Chapter Twenty-Five
December 19
Five miles north of Jordan-Syria border
Syria
Nahed drove for the next thirty minutes through the desert landscape of southern Syria. The Land Cruiser was barely holding together, and was making a scraping rickety noise, threatening to break apart at any moment. The meeting place with the rest of the CIS operatives was two miles northeast of Al Samafyat. The area had recently fallen under rebel control and was relatively calm, although there were plenty of rumors about a government offensive.
Nahed stayed away from the roads, advancing through the night’s blackness. He tapped gently on the gas pedal to make sure the Land Cruiser would not fail them and also to not draw anyone’s attention. The battle must have woken up at least some of the residents, but then, gunfire was very common in the area.
Justin did not notice any suspicious activity or vehicles. The Land Cruiser passed by scorched vehicles and buildings—signs of a fierce firefight—but no fighters manning positions around the scene. When the team was about a mile away from the rendezvous point, Justin radioed the CIS operatives, informing them of their arrival.
Five minutes later, Justin stepped out of the vehicle after Nahed parked it beside three Toyota trucks mounted with heavy machine guns. Justin marched toward the first truck as he nodded at the two gunmen waving at him from the cabin of the second truck.
“Welcome back to Syria,” one of them said in Arabic.
“Glad to be back in one piece,” Justin said.
He met Mansour, the team leader, near the hood of the truck. “How are you?” Mansour asked as they shared a firm handshake.
“Good. Anything happened here?”
“Pretty quiet. Gunfire in the distance. Some sort of celebration. Nothing like what you faced down there.” Mansour gestured toward the south.
Justin shrugged. “We’re here, unharmed. Ready to go?”
“Yes.”
“Our Cruiser is done for. We’ll get in the third truck.”
Mansour tapped his hand on the hood. “How about you ride with me?”
Justin frowned. “Anything wrong?”
“No, but for old times’ sakes.”
Justin and Mansour had graduated the same year from the CIS training center and had served in operations in Syria, Iraq, and Libya. “Sure,” Justin said. “Let me have a word with Carrie and Arkady.”
Mansour nodded and reached for his phone.
Justin hurried to Arkady, who was unloading their gear. “Which truck?” he asked
“You and Carrie in the third. I’ll be in the lead one.”
He turned his attention to Carrie, who had stooped down and was talking to Naim. The boy was not crying, but his eyes were puffy and red. He looked even smaller in Carrie’s navy blue jacket. “How are you doing, bud?” Justin ruffled Naim’s hair.
Naim turned away and did not answer. Then he took a few steps away from them.
“You and Arkady will be in the third truck.”
Carrie stood up. “I heard you talking to him.” She stepped closer to him. “Justin, you still think this was worth it?” Her eyes fell on the boy.
Justin nodded and whispered, “Yes, I do. But even if this doesn’t stop al-Nueimi from whatever retribution he has planned, the boy needs to be with his family. Well, whoever is left.”
“All right, let’s hope you’re right.”
“Thanks for taking care of him. I . . . I wouldn’t know what to do.”
Carrie smiled. “Yes, you would. You’d give him a gun and train him how to fire at the helo, before realizing it wouldn’t be such a great idea.”
Justin laughed out loud. “Oh, c’mon, give me some credit.”
“I’m kidding, Justin. But he probably knows how to use a gun.” Her voice took on a hint of sorrow.
“Kids learning to kill before they learn how to write.” Justin shook his head.
Carrie shrugged. “Let’s go, Naim,” she called out in Arabic.
Justin smiled as Naim reluctantly took Carrie’s hand and followed her slowly. Justin said goodbye to Nahed, then hurried toward Mansour, who was still on the phone. As soon as Justin came within earshot, Mansour ended his call and climbed into the driver’s seat. Justin slid into the front passenger seat, and Mansour started the truck.
They drove a few miles exchanging only a few words. Justin rested his head against the seat and closed his eyes. He liked using every chance he had to steal a catnap. Even if he did not really sleep, he would doze off, the rocking and the rattling of the truck serving to calm his nerves and allow him to drift off.
Then his phone vibrated before ringing. Justin sat up straight and answered the phone. “Yes, Dolina. Give me some good news.”
“Good news? Sorry. I only have fantastic news.”
“Stop teasing me.”
“Sorry, not in a good mood I guess?”
Justin shook his head. “Just give it to me.”
“All right. Yilmaz came through. Al-Nueimi is in Geneva.”
“Geneva, Switzerland? Where in Geneva?”
“We don’t know yet. There are a few known supporters of ISIS and al-Nueimi, and a small network of associates. We’re working with ARD 10 to find him.”
Justin nodded. ARD 10 was the Swiss Army Reconnaissance Detachment 10, the elite unit in charge of anti-terror activities threatening Switzerland or its citizens. If al-Nueimi was indeed in Geneva, ARD 10 operators would find him. “What’s going on in Geneva?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean is there anything important, meetings, conventions . . .”
“Uh, I’ll have to check. It’s almost Christmas, so I’m not sure anything big is going on.”
“Yeah, but let’s make sure. Sometimes, leaders pick holidays to meet and keep things low key, out of the media and the public eye.”
“All right, Justin. I’ll find out.”
“Great. We’ll head to Geneva right away. Depending on how it goes, we should be there in the early hours of the morning. But hit me up as soon as you find something.”
“Will do. Bye, Justin. And good luck.”
“Same to you.” He ended his call and looked at Mansour.
“Peace talks,” Mansour said.
“Huh?”
“Peace talks; that’s what’s happening in Geneva.”
“How do you know?”
Mansour shrugged. “I just do. A couple of US senators visited the area last week. They met with rebel fighters and tribal leaders. One of the democratic opposition leaders traveled to Geneva a few days ago.”
Justin peered at Mansour. “Democratic? You’re saying that word with a lot of contempt.”
“Oh, am I? Maybe I’m using the wrong word rather than the wrong tone. I should say dictator; that’s a better term, considering what the Syrian Democratic Alliance is doing.”
Justin nodded. Last month, international media reports confirmed the beheading of a young boy—not even ten years old—a gruesome act carried out by fighters aligned with the SDA. Its leaders had condemned the act, but so far had done nothing to find or punish the murderers, whose faces were clearly visible in the shocking video of the beheading.
“Who’s this leader?”
“Zouhir al-Hussein.”
“He’s a hardliner?”
Mansour nodded. “As hard as they get.”
“And you think he’s in Geneva for the peace talks?”
“What else? Skiing? I don’t think so.”
“We’ll look into that. What else do you know?”
“That’s all. I’m sure al-Hussein is meeting with the new government representatives, as well as American and Russian envoys. Perhaps the UN has folks in this meeting.”
Justin nodded. “That meeting would be a prime target for al-Nueimi. Something very big.”
“Yes. If al-Nueimi is in Geneva, his intention is to disrupt this meeting.”
“Makes sense. When’s the meeting?”
“I’m not sure. Tomorrow morning. Or maybe the next day.”
“That means we’re still on time to stop al-Nueimi.”
Mansour shrugged. “Barely. But if you can find out where he is, perhaps you can still stop him, Justin.”