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“Now that you know this? What will you do?”
“Pass the information on to my superiors.”
“To what end?”
“So that we can outcompete them. Or kill them.”
The old man laughed. “And how would you do that? The Russians control everything here. Not the old women in Damascus.”
“I don’t know. I just deal in information.”
“A simple detective,” the man said, not bothering to hide his suspicion.
“That’s correct. Do you know anything about this? About the Russians’ involvement in captagon?”
The old man leaned against the stone wall behind him, eyes locked on Rapp.
“I know a great deal,” he said finally.
“Yes?” Rapp prompted, keeping his tone respectful, but making his interest clear.
The still-unnamed Syrian nodded. “We used to be involved in the drug trade. Not in Europe. Nothing so grand. Mostly Jordan. Damascus and the Syrian military still control the regional trade, but they have little involvement in the European market. All that is run from a facility not far from here. Perhaps three hours in a car.”
The hatred in his voice intensified whenever he spoke of theRussians. Men like him had seen the Syrian civil war as an internal conflict that they had a solid chance of winning. Right up until the Kremlin had decided to get involved.
“It used to be a hospital used by the country’s elite,” he continued. “It was abandoned during the war and didn’t suffer damage because it was of no strategic importance. The Russians took control of it about three years ago, adding security and a new wing. Many people who were captured fighting against the regime have been taken from prisons and refugee camps and transported there. No one ever sees them again.”
“Maybe I can help you,” Rapp said. “Either by weakening the Russians or bringing you into one of our operations. Do you have a way to communicate with the outside? Access to the Internet or a satellite pho—”
“No, what I just told you isn’t true,” the man mused, seemingly oblivious to what Rapp had just said. “One man did escape. But I don’t know if he’s still alive.”
“He is,” someone behind Rapp said. “I’ve seen him. He lives alone on the other side of the mountain.”
“I’m told that he spent over a year in that building with the Russians,” the old man said. “That he has many stories about what happened there. Fantastic stories to be sure, but I wonder if some aren’t true.”
“He’s insane,” the same voice from behind offered. “He avoids contact with people. They say he screams and throws rocks at anyone who gets too close.”
Rapp started to ask about their communications capability again, but then thought better of it. He desperately wanted to find the closest border and throw himself over it, but that wasn’t just some random Russian asshole manufacturing captagon. It was Aleksandr fucking Semenov. The genius behind Russia’s remaining offensive capability and a good bet to be their next president. While Rapp wasn’t anxiousto hump over a mountain to have some crazy hermit throw rocks at him, was he missing a major opportunity here? If the guy had spent a year there, what did he know about the operation and Semenov’s plans?
Unfortunately, the answer was obvious. Too much for Rapp to ignore.
CHAPTER 31
SOUTHWEST OF AL-QADR
SYRIA
GENERALAleksandr Semenov muttered under his breath as he strode through the dust he so despised. The sun had receded behind the facility’s main building, providing a two-meter strip of shade that seemed to do nothing to counteract the oppressive heat. The three mercenaries accompanying him followed at a prudent distance, moving silently.
Something had gone wrong. The soldiers he’d sent to Tartus had been attacked and Fournier was gone. Beyond that, he knew nothing. The security of communications in Syria was highly questionable due to antiquated technology and monitoring by both Damascus and Western intelligence agencies. Sharing any more detail than was absolutely necessary could turn into a windfall for his many enemies.
A plume of dust appeared on the horizon, and he stopped to watch it elongate. Another fifteen minutes would pass before the vehicle arrived, but that didn’t prevent him from glancing repeatedly at the goldRolex strapped to his wrist. Despite the timepiece’s impeccable reputation, the hands seemed to slow to a near halt.
If the Canadian was indeed dead or missing, Semenov knew that he could find himself in a very difficult position. It was he who had convinced Moscow to trade the Golan Heights for Fournier and promises about Losa’s European and American networks had been made. In his semi-banishment, bold action was the only path available to him. Unfortunately, it was a treacherous one. The distance between Syria and Moscow tended to mute his achievements and amplify his failures to the degree that nothing but an unbroken series of successes was acceptable. Anything less would give his rivals a weapon to use against him.
When the SUV passed through the gate, his guards moved to more strategic positions, but otherwise remained in the background. Semenov examined the vehicle as it pulled to a stop in front of him, but, except for the man behind the wheel, it appeared to be empty.
The driver threw open the door and stepped out, giving a quick salute over the hood before rushing to the back. He opened the hatch and carefully extracted a man who moaned in agony during the process. It was clear that Captain Sergei Lenkov wanted help but, finding none on offer, he managed to get his comrade’s arm over his shoulders and hold him upright.
