SANCTION: A Thriller (22 page)

Brad hadn’t spent much time in Syria during his tenure with the DIA; the cities Kingsley mentioned were not familiar to him. He opened the car’s glove box, hoping to find a map. There was nothing but a few spotty maintenance records and flashlight batteries.

“Which is closest?” He asked.

Kingsley had a map of the Syrian desert unfolded in front of him. After a few seconds of searching, he found the point where Brad was.

“You’re about fifteen miles south of As Suwayda and seventy from Quneitra. I’d head north to As Suwayda.”

Brad put the car back into first gear and inched forward as the truck in front of him pulled ahead. Several camels loaded in the back of the truck lurched rearward, crashing against the gate. He flipped his passport open and laid it on the top of the car door as he got closer to the checkpoint.

“You know, Quneitra is an abandoned city. If I were Saleem, I would take my hostages there. But the United Nations patrols that place daily. Still, it’s worth looking into.” Kingsley said.

“Thanks Tom. Hey, I’m glad you guys left the palace.” Brad said in Arabic. He didn’t want anyone near the checkpoint to hear him speaking English. ‘The Palace’ was a coded reference to Palestine, again, used for discretion.

“Same here buddy. When this is over, you’ll have to tell me about your little adventure.” Kingsley replied.

Brad thanked Kingsley for sticking his neck out and hung up the phone.

At the checkpoint he got a simple once over and was allowed to pass through. Brad put the passport away and slid the pistol out from beneath the folds of his robe once he’d put a safe distance between himself and the checkpoint. He laid the gun on the seat next to him and rolled down the passenger window. The German car bounced along a paved blacktop on worn springs as it headed into the Syrian desert. As far as the eye could see the earth was brown and tan, made permanently infertile by the burning Arabian sun.

Brad had some time before he got to As Suwayda. His thoughts soon began to drift to his wife.

He was remembering a trip they had taken to Aspen. It was his favorite memory of the two of them. Neither of them were avid skiers but they both had a love for the outdoors. It was a great vacation, the first one they had taken in their marriage. He tried to think of where they had gone on their honeymoon but kept remembering Aspen.

He scoured the deepest channels of his memory but couldn’t recall a honeymoon. He couldn’t remember any other trips either. Then, in a flash, he saw himself standing in line at Heathrow airport. He was investigating a Saudi National in one of the London Boroughs. The man was a cleric and one of the 1300 professors that had been disavowed by the Saudi Royal Family after a vicious terrorist attack in their homeland. The investigation into the professor was a multi-faceted venture between the British government, INTERPOL and the DIA. The guy had been saying some pretty radical things but in the end proved to be nothing but hot air.

Brad had forgotten about that being the day after his wedding. He was forced to leave Nancy in the middle of the night in order to be in London the following day. He remembered the overwhelming feeling that interrogating the professor would lead to stopping a terrorist attack. He remembered the intensity of the moment when he’d gotten the call from his superior at the Agency. At the time, nothing else was more important than getting to London. Even Nancy had felt the same way. Of course, had either one of them known it was merely a precursor to the way their lives together would be lived, perhaps they would have felt different about London and all the other last minute excursions to far off lands. Perhaps, things could have been different between them.

“Hindsight.” He said aloud in the empty car.

Thinking of the situation as being out of his control was a mechanism for justifying what he knew to be a poor decision. He should have stayed with his bride. It was much easier to think that he was just doing the “right thing”, no matter how painful, than to think that he had sacrificed his marriage a thousand times for his job.

Sand drifts covered parts of the road Brad was traveling. Every once in a while he would hit a small pile of it and his back tires would lose traction and fishtail out to the side a few inches. He stayed on the accelerator regardless.

After a half hour, the first buildings of As Suwayda started to come into view. The town was small, with a population of less than 10,000. It wouldn’t be too difficult to find his brother and the students, if they were there. Human nature prevailed where cultural differences divided; small towns were prevalent to loose lips.

He drove the BMW into the town and quickly found the city’s small business district. Open air shops lined both sides of the street making it difficult to maneuver the car. He parked on the side of the adjacent road and slipped the pistol back under his robe. He walked the length of the market slowly, taking in his surroundings.

Most of the transactions that were taking place were between neighbors. Brad overheard one man offering a lamb to another for the price of a new window for his house. The two brokered an equitable deal and the goods were exchanged. This meant that cash, specifically American currency, was extremely valuable. The dollar, in towns like these, was worth as much as two to three times what is was valued at by the same country’s national bank.

Brad combed through the shops pretending to be interested in the items that the vendors were hawking. What he was really doing however, was listening for the loudest loudmouth on the block. That’s who he wanted to talk to.

Brad had traversed almost the entire length of the merchant corridor before he found the group’s self-proclaimed Alpha Male. Unlike the others in the crowded square–who concentrated on one or two particular goods or services–this man was selling everything from VCR’s and used mattresses to soap and American candy bars.

Brad looked at the candy, suddenly noticing his stomach was churning violently. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. As he approached the man’s table he pulled a twenty dollar bill out of his pocket and laid it on the surface. He pointed to the candy bars.

“All of them.” He said in Arabic and a perfect Middle Eastern accent.

The man’s broad smile disappeared. He didn’t appreciate Brad’s attempt to subvert the ubiquitous and often timely negotiations ingrained in Arab culture. What Brad had offered was, in fact, far above the value of the twelve candy bars but traditions were traditions.

“I will give you half of these bars for that.” He countered.

Brad reached for the twenty and said. “They aren’t worth nearly what I am offering and we both know it.”

The man made some grunting noises before placing his hand on the other end of the twenty and pulling it back.

“That is an acceptable bargain. These are fresh from America.” He exclaimed with a jubilant grin.

“I doubt that.” Brad thought to himself.

“And this is for information.” Brad said as he passed a one hundred dollar bill across the merchant’s table. The man looked suspicious but quickly laid his hand on it.

“What kind of information?” He asked. He held his ample belly over the edge of the table scratching it with his other hand, as if this helped him think.

“I need to know about the college students.” He said loud enough for the neighboring vendors to hear him. If they were apt to lie, their knee jerk response to the mentioning of the hostages would tell him more than they would. At first the man hesitated, he looked as if he had no idea what Brad was speaking about but then his eyes rolled up toward the sky as if he was searching his memory. He looked down at Brad without lowering his upward tilted head.

“You mean the ones taken from Israel?” The man asked.

Brad looked at the men in the booths to his left and right. They were paying close attention to their conversation now, straining their heads to get within earshot of their fellow Syrian’s reply without appearing interested.

“Yes, the American college students that were abducted from Zefat.” Brad answered continuing to watch the men on either side of the fat boisterous Arab.

“What was that…three days ago?” The man asked.

“Yeah, know anything about it?” Brad questioned again.

“No.” He said finally and whipped the hundred off of the table. He stuffed the bill into his shirt pocket. The man began to fiddle with some of the smaller items for sale on his table, signaling that he wasn’t planning on talking with the DIA agent any further.

Brad placed another hundred before him but this time kept it wedged between his palm and the purple cloth that was spread over the table’s length. He placed his other hand next to it and leaned in toward the man.

“What is your name?” He asked almost whispering.

The man smirked and looked down at the bill. His face melted back into the same phony smile.

“Abbas.” He said, with pride. It meant ‘Lion’ in Arabic, a name he felt fit him perfectly.

“Well Abbas, I need that information. I have plenty more of these.” He said looking down at the hundred.

“Tell me where they are and you will be rewarded handsomely.” Brad said. Again he made sure the merchants at the surrounding tables could hear him. The men closest to Brad and Abbas were no longer pretending not to be listening to their conversation, with the injection of large bills, they now stared openly.

“For your sake Abbas, don’t lie to me.” Brad added.

The fat man scoffed at Brad’s last comment. He would not be intimidated on his own turf. But Brad wasn’t there for a show. He was willing to rough Abbas up if he thought it would help him get what he wanted. It was another reason that he had picked the biggest loudmouth that he could find. He wouldn’t feel sorry for having to exert force, or worry about bystanders coming to his aide. Brad guessed that a man like Abbas didn’t have a single friend at the market.

Abbas looked at the bill on the table. Brad’s hand covered most of it but the numeric value could clearly be seen. He was practically salivating as he contemplated having it in his possession.

“I do not know.” The man said solemnly.

In reality, no one in the town had any idea where the kidnapped victims were, which was becoming apparent to Ward by the minute. If Saleem was in As-Suwayda, it would mean that not even a single resident had gotten wind of his arrival–though he had sixteen hostages and his men in tow; an impossible feat.

Brad lifted the bill from the table and walked back to the car. Abbas called after him hoping to convince him of parting with the cash. Brad ignored him and got back into the rusted hulk of the BMW. He did a U-turn in the middle of the street and headed back the way he had come. At the first intersection he made a right and turned down a small side street. He was going to tour the city anyway, in the off chance that something grabbed his attention.

He turned down the next street and discreetly snugged up on the brakes. A fleet of troop carriers trailed behind a symmetric row of slow moving tanks that were headed in his direction. Soldiers lined the sidewalks flanking the formation of combat vehicles.

People in their homes began to open their windows and pop their heads out. They stood on door steps and balconies to observe the train of military vehicles that crept by.

Syria wasn’t the kind of place where rioting, or even soft protesting, took place anymore. This atmosphere had taken years to perfect but it was the predominant line of thought, solidified by Bashar al-Assad’s vicious stamping out of all opposition fighters the previous winter.

Unable to find a quick and inconspicuous getaway, Brad threw the transmission into reverse and backed down the street. He turned down another in the middle of the intersection and spotted a second element of troops and vehicles bearing toward the center of town. He pointed the BMW down the merchant alley and gunned it. He parked the car again and jogged toward Abbas’s booth.

Abbas had both of his arms open with his plump palms aimed at the open sky. No one in the market yet knew of the military presence around the corner.

“You came back to the right place.” He said arrogantly.

“I need a way out of here.” Brad said through clenched teeth.

Abbas looked at him, weighing his options. He was wondering how high of a price he could demand from the stranger.

“I know a place you can stay for the night but it will cost you.” The Syrian said.

“One thousand American. Going rate for someone in your circumstance.” He said craftily.

“Three hundred, I only need it for two hours.” Brad said firmly.

“Three hundred, two hours. I won’t pay a penny more or accept a minute less. Abbas, any second now a band of soldiers is going to round that corner. If they see me, then we have no deal.” Brad said

“Follow me.” Abbas said as he grabbed the four ends of the table cloth and pulled them together, letting everything inside collide with a noisy crash.

“I know everything that is here.” He shouted at the men in the booths next to his, hoping they’d think better of robbing him. He threw the improvised sack over his shoulder and the two of them jogged off to the end of the block. They rounded a corner behind the market and climbed a set of stairs in front of a two story house.

Abbas jammed a key into the lock and slipped inside to a tall foyer with a grand arched wood carving of a panoramic desert scene overhead. Inside, the house was decorated with ornate Syrian and Egyptian statues and antiques, some dating back more than a thousand years. The foyer opened up into a small room with a white marble floor and stained mahogany staircase.

Abbas leapt up the first few treads, his girth bouncing wildly. Brad was close behind him, his hand sliding between the folds in his robe for his gun.

A voice from the street outside the house stopped them both.

“Citizens of As Suwayda, do not be alarmed. Our presence is only a precaution.” The force commander shouted through the microphone of a loudspeaker.

“We must occupy your town, in order to ensure its safety. Additionally, we will need to take a census of the citizens. This is also for your protection.” The man said in his best grandfatherly tone.