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Losa nodded. “I’m afraid that’s where we’ve landed, my friend. On a path where every turn leads to disaster.”
CHAPTER 23
ALEPPO
SYRIA
THErestaurant was about as informal as they came, but still packed many hours after sunset. The owners had taken advantage of an abandoned ruin by shoring up its remaining floors and converting them into balconies. A few hundred feet of fairy lights had been placed around the missing façade for ambience and to illuminate the charcoal grills that were the establishment’s draw.
And for good reason, Rapp reflected as he gnawed a chunk of lamb from a wooden skewer. Great food was one of the things he’d always associated with Syria. Oddly, the other was stability. While unquestionably brutal, the government had managed to create a Middle Eastern country that didn’t take Islam too seriously and let people find their own path unmolested. Unless that path was political opposition, of course. In that case, they and their families would be on the fast track to an early grave.
Rapp pointed to one of the smoke-enshrouded grill masters and held up a couple of fingers. His request was answered by a thumbs-upand he soon had two more skewers on his plate. This time chicken. It was all about the marinade and this place had it dialed.
He dug in, keeping an eye on the pedestrians picking their way through seating that had sprawled all the way across the street. A beer would have helped put a little perspective on his situation, but it turned out not to be an option. While Syria was in some ways known for its cultural flexibility, that rarely extended to alcohol.
Not that it would have made much of a difference. It would take something a lot stronger than an IPA to make him any less suspicious of Losa’s new plan. He would have led with his best people, and finding a reasonable Russian to negotiate with wasn’t likely. In Syria, they’d be about as plentiful as unicorns.
Claudia’s description of Losa as an evil reflection of Irene Kennedy kept turning over in his mind. What would Kennedy—unbound by sentiment, loyalty, or patriotism—do in this situation? How would she view an utterly expendable operative with no information that could be useful to the enemy?
It wasn’t a difficult question to answer. She’d throw him to the wolves.
Worst-case scenario, Rapp would be tortured for everything he knew about the criminal mastermind—essentially nothing—and end up dead. Best-case scenario, he would manage to make a case for a business partnership or escape with intel on the players and their plans. If the latter played out, it’d be hard to prove that Losa had betrayed him, so Rapp would end up just handing over what he’d learned and calling it even.
If Losa’s plans did indeed include handing him over to the Russians, Rapp saw that as well beyond the parameters of the debt he owed. While it was true that he was good at withstanding torture and making improbable escapes, it wasn’t exactly his favorite pastime. And if Losa decided to go one step further and bargain away Rapp’s true identity, things would get exciting fast.
In light of that, an experiment was in order.
With his sixth skewer stripped clean, Rapp lit a cigarette and studied a man who had just appeared around a corner to the north. They were about the same height and had the same longish hair, but the approaching Syrian wore a much longer beard and carried a prominent gut. Not bad, but something better would come along.
It took another fifteen minutes and two more cups of tea, but Rapp finally spotted what he was looking for. The man was a bit younger than him and appeared to be a rough customer, but he had about the right build, hair, and beard. Even better, he seemed somewhat oblivious to the canvas bag he had slung over one shoulder. An insurgent whose appearance would be enough to dissuade pickpockets and other ne’er-do-wells. Rapp, however, wasn’t so easily put off.
He turned on the phone he’d used to call Losa and slapped some cash down on the table before standing to follow the man. When the crowd thinned a bit, Rapp picked up his pace, coming alongside his target. At that point, it was a simple matter to drop the phone in his bag and veer unnoticed down a side street.
Rapp held his surprisingly durable dress watch to his face, barely managing to make out the hands. Four in the morning. Temperatures had dropped into what he guessed were the low sixties, causing the cold to sink into him more deeply than he’d like. Not surprising in that he’d been lying motionless in a pile of rubble for hours now, keeping vigil over a bullet-pocked building across the street.
Inside, the man now in possession of his phone appeared to be asleep. He’d entered through the front door a little after midnight, and less than a minute later a light had gone on in a second-floor window. It stayed lit for only a short time, suggesting that he’d gone to bed without discovering the addition to the contents of his bag. What that meant was yet to be seen.
There was no activity on the narrow street and there probably wouldn’t be until sunrise brought the city back to life. Rapp was in a good position to watch the building without being spotted, but oncedaylight broke, he’d have to retreat. Not only because he would be visible from the street, but because the icebox he’d spent the night in would quickly turn into a furnace.
After that, he wasn’t sure. Being separated from Irene Kennedy and her army of eggheads created an intelligence black hole that he despised operating in. Who was the man he’d chosen purely because of their superficial resemblance? Did he go to work every morning? Where? Did he have a wife and children in the building? Other family? Did he have electronics that could be hacked or associates that could be bribed?
No way to know. It was Losa’s move. Would he make it?
Rapp had to wait only another twenty minutes for that question to be answered. He’d sunk into a half doze, when he spotted movement with his partially closed right eye. Just a shadow at first, it quickly morphed into a human outline as it approached. An early-rising local? No. The movement was too quiet and purposeful.
His analysis was confirmed when the figure dropped to one knee and began working to open the door Rapp was watching. A couple of minutes later, he stood and pulled a pistol from a holster hidden in the small of his back. The movement prompted five more men to materialize, two from the east and three from the west. Whether they were Russian or Syrian was impossible to tell, but they weren’t making the same mistakes as were made in Saraqib. All were silent, wearing civilian clothes, and had forgone rifles in favor of handguns. Night-vision gear didn’t go on until right before they entered.
It was a smooth, but not particularly quick, operation. While his phone could be confidently traced to the building, there would be no way to drill down on which apartment. The team would be forced to systematically clear them until they found their target.
Eventually, two men reappeared in the doorway, guiding a third with bound hands and a bag over his head. They’d barely set foot in the street when a car glided up with the back door already open. Also silent. Rapp recognized it as an electric model made by the Chinese company BYD.
The prisoner was shoved in the back, followed by his two chaperones, and the vehicle pulled away. The remainder of the incursion team appeared a few seconds later, melting back into the darkness they’d emerged from.
Despite the fact that the temperature continued to fall, Rapp felt a strange warmth spread through him. He leaned his head back against a concrete block with a smile playing at his lips. There could be no doubt about who had given up the existence of that phone. Only one call had ever been made from it. To Damian Losa.
Rapp had agreed to help the cartel leader with his Syrian captagon problem. Not to be betrayed and handed over to the Russians. As far as he was concerned, his debt was now paid.
He stood and picked his way back to the street before turning toward the city center. It wouldn’t take long for an experienced interrogator to figure out that the man they’d captured wasn’t Canadian, wasn’t a lawyer, and had never heard of Damian Losa.
