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“Gesundheit. Oh, and we’re running out of water purification tablets.”
“I’ll do what I can, but we’ll probably be better off with bleach. A lot of counterfeits out there.”
“Whatever. But remember, you’re pulling a double shift tonight. That’s the deal. The price of you getting to go out in the world.”
“Hang in there, Bruno. It won’t be much longer.”
“You say that every day.”
Of all Scott Coleman’s men, McGraw was the most susceptible to the crushing boredom that was inevitable in battle. While Charlie Wicker’s idea of a good time was letting snow pile up on him while he waited for an elk to wander by, McGraw was Manhattan born and bred. He loved action whenever and wherever he could get it. Combat, sports, fast cars, Las Vegas binges. Give him something to do and he went full blast. Give him nothing to do and he went slowly insane.
Unfortunately, a low-tech stakeout was the only viable option. They didn’t have interrupted satellite coverage of the area and couldn’t roam the Syrian skies with a surveillance drone. The prison where Semenov got many of the guinea pigs for his experiments was about fifteen miles southwest of the city and the most practical path there was right down the street they were living on.
The last few weeks had been an exercise in staring out the window twenty-four seven, searching for the Russian transport that would eventually come to collect a fresh crop of victims.Eventuallybeing the operative word. Based on the intelligence Kennedy had gathered,the intervals were a bit random and likely based on the shifting needs of the Russians’ experiments. When the day finally arrived, the fuse would be lit, and McGraw could recoup his sanity.
Rapp passed through the flat’s door and then descended a treacherous set of stairs to the street. His comrade’s increasing discomfort notwithstanding, the situation seemed to be more or less under control. Their equipment was safely buried on the only road leading to the facility. His men were scattered strategically throughout the region, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Tensions were still high in the country, but none of the flare-ups were occurring anywhere near where they would be operating. Even Kadir appeared to be holding it together in anticipation of a glorious, Allah-approved death.
The cracks would eventually start to appear, though. Even he could feel the weight of time. Risks increased, edges were dulled, chances for careless mistakes expanded. McGraw was right. Sooner was better than later.
The city hadn’t seen much damage during the war and what rubble existed had been cleared from the road long ago. Traffic was light, with cars and motorbikes mingling with pedestrians in a dance that the people of the Middle East had more or less perfected.
Rapp would have preferred not to return to the same place day after day, but the central market was unavoidable if you wanted to eat. And if you wanted to keep Bruno McGraw from bouncing off the walls, it was necessary to frequent the same stand.
“Samaka Harra?” a woman in her late seventies shouted as he approached.
“You know me too well,” Rapp said sincerely.
“How can I forget you?” she responded, dropping a couple of fish in a plastic bag that looked a bit less used than the others on her counter. “You’re both my saddest and most prosperous customer.”
The next part of the conversation was unavoidable in light of the fact that those two qualities made him the most eligible bachelor in town.
“You come to my stall. You buy food. You go home and sit alone eating it. This is why you need a wife.”
“I don’t know. I kind of enjoy my life as a bachelor.”
“Shopping and cooking? This is the work of women. Let me show you a good life.” She pulled out her phone and held up a photo of a woman wearing utterly formless clothing that included a scarf that left only the space between her chin and eyebrows visible. “This is Nakeya. A beautiful, wonderful woman. She’s twenty-six years old. The perfect age for you. Her husband was killed in the war and her son died six months ago of an infection. She’s alone in the world like you. Perhaps I could make an introduction?”
It was the sixth woman she’d suggested in their brief acquaintance, but he couldn’t blame her. What she saw in him was a well-educated Iraqi with no attachments. From her point of view, it was a terrible waste. Through no fault of their own, these women were in situations that bordered on complete hopelessness. He had the ability to save one of them and get a good, loyal wife in return. What possible downside could there be for either party?
“The problem is that I only have eyes for you, Omaira.”
She averted her gaze in feigned shock. “You are impossible.”
He accepted the food and paid without bothering to haggle. “Let me think about it.”
“Don’t think too long!” she called after him. “You’ll lose out!”
Rapp weaved back through the crowd, watching for anyone paying him too much attention or who looked like a government operative. Not that he’d necessarily recognize the latter. No one wanted what had happened in Saraqib to spread any farther, so Damascus was keeping an uncharacteristically low profile.
He’d almost made it back to the main road when he heard a sudden cacophony of blaring horns followed by a deep, rattling rumble. He pushed his way to the sidewalk in time to see a modified Ural-4320 transport speed past. Based on the expressions of the people with him on the street, they had some sense of what the truck meant. Detailswould be hazy, of course, but they’d know that the people it gathered from the local prison never returned.
Rapp crossed the street, moving as quickly as possible without drawing attention. He barely made it a block before the phone in his pocket began to vibrate.
McGraw’s text was vague and translated into Arabic with Google, making it a little hard to decipher.
We’re a go. Thank God.
Rapp stopped in the doorway of an abandoned building and typed a password that he then sent out to all the men involved in the operation. With it, they’d be able to access an encrypted file folder that would provide details on their specific roles and objectives.
