His companion, a large, pot-bellied man introduced as Babas, didn’t have the bearing of a military man, either. He looked like a guy you’d find in the back of a restaurant kitchen scraping plates.
“I thought there were going to be three of you,” Crocker said.
“My other man, Marai, he is excused to go to a wedding. His sister.”
“I see you speak English.”
“A little, yes.”
“That’s good, because my Arabic sucks.”
“Maybe no good. I don’t know.”
He turned to Babas, who laughed and said, “He like America woman. He want to marry…Scarlo Johasten.” He formed an hourglass shape with his hands for emphasis.
“You mean Scarlett Johansson. I think she’s taken.”
“Taken? Who take her?”
Crocker looked at Oz and said, “We should get moving. Are these guys ready to roll?”
Oz muttered something to Zeid, and the two men started to argue in Arabic.
Crocker nudged Oz’s arm and asked, “What’s going on?”
“He says they can get you as far as Idlib, but after that you’re on your own.”
“What about getting out?”
“He says they’ll wait for you in Idlib.”
“Idlib, yes,” Zeid interjected. “But after that…is very bad.”
“Why?”
“Not bad…dangerous. Why you go?” Zeid asked. “You bring medicine? Medicine better for Idlib. Much better.”
Before Crocker had a chance to answer, Oz pulled him into the hallway.
“What’s the problem?” Crocker asked.
Oz rubbed his head. “He wants money.”
“Of course he does. But he doesn’t know the real purpose of our mission, does he?”
“No, but I’m sure he’s suspicious.”
They found Janice and Logan eating lamb stew in the cafeteria.
“Where’s Anders?” Crocker asked.
“He had to leave. Why, is there a problem?”
“Zeid is here, and he wants to get paid.”
Janice answered coolly, “We were prepared for that. How much?”
“Twenty thousand,” replied Oz.
“Dollars?” Crocker asked.
“Yes.”
“Tell him we’re offering ten.”
Oz nodded and did an about-face. Crocker followed, asking, “Do we really need Zeid and his friend?”
“If you want to get past the roadblocks, yes.”
“What about Hassan?”
“I don’t know anything about him, but Zeid knows his way around.”
Soon after they returned to the conference room, Zeid casually agreed to the adjusted sum of ten thousand. He stubbed out his cigarette and offered his hand. “We do this together, my Canada friend.”
“Yes. Be ready to leave in two hours.” Crocker pointed to the ten o’clock mark on his watch. He was hoping they’d receive the necessary approvals by then.
“I think eleven is better.”
“Why?”
Zeid smiled. “So my friend Babas can enjoy his dinner.”
Babas made a silly face and nodded.
“Eleven, then, but this isn’t a joke.”
Zeid changed his expression from smiling to serious. “No joke.”
The revised PLO (platoon leader’s order) called for them to assemble in the yard at 2215 hours, depart at 2300, reach the air base by 0100, recover the canisters, and return to Yayladaği before sunrise. It was 2015 now, so Crocker gave his men an hour or so to rest, check their gear, and attend to any personal business before they met to go over the PLO again.
He stood in the officer’s room he had been given stripped to the waist, checking the list of first-, second-, and third-line gear each man would be carrying, when he heard a knock on the door. He set the yellow legal pad down on the desk and said, “Come in.”
He was hoping it was Janice telling him that the go order had come from the White House. Instead, Fatima pushed open the door partially, stood in the opening, and asked, “Do you mind if I interrupt you for a minute, Mr. Wallace?”
Her hair was pulled back and the top button of her uniform was open, revealing the tops of her breasts. Seeing the various scars across his stomach and chest, she gasped. He grabbed a black tee from the chair and pulled it over his head.
“Mr. Wallace…”
“Just Wallace. What’s up?”
Somewhat awkwardly, she thrust forward a sealed bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label scotch she had tucked under her arm and offered it to him. “Mr. Talab sends his apologies for not being here to see you off, and asked me to give you this,” she said rapidly in thickly accented English.
Partially concealed under her top, just behind the curve of her left hip, he made out the outline of a pistol.
“Thanks,” he said, noticing that the bottle had been warmed by the heat from her body. “It’s nice and warm.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, you have warm hands. Sit down. Tell me about yourself.”
She sat on a metal chair and crossed her legs, but didn’t seem to know where to put her hands. She folded them in her lap, looked at them, then lifted her head and said, “Mr. Talab asked me to thank you ahead of time for the brave service you’re about to do for the people of Syria.”
“Tell him he’s welcome.”
Her eyes were beguiling and dark, set above high cheekbones and framed by manicured arched eyebrows. He wondered why she was really there and what she was thinking.
“What brings you to Yayladaği?” he asked.
“Oh, Mr. Talab sent me.”
In the corner by the sink he found two plastic cups, rinsed both, and dried one with the hem of his shirt. Then he cracked open the bottle, filled one of the cups with two inches of scotch, and offered it to Fatima. “Let’s drink a toast.”
“Oh…Yes.”
“To a free Syria.”
“Yes.”
She took a long sip, noticed that his cup was filled with water, and stopped. “But…”
“I can’t,” he explained. “I’m leaving on a mission.”
“Yes, but…”
He pointed to her cup. “And you’re not a strict Muslim.”
She shook her head and looked embarrassed. “No. Yes. I was born Muslim, but I’m more…liberal.”
“You were raised here in Turkey?”
“No. No, I grew up in Damascus. You know the city?”
He had been there once on a reconnaissance mission but didn’t want to talk about that. “So you probably haven’t had much contact with Americans.”
She bristled slightly. “We were taught in school to hate Americans. But I never felt that way myself.”
“I’m glad. We’re nice.”
His smile seemed to calm her. She grinned back. On a strictly physical level, they were attracted to each other, but he had a feeling that wasn’t what this was about.
“Before the fighting, I had a very good life, you see. Friends, parties, school. I went to the beach in the bathing suit I wanted. I could drink. I could go to school, drive a car, walk the streets by myself. If the Islamists take over, all that is finished, and it will be impossible for me to live in my own country.”
“I understand,” he said, gazing into her sad but defiant eyes.
“Freedom is like ice cream, Mr. Talab says. You taste a little, and you want more.”
“What do you think will happen?”
“In Syria? I don’t know. Assad is not going to live forever.”
Crocker wasn’t sure what she meant by that. Was she opposed to the armed effort to depose him? Was she saying that Assad was better than the possible Islamic alternative? It seemed so.
Seeing his confusion, she added quickly, “I hate the regime, of course, because of what they have done. But now we Syrians have to protect ourselves, because everyone wants a piece of that cake that is our country.”
“You mean the Iranians?” he asked, leaning forward. He was referring to the aggressive role of the Iranians and their Hezbollah proxies who were defending Assad.
“The Iranians, the Lebanese, the Israelis, the Kurds, the Turks. Maybe even the United States.”