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Atfeh shrugged. “It’s possible they were able to decrypt our communications. Or they followed the vehicle with drones or spies. Or perhaps one of your men or mine was being paid. If you are so interested in this man Matthieu Fournier, is it possible that other powerful parties are as well?”
Obviously, the answer was yes. Damian Losa was both interested and powerful. But this powerful? Did he have the Syrian resources to orchestrate something like this?
“As you can see, we have more work to do,” the Syrian continued. “But already the events of the day are becoming clear.” He pointed to a low rock wall. “We found a number of spent cartridges there and also to the north under the cover of a tree. Melted casings were also found in both buildings. Any vehicle pulling up would have been in a very disadvantaged position. The moment the passengers stepped out they would have found themselves in a cross fire with no practical place to take cover. We suspect that our men were immediately taken out and then the same happened to your men when they arrived.”
“Why?” Semenov asked, doing his best to hide his impatience and frustration. For the time being, he needed this idiot.
“Why what?”
“Why would these attackers wait to do battle with my men? After rescuing Fournier, why wouldn’t they leave?”
“The most plausible explanation is that they needed your people’s vehicle for transportation. It’s missing, but the Tigr my men arrived in was burned inside one of the buildings. It was nearly out of fuel and, as you can see, there are few places to conceal something that large.”
While it was indeed plausible, Semenov was wholly unsatisfied by the explanation. Anyone clever enough to pull off this rescue wouldn’tleave something like that to chance. They’d have had transportation arranged before the first bullets flew.
“Damascus might be willing to accept that theory, but I’m not. It’s my understanding that you’ve been given a description of the SUV my people arrived in. If it’s not here, where is it? Are you doing anything to try to find it?”
The Syrian intelligence chief shook his head. “We don’t have the manpower. Particularly now that the operation you demanded has caused the security situation in Saraqib to collapse. If we don’t allocate all our resources there, we could lose the entire city.”
“Then you’re going to lose the city!” Semenov shouted. “Why did you have any control over it in the first place? Why do you even have a country? If it weren’t for Russian support, the corpses of you, your family, and your president would be swinging from light poles. But we don’t have to stay. If you prefer, we can leave you to the mercy of your people and to the international criminal courts.”
Atfeh affected a smile with the appropriate amount of subservience. “Of course, we have nothing but love and gratitude for our Russian brothers. But I’ll have to get authorization from my superiors.”
“Then do it, Kifah. Do it now.”
CHAPTER 21
NEARALEPPO
SYRIA
RAPPhung his arm out the SUV’s window as he wove through a light mix of cars, pedestrians, and bicycles. Night had fallen sometime ago and the bombed-out buildings on either side of the road were completely dark. The only lights not attached to vehicles were the ones set up to illuminate incongruously well-tended billboards depicting Syria’s president.
He glanced at the sky, first through the windshield and then through the glassless side window. Nothing but stars, as near as he could tell, but it was impossible to be sure. Both the Syrians and Russians seemed dead set on finding him and would be armed with a detailed description of the Toyota he was driving.
Having said that, there were a few things working in his favor. First, he’d gone to great lengths to create the illusion of a battlefield at the farm he’d been taken to. Based on the shell casing distribution, bloodstains, and blackened bodies he’d left behind, the obvious conclusion would be that Damian Losa had sent a team to rescue him. Andwhile the evidence wouldn’t hold up under close scrutiny, it would be deemed more plausible than the alternative: a blubbering Toronto attorney taking out five armed operators.
Rapp’s second advantage was that it sounded like Saraqib was literally blowing up. Based on some gossip he’d overheard at a food stand an hour ago, government forces had both taken and inflicted significant losses during their hasty retreat. Now violent protests were spreading through the country, threatening to reignite the civil war. Damascus and their masters in Moscow would have every reason to put the matter of Matthieu Fournier on the back burner for the moment.
Traffic became heavier as he entered the city of Aleppo and habitable buildings replaced the ruins farther out. To the west, one of the largest and oldest castles in the world hovered in the beams of a handful of still-functioning spotlights. It turned out to be a useful landmark in a city that had been transformed since his last visit. Even in areas that were more or less intact, roads had been rerouted, off-ramps had collapsed, and neighborhoods had been leveled. Overall, though, it felt surprisingly vibrant. People strode instead of shuffling, restaurants were in full operation, and locals milled around open squares, laughing and occasionally even breaking into song.
What hadn’t yet returned were the sophisticated surveillance cameras favored by dictators worldwide. Countries like Saudi Arabia and China were becoming impossible to operate in anonymously, but here he didn’t have to be quite as concerned. Further, he’d found some clothing belonging to the man the Syrians had murdered, and it turned out to be a passable fit. Combined with his dark complexion, beard, and native-level Arabic, there was no longer much to distinguish him in this part of the world.
He passed through the center of town and continued through to the other side. It wasn’t long before the darkness closed in again and he found himself surrounded by the familiar collapsed façades and hastily cleared rubble that he’d come to associate with Syria. When he was reasonably certain that he was alone, he turned the SUV onto a carpetof shattered concrete leading into a building with a roof that was still hanging on.
A small cloth bag contained his Canadian passport, the ID of the Syrian soldier who’d looked most like him, and all the cash he’d collected from his attackers’ bodies. After retrieving it from the back and stuffing it down the front of his pants, he tossed the ignition key on the dashboard and stepped out into the breezy evening.
By morning, the SUV would be gone and by afternoon it would be chopped up for parts that would be shipped all over the country. At that point, Matthieu Fournier would cease to exist.
Rapp took a position at the back of a line snaking across one of Aleppo’s largest squares. Not far away, a group of kids were playing drums and belting out an English-language pop song with a level of enthusiasm that made up for their lack of skill. They were a diverse group, with boys favoring jeans and T-shirts emblazoned with Western brands, and girls wearing everything from bulky dresses with headscarves to knee-length skirts with tights. Another reminder of Syria’s baffling complexity.
When his turn at the food stand came, he bought a grilled cob of corn and then wandered to a less popular vendor specializing in prepaid cell phones. After a bit of haggling, he managed to get three for forty dollars and the elated seller threw in a hot-pink case that didn’t fit any of them.
Rapp took a seat on a wall between the singing kids and a group of men arguing about everything under the sun. The noise would cover up his conversation and the commotion would make him fade into the background. He finished his corn and tossed the empty cob into a trash can before unwrapping a phone. After dialing a number from memory, he listened to it ring a few times before Damian Losa’s assistant answered in English.
“Yes?”
“I’m still alive, Julian. Is he in?”
