But I wasn't the least bit interested in the sights of Damascus. I was too concerned with making my way to the shop of Ahmed Kamel. I glanced at my wristwatch: 3:35 in the afternoon. I had made good time and hadn't encountered any difficulty.
Walking in the old section of the city, I thought of how everything had gone as planned. The two Hamosad agents and I had crossed the Sea of Galilee; then they led me across the highly dangerous Golan Heights, that strip of land that is occupied by the Israelis. Once across the Heights, I had been met by another agent, a Syrian Jew who drove me in his vegetable truck to the little village of El Ruad, an uncomfortable trip, since I had been in the back surrounded on all sides by crates of tomatoes and grapes. Much later in the day, when the roads were thick with traffic, another Syrian Jew had driven me the rest of the distance to Damascus, some seventy miles. I had left the back of the truck while the vehicle was parked not far from the enormous Kaddha market.
Only once had I been stopped by one of the Fazets, a member of the regular police. Seeing that I was not Syrian, the man, speaking broken English, had asked to see my identification.
"Certainly," I had replied in Arabic, immediately producing my forged, English passport in the name Joseph Allen Galloway. Along with the passport I handed him the forged Syrian visa, all properly stamped, all so authentic looking I almost believed it myself. Just in case, I had forged ticket stubs to prove that I had entered Syria the morning of that very day, arriving on the Josi-Dan Express, a train that runs from Amman, Jordan, to Damascus, Syria.
Pleased that I could speak Arabic, the man smiled. "You are in Syria as a tourist, Mr. Galloway?" he had asked politely, handing me my passport and visa. "Or on business."
"On business." I had replied promptly. "I'm an importer in London. I've come to Syria to buy rugs and brass and copper items. 1 I had then added another big lie. "This is my tenth trip to your marvelous country."
My only real concern was that the policeman might search me, in which case he would find Wilhelmina in her shoulder holster and Hugo nestled against my right arm.
The policeman had smiled, had wished me a pleasant stay in Syria and had gone on his way. I had continued on mine, thinking that if worse came to worst, that if the Syrian secret police grabbed me by some fluke, I'd «confess» to being a member of the Irish Republican Army, and say that I had come to Syria to learn methods of terrorism from the SLA. It was no secret in the world intelligence community that the IRA had links to all the larger Arab terrorists groups, Al Fatah, Black September, the P.L.O. and the SLA. Whether or not the Syrians would have believed me was another matter. If they did, they would release me. Not that the Syrians loved the IRA. But Damascus hated Israel and the SLA was doing all in its power to bring down the Israelis. Conclusion: any friends of the SLA were looked upon with favor.
I was now approaching the Hamidiyyah Bazaar, the famous "Long Market" which extends for almost a mile. All around me were people from various nations — mostly tourists, although many were Arabs. Motor vehicles threaded their way through the dense crowds, their horns perpetually sounding but gaining little attention from the bargaining masses. Other than the main road, the entire bazaar was a veritable warren of crisscrossing lanes and winding streets. White-bearded, turbaned men with faces like patriarchs of the Bible sat cross-legged in front of their shops, selling calico and stripped gallibiyea cloth from bolts neatly stacked on shelves behind them. Other shops sold handmade artifacts such as inlaid chests, engraved copper wares, ceramics and embroideries.
I forced my way through the throng, now and then asking directions, until I finally saw the long sign: FINE RUGS. ENGRAVED BRASS, BRONZE & COPPER. AHMED KAMEL. PROPRIETOR.
Constantly on the lookout for the darting hand of a pickpocket, I pushed and shoved until I reached the entrance of the shop, which was larger than most, indicating that Ahmed Kamel and his sister did a thriving business.
Inside there were numerous customers milling around and four clerks, two men and two women. Ahmed Kamel was not among them. I was positive because, before I left Tel Aviv, the Hamosad had shown me photographs of Kamel and his sister. But one of the women clerks was Miriam Kamel, who, at the moment, was waiting on a tourist couple. In spite of the fact that I might be walking into a cleverly set trap. I couldn't help but have erotic thoughts about her, all generated by 'the tight, black dress which showed her figure to its best advantage.
Following Hawk's instructions, I walked up to the counter and handed her my forged Joseph Allen Galloway. Importer business card. She looked at it, for a moment then her dark eyes swept over me, appraising me calmly.
"I should like to see Mr. Kamel," I said in Arabic, trying not to stare at her breasts.
"One moment, Mr. Galloway." Giving me a quick smile, she went across the wide room and whispered something to one of the male clerks. Nodding, the hawk-faced man glanced at me, and I wondered if the woman had instructed him to call the police. If she had, she'd be the first to get one of Wilhelmina's 9 mm hollow points. But the clerk only turned to a customer while Miriam walked back to me.
"Follow me. Mr. Galloway," she said with a slight smile. She turned and moved toward a curtained archway at one end of the room. Undressing her with my eyes, I followed, well aware that if I had walked into a trap, I was doing it with all of the helplessness of a lamb being led to slaughter.
Beyond the archway was a short hall and three closed doors, one on either side and one at the end of the passage. Miriam chose the door to our right, and after we entered, I saw that we were in a sitting room. There were several fancy cushioned chairs, and an intricately carved teak table was centered between two blue sofas.
I sat down in the center of one sofa. Miriam positioned herself opposite me and crossed her long legs, her dark eyes measuring me intently. I played it cool, deliberately refraining from mentioning her brother. For a moment there was silence, except for the faint sound coming from the air-conditioning duct in one corner of the room.
"We can talk freely here; no one will hear us," she said at length. "I told the chief clerk that you were an importer from England and to see that no one disturbed us. Unfortunately, my brother is not available. He's in the hospital with a case of stomach ulcers."
I stared at her, letting my intuition have a free hand and watching how she was moving her left foot in little circles.
"Does your brother's illness change any part of the plan?" I asked.
"I can lead you to the SLA base in the As-Suwayda hills. Ahmed's being in the hospital does not pose any problems in regard to your mission. Would you like a drink?" she added, her voice sultry.
She didn't wait for me to answer. A teasing smile playing around the edges of her mouth, she got up, went across the room and stopped by a small table. She pressed a button in the wall, and slowly the bar moved forward from its hidden compartment. Seeing my surprise, she explained that she and her brother had many Western friends who drank and that many of their Moslem friends did, in spite of the Moslem prohibition against alcohol.