First Strike (14 page)

The traffic in Damascus was a helter-skelter of pedestrians, people on bikes, taxicabs, trucks, and cars, the blare of horns incessant. Vehicles traveled on the right side of the road, but whenever the opposite lane was open, cars swerved into oncoming traffic, trying to pass slower cars. The occasional traffic light was ignored.

Sprinkled at seemingly every corner were Syrian soldiers, all clutching machine guns or carbines. The city was clean, the buildings neat and well-kept. But the mood reminded Dewey of Islamabad in the days before the overthrow of the Pakistani president Omar El-Khayab. It wasn't just the presence of the soldiers, their weapons sweeping constantly across traffic and sidewalks, storefronts and cafés; it was something less visible, something ethereal—tension, fear, the knowledge that Syria was in the middle of a war it was losing. Damascus may have been the safest city in Syria for the moment, but the fear of its men and women, as they walked quickly, eyes darting about, was unmistakable.

Get in, get out. Keep it simple.

Dewey took advantage of the chaos to drive almost recklessly across the city toward Umayyad Square.

Off the fountain of the square, he went down a busy boulevard. When he was just a block away from the café, Dewey turned onto a narrow side street and parked.

On foot now, Dewey walked to the corner. He took a left, walked a block, then took another left, so that he was walking directly toward the café where he was to meet Mallory and the Syrian, al-Jaheishi.

*   *   *

Al-Jaheishi looked at his watch: 8:25. He was supposed to be at the café in five minutes, but he was still a mile away. He'd set the meeting place far away from the offices in order to ensure that he wouldn't accidentally bump into anyone, but now he regretted it. He looked around, his head swinging nervously left and right, searching for Que'san and Azalea. He'd lost them.

He took a few breaths and began to run. In seconds, he felt the pain come on, the familiar pain.

A memory flashed:
Wimbledon Commons. A rainstorm.

The memory was of the annual Oxford vs. Cambridge Varsity Match, sophomore year, the first year he won it for Oxford. Al-Jaheishi had run for Oxford's cross-country club. By junior year, he was Oxford's top-ranked runner.

His arms, nervous and clenched, somehow melted into a calm rhythm, swinging languidly at his sides. His legs took the sidewalk in deep, long strides. He had on a shirt and tie, pants, and wingtips, and yet he was back at Four Lawn, running across the verdant polo fields, running like a teenager, running like the wind. For a few precious moments, he heard nothing except the crickets back in England, the sound of his breathing, the lovely beat of his heart, tested and willing. For a moment, al-Jaheishi was free.

Then, at the next street, Que'san's deep voice brought him back.

“
Stop! Marwan!
”

Al-Jaheishi rounded the corner at full sprint as, behind him, he heard shouts, a woman's scream, then Que'san.

“
Stop that man!
”

Al-Jaheishi focused ahead. Café Mosul was two blocks away. Then he saw Mallory. Their eyes met, and Mallory stood up and turned.

Then, in the same moment that he heard the unmuted sound of gunfire, al-Jaheishi was kicked in the leg. He looked down. In that half second he saw blood and the missing chunk of his own calf, then the pain hit and he tumbled to the ground.

*   *   *

For a moment, Mallory let himself believe the gunshots had nothing to do with him. But he knew.

Something's wrong.

Mallory moved in the direction of the noise. There he was. The first shot had missed.

Bystanders did not understand what was happening. There were a few panicked looks, but no screams. Not yet, anyway. That would come.

Mallory registered a gunman, a block north, targeting al-Jaheishi. It was a trained infantry stance, run then stop; hold, breathe, target, fire.

Again, unmuted gunfire cracked the air. This time it was followed by more screams from pedestrians. Panicked men and women started charging toward the square.

Mallory tried to see through the chaos, searching for al-Jaheishi.

On the ground, near a storefront. There he was.

Is he dead?

Mallory stopped in his tracks. On both sides of him, men and women rushed by, their eyes wide with fear, frantically trying to escape the gunfire.

Mallory watched, transfixed, as the first gunman was joined by a second. The two killers closed in on al-Jaheishi.

Get up!

As if he could hear Mallory's thoughts, al-Jaheishi climbed to his feet.

The second shooter—a tall man with a bushy mustache and wearing a business suit—took the lead. He dropped the rifle and, in stride, pulled a pistol from beneath his left shoulder.

Al-Jaheishi crabbed along the ground toward a storefront, a market, clutching his leg, dragging it along with him.

Mallory took a few languid steps toward the store, watching as the gunman followed in pursuit, gun in hand. The thug charged into the store and disappeared. A few seconds later, there was more gunfire, muffled slightly. It blended into the din and chaos. People poured out from the store.

Screams enveloped the square. For the first time, sirens sounded in the distance.

Mallory stopped. He glanced up the street, marking the other gunman, who stood calmly by a car with his rifle raised and aimed at the storefront, lest al-Jaheishi should reemerge. But he wouldn't.

“
Hu mmayit,
” said Mallory aloud.

He's dead.

Mallory moved backward, eyes strobing between storefront and gunman. The meet-up had gone bad. Shit happens.

He remembered the words, from training.

The biggest mistake operators make is believing in a mission after it's dead. An operator dies because he keeps operating after a mission goes bad. There's nothing wrong in saying a mission is dead. Live to fight another day.

His priority now was getting out of the immediate neighborhood without drawing attention. Then Damascus proper. Then Syria. That would be the hard one, unless he could find Andreas. Mallory scanned the hectic scene, looking for him. Was he here? Had he even made it over the Golan?

Mallory's cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out.

The screen showed a series of letters and numbers, confusing to anyone but Mallory, who looked for the pattern:

A856Y47P2292MKF

A85

A

CENCOM; the code was from Langley, most likely an automatic status exchange, such as a GPS trigger in relation to Andreas.

8

The code set; cipher through based on that set.

5

Start message in five characters, then go ahead five in sequence.

He scanned the code five places:

P22

P

A GPS flag; Andreas position status.

2

Border of Syria penetration; Andreas was in-country.

2

Landing zone achieved; Andreas is on the ground.

He looked five characters along; this last code would be the rules of engagement. He saw the letter
F.
A combination of anxiety and adrenaline shot through him.

No rules; priority of the package is national security priority level Emergency. Do whatever you need to do.

Any in-theater command control and other operational protocols were irrelevant now, including al-Jaheishi's status. Mallory would have to attempt to get the package whether al-Jaheishi was dead or still alive.

Mallory joined a phalanx of onlookers, moving backward. He crouched near a dented Peugeot, watching and planning his next move. He would need to engage the ISIS gunmen … unless al-Jaheishi somehow emerged from the wreckage.

*   *   *

Al-Jaheishi pushed himself up from the ground, using his good leg to stand on. He grabbed his destroyed right leg at the knee and pulled it, limping toward the door to the market. He tried not to look down but couldn't stop himself. Blood seeped from his leg, already sopping the lower part of his slacks. He reached for the door. At the last moment his eyes shot left and he saw Mallory. He remembered Mallory from Cairo. It had been just one meeting, at the Cairo Hilton. President Morsi and his top advisors were there to sit down with the American delegation. Hatred was in the air, yet Mallory, like him a silent witness to discussions by others from his government, had smiled at him and introduced himself.

Another gunshot ripped the air. Al-Jaheishi was hit in the shoulder. In the same moment, a glass window shattered in front of him. The slug had passed through his shoulder and smashed the glass. Screams came from every direction. Al-Jaheishi let out a low yelp and ducked inside the market.

He reached reflexively to his shoulder, feeling grotesque wetness, his flesh now opened and gushing blood. He hobbled inside, trying not to look down, trying not to look at his destroyed calf. He stumbled to the back of the store, pulling his leg by the pants material above his knee.

Inside the store, a few shoppers still huddled in fear. They had believed—falsely—that remaining there offered refuge. Al-Jaheishi swept past an old woman and then a young father with his daughter. They stared in silence, horrified at the sight of his destroyed shoulder and leg.

The old lady reached for him.

“
Abni,
” she whispered, tears in her eyes, as he pushed by her.

My son.

At the back of the store was a wall of freezers. He ducked behind the endcap of the row of groceries, clutching the aluminum shelf, trying to hide, trying not to make any noise, though all he wanted to do was scream as terrible, unrelenting pain washed over his entire body.

The door slammed open, then there was a loud commotion at the front.

“
Ayn hu?
” the man screamed.

Where is he?

He recognized the deep voice. Que'san.

Al-Jaheishi glanced about, spying a mirror in the corner, below the ceiling, there for the shopkeeper to catch shoplifters. From his crouched position, he could see Que'san moving to the counter, weapon out, trained at a short man behind the counter who had his arms up. He heard mumbling. Then, a moment later, gunfire. It was like a bomb, followed by screams. The shopkeeper dropped to the ground.

Al-Jaheishi glanced down the aisle. For the first time, he registered a trail of crimson weaving down the floor, left there by his badly bleeding leg.

Screams and shouting came from the front of the store. Anyone still remaining dropped their bags and ran.

Al-Jaheishi remained back at the freezers. He watched the top of Que'san's head as he moved toward the rear of the store. With pain shooting through him, al-Jaheishi got down on his knees, hiding on one side of the aisle as Que'san moved slowly and methodically along the opposite side, weapon out, searching for him.

Al-Jaheishi skulked along the aisle toward the front of the store, then rounded the corner and doubled back down the next aisle, behind Que'san. A trail of blood formed shimmering lines of crimson on the white linoleum behind him as he crawled. Que'san was now in front of him, his back to al-Jaheishi. His big frame loomed as he scanned for him. The hunter, looking for his wounded prey.

Al-Jaheishi had never killed anyone. Not even close.

Sirens, for the first time, pitched in the distance.

He lifted himself up, in silence, and ran down the aisle and jumped onto Que'san's back, wrapping his right arm around Que'san's neck, then pulling back with all of his strength, trying to break his neck or choke him.

But Que'san was powerful. Al-Jaheishi struggled to stay on Que'san's back as the larger man fought to get free. A vicious elbow from Que'san slammed into al-Jaheishi's ribs, then another, knocking the wind out of him. Still, al-Jaheishi held on, in pain, unable to breathe, yet holding on, trying with all of his strength to choke Que'san.

Que'san grunted, trying to say something, his voice low and hoarse. Al-Jaheishi was hurting him. Then he heard it: the pistol in Que'san's hands dropped to the ground.

Al-Jaheishi was still piggyback on Que'san, desperately holding on as Que'san, struggling for air, reached his hands above his head, trying to punch at al-Jaheishi. One of Que'san's hands found al-Jaheishi's hair, grabbing it, yanking it hard. Que'san's other hand clawed at al-Jaheishi's neck, fighting to pull al-Jaheishi from on top of his shoulders.

Al-Jaheishi struggled to hold on as Que'san pulled him forward, trying to extricate himself. Al-Jaheishi felt the power in Que'san's arms. He fought to wrench Que'san's neck backward, but he wasn't strong enough. Que'san raised him slowly up. He felt his legs coming off Que'san's back. Que'san had him; he hurled al-Jaheishi off his shoulders, through the air. Al-Jaheishi tried to get his hands up, but it was futile. He slammed headfirst into the freezer, then dropped to the hard floor, groaning in pain.

Al-Jaheishi looked up, dazed. Everything was blurry, black and white, as if in slow motion. Pain struck him a few seconds later at the crown of his skull. He tried to focus.

Get up!

The cloudiness enveloped his view, until he saw movement. Que'san was charging at him, both arms out. His face was contorted in hatred and anger.

Then al-Jaheishi saw the gun. It was lying there, so close, just a few feet from his foot, black and glinting beneath the fluorescent lights.

Move now!

Que'san flew at him, yelling, fists raised. Al-Jaheishi lurched left, reaching for the gun, barely avoiding Que'san's right hand. Al-Jaheishi grabbed the gun, turned, and fired. Unmuted gunfire cracked the air, followed by a pained grunt. Crawling, al-Jaheishi tried to get a few feet away. He looked. The bullet had struck Que'san in the stomach. Blood covered his shirt, and his hand moved to the wound. Then Que'san found al-Jaheishi with his murderous eyes. Heaving, he fell forward, his arms swinging for al-Jaheishi. Al-Jaheishi tried to scurry away across the linoleum as Que'san fell, but Que'san landed on his legs, his eyes angrier than even the moment before, the anger of a man who was not supposed to be killed by one so weak as al-Jaheishi.