A purple-orange dawn was breaking across the horizon as a Dassault Falcon approached the eastern shore of the Mediterranean Sea, nearing the end of its twelve-hour flight. As daylight crept westward, the jet began its descent toward Damascus International Airport. Jake Harrison looked out his window, examining the historic metropolis. Wide boulevards radiated out from the Old City—an oblong region defined by ancient walls, of which sizable stretches still stood—within which lay most of the city’s Hellenistic and Roman architecture. Descending from the Anti-Lebanon Mountains, the Barada River divided into seven branches upon reaching Damascus, irrigating a large and fertile oasis called the al-Ghutah before its waters vanished into the desert.
The jet coasted to a halt not far from a man leaning against a black sedan. Harrison, Khalila, and Durrani descended the steps to the tarmac where they met Nizar Mussan, a CIA officer serving as an executive assistant for Bluestone Security. The introductions were brief, and after placing their luggage in the trunk and joining Mussan in the car, they pulled away from the Dassault Falcon as its twin engines spun down to a stop.
Damascus was only a few miles away, and shortly after entering the city, Mussan stopped by a side street. Durrani pulled a thick envelope of money from his briefcase and handed it to Khalila, then informed her and Harrison that he’d be only a phone call away to provide any assistance they needed. He stepped from the vehicle and disappeared into an alley as Mussan pulled back into traffic.
Mussan stopped a short while later in front of Beit Al Mamlouka, a small boutique hotel on Qemarieh Street, where he unloaded Harrison’s and Khalila’s luggage and handed a garment bag to Harrison. Upon departing Langley a half-day ago, Harrison had learned that Khalila was already packed, apparently prepared for short-notice departures. On the way to the airport, they had stopped by Harrison’s hotel for clothes.
An examination of his wardrobe had elicited a sour look from Khalila, although he wasn’t sure what was wrong with his jeans and polo shirts, plus he had a pair of khaki slacks and several dress shirts to choose from. She took a picture of him as he stood facing her, and after learning his height and shoe size, sent the photo and a short message on her cell phone. When Harrison inquired what the photo and information were for, her response was a curt—You need appropriate clothes. Apparently the garment bag contained the items Khalila had ordered.
Harrison and Khalila entered the hotel lobby while Mussan waited in the car, since their meeting with the Syrian weapons dealer was in less than an hour. They were greeted at the lobby counter by an elderly Arab who appeared to be meeting Khalila and Harrison for the first time, although Harrison noticed a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes when he addressed Khalila.
While checking in, Harrison learned that Beit Al Mamlouka had only eight rooms, five of them surrounding a courtyard containing a fountain and citrus trees. They were given the keys to a room on the second floor, which contained a terrace overlooking the courtyard.
“Welcome to Damascus, Mr. Connolly and Ms. Dufour,” he said. “I hope you enjoy your stay at Beit Al Mamlouka.”
It took Harrison a second for his new name to register.
It wasn’t until they entered their room and Khalila tossed her luggage onto the single, queen-sized bed that Harrison realized they had been booked into the same room.
“We don’t have separate rooms?” he asked.
“We stay together for now. No one will care. If we have to stay overnight, you can sleep in the bed with me, but don’t get any ideas.”
“Fair enough.”
Khalila approached the window and pulled the brocade curtain back slightly, examining the courtyard and adjacent terraces. Apparently satisfied with what she observed, she unpacked her luggage, then shed her business suit and blouse, stripping down to her bra and panties. As Harrison wondered what she was doing, she pulled two knives from her suitcase, each set within a spring-loaded device, and strapped one to each forearm.
“Nonmetallic,” she said, noticing his stare. “They won’t set off any metal detectors.”
Up to this point, it hadn’t occurred to Harrison to inquire about Khalila’s training. It was obvious she’d been to the Farm—the CIA’s training complex in Virginia—receiving at least some level of specialized training. As he wondered how proficient she was in close combat, she donned a pair of slacks instead of a skirt, plus a short-sleeved blouse instead of the long-sleeved one she had removed, then put her black suit jacket on again. After assessing herself in a full-length mirror, she rotated her right wrist outward and flexed her hand sideways, and a knife popped down into her palm.
She turned to Harrison. “Don’t bring a weapon. You’re a Bluestone executive for now.”
Khalila then wrapped a black scarf around her head and neck, adding a matching niqab that left only her eyes exposed. Harrison, meanwhile, unpacked the garment bag Mussan had given him. It contained two suits, several dress shirts, ties, a belt, socks, and a pair of black dress shoes.
“You can ditch the tie for today’s meeting,” Khalila said. “A suit and open-collared shirt will work fine.”
Harrison selected a shirt and suit, which fit amazingly well, and was soon ready to depart.
“During the meeting,” Khalila said, “you don’t have to do anything except respond to my questions. You’re a prop, giving me the cover I need to inquire about Mixell and the large weapon procurement. I’ll talk with you occasionally in English, and we’ll need to make it seem like you’re making decisions and giving me direction, in case anyone at the meeting understands English. Just play it by ear. Any questions?”
“Not at the moment.”
Khalila checked her watch, then looked at Harrison. “Time to leave.” She slid the envelope of money Durrani had given her into a leather satchel and handed it to Harrison.
Upon reaching Mussan, still waiting by the curb near the hotel, Khalila provided the address for the meeting. Mussan pulled into traffic, headed for the Old City.
Mussan pulled over and parked not far from the ruins of the Temple of Jupiter, built by the Romans in the first century B.C., near the entrance to al-Hamidiyah Souq, a fifty-foot-wide marketplace over one-third of a mile long. Harrison joined Khalila as they strolled past countless clothes emporiums, craft and jewelry shops, grocery stores, food stalls, and cafés. Contrary to Harrison’s earlier concerns, he didn’t stand out, since there were a significant number of European shoppers wearing Western apparel. As they moved down the souq, it didn’t appear that anyone was paying particular attention to their presence.
After passing one of the larger jewelry shops, Khalila veered to the side, entering a dark alley running perpendicular to the souq. As their footsteps echoed off stone walls, Harrison felt naked without a weapon. Khalila stopped beside an old wooden door and knocked.
“Who is it?” a muffled voice asked.
“Khalila. I’m here to see Hasan.”
The door cracked open and a man wearing a white dishdasha studied Khalila and Harrison before opening the door wider. He beckoned them into a small foyer.
“He is waiting,” he said, pointing to a dark, narrow hallway.
Khalila led the way and they entered another antechamber, this one occupied by two men armed with PP-19 Bizon submachine guns. A third man, wielding a handheld metal detector, wanded Khalila and Harrison, searching for weapons. Satisfied that neither stranger was armed, he pointed to a nearby doorway.
The two armed men followed Harrison and Khalila into the adjacent room, a well-appointed study with built-in bookcases, an antique desk, and a rectangular table with six chairs set atop a plush Persian carpet. A man, whom Harrison assumed was Hasan, rose from his desk. He made no attempt to greet Khalila as he extended his right hand to Harrison.
Harrison kept his handshake soft instead of firm, as was customary in the Middle East, as Hasan spoke in Arabic, which Khalila interpreted.
“Hasan wants to know if you had a pleasant trip to Syria, and whether you’ve had an opportunity to enjoy any of the city’s pleasures.”
Harrison replied and Khalila translated, then Hasan motioned toward two chairs while he sat opposite them. The two armed men took up positions at opposite ends of the table.
The conversation turned to business, with Khalila beginning the dialogue. An unpleasant look quickly formed on Hasan’s face and his voice took on an agitated tone. Khalila turned to Harrison.
“He’s not happy you’re here looking for information instead of weapons.”
“What have you told him?”
“That you’re aware of a large procurement, most likely by a rival, and you’d like to know what was procured and by whom.” Her eyes shifted to the satchel. “Get the cash.”
Harrison retrieved the thick envelope and placed it on the table, pushing it toward Hasan.
Hasan pushed it back toward Harrison.
Khalila interjected, talking with Hasan in a conciliatory, persuasive tone. After Hasan shook his head several times, the conversation became heated, with Hasan raising his voice and Khalila’s tone becoming sharp. She turned to Harrison.
“He doesn’t know what was purchased or who procured it, but he knows who made the deal. That’s the sticking point. He doesn’t want to disclose the name. There’s a code between weapons dealers in Syria—transactions remain private.”
“Where do we go from here?” Harrison asked.
“We pry the information from him.”
Khalila dropped her right hand below the table. She rotated her forearm and Harrison noticed a ripple of movement down the sleeve of her business suit. He couldn’t see her hand, but was certain it now held a knife.
Harrison didn’t know what Khalila had planned, but he immediately shifted into tactical mode, assessing the three men in the room. Hasan appeared unarmed, while the two guards each held a machine gun. The one on Harrison’s side of the table was two steps away, and he was confident the man could be neutralized. The armed guard on the other side of the table was problematic, since Harrison would need to wrest the weapon from the guard beside him and bring it to bear on the other guard before he reacted. The probability in succeeding in that maneuver, however, was low.
His thoughts turned to Khalila, who had reengaged Hasan in the heated conversation, wondering what her next move was. She couldn’t be stupid enough to attack Hasan with two armed men nearby. Plus, what would that achieve?
Khalila spoke to Harrison, her voice turning cold and hard. “Push the envelope back to him.”
Unsure whether Hasan or the two guards understood English, Harrison asked a subtle question, attempting to determine her plan. “What if he doesn’t accept it?”
“Just give him the money,” she said.
Harrison hesitated, and Khalila added, “Trust me.”
He pushed the envelope to Hasan.
Hasan spat a retort to Khalila as he reached for the envelope, preparing to shove it back toward Harrison.
Khalila whipped the knife out from under the table, jamming the point into the table between Hasan’s middle and ring finger.
The two guards immediately raised their weapons, pointing them at Khalila, while Hasan sat frozen with his face full of rage, the knife still embedded between his fingers with Khalila’s hand on its hilt.
Khalila reached up with her other hand, pulling down the veil from her face so she could talk more clearly. She spoke at a measured pace, her tone stern. Hasan’s eyes widened and he leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Khalila. The man’s anger faded, then he gestured with his other hand, directing the guards to lower their weapons. Khalila extracted the knife from the table and pushed the envelope closer to Hasan. This time, he took it, then perused its contents.
He looked up and began speaking, with Khalila nodding and occasionally asking questions. After a while, Hasan fell silent, his eyes resting on Khalila as she translated for Harrison.
“He says someone made a large purchase from the major weapons dealer in the country, a man named Issad Futtaim. Hasan claims he doesn’t know what was procured, but the cost was extremely high based on the size of the bribes. However, he does know that what was procured was Russian made.”
“Is there anything else we need to ask him?”
Khalila shook her head. “We’re done here.”
“Thank Hasan for his assistance.”
Khalila relayed his words as Harrison stood and extended his hand.
Hasan exchanged greetings, although he wore an air of defeat, and the man who initially greeted Harrison and Khalila escorted them back to the front door.
As they stepped into the center of the souq, heading toward the exit, Harrison asked, “Where do we go from here?”
“I should be able to arrange a meeting with Futtaim. I know his executive assistant, although we’re not on the best of terms. We’ll see how it goes.”
“Not on the best of terms?”
“There are a few things we don’t see eye to eye on.”
Upon exiting the souq, they spotted Mussan, parked nearby. After they slipped into the car, Khalila called their case officer, Durrani, relaying what they had learned.
“I need more money,” she told him as Mussan pulled into traffic. “As much as you can get authorized, but try for two million. Take it all the way to the deputy director if you have to. The arms dealer we’ll be meeting with next will be difficult to bribe. Also, with the amount of money we’re talking about, I’ll need the funds placed in an account so I can do an electronic transfer.”
After her call with Durrani ended, Khalila made another one. Harrison listened to Khalila’s half of the conversation, but didn’t understand much since she spoke in Arabic, although he noticed that Khalila spoke in concise sentences, her tone terse.
Khalila hung up, then turned to Harrison. “We meet with Futtaim tomorrow afternoon.”
She leaned back into her seat, lost in her thoughts for a while, then said, “Our meeting with Hasan did not go well.”
“We got the information we needed,” Harrison replied. “I’d say it was a job well done, aside from almost getting us killed.”
Khalila frowned. “I need to be more discreet.”
Harrison agreed. Her tack with Hasan was bold and it worked, but jamming the knife between his fingers could have been disastrous if she’d hit flesh instead.
“What did you say to Hasan after you put the knife in the table?”
“I pointed out his place in the food chain.”
Harrison contemplated Khalila’s response, plus Hasan’s sudden shift in his demeanor when Khalila pulled her niqab down. Reflecting on the encounter, he realized he had misinterpreted Khalila’s actions. She hadn’t lowered her niqab so she could speak clearly—she had done so to reveal who she was. It seemed that Khalila wasn’t just an ordinary woman, as she had claimed on the flight to Damascus. She had some sort of status in the Arab world.
“And where do you reside on that food chain?” Harrison asked.
Khalila gave him a blank stare. She realized she had slipped up, revealing information about herself that she preferred to keep hidden.
Harrison decided to ask a simpler question, harboring only a glimmer of hope she would answer it. “You revealed to Hasan that you are…?”
When Khalila didn’t answer, Harrison modified his query, hoping to chip away at the mystery. “I assume Khalila is an alias. What’s your real first name?”
Khalila turned away, staring out the car window as they traveled along the congested streets.