The conference room was in stark contrast to the public perception of war-torn Syria. Lonnie Mixell sat in a leather chair at a polished ebony table, facing floor-to-ceiling windows spanning an entire side of the room overlooking the Barada River. Rather than wearing the traditional white dishdasha, the Arab seated across from him, along with his executive assistant beside him, wore slacks and an open-collar dress shirt.
Since the civil war began, travel to the Syrian capital had become difficult. Few airlines offered flights into the country—with most opting instead for nearby Lebanon and Jordan, letting local carriers complete the transit. Fortunately, relations between Russia and Syria remained strong and direct flights from Russia were still offered, and Mixell had landed at Damascus International Airport a few hours ago. It was Russia’s support of the Syrian government, and even more important, its supply of military personnel and equipment, that had led Mixell to Damascus.
Sitting across the table from Mixell was Issad Futtaim, the man who could furnish the desired item, and now that Zawahiri’s money had been deposited into Mixell’s account, the cost would not be an issue.
Mixell pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. “This is what I require.”
Futtaim reviewed the request for a moment, evidently determining the effort and cost required to obtain the item. Although there was no doubt that Futtaim wondered what it would be used for, he was in a business where those types of questions weren’t asked.
He looked up from the paper. “It won’t be easy to obtain this. You cannot just lose one of these from inventory. Many people will have to be persuaded to alter the books and assist in delivery. The cost will be very high. Twelve million, U.S.”
“That’s retail cost,” Mixell replied. “You’re not buying it. You’re bribing whoever you need to. Above that, everything is pure profit.”
“The cost of the bribes is usually commensurate with the cost of the item. Twelve million,” Futtaim insisted, adding a tight smile.
Mixell considered the offer. He had budgeted fifteen million, after factoring in the cost of shipping. “That’ll be fine. I need the equipment prepared for transport as soon as possible. How long will that take?”
“A few days. Where do you need it delivered?”
“United States. Anywhere along the East Coast is fine.”
“Concealed shipping to the United States is difficult to guarantee. Additional bribes will be required to ensure the container is not opened for inspection. Two million, U.S.”
Mixell nodded his concurrence. “I’ll also need instructions.”
“Of course. Instructions will be provided and should be easy to follow,” Futtaim said, “as long as you can read Russian or Arabic.” He broke into a wide grin.
“That’ll be fine,” Mixell replied.
The smile faded from Futtaim’s face.