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“What?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re getting reports of shots fired at the meeting in Saraqib.”
“My understanding is that we expected that. Losa’s man brought guards, no?”
“That’s correct, sir, but the information we have suggests an ongoing battle.”
Semenov’s irritation turned to anger. How hard was it to capture a lone Canadian attorney?
“Tell the Syrian forces to move in.”
“I’m in contact with them, sir, but they’re reluctant. They maintain that Suleiman’s people have the situation under control.”
“They maintain?” Semenov said, the volume of his voice rising to the point that the girl twitched noticeably.
If he wasn’t dealing with crushing incompetence, it was crushing cowardice. Losa’s people had picked Saraqib because its instability made Damascus reluctant to run overt operations there. Clever, but the future of Saraqib and its citizens was of absolutely no importance to him or to Russia.
“If Matthieu Fournier escapes or dies, I’ll make sure that every one of the men who refused to enter that building is executed and their families are put out in the street. Is that clear?”
“Crystal clear, sir. I’ll convey the message.”
CHAPTER 17
SARAQIB
SYRIA
RAPPsnuffed the candle, extinguishing the only source of light in the room. It could call attention to his position and was no longer necessary due to the spotlights now raking the building. Ismail Faadin’s body was partially blocking the exit and Rapp had to straddle it in order to peer around the blanket hanging over the doorway.
The swirl of illumination gave the space a video game feel, but revealed no sign of human presence. Outside, bursts of gunfire were audible at random intervals. Nearby, but probably not directly related to him. More likely locals reacting to the sudden appearance of Syrian security forces. That wasn’t necessarily a positive development for him, though. A full-scale battle erupting in Saraqib wouldn’t be in anyone’s best interest.
He eased out of the room, keeping his gun hand low and close to his leg. The longer he could maintain his image as a noncombatant, the better. The fact that the goal here seemed to be to capture and not kill him was a significant improvement over his normal operating environment, whereeveryonewanted to kill him.
He moved from pillar to pillar, doing his best to stay in shadows that were moving targets as more spotlights ignited below. Muzzle flashes became visible in the building across the street, confirming his suspicion that the city’s inhabitants were getting involved.
He’d been in situations like this before and they tended to get out of hand pretty quickly. Best to trade the expensive European suit for something more local and slip away in the coming chaos.
The sound of someone sprinting up the stairs became audible and he eased behind a pillar. Peering around it, Rapp saw that the breathless man who appeared on the landing was one of Faadin’s. Whether that was a good or bad thing was hard to say. While it was possible that he’d just been quicker than the man assigned to kill him, it was also possible that he’d switched sides.
Rapp moved a little more to the right, allowing his arm to briefly catch a beam of light. The wind had kicked up a bit, creating a haze of concrete dust that reduced visibility and surrounded him with a scent that he’d come to associate with war zones all over the region.
“What’s happening?” he said, affecting a panicked tone. “They killed Ismail!”
The man jerked around to face him, raising his AK-47 instead of coming to his aid. “Don’t move!”
The words were in Arabic—easily understood by Mitch Rapp, but unintelligible to the Canadian attorney he was impersonating.
“Don’t shoot!” he shouted, keeping his left hand in darkness as he raised it. The man never saw the gun, and with the searchlights it was doubtful he even noted the muzzle flash that killed him.
Not cleanly, though. The round hit him in the left pectoral, causing him to stagger back and clench his trigger finger. The rifle was pulled upward as it fired on full auto, raining down ricochets whenever a round found solid concrete above. Rapp hugged the pillar as the force of the bullets leaving the AK carried the man toward the edge of the floor slab. He teetered over the precipice for a moment, finally tipping into the gap between the building they were in and the ruin of the one next to it.
By the time Rapp released the pillar, the situation had further deteriorated. Voices were now audible below, along with running feet that had gained the floor directly beneath his position. Meanwhile, the gunfire outside was becoming more frequent and widespread, punctuated by two distinct explosions that weren’t as distant as he’d like.
Rapp ran to the edge of the floor and looked down, spotting the body of the man he’d shot lying on a slab three levels below. An unknown number of men were on the stairs leading to the fifth floor, ascending fast with no attempt at stealth. Undoubtedly, they calculated that he was less of a threat than the fighting intensifying around them. The goal would be to capture him as quickly as possible and be long gone from Saraqib before the shit fully hit the fan.
Rapp estimated the gap between him and the partially collapsed fourth floor of the adjacent building at about fifteen feet, with a drop of about ten. Not ideal, but doable unless the whole thing gave way when he landed.
He backed up as far as he could without revealing himself to the men ascending the stairs and then sprinted forward. The edge was hard to discern exactly, but he got it more or less right. The stellar traction of his dress shoes launched him from the dusty surface and a moment later he was airborne.
