewalk. She corrected upward, the bullets ripping through his butt, back, and neck, until a round found the base of his skull and he sandbagged onto the wall. Mariam kept her finger on the trigger as she watched the body seesaw for a moment and then disappear over the side onto the riverbank below.

  Mariam scanned the scene. Miraculously, the sidewalk remained clear of pedestrians. There was a dead camo-clad man on the riverbank, another in flip-flops moaning on the ground with a nail file jammed into his groin. The man in the I NY T-shirt was trying to crawl away and doing a bad job. Sam managed to stand, grasping his right side.

  She felt the spent shell casings underfoot as she walked over to the man in flip-flops clutching his groin. He had
dislodged the nail file, but his pants were soaked through with blood. “Who sent you?” she asked, towering over him, the barrel pointed at his head. She wanted him to tell her they were rebels or robbers. Fine. Still a mess, but they wouldn’t know Sam was CIA and wouldn’t be able to connect her to the Americans.

  Flip-flops did not want to fight. “Basil Mahkluf. We’re militia.” He winced, pulling in oxygen to finish his sentence. “Here to arrest the American.”

  She looked away. Then she held down the trigger and felt the matter splash across her feet.

  “They’re official militia,” she said in English to Sam. She noticed now her teeth chattered, though the night was muggy. She clenched her jaw then pointed the gun at NY crawling away. She pressed the trigger until he stopped moving.

  There was a volley of car horns back toward the embassy, but Mariam did not hear them.

  BY ANY MEASURE, THE SCENE was bad: three dead Syrian militiamen, a wounded CIA officer, and an asset who’d inexplicably appeared during the holdup. Miraculously, the sidewalk remained pedestrian- and police-free, but that would not hold for long, given the gunfire. Sam had no idea why Mariam had come. It broke every security rule they’d discussed in France.

  Mariam ran back for her bag and shoes. Sam wiped prints from the gun and snatched the nail file. He looked at the dead man lying in a heap by the river. Sam checked his own bag and confirmed he had one of the burner phones inside. He texted Elias an address. The message ended with four periods, indicating it was an emergency.