At seven in the evening, I made my way back to the Méridien complex. Traffic was fairly heavy, and it took the taxi over half an hour to get there. Casa Mia was still empty when I arrived, and thankfully a different waiter was working this evening’s shift. I sat down at the table next to what I suspected would be Anas’s table and ordered a coffee. I pulled out my phone, switched it to flight mode, and started recording. I had sent my prosecutor friend and Khalid text messages from my Swiss phone, asking them to contact me on that number if they needed to reach me in an emergency. Khalid responded by wishing me good luck.
About twenty minutes later, a group of three loud men came out of Jules Bar and walked toward the restaurant. I immediately spotted Anas in the middle. He was the largest and the loudest of the bunch, clearly the alpha male. There was something cartoonish about his appearance. He was enormous and broad shouldered and stood at about six foot five. His bulging muscles were even bigger than they appeared in Khalid’s and Mike’s pictures. He had a large moonlike face and a crew cut that revealed ugly waves of thick wrinkles on his skull, evoking a Shar Pei in a permanent state of fury. His face had a dark red, almost purple, hue, compounding the impression of a person with a really bad temper.
The waiter greeted Anas as if he were the Messiah and to my relief led him to the table next to mine. As he approached, I was hit by an overwhelming stench of aftershave—syrupy with an unpleasant tinge of sweat. Anas must have emptied an entire bottle on his face and body before leaving for this night out. He told his two companions to scamper. Apparently he was expecting some other friends to join him later and did not want these two around. When one of the men didn’t leave instantly, Anas shouted at him to get lost, to take a long walk on a short pier. The few people in the vicinity laughed, except for the humiliated fellow who darted off.
Many times I had tried to visualize this moment in my head, and I had always assumed that my heart would be pounding when I finally came face-to-face with Anas. But to my own surprise, I was calm. It helped that I was mesmerized by Anas’s gigantic, brutish appearance. He had the most powerful, titanic arms I had ever seen, and thick veins snaked around his biceps and forearm muscles like pythons around a massive tree trunk. His wrists seemed larger than my thighs, his neck wider than my shoulders. Even his fingers were huge and meaty, and I could not stop myself from imagining these hands around the neck and wrists of Loubna’s sister as he raped her. There was something both repulsive and hypnotic about this enormous specimen of a man. He was wearing tight dirty-wash biker jeans and a black T-shirt with an incredibly bright spherical pattern in the center. I could not take my eyes off it, and Anas caught me staring.
“You like this T-shirt?” he asked in a loud, aggressive voice.
“Yes,” I said. “I apologize for staring. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“You’ve got expensive taste,” he laughed. “This T-shirt set me back a few hundred thousand dollars.” His English seemed fluent, though with a scratchy, guttural intonation.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all,” he said proudly. “This is a Superlative Luxury shirt, very limited edition. Made entirely from renewable energy sources.”
“How does that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars?” I was surprised that someone of Anas’s ilk would be environmentally conscious enough to care about renewable energy.
“Aha!” Anas exclaimed triumphantly. “That’s because I didn’t mention the kicker. This bright pattern you’ve been staring at—any idea why it’s so bright?”
I shook my head, trying hard to suppress my brooding ire at how Anas had been able to amass such ostentatious wealth.
“These are diamonds, man! Diamonds!” he said. “Sixteen beautiful white diamonds. That’s why this T-shirt costs more than a Lamborghini!”
My jaw dropped, which seemed to egg Anas on. “See these jeans,” he said as he stood up. “These are Balmain jeans. Two thousand bucks.”
“They don’t come with diamonds?” I asked.
Anas gave me a perplexed look, trying to figure out whether I was being facetious or serious. He broke into a wide grin when I smiled as innocuously as I could.
“That’s a fantastic idea,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll suggest that to them. I’m sure they’ll make a killing here in the Gulf with diamond-studded jeans. Do you want in on this?” He gestured magnanimously with both arms.
“It’s all yours,” I replied.
The jovial beginning to our conversation was reassuring. It meant either that Anas was not aware of my interactions with Mike, Imad, Loubna, and Reem or that he was aware of them but did not recognize me. Either way, I felt safe, for now.
“You’re the shit, brother,” Anas shouted, loud enough for everyone within a hundred feet to hear. “Come here, why don’t you join me at my table?”
“Thanks, very kind of you,” I said as I moved my coffee cup over to his table.
“What’s that you’re drinking?” Anas asked with a look of disgust. “Coffee after dark? What’s up with that?” Turning to the waiter, he shouted, “What’s a man got to do not to die of thirst in this joint? Kill someone?” The waiter raced over to our table. “Bring us a bottle of that wicked Barbaresco I had the other night. You know, that Nebbiolo Costa Russi stuff. That was some good shit.” Turning to me, Anas added, “You’ll love that wine.”
Before I could answer, his phone rang. He picked up and cursed at the person on the other end of the line in the vilest language imaginable, then slammed down the phone on the table. I half expected either the phone or the table to shatter. The waiter showed up with the bottle of wine and two large glasses. Anas smiled, as if nothing had happened. He tasted the wine and gave the waiter an approving thumbs up, which immediately morphed into an angry outburst when the waiter attempted to fill his glass.
“You fucking idiot!” Anas screamed. “Always pour the guest’s glass first! Where are your manners?”
The waiter’s face was ashen. His hands were shaking so violently that as he poured my glass, a drop spilled on my shirt. Anas looked at him with an expression of pure hatred. “Give me that!” he barked and grabbed the bottle. “Go back inside and cry your eyes out, you fucking pussy. And don’t show your face until you’ve powdered your nose or done whatever else you fucking faggots do!”
The waiter stood there paralyzed after this volcanic eruption of anger. He moved only when Anas shouted “Go!” and stumbled into the adjoining table.
“Imbecile!” Anas said before turning to me with a wide grin. He filled his own glass before pouring mine. “So, where were we? Oh yeah, the jeans and the T-shirt. That was a great idea you had, stitching diamonds on the jeans. We should name that line after you. So, what is your name?” he asked as he raised his glass.
I had been prepared for this question. “Dee,” I answered, and raised my glass, too.
“Just Dee?” he asked.
“Dee Wolfson.” We clinked our glasses. “What’s yours?”
“Anas.”
“Just Anas?”
“Just Anas,” he said. “Though some people call me Anas BT.”
“Beetee?”
“Yeah, BT. Short for Big Time.” His grin showed impeccable, white teeth.
“Got it. Pleased to meet you, Anas.”
We both took a sip of the wine. It was delicious, and I complimented him on his choice. He beamed in delight. “Some know how to pick ’em, some don’t,” he said. “I do.” Anas leaned back in his chair and swirled the wine in his glass, then took another sip. “It’s good to drink with someone who shares my appreciation for classy things.” The diamonds on his T-shirt were sparkling as he spoke. “So, Dee, tell me, what brings you to Dubai?”
“I’m here for business and also to meet some friends.”
“Friends? In Dubai?” He laughed. “There are no friends in Dubai. This is a place where everything is fake. The wealth, the success, the islands, the buildings, which are all empty. Everything. And of course the people. Even the beautiful women are fake.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “How are the women fake?”
“Dude, the hot chicks are all surgically enhanced. I mean, nothing about the good-looking ones is the way it was originally when they were rolled out of the factory, if you get my gist.” Anas cracked himself up. “Look around you. See that girl walking by?” he asked pointing at a pretty woman passing near our table. “Some plastic surgeon got rich doing her up! Trust me, I know. I’m in the business. Besides, I used to be married to one of them.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, hoping that he would volunteer some information on what it meant to be “in the business.”
“My ex-wife,” he said, missing my drift. “That bitch used to look completely different when I married her in Syria. But ever since she moved to Dubai, she’s changed everything: new tits, new ass, new nose, new lips, tattooed eyebrows, slanted eyes, face-lift, forehead lift, tummy tuck, liposuction—Jesus, what has Loubna not done! Those green eyes all the men fall in love with—those are tinted contact lenses that hide very plain, brown eyes. Every body part of Loubna’s is fake. That crazy bitch even removed a rib just to have a smaller waist. Given how much all this plastic surgery has cost me, I should own shares in those silicone plants and Botox labs! And now Loubna is banging some sheikh from Abu Dhabi. Good luck, is all I can say. To both of them. They deserve each other. Anyway, thank God I am better at my other business than I was at this investment.”
“Sorry to hear about that.”
“Don’t be,” Anas shot back. “Good riddance, is all I can say. He can have the bitch! She might be a hot piece of ass now—fake, but hot, I’ll give her that—but some day, some time, this sheikh will also get tired of putting up with her shit. And that’s when she’ll be in for a rude motherfucking awakening. You see, Dee, the dudes here get it right. When they are done with a woman, they throw her in the garbage and get a new model. And the good news is that the men can keep going forever. They are all hooked on Viagra. Nothing happens here without Viagra. Pfizer would have to close shop without the Gulf. This market never dries up. Not for Pfizer and not for me.”
The waiter showed up carrying some plates with antipasto, carpaccio, and burrata. He placed them on the table without a word and left.
“See how easy this is?” Anas exclaimed triumphantly. “All you have to do is chew them out, and then they offer you all this food on the house. Guilt and fear are powerful motivators.”
I didn’t know what to say. How could I—without sounding sarcastic—compliment this man on his impressive ability to get free food while sporting a T-shirt worth hundreds of thousands of dollars? I ignored his triumph over the woeful waiter and tried instead to probe his strange Viagra comment. “What do you mean, the market never dries up for you?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“You said that the Viagra market never dries up. Not for Pfizer and not for you,” I reminded him.
“Oh, that. You know, people will always try to procreate. It’s what keeps the human race going.”
“Sure, I get that,” I said. “But how is that your market?”
Anas gave me a suspicious look. He seemed to be contemplating whether I was too nosy for my own good or just plain dense. Probably the latter, judging by the grin that followed his initial scowl. “Listen, brother,” he said jovially. “I’m in the entertainment supply business. That means I supply the kind of entertainment the market asks for. Remember that seventies song, ‘Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll’?”
I nodded.
“Well, two out of three ain’t too shabby, right?” Anas beamed triumphantly. “I’m not into the rock ’n roll part, but I’ve pretty much nailed the other two. And the good news is, the market on sex and drugs never seems to dry up. Demand always crushes supply, certainly in this part of the world. So all you’ve got to do is secure the supply, and you’ll always be in a position to set your own price. All I need to do is control all forms of production, you know, the sources of production, and I’ll have all the power.”
“You and Karl Marx,” I said.
“Who?” Anas asked.
“Forget it,” I replied, regretting my snippy comment. “You were saying?”
“I was saying that I have what they crave.” Anas did not miss a beat. “And they have what I crave—cash. A marriage made in heaven. What can I say—it’s good to be me.”
One of the two men who had accompanied Anas when he made his grand entry at Casa Mia came out of the restaurant, whispered something into Anas’s ear, then looked at me. I froze. This was it, I was certain. I had just been busted, unmasked by Anas’s aide. My worst fears had come true. My muscles tensed as I ran through the emergency escape route I had mapped out the previous day. I was going to move quickly toward the hotel and enter through a side door. Behind the front desk, there was a hidden space not visible from the lobby with good phone reception. I would make two calls—the first to my prosecutor friend and the second to my friend Michael, who lived in the apartment building right next to the Méridien. I had called Michael earlier to make sure he was home. I would ask him to swing by and pick me up with his car. If for any reason I could not reach him, I would wait for my prosecutor friend to come get me. And if even that failed, I would call the prosecutor’s brother, who was a captain in the Dubai police force and was on duty that evening.
As I was about to stand up and make a dash for the bar in the open-air dining area, Anas motioned for me to remain seated. To my great surprise, his smile was warm and friendly, and I got the impression that he genuinely wanted me to stick around while he dealt with this irritating interruption. Despite the pit in my stomach, I stayed. Thankfully, Anas ignored me and instead kept shaking his head at his aide, who had started to sweat profusely. When he tried again to whisper something into Anas’s ear, Anas grabbed the poor fellow by his shoulders and shook him violently. The man dropped his cell phone, and its screen cracked on the ground. Anas berated him even louder and pushed him into an empty chair. After showering the hapless aide with the ugliest invectives for five more minutes, Anas dismissed him and turned to me. His face was dark red with rage. I immediately picked up that familiar rancid scent I had smelled on Loubna at Flooka’s and at her home when she recounted Anas’s rape of her sister. After a few moments, it evaporated and his cloyingly sweet cologne was back. Gone also was the angry-red coloring of his face. Anas had calmed down.
I never found out what the aide had whispered into Anas’s ear. I didn’t care; all I felt was relief, as if I had been given a new lease on life. I was worried that I risked arousing Anas’s suspicion if I went at him with more questions about his sex and drugs business, so I decided instead to cajole him into revealing more about himself. The challenge was how to accomplish this without Anas feeling interrogated—hopefully, plain old flattery would do the trick. I took a sip of wine for some liquid courage.
“Exquisite wine!” I said with an approving nod at the glass. “It does seem like it’s good to be you. You look great! Do you live in the gym?”
Anas radiated pride. “Thanks,” he said as he flexed his biceps. “Years of hard work, coupled with amazing genes. I suppose God rewards some of us more than others. Well deserved, I’d say, for the exemplary life I’ve led,” he added with a dirty laugh.
My thoughts raced straight to Reem and Samar and Loubna’s sister, and all the horrific things Loubna had told me.
“So, do you work out?” Anas asked, still basking in the glow of his own divine physique.
“I do, though it’s hard to tell,” I said. “I suppose I’m one of those God has skipped when handing out that muscle gene.”
“Listen, Dee,” Anas said, looking genuinely concerned. “If you eat properly and supplement your workouts with the proper vitamins, you, too, could look like me. Okay, maybe not like me”—he eyed me up and down—“but still pretty damn good and certainly better than your sad, scrawny self.”
“Anas, your forearms are bigger than my thighs,” I said. “I don’t think there is any food or vitamin that can get me there, no matter how much I work out.”
Anas laughed. “I never said it was easy. Listen, I eat six or seven meals a day, tons of protein—beef, chicken, salmon. In my gym in Damascus, I have someone serve me roast beef sandwiches on a tray while I work out, just like Ronnie Coleman in his Mr. Olympia years. I have to have those sandwiches, especially on chest and shoulder days. Those heavy presses are killers, and I need my red meat. No beef, no muscle.”
“I don’t eat meat,” I confessed. “Maybe that explains it all.”
Anas gave me a look of unadulterated disdain. “You don’t eat meat? What are you, a vegetarian?” His tone dripped with contempt.
“Not quite,” I replied in a meek attempt at salvaging my rapidly tanking reputation. “I do eat fish. A pescatarian, I suppose.”
“More like a pussytarian!” Anas said, still disgusted by my unmanly food preferences. “Well, then, as I said, no beef, no muscle. But it’s okay—there’s room in this world for all kinds of people, even girlie men.”
“So tell me, Anas,” I said, trying to keep things moving, “aside from roast beef sandwiches, what else do you do to become this big? You mentioned vitamins. What kind of vitamins?”
“You know, vitamins,” Anas replied. “Juice.”
“Juice?”
“Seriously, man, what’s wrong with you?” Anas sighed in exasperation. “Being a vegetarian has fried your brain. Juice—you know, PEDs, anabolic steroids. HGH. Stimulants. Amphetamines. Blood boosters. Testosterone. All that good stuff.”
Loubna had told me about Anas’s angry outbursts. Since sudden mood swings and uncontrolled, violent reactions—’roid rage—were well-known side effects of steroids, I resisted the temptation of asking him why such a manly man would need to increase his testosterone intake. I considered quizzing him about his impressive knowledge of performance-enhancing drugs—particularly amphetamines—in the hope that my flattery would lead him to brag about Captagon. But I still worried about seeming too inquisitive, especially on a topic that was hardly your typical dinner conversation material. I was about to say something mundane about the weather in Dubai when Anas started to wave his arms frantically at a person walking toward Jules Bar a few feet away.
“Abu Omar,” Anas shouted in the direction of the man. “Abu Omar!”
The man turned around and saw Anas. His face lit up as he rushed to our table. “Abu Sayid, kifak habibi, how are you?”
Anas got up and greeted his friend effusively with a double kiss on the right cheek, followed by a kiss on the left cheek and another double kiss on the right side that came dangerously close to his friend’s mouth. This overkissing blunder violated a subtle but firm code of conduct in the region, an odd faux pas that exposed Anas’s eagerness to please and impress this person. In a flash, Abu Omar’s mien revealed surprise, then revulsion, before reverting to the jovial expression of a moment earlier.
“Abu Omar, habibi, I missed you, it’s been weeks!” Anas said. “How have you been, brother?”
Abu Omar was a tall, heavyset man in his late fifties with a thick goatee that was so dark, it appeared to be dyed with black ink. He seemed genuinely happy to see Anas. After a short exchange of pleasantries, he looked at me, then back at Anas. “Where are your manners, Abu Sayid? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Of course,” Anas said in a cheerful mood, his disappointment concerning my deficient nutrition habits forgotten. “Abu Omar, this is Dee. Dee, this is my dear friend Abdullah.”
Abdullah shook my hand vigorously as he placed his left hand on my right shoulder. “Pleased to meet you, Dee. What brings you to Dubai?”
Before I could answer, Anas motioned for the waiter and asked Abdullah, “Will you join us with a glass of this exquisite wine, or would you prefer something else?”
“No offense to your wine, but I’d prefer the usual,” Abdullah said.
“Bring my friend here a tall, iced glass of Stoli. And another bottle of this Nebbiolo for us,” Anas barked at the waiter. I realized that I had not even finished one glass of wine while Anas had devoured the rest of the bottle.
We all sat down. Anas and Abdullah spoke for a couple of minutes about people I did not know, completely ignoring me. The waiter showed up with Abdullah’s vodka and our wine. As we raised our glasses, Anas proposed a toast. “To good friends! And to sex and drugs,” he added with a laugh. “Let the losers keep the rock ’n roll.”
As I took a sip of the wine, I saw Abdullah down half his glass of vodka with one gulp. He noticed my surprise and smiled.
“Growing up as a royal in Riyadh,” he said, “I learned two things when it came to drinking—that is, if you don’t want to get caught. First, drink something that looks like water. I hate tequila—it gives me a wicked hangover—so vodka became my beverage of choice. And second, whatever booze you are drinking—drink it fast! You never know when the mutaween, our special Saudi vice squad, will drop by for a friendly chat.”
Anas and Abdullah both laughed loudly, and I joined in tepidly, still processing the fact that Abdullah had offhandedly dropped the tidbit of his royal pedigree. This blue-blooded Saudi had an easygoing demeanor. He raised his glass again and finished off what was left in it. Clearly, this was not a casual drinker. Anas beckoned the waiter over.
“I’ll hold you personally responsible if my friend here dies of thirst,” he threatened the waiter. “Bring him another glass of iced Stoli, and make it snappy, ya manyak!”
The waiter took off, again tripping over a table. Anas squealed in delight.
“So, Dee,” Abdullah said as he turned to me, “are you married?”
I was not expecting this question. “I am. What about you?”
He laughed. “Four times over.”
“Four wives?” I said, trying to inject some levity. “How do you do it? I cannot even live up to the expectations of my one lovely wife!”
Abdullah laughed. “You’re looking at this from the wrong angle. Having four wives inserts some competition into the equation. It’s like free-market economics applied to marriage. Each one of my wives knows that she needs to beat, to outperform, her competition if she wants to remain in the picture.”
“Actually, it’s more like survival in the wilderness,” Anas jumped in. “Any wife of yours just has to make sure she’s not the worst of the lot. It’s no different than if you and your friend bump into a grizzly bear. You don’t have to outrun the grizzly—you just have to outrun your friend!”
Both men laughed hysterically. The waiter arrived with Abdullah’s vodka and joined in the laughter, even though he had not heard Anas’s quip.
“Just put it down,” Anas snapped. “Imbecile! Laughs for tips!”
“Keep the vodka coming,” Abdullah told the waiter, who nodded and disappeared.
Abdullah took a big sip. “Ahhh, hits the spot. Anyway, Anas, as funny as your grizzly bear analogy is, it suffers from a fatal flaw.”
“How so?” Anas asked with a frown, clearly peeved at being challenged, even in the mildest of forms and even by a good friend.
“Because no matter whether one wife outperforms another wife, I always have the option of replacing them both,” Abdullah said earnestly. “Real competition does not mean that it is enough to be better than the worst performer. Real competition means that anything but the best will result in immediate termination and replacement with younger, better, and more eager models.”
“Good point,” Anas said, impressed by Abdullah’s logic. “And I’m the one who can keep on supplying you with newer, better models. A win-win for everyone!”
Except for the wives, I thought.
“Talking about supply,” Abdullah asked Anas, “have you been to Syria in the past days?”
“It’s been a couple of weeks,” Anas replied. “I just arrived from Riyadh, and before that I was in Amman with my homeboys.”
“How are Imad and Mike?” Abdullah asked.
“Mike’s still dumb as a fencepost,” Anas answered. “One day, I think Imad might shoot him just for being stupid. Kind of like a mercy killing.”
I looked for a sign in Anas’s demeanor that he was aware of my interaction with Mike and Imad in Amman, but it seemed that Anas was just lamenting Mike’s general lack of mental firepower rather than any specific event. Abdullah smiled knowingly and downed the rest of his vodka. As if on cue, the waiter showed up with a fresh ice-cold glass.
“So, what’s it like in Syria?” I asked, trying to shift the conversation away from Imad and Mike.
“Syria has all the ingredients of a war that will never end,” Anas said.
“Because both sides will never agree to share power?” I asked.
“Because all sides will never agree to share power,” Anas corrected me. “If the war had just two sides, it could end when one side is defeated. But this war has so many sides. The West thinks this is just some tribal conflict—you know, Sunni versus Shia, Shia versus Sunni. But that’s just the bullshit tribal narrative being fed to those clueless morons in the West. Sure, there are many Syrian groups that hate each other, but let’s not forget that the foreign powers involved hate each other just as much, if not more. At this point, you have Iran and you have America, and you have the Saudis and the Qataris and the Emiratis, and you have the Turks. And since Bashar is not doing so well these days, he’ll probably have to ask another country for help. Who knows? My bet is on Russia. Many of his intelligence officers studied in Moscow, and Maher* is very well connected over there. So my guess is that Putin will help Bashar, even if he doesn’t like him.”
“Why doesn’t he like him?” I asked. I was impressed by how astutely Anas had made the case for a Russian intervention in Syria.
“Probably because Bashar is so much taller,” he replied with a laugh. “Apparently Putin is not too fond of people who are much taller than he is. Maher is closer to Putin in height and is also a military man—two major assets in Putin’s world. Helping the Syrian regime would give Putin a chance to mess with America and rub Obama’s face in it.”
Anas’s analysis seemed highly plausible.**
“You see, Dee,” he continued, “these countries are all keeping this war going with weapons and money, but they’re not the ones who are paying the price. So they don’t really have an incentive to make peace happen. Do you really think this war would continue even for one week if Obama and Khamenei and all the others sat down and decided to stop the killing? If each of them brought their side to the table and said, ‘Okay, boys, it’s been a party, but let’s wrap this one up’? If they wanted Assad to go, he’d be gone. And if they want him to stay, he’ll stay. Nobody gives a shit about what the Syrian people want.”
Anas seemed genuinely offended by foreign powers and their proxies having a stake in the Syrian war. “And don’t forget,” Abdullah jumped in, “with the exception of Turkey, you have nothing but weak or failed states surrounding Syria. Iraq—now a failed Shia state thanks to George Bush Jr.’s little adventure. Lebanon—please! The only real power there is Hezbollah, aside from Israel, of course. So two of Syria’s neighbors, Iraq and Lebanon, are essentially Iranian satellites. And Jordan is weak, a few bullets away from the Muslim Brotherhood taking over and on the brink of collapsing under a tsunami of refugees. Besides, many of the ISIS fighters in Syria and Iraq are Jordanian, so that’ll be fun when they return home!”
“What Abu Omar is saying is that no side can win this war, and no side can lose it either,” Anas said, tag-teaming Abdullah. “This war can go on forever.”
I was desperate to learn what had happened to Paul Blocher, but there was no inconspicuous way to probe more directly, and I couldn’t ask flat-out. For now, I would have to stay engaged in their conversation. “At some point, the suffering might reach a point where the world can no longer look away,” I ventured.
“Really?” Abdullah stared at me. “Don’t you think that point was reached long ago?”
I nodded. Abdullah was right; it was a silly comment.
“Look, Dee,” Anas continued, “all sides to this war, inside and outside the country, they’re all just looking out for their own interests, protecting their own power. Actually, the leaders of the different parties in this war, they all resemble each other far more than they resemble those they claim to represent. They all speak the same universal language—the language of power. That’s why they get along and understand each other so perfectly. Come on now, just look at the Syrian players—the government, the opposition, ISIS—they’re all just one and the same. They’re all scum. It’s like a filthy bowl of steaming hot shit staring at itself in the mirror!”
Abdullah high-fived Anas in approval of this delightful metaphor and finished his vodka. Immediately the waiter reappeared with yet another iced glass. I hadn’t noticed him hovering near our table, and I wondered whether there was a hidden camera or a sensor in the glass itself alerting the bartender whenever the vodka in Abdullah’s glass was approaching dangerously low levels.
“Attaboy!” Anas said approvingly to the waiter while handing him a hundred-dollar bill. “And this, my friends, is how you train a monkey. Carrots and sticks. Sticks and carrots.”
“But there are some people in Syria who are trying to help, aren’t there?” I asked, hoping to steer the conversation toward the aid organizations active in Aleppo and a little closer to Paul Blocher.
“Like who?” Anas sneered. “The UN?” He and Abdullah both erupted in hysterical laughter.
I sat there completely befuddled. “What’s wrong with the UN in Syria?”
Abdullah hit Anas’s thigh as they exploded in another roar. “What’s . . . wrong . . . with . . . the . . . U . . . N . . . in . . . Syria!” Abdullah blurted between fits of delirious squeals, as if I had just said the funniest thing he had ever heard. “Tell him, Anas. Tell him.”
“Where to begin, brother,” Anas said to me. “The UN is so damn clueless in Syria. There are some things we wouldn’t even be able to do without them.”
“How so?” I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Man, the UN is great for business,” Anas said. “Getting a piece of the aid money is the sweetest deal in the country. Nothing like those fat UN contracts!”
“Huh?” The expression on my face must have been bewilderment because both Anas and Abdullah started to laugh again as they took turns pointing at me.
Anas got hold of himself first. “Okay, let me explain,” he said. “For starters, the UN can only operate in Syria with the government’s approval. Nothing happens without that. So almost all the Syrian companies that get UN contracts are controlled by Bashar’s buddies or his buddies’ buddies. The best one of all is the blood supply to those poor war victims! All that money to support the Syrian national blood bank, and guess who controls that? The Defense Ministry! So it’s the Syrian military that gets to decide who gets the UN-sponsored blood supplies. I mean, you can’t make this shit up!”
“Hey, it just proves that the UN has a sense of humor,” Abdullah piped in.
“No kidding,” Anas continued. “The oldest brother of my man Imad is running this little enterprise in Damascus that distributes UN contracts and takes thirty cents on every dollar the UN spends. Man, he is raking it in! It’s incredible! When the war started, he was a skinny man, maybe sixty-five kilos soaking wet. Now he has turned into a fat head honcho, a hundred-kilo pig in shit. And he’s going to stay fat, I can promise you that! Because if this beautiful war ever ends, which I hope will never happen, then Imad’s brother will be there to work with the Chinese who will invest billions to rebuild this damned country. He’ll be more than happy to take their money, just as he did with the UN’s. It’s actually kind of funny. Iran thinks that it will get a big piece of the pie when it comes to these future rebuilding contracts in Syria, but just because they saved Assad’s ass doesn’t mean that he won’t screw them and give all those deals to the Chinese who can also finance the investments. After all, Iran is dead broke from all the sanctions, so there’s not much they can offer Assad other than soldiers as cannon fodder. He’ll just throw them a few scraps, maybe a sewage plant or some other stinking thing. Loyalty is way overrated. So you see, Dee, there are no good actors in Syria. Only bad ones, or dumb ones—you know, do-gooders.”
“There’s got to be some stuff the UN can do in Syria without the government, right?” I asked.
Anas gave me a pitying look. “Fuck man, you’re some kind of stupid! You really think anyone can do anything in Syria without Damascus? What are you, retarded? When those UN staffers use their Syriatel cell phones, who do you think rakes it in? Rami rakes it in. Rami.”
“Rami?” I asked.
“Rami Makhlouf—Bashar’s cousin,” Anas replied in an exasperated tone. “That’s not all. When they need security protection, they go to another one of Rami’s companies. And when they stay in the fancy Four Seasons in Damascus, who do you think owns a piece of that? The Syrian government. I could go on and on. Trust me, Dee, the UN doesn’t as much as give a bottle of water to a homeless person in Syria without Bashar and his crew making money off it.”***
“What about the food aid?” I asked. “Can’t they distribute that directly without benefiting the regime?”
Anas grinned and answered in an annoyingly slow cadence, as if he were talking to a child with special needs. “No, Dee. Not. Even. The. Food. Aid. Those distributions have to go through a Syrian charity. And you know who runs that one?”
I shook my head.
“Asma,” Anas continued. “Innocent Asma, Bashar’s trophy wife. She, too, makes a fuckload of money straight off those UN contracts. Good times, Dee. Good times.”
Before I had a chance to ask Anas any questions about Asma al-Assad, he answered a call on his phone and screamed obscenities at the person on the other end of the line. It seemed to be the only way he knew how to use his phone. While Anas was on this call, Abdullah got up. “I’ll be right back,” he said as he headed toward Jules Bar.
I waited for Anas to finish his call, then resumed our conversation. “But surely not everything the UN and the aid agencies do is bad or stupid?”
“Only if you are someone who thinks that good intentions count,” Anas said sarcastically. “I really hope I did not spend this past hour drinking with someone who believes that! Listen, it’s not just the blood bank or Asma’s charity. Those UN guys are so fucking clueless! Imagine this: we store a lot of our stuff in their camps, and we even use their vehicles to transport some of our hottest merchandise.”
“What hottest merchandise?” I asked carefully.
“Seriously, dude?” Anas asked with a look of genuine pity. “You’ve still not figured it out? Drugs, uppers. Weapons. Even some chemical stuff. Contraband. Black money. Stolen car parts. Even prisoners.”
I couldn’t suppress my revulsion. “Wow!”
Judging by Anas’s grin, he misread my reaction as an expression of admiration. “Listen,” he continued, “just think of everything that you consider to be legal. And now think of the exact opposite. That!”
“Wow,” I said again.
“I know—it’s great, isn’t it? One of my favorite stories is when we put some grenades and drugs in an SUV that the UN used to drive to the north of the country to deliver medical supplies. Our guys at the other end took out the grenades and traded them with Nusra for some other weapons and lots of cash. In Aleppo, our couriers made a stop to pick up some of the weapons that the rebels received from the Americans—high-quality stuff, sealed by your good old US of A, which we get at a huge discount in exchange for amphetamines—the perks of doing business with addicts! Actually, our trove included my favorite weapons—those kick-ass anti-tank missiles that the CIA gives the rebel groups it supports, who then turn around and sell them to me—at a sweet price, I might add. It’s a beautiful thing. Turns out, ISIS and Nusra are horny as hell when it comes to these missiles—you know, kind of a missile-boner thing. So my profits are huge!”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. There had been rumors of an active weapons trading market in Syria involving the CIA-supported rebels but nothing of the scale and brazenness Anas was describing. “Are you serious?” I asked.
“Oh yeah, baby!” Anas hollered enthusiastically. The wrinkles on the top of his head were becoming even more pronounced, evidencing a state of unbridled euphoria. “You’d better believe it! We’re just cleaning up, man, shoveling in the dough. Last month, my guys even got their hands on some sarin and mustard gas—wearing gloves, of course. Get it? Chemical weapons, gloves, handle with care—get it?”
My eyes were wide open. I couldn’t hide my shock and amazement.
“Relax, Dee,” Anas continued proudly. “We really do handle the gases with care, so no one gets hurt.”
“I’m pretty sure some people do get hurt,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
“Well, sometimes a few of my guys are careless and forget to wear masks and gloves. Good riddance, I say, natural selection.” Anas had missed my reference to the actual victims of the horrific chemical weapons attacks. “Fuck ’em! Besides, we don’t get near that VX stuff—that shit’s nasty, and only the big boys deal with it.”
“The big boys?” I asked.
“Yeah, you know, the big boys,” Anas replied, for the first time shifting uncomfortably. “You know, the prez and his bro, you know, Bashar and Maher and their posse. Not gonna mess with those dudes. They’d get all medieval on my ass if I stepped on their toes. The VX is theirs. I was told that they get that shit straight from the North Koreans. And it’s those fucking North Koreans, not the Iranians, who show them how to use the VX and how to store it. That’s some really nasty shit! Really nasty.” Anas shook his head in disgust.
“My goodness!” Anas had just casually confirmed the existence and use of chemical weapons in Syria one year after the international deal signed by the United States, Russia, and Syria, which followed Obama’s infamous red line warning in August 2012. As to this VX trading, I had actually heard some rumors about the involvement of North Korean agents in Syria. The presence of North Korean military advisers in the region was nothing new. A former cash courier of Muammar Gaddafi**** once told me how he used to deliver bags full of hundred-dollar bills from Libya to Egypt in the days of Hosni Mubarak in order to pay the North Koreans for their weapons and services. But their role in delivering VX to Syria and training Assad’s men on how to handle and deploy it had not been more than an unsubstantiated rumor, bordering on a conspiracy theory—until Anas just confirmed it.
“Anyway, where was I before we got sidetracked with those chemical weapons?” Anas continued when I remained silent. “Oh yes, the stuff we transported in the UN’s SUVs. We then sold the weapons plus some drugs from our labs in the north to ISIS for some more cash. A great deal all around. The fighters got drugs and weapons to keep the war going, and we got loads of cash. That’s what I call a good day at the office!”
Once again, Anas mistook the shocked expression on my face for adulation. “What can I say, dude,” he boasted, “I guess I’ve figured it all out. The only business that’s better than drugs and prostitution is the business of war. And if you can combine them all, you’re golden! Sex and drugs and bombs, baby!”
Just then, Abdullah returned. “Man, those are some slim pickings at Jules Bar this evening,” he said to Anas in mock exasperation. Before Anas could answer, the waiter materialized with another glass of vodka and then proceeded to refill our wineglasses.
“It’s early,” Anas consoled his friend. “The good ones start closer to midnight.”
“You’re right,” Abdullah said as he took a sip of his iced vodka. His alcohol tolerance was remarkable.
“Tell me, habibi,” Anas said to Abdullah. “How’s your family? How’s Omar, and how are your beautiful daughters?”
“Omar’s fine, alhamdulillah,” Abdullah replied. “Not the smartest kid, as you know, but okay. What can you do? Allah decided to give the brains and the good looks to my daughters, so Omar will inherit my money. It all evens out.”
Both men chuckled. “Your daughters are really gorgeous,” Anas said.
“Thank you, habibi. God has richly rewarded me with them. And they are also so smart. Gentle, beautiful flowers.”
“Mashallah,” Anas said warmly. “You are really blessed.”
“Anyway,” Abdullah said abruptly, “the standards at Jules are really dropping. Nothing bangable there tonight. I did not see one single girl there that was more than a four and a half. A five, max!” Abdullah was completely oblivious to the stark contrast between his crude assessment of the young women at Jules Bar and the affectionate, loving tone in which he talked about his own daughters. It was as if he were referring to two different species.
“I told you, Abu Omar,” Anas said, “the good ones arrive later.”
“Not sure I can wait that long. I have a flight to catch tonight.”
“Want me to arrange something for you?”
Abdullah nodded. Neither man seemed to mind the fact that I was witnessing their transaction.
“What package? Bonus? Jackpot?” Anas asked.
Abdullah shook his head. “No, just something simple. I can’t afford your expensive packages, Abu Sayid; they’re becoming too costly for me. With the oil price dropping, we’ve got to be more frugal.”
Both men howled.
“How about the one you had last time?” Anas asked. “You know—Tiffany, from Homs. She’s hot, I’d say at least a nine!”
“She’d be a nine if she didn’t cry so much,” Abdullah said. “Those tears get on my damn nerves. You’ve got to deduct a point for that pity party. But an eight will do. It’s better than anything at Jules right now.”
“Sounds good,” Anas said. “Same place as usual?”
“Same place as usual. Put it on my tab, please.” As Abdullah stood up, I discerned a smirk on his face, as if he had no intention of ever paying off his tab. It could have been the consequence of Anas’s overkissing gaffe when Abdullah had arrived at our table, or it could have simply been their way of interacting, but at that moment I was sure that deep down Abdullah felt contempt for Anas. “Pleasure meeting you, Dee,” he said to me, then kissed Anas deliberately once on each cheek.
As soon as Abdullah had left, I realized that my breathing was accelerating, and I took a sip of wine. The exchange between Anas and Abdullah about the girls had brought back that same sense of claustrophobia and suffocation I had felt when Loubna showed me the pictures of her battered sister. I was relieved that my hands remained steady and prayed that my demeanor would not reveal the turmoil inside me. I had a moment to regain my composure while Anas walked a few paces with Abdullah. Before he came back to the table, he made a short call.
“Sorry about that,” Anas said as he sat down. “It’s rude to mix business and pleasure, I know, even when it’s the pleasure business. But Abu Omar’s a good dude, one of my best customers.”
I was at a loss for words and only managed to mutter, “It’s all right.” I was still trying to digest the revolting scene that had just unfolded.
“Anyway, let’s have some more wine,” Anas said. “I’ve got to return to Syria tomorrow, so let’s enjoy this good stuff. Every dinner before I fly back to Syria feels like the Last Supper.”
The last time I had heard a reference to the Last Supper was out of Huby’s mouth over dinner at Marius et Janette in Paris. Perhaps this was a sign, and my only opening, to find out something about Paul Blocher. “What’s it like in Syria?” I asked. “I hear that life in Damascus is pretty normal—as normal as can be in a war. But what’s it like in other parts of the country? In the north? In Aleppo and the other cities?”
Anas took a long sip of wine. “Man, it’s brutal out there. The worst is in the northeast, in places like Raqqah, where those crazy ISIS motherfuckers are. Those dudes are off their rocker to begin with, but feed them some Captagon, and they completely lose their motherfucking minds.”
I felt like my heart had skipped several beats at the mention of Captagon. I took a few sips of wine to hide my excitement.
“But it’s completely nuts all over the country, or whatever’s left of the country,” Anas continued. “The north, Aleppo, is destroyed. Whenever I travel there, I am almost tempted to become religious and pray. That’s how bad it is.”
This was my chance to probe. I decided to amp up the flattery and at the same time belittle myself, which would aggrandize him even more. Hopefully, Anas would brag to a point where he would reveal some information about Paul Blocher. But I had to be careful. If I overdid it, he might smell something fishy. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Anas,” I began, “I don’t know how you do it! I’d never have the guts to go to Syria and move around the country. I’d be scared to death. I mean, any mistake could be my last mistake. How do you do it? Where do you find the courage?”
Bull’s-eye—Anas gleamed like a little boy who had just won his first sports trophy. He pulled a cigar out of his bag, bit off the tip, and spat it out in a large arc. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked, puffing like mad as he lit the cigar. “I feel like I need a Black Dragon. Did you know that this Gurkha Black Dragon is the most expensive cigar you can get? Great stuff!”
Given his taste in T-shirts and jeans, it figured that he would only smoke the most expensive cigar on the market. Thankfully, he did not offer me one. After being on the receiving end of his contempt for my wimpy no-meat-eating self, I wouldn’t have dared tell Anas that I didn’t smoke and knew next to nothing about cigars. “Enjoy it,” I said quietly.
“Mmm,” Anas moaned as he exhaled the thick smoke, “this is almost as good as sex.”
“So tell me,” I said, trying to steer the conversation back to Syria, “aren’t you ever scared when you travel in Syria? How do you stay safe when you are there?”
“It’s dangerous,” Anas replied, “I’m not going to lie to you. And people know me there. I’m a big deal in Syria, not just here in Dubai. I’d be a trophy for any kidnapper or bounty hunter. Yeah, there’s a target on these sculpted pecs. But I rely on these two beauties,” he said as he flexed, then kissed his biceps. “And on this,” he added, pointing to his head.
“Still, I admire your nerve, your fearlessness,” I said. “What if you got caught by any of those gangs roaming the country?”
Anas laughed. “You’re forgetting that the major ones are all my clients,” he said, puffing away. “I supply them all—government, opposition, Nusra, ISIS, the Free Syrian Army, Ahrar al-Sham, Suqour al-Sham, or any other fucking al-Sham out there—you name it. I provide them with everything they need—drugs to boost their desire to fight, weapons to fight with, and girls to relax with after they fight. They all need me. On top of that, I have so much dirt on the politicians, on the policemen, on the intelligence agents, that they will do anything for me. You see, I’ve figured it all out. If you want to be safe, you have to rule. And if you want to rule, you have to know how to make people believe.”
“Believe?”
“Yes, believe.” Anas was suddenly serious now. “Those who are with you—make them believe in your loyalty, believe that you will take care of them. And those who are against you—make them believe in your cruelty, that you will destroy them.”
“I see.”
“So trust me, my friend, I am safer, more protected than Bashar.”
Anas was smart enough to understand that he could be both strong and vulnerable at the same time. His awareness of danger, his caution, made him a more formidable criminal and ultimately even more powerful. As he spoke, I realized how absurd even contemplating my original plan C had been. There would have been no way to threaten or intimidate Anas into giving me any information on Paul Blocher. Anas would, in the best of cases, have laughed me out of the restaurant had I tried to strong-arm him.
“Wow,” I said admiringly. “I suppose you really are as protected as the president.”
“I said more protected,” Anas corrected me quickly.
“You’re right, more protected,” I continued. “But that’s just you. You are obviously a special person. But anyone else . . . I mean, why would anyone travel to Syria? It amazes me that you still have people who risk their lives traveling to Syria. I realize that most Syrians are stuck there and have no choice. But why in the world do others, especially Westerners, take that risk? It’s like a death wish!”
Anas nodded. “No kidding. I wonder about that myself. My guys keep getting asked to take people into Syria, usually from Turkey, and sometimes also from Lebanon and Jordan.”
The flattery trap was set; it was time to go for it. “What kind of people?” I asked. “Journalists? Doctors? I can’t imagine even the most adventurous soul would think of this as an enticing experience, right?”
“Funny you should say that,” Anas replied. “Just recently, one of our Kurdish smugglers tried to bring in some dude. But I fucked him up big-time.”
My heart sank. I felt like I might pass out. “What do you mean?” I asked apathetically.
“Oh, just one of our couriers trying to develop a side business of his own, some pocket money,” Anas said. “I had to teach him a lesson.”
“What happened?”
Anas lit up his cigar again. The flame almost singed his eyebrows. “Holy shit, that was close!” he said as he quickly pulled the cigar out of his mouth and exhaled the thick smoke. “Well, what happened is that I have a network of Kurdish smugglers and couriers in the north, mainly in the area between Aleppo and a place near the Turkish border, which you’ve probably never heard of. A shithole called Kobane. In any event, the job of this particular courier is to take Captagon and some other drugs out of Syria into Turkey and to return with cash. That’s it. Nothing else. Simple enough, right? No people-smuggling in that area—much too hot. We do that elsewhere, and never with the Kurdish couriers. All these one-trick ponies are supposed to smuggle is drugs. But apparently someone introduced this courier, a Kurdish dude called Alan, to another dude who wanted to travel to Syria. Some lost creature, a crazy motherfucker called Paul, who said he was looking for something, trying to trace a friend who had died or some kind of shit like that.”
Hearing Anas utter Paul’s name took my breath away. I tried to regain my composure but was not sure whether my heart could take any more of this.
“I mean, anyone who comes to Syria for sentimental reasons or to find some higher purpose in life or because of some jackass self-discovery, new-age stuff is probably too damn stupid to survive. Doesn’t really deserve to live, if you know what I mean,” Anas declared flippantly. “But I didn’t give a damn about this Paul dude. My problem was with my courier Alan, who had decided to freelance and defied my clear orders never to smuggle people into Syria. It’s too risky, and there’s no upside—they pay for shit, plus there are way more smugglers than travelers, which means that supply is crushing demand—not exactly my preferred business model. So I decided to teach him a lesson.”
“What did you do?”
“My homeboys had arranged to meet Alan in a city called Manbij, somewhere between Kobane and Aleppo, to receive his cash and supply him with a new load of drugs to take to Turkey. When Alan showed up with this Paul dude, they called me immediately. Luckily, I happened to be near Aleppo at the time, so I was there in less than two hours. My first instinct was to beat the shit out of Alan, but by the time I arrived in Manbij I had a better idea. I decided to sell the two men to Nusra. Trust me, that’s a lot worse than getting the shit beaten out of you, even by a powerful dude like me! This way, word would get out to the other couriers who work for me. Don’t mess with Anas! If you fuck with Mr. Big Time, you’re the one who’ll get fucked!”
I was shattered. I knew what being held by Nusra meant—daily beatings, torture, starvation, and mock executions until the day the execution was no longer staged but real. “So you sold them both to Nusra fighters?” I asked, hoping against all odds that Anas would tell me how in the last moment he had decided not to go through with his brutal plan.
Anas immediately crushed my foolish hopes. He nodded with a wide grin, clearly very proud of himself.
“I get it that you wanted to teach your smuggler a lesson,” I continued delicately. “But why also sell this Paul fellow?”
“Collateral damage,” Anas replied. “I considered killing him and blaming it on Nusra to make the whole thing more believable, but in fact this dude got me a higher price than my Kurdish courier. They actually paid me good money for this Westerner. The Kurd turd ended up being my freebie, just to sweeten the deal.”
I considered asking him how much he had received for Paul but did not want to push my luck by seeming too inquisitive. “So what happened?” I was filled with dread.
“I dropped off Alan and his lily-white friend, who was scared shitless, at a safe house on the way to Aleppo,” Anas replied. “The dude was shaking like a leaf. Then I called one of my dealer contacts at Nusra and told him where he could pick up his cargo. It all went very smoothly.”
Being captured by Nusra was one of the worst possible scenarios for Paul. I was suddenly overcome by a wave of fury and thought of reaching over and smashing Anas’s face into the table, bulging biceps and all. This monster had just described how he had delivered two people into an unspeakable hell just to teach one of them a lesson and make a little extra money. I could not stop myself from thinking about the agony that Paul Blocher must have been in—the abject terror he must have felt the moment he realized what was happening to him and the pain and torment he was now enduring in captivity. But I still did not know the full story and had to goad Anas as nonchalantly as possible into divulging the rest.
“So then what happened to those two? Did Nusra kill them?” I asked, steeling myself for the answer.
“No.” Anas sounded exasperated. “You still don’t seem to understand the principles of a war economy. As I tried to explain to you, it’s all about business, about making loads of money. And when it comes to business, as I preach to my guys, you never, ever allow your money to get mad! Understand?”
I nodded.
“Besides,” Anas continued, “why would Nusra buy these two dudes just in order to kill them?”
“Out of hate?”
Anas laughed. “You really don’t get it, do you? This is not some ideological war, Dee! These Islamist fighters, whether with Nusra or ISIS or some other group, they don’t really hate the West or other religions, just as they don’t really give a hoot about Islam or the Quran. To them, al-Baghdadi’s sermons***** are just background noise, entertainment. Elevator music. Most of these fighters are completely unknowledgeable about the Quran, especially the ISIS guys. These are a bunch of derelicts. Ask them to recite a surah, and they’ll draw a blank. Some of these assholes don’t even know the Shahada.”
“In that case, what did Nusra do with these two prisoners?” I asked.
“Well, it’s all just business, remember? So first, they tried to sell them on to some of the other militias—especially the Westerner, this Paul dude. But they only received puny, laughable offers. The best price came from ISIS, but that one, too, was a joke. Some of the Alawi militias actually told the Nusra handler that they would only take the prisoners if Nusra paid them—like a garbage disposal fee.”
“Why did these prisoners have so little value?” I asked. “I thought that the trade of prisoners in Syria was pretty lucrative.”
“Normally, yes,” Anas explained. “But this case was different. First of all, my Kurdish courier has no value to them because his family is dirt poor, so there’s nobody who can pay for his release. No bidders mean zero value. As to this Paul dude, well, ordinarily these Westerners are worth something. But only if their government or their families or the organizations that sent them—you know, newspapers, TV networks, charities—only if they ask about these missing people, try to find them, and try to negotiate their release. In this case, however, nobody asked about this Paul dude. Not a family member, not an organization, not even his government. I know for a fact that Nusra put out word to this dude’s country through their representatives in Beirut, letting everyone know that they were open for business. All they got was a big blank yawn.”
“So what did Nusra do, what happened next?” I sounded breathless. I realized that my eagerness and anxiety were becoming apparent and that it could turn into a serious problem if I didn’t manage to get a grip on myself.
“They called me a week later and blamed me for selling them damaged, worthless goods,” Anas said. “It was a classic case of buyer’s remorse. I thought of telling them that this was not my problem and that next time they should not buy goods sight unseen.”
“If you had said that, they would have probably killed them both, right?”
“Probably. So what? Shit happens, not every sale ends up with a happy buyer.”
“But you didn’t tell them that, right?”
“No. I decided to buy back these two clowns. At a steep discount, of course, so that I still made a nice net profit. Tax-free,” he added with a laugh.
“Why?”
Anas looked at me in surprise. “Because I always make a profit. What do you think—these cigars pay for themselves?”
“That’s not what I meant,” I clarified. “Why did you decide to buy these two back, to take them off Nusra’s hands?”
Anas lit his cigar again. “Because the Nusra dudes have been excellent customers for my goods, and I did not want them to be unhappy and look for other suppliers. It was a small price to pay for the sake of good client relations. Especially considering the fact,” he reminded me with a grin, “that I still made a nice little profit.”
“So these two were released?” I asked, praying this was good news for Paul.
“It’s actually a hilarious story,” Anas said. He was shrouded by billows of cigar smoke. “One of my guys picked them up at the arranged location close to Aleppo and started driving north toward Kobane, where I had instructed him to drop them off. My Kurdish courier, this Alan dude, would never again ignore my instructions or try to cross me, so setting him free made good business sense. Otherwise, I would have just had him shot. It was hysterical, because this Kurdish idiot was convinced that he would be executed for having defied my orders, so at first he refused to get in the car. He got in only when the other guy, the Westerner, begged him to come along. My driver was speeding, driving like a maniac, because he still had to return to Aleppo to pick up some merchandise and bring it to Homs that night. Lots of driving. Two hours to Kobane, two hours back to Aleppo, and then another two hours to Homs. And he had to get there before sunrise. So he was in a huge rush. Those roads are not well lit and full of giant potholes. A few kilometers outside Aleppo he drove off the road trying to avoid one of these ditches. The car was totaled.”
My heart stopped. “What happened to them?”
“By some miracle, my driver only had minor wounds,” Anas said. “Lucky son of a bitch.”
I waited for Anas to tell me what had happened to Paul and Alan, but he just picked up his glass and swirled the wine with a satisfied grin.
“What about the other two?” I finally blurted out when Anas showed no intention of sharing what had happened to those passengers whose fate I was actually interested in.
“Who?” he asked, preoccupied with the wine and his cigar.
“You know—your Kurdish courier and the Westerner.”
“Oh, those two,” Anas said. “They died.”
I felt like I had been hit in the face with a sledgehammer. I wanted to ask him how it was possible that they had died and his guy had survived, but the words were stuck in my throat. “How?” I finally sputtered.
“I suppose God wanted my driver to live.” Anas chuckled. “He probably knew that I was running a little short on good employees, so he made sure my guy survived.”
Just when I thought Anas could not be any more repulsive, he managed to prove me wrong. “But why did the other two die?” I was no longer worried about seeming too inquisitive.
“How? Why?” Anas mimicked me in a mocking tone. “Who gives a shit! They were sitting on the right side of the car, which is where the car landed after it flipped over. Alan and this Paul dude just got crushed. Talk about being at the wrong place at the wrong time!” His obnoxious giggle morphed into a coughing fit as he inhaled the cigar smoke.
The waiter came with a glass of water, which Anas drank eagerly. “That’s better,” he said without acknowledging the waiter. “You know, it really cracks me up, I mean this Paul dude comes to Syria, manages to survive in the nastiest war zone, survives captivity with Nusra—he survives all that just to die in an ordinary car accident. That’s some funny shit, man! I’ll drink to that!”
Even though Anas expected me to raise my glass with him, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. “It really is extraordinary,” I said. “I wonder what last thoughts were going through his mind as the car was tumbling through the air.”
“Probably ‘Oh shit, I’m fucked’!” Anas said with an awful, dirty laugh. “Actually, my driver sent me some pictures of the car wreck while he was waiting to be picked up by another one of my guys. Look.”
Anas scrolled on his phone until he found the picture of the car. He handed me his phone. The car had really landed on its right side, which was completely destroyed. It was evident that anyone sitting on that side of the car could not have survived the crash. I struggled to look at the image and handed the phone back to Anas.
“Wait, I think he also sent me a picture of this Paul dude,” Anas said, scrolling through the photos. “Ah, here it is.” He handed me his phone again.
I found myself staring at a picture of Paul Blocher, who was staring right back at me with his wide-open blue eyes. There was no doubt—this was unmistakably Paul, with that same shoulder-length blond hair. His head was tilted oddly to the side, almost disjointed from his neck, which must have been broken. Just above the edge of an uneven, reddish beard, a small trickle of blood rolled from his mouth over his cheek toward his ear.
“What happened to the two bodies?” I asked as I handed the phone back to Anas.
“I had someone call the Kurdish guy’s family in Kobane to let them know.” He wiped some ashes off his T-shirt with an irritated gesture. “I assume they were picked up and buried the same day. Well, this Paul dude did want to experience Syria, didn’t he? Now he can stay there forever.”
I was done in. I was trying to come up with an inconspicuous excuse to leave when two middle-aged men and a young woman stopped by our table. Anas gave both men a bear hug, then kissed the woman on the hand in an exaggerated gesture of chivalry. “Dee, I would like you to meet my friends,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “This is Mick from London, and this is his brother William. And this is William’s stunning girlfriend, Chiara. Chiara is from Rome. She’s the next big thing in the modeling world.” Pointing to me, he added, “Guys, this is my old friend Dee.”
Mick, William, and Chiara sat down. Anas summoned the waiter and ordered several appetizers and a new bottle of wine. “Time for some food,” he said boisterously. “You are all my guests.”
I decided to bolt. The new arrivals presented a perfect escape opportunity, especially as Anas seemed to be completely absorbed by Chiara. “Please excuse me,” I said. “It’s been a long day. I don’t wish to be rude, but I need to get some sleep. Thanks for the wine, Anas.”
“Sure thing. See you around, Dee,” Anas mumbled, too busy ogling Chiara to care that I was leaving. The others waved goodbye.
I left the table and walked toward the taxi stand. Fortunately, there was no one in the queue, no one to notice the tears in my eyes.
* Maher al-Assad, the younger brother of Syrian president Bashar al-Assad, is the commander of the Syrian army’s elite Fourth Division and the Republican Guard. Next to his brother Bashar, he is considered the most powerful and certainly the most feared and ruthless man in Syria, as well as the regime’s enforcer and hardliner.
** Anas’s prediction would prove true one year later, in September 2015, with the full-fledged Russian intervention in the war to support the Syrian regime.
*** In May 2020, an unusually public spat erupted between Rami Makhlouf and the Syrian regime’s inner circle, when Rami Makhlouf accused his cousin Bashar al-Assad in a series of Facebook videos of confiscating his assets and mistreating his conglomerate’s employees. Following the death of Anisa Makhlouf, Bashar al-Assad’s mother, in 2016, the protection of the Makhlouf clan started to erode, but the primary reason for the fall in Rami Makhlouf’s standing and the plundering of his assets was the regime’s desperate need for money after a decade of civil war that had obliterated the country’s economy, as well as other family members and insiders close to the president who had long coveted Rami Makhlouf’s prime assets such as Syriatel, the country’s largest mobile network provider.
**** This cash courier reported directly to Bashir Saleh Bashir, the former head of the Libyan African Portfolio mentioned earlier in connection with the profitability of the Captagon business and the cash laundering in the financial system.
***** Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, born Ibrahim Awad Ibrahim Ali al-Badri al-Samarrai, was the Iraqi leader of ISIS from 2014 until his death in October 2019. Upon the declaration of a worldwide caliphate, al-Baghdadi was named its first caliph and referred to by his followers as “Caliph Ibrahim.” In addition to the atrocities committed by ISIS under his command, al-Baghdadi was a serial rapist who claimed several sex slaves, including the American hostage Kayla Mueller who was murdered in February 2015.