The Syrian squinted into the mid-afternoon glare and swept the windshield wipers over the windshield of the small Peugeot for the hundredth time that day. A fine grime of sand mixed with heavy diesel particles firmly adhered to the glass and served as a coarse abrasive that had scratched the windshield in a neat arc circumscribed by the wiper blades.
He cursed his luck at having found himself behind a convoy of Syrian military vehicles headed for Damascus. A three-hour journey in the cool of the morning had been turned into a full day of misery when he found himself pulling up behind the slow moving line of trucks and various other vehicles. Incredibly, he had been the only other vehicle on the highway, making him the first in line behind the huge Soviet-made truck that was at the end of the convoy. More than once he had attempted to pull into the other lane of the narrow highway and pass the convoy, thus relieving himself of the necessity of breathing air fouled by the exhaust of the truck. Each time he had pulled out of traffic he had been waved back by two of the soldiers riding in the rear of the truck’s open bed. No doubt the bastards were enjoying their game, he grimly thought.
He had been tempted earlier in the day to just run by them in the car, trusting that the speed of the vehicle would carry him past before they had time to react. He had attempted to sweep the Peugeot around them only once. When he applied the accelerator the little car sputtered and refused to gain speed. After that the soldiers had smiled and patted their weapons. He had settled back for a long ride to Damascus and resigned himself to the fact that he would have to abort the first meeting and rendezvous with his control at a secondary location previously agreed upon.
He gained the outskirts of the city, pulling onto a smaller road and taking a circuitous route into the heart of Damascus. He parked the Peugeot in a lot behind a government building and walked through one of the crowded markets careful to observe the traffic behind him and see if anyone was following. When he was certain he was alone he went to a small restaurant he knew, discreetly located in an alley behind the fish market, and ordered a meal.
As he sat waiting for the food and reading the paper that had been brought to him he considered his situation. The delay caused by the convoy was an inconvenience but was actually little more than that. If he chose to meet his control tomorrow at the secondary rendezvous the man would act as though the things he would request were being paid for out of his personal account.
In reality the man was not so much of a control as a logistics officer whose mission it was to support the Syrian as he operated in the field. To accomplish this he had been given an air-conditioned office in one of the newer districts of Damascus and a staff of officers and senior enlisted men who understood the logistics system of the Syrian military and government. In actuality the man viewed his job as something of a reward for his years of faithful field service. The Syrian was sure that he and his staff operated a very lucrative black market operation with the goods they “removed” from government warehouses under the guise of supplying officers in the field. Very few questions were asked of men in the position of the logistics officer. His Special Branch identification would silence almost anyone who questioned him, and for those individuals not intimidated by his identification, a percentage of the earnings from the sale of the stolen goods would suffice.
The Syrian continued to read his paper, scanning the busy street for signs of his control officer. Precisely on the hour he saw the man making his way up the crowded street, frequently checking behind himself to ascertain if he was being followed. The Syrian watched with a bemused expression on his face as the man arrived at the appointed spot and checked his watch. Satisfied that he was indeed at the appropriate place and there at the specified hour the man began to pace up and down the sidewalk. The Syrian sighed in disgust. To even the most casual observer it would be apparent that the man was meeting someone. The only saving grace was that this fellow was so old, and so innocent looking, that no one would suspect him of being associated with an intelligence operation. The Syrian knew that anyone passing him on the street would be more likely to assume he was someone’s grandfather, perhaps late for a luncheon with a favored son or daughter.
He decided then to wait until the man had remained at the rendezvous the specified quarter of an hour and then follow him away from the designated meeting place. This would allow the Syrian to determine if the man had been followed, and if so, by whom.
At precisely fifteen minutes past the hour the man turned and walked down the street in the direction from which he had arrived. The Syrian settled the bill and was pleased to note that no surveillance team followed the officer away from the area. For now, at least, he could be reasonably certain of the cooperation and support of his superiors, however unwillingly it might be given by some of them.
The Syrian casually followed the logistics officer down the street and out of the souk. With a few quick steps he was beside the man who continued on his way without noticing the Syrian. He took the man’s elbow in a friendly gesture that attracted no notice from passersby. “Hello,” he smiled. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, my friend.”
“Hello,” said the man, and the Syrian thought he detected an undercurrent of fear in the man’s voice. “Perhaps we could go somewhere it would be possible to have a quiet conversation?” the man asked.
He smiled again. “Of course. If you will follow me I think I know just the place.” As he guided the man down the street he quickly ran his hands over the man’s sport coat and located the small automatic pistol in a holster under the arm. He feigned a look of surprise and clucked his tongue, saying, “I’m surprised that you don’t trust me, Mohammed. To think, a pistol?” He shook his head and added, “I should be offended were we not such good friends.”
The officer quickly regained his composure and answered, “There are thieves about in these areas at night. You would be well advised to carry a pistol yourself, my friend.” The Syrian searched the face of the older man and wondered if there were a not so subtle warning in the man’s response. He was unable to decide if the man was being clever or merely trying to justify his having a weapon. He smiled and asked, “Is there a reason why you think I should have a pistol in Damascus? Other than the thieves?”
The man shrugged and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “There are always reasons for a man to carry a pistol. Some have better reasons than others, my friend.” The old man hesitated then added, “Perhaps those of us in this business always have a reason to carry a weapon. You might be wise to do so, especially in these times when the thieves grow more clever.” The Syrian smiled slightly, enjoying the exchange. “Would you mind terribly, Mohammed, if I borrowed your pistol for the time being? I seem to have left mine elsewhere.”
Mohammed shrugged again and said, “It is as you wish. After all, it is my job to supply you as you ask. And you have so seldom asked for anything that I should feel ashamed not to give what you ask now. Particularly since it is so small an item.” Mohammed turned down a dark narrow street as the Syrian guided him and then removed his holster with its pistol and two magazines. The Syrian nodded toward the street and they resumed walking along the crowded boulevard that was filled with men seeking their various pleasures.
They continued in silence for a few moments as the Syrian considered his situation. Finally he asked, “Will my current request be a problem for you?”
Mohammed sighed, “It is not a matter of the request itself being a problem. The materials you have asked for are in Damascus, and they have been packaged as you have asked. There is currently an ample supply of these materials, thanks to our Czechoslovakian comrades. I have arranged for you to take shipment of them at your convenience. All you have to do is give me the address of the destination, or arrange for their transport yourself.”
“I understand,” said the Syrian. “Perhaps arranging the shipment will be a problem for you. I can do that myself, through other channels. You have done quite enough, my friend. I am grateful to you.”
Mohammed stared straight ahead, speaking softly. “I think, my friend, that you are not aware of just how grave the situation is in Damascus. Certainly you have been away a long time.”
“You are suggesting that I return to Damascus?”
Mohammed shook his head. “No. That would not be wise at this time. But there are certain considerations that you should be aware of. Certain events that may concern you.”
“I see,” said the Syrian. “Perhaps you could be of assistance to me in this area. That is, if it isn’t asking too much of you.”
Mohammed shook his head and continued, “I am an old man. Soon I will be eligible for my pension. Life seems quite different from the perspective of old age. I would prefer to live to play with my grandchildren.” He sighed and looked at the Syrian, then added, “I no longer have the energy or the inclination to hate my enemies. Perhaps it is my age, or just a lack of a certain indefinable passion for one’s work. I am no longer as certain of things as I once was in my youth.” Mohammed cast another furtive glance at the Syrian then continued, “You are a very good officer. Perhaps the best I have seen. Certainly the best that is currently in the field for us. It would be a shame for you to end your career so soon.”
The Syrian was puzzled. Obviously the old man knew more than he was saying, and more than the Syrian had initially thought. The problem now was to extract the information in such a way as to not frighten him into silence. “Perhaps, my friend, you could help me to ensure that my career is not unexpectedly interrupted.”
For a few minutes the two continued in silence. They walked together down the street dodging groups of men in their expensive foreign clothing and Western-style shoes. Without looking at the Syrian, Mohammed began, “You should be aware that the size of your request has created, speculation, shall we say, as to the nature of your next target?” The Syrian cocked an eyebrow as the old man continued, “This speculation has at times been somewhat less than friendly in its nature. It has not fallen on deaf ears at certain higher levels than you and I might normally be privileged to have access to. I believe you understand my meaning?”
The Syrian nodded. “Certainly,” he said. “And am I to believe that this might create a problem in one or more aspects of the operation I have planned?”
“I wouldn’t know any details. But certainly a man such as yourself, with the background and experience you have, would have an idea of the type of problems this might cause.” Mohammed paused. “The possibilities, it would seem, are limitless given the current conditions in your area of operations. We have many enemies, and their vigilance is unwavering. You, too, should remain vigilant. It is the prudent course.”
The Syrian nodded his head indicating that he understood. As he slowed his pace he turned toward a small souk where a number of taxi drivers waited for the young men who would exit the club district after a night of entertaining themselves. “I believe we will be able to find taxis for ourselves nearby,” he said. As he walked the older man to a waiting taxi he kissed him on both cheeks in the Gallic manner and said, “Thank you, you have been very kind.”
Mohammed shrugged and said, “It is as nothing, I am afraid. You have served well. Better than those who would not have you serve longer. I should be careful if I were you.” As he entered the taxi Mohammed handed the Syrian a slip of paper and added, “The things you have asked for are located at that address. Others, who may not wish you to be successful, know of its location and are watching for you to retrieve it. An identical shipment is located at the address on the reverse side, and if you act quickly no one will know of its existence. I hope that you will need only one of the shipments to complete your mission. Good luck, my friend.”
The Syrian stood impassively as the taxi pulled away from the curb with Mohammed inside. It was now quite obvious to him that his request for the extraordinary amount of explosives had attracted unwelcome attention. If Mohammed could be trusted, and the Syrian had no reason not to trust him, then his mission might indeed be in jeopardy. The problem now would be to get the bales of explosive safely from Damascus to his staging area in Beirut. Once in Beirut he was confident that he could move it to another area and construct the device that he would use against the Americans. The key would be to act quickly, Mohammed had made that plain enough.