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Best to be safely home before that happened.
CHAPTER 24
FLUSHwith cash from his Russian and Syrian victims, Rapp had chosen a reasonably upscale clothing shop. The bathroom in back also served as a dressing room and he took full advantage. Using the shirt he’d spent the night in as a makeshift washcloth, he cleaned up with water from the sink and then used a pair of scissors to cut his hair into what he’d determined to be the most common local style. An electric clipper he’d bought completed the job by bringing his beard in line with the minimalist look favored by Syrian men.
After putting on a pair of tan slacks and a loose-fitting cotton shirt, he examined himself in the mirror. Not exactly a miraculous transformation, but also not bad. He was now about as generic as he could reasonably get. Neither short nor particularly tall. Average build. Not wealthy, but also not wondering where his next meal was coming from. In the context of Aleppo, a man who would be easily forgotten and difficult to describe.
The only article of the clothing remaining from his entry into Syria was the shoes. He couldn’t bring himself to give them up and justifiedthat decision by telling himself that they were now too beat-up to draw attention.
Rapp tossed his old clothes in a garbage can and emerged to the approving expression of the shop’s owner.
“A significant improvement!” he said, circling Rapp to check the fit of his pants. “This is what I do in this shop. It’s what my father did. As they say, clothes make the man. You are once again a respectable member of society.”
But not for much longer if Rapp had anything to do with it. The plan was to put this country in his rearview mirror as soon as possible. Forty-eight hours at the most. Twenty-four would be better.
He pulled the appropriate amount of cash from a leather bag slung across his body and the man exchanged it for a piece of notebook paper.
“This is what you were asking for. The woman’s name is Cala, and the address isn’t far from here. Easy to find—I drew a map on the back. Her husband was killed in the war, and she makes money taking in boarders. Her house is not luxurious, mind you, but her prices are fair, and I understand it’s clean and well equipped.”
Rapp thanked the man and exited onto a busy thoroughfare that bisected one of Aleppo’s main retail areas. Donning a pair of sunglasses against the morning sun, he found a less trafficked side street and continued along it until he reached an uninhabited area. Once satisfied that he was alone, he unwrapped a new phone from its packaging and turned it on. The number he dialed was from well-worn memory, almost as familiar as the voice that answered.
“Hello?”
Irene Kennedy’s greetings tended to be purposely generic when picking up the line that only they knew existed.
“How’ve you been?”
There was a short pause before she responded. “Better now that I hear your voice. Since I don’t recognize this number, can I assume that you’re not at home?”
“Still in-country. My new friend sold me out to the Russians.”
“The Russians?”
“That’s who’s behind the new captagon trade in Europe. It’s worth looking into. The formulation’s apparently not normal and if the Russians are involved, I think we can assume they’re going to break some dishes with it.”
“It is what they do best,” Kennedy agreed. “I’ll see if my European counterparts have any information. But, in truth, your new employer is in a better position to collect that kind of intelligence than they are.”
“He can do it without me. I didn’t sign on to be set up.”
“Are you looking for an exit?”
“Yeah. Any chance you can give me an assist?”
“For obvious reasons, I can’t involve myself or America in this, Mitch.” She paused for a few seconds. “The Israelis on the other hand…”
“Quneitra?” Rapp said, referring to a crossing between the Syrian- and Israeli-controlled parts of the Golan Heights. It was managed by the UN Disengagement Observer Force with only nominal US participation.
“That was my thought. Can you get there?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’ll call Ben and see if we can set something up.”
Rapp frowned. Ben in this case was Colonel Ben Friedman, the head of the Mossad. Unquestionably dedicated and competent, but also a bit of a prick who got off fanning the flames of hatred between Israel and its neighbors. Years ago, he’d unilaterally ordered the destruction of a nuclear research facility in Iran, creating the potential for a confrontation that could have dragged in half the countries in the region. Rapp had managed to convince the Iranians and the rest of the world that the explosion was the work of an internal resistance group, averting a potential war and pulling Friedman’s fat out of the fryer. But it had been touch and go.
Kennedy correctly interpreted Rapp’s silence as reticence.
“He owes us.”
