Clear by Fire (33 page)

“Uh, we’re going to Damascus and—”

“I’ll see you there,” she said before hanging up.

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea,” Mason said to the empty line. He nodded his head like he was listening and then said, “Yeah, okay, I’ll see you there.”

“She hung up, didn’t she?”

“What? Why would you say that?”

“Because the green light means it’s connected, and the red light means there isn’t an active call.”

“Just shut up and drive.”

T
he fact that the clock was ticking down didn’t seem to bother Zeus, who was snoring peacefully on the couch. Mason, on the other hand, was worried, and while the Libyan slept, and Renee and Tarek combed through Nantz’s computer, Mason knew they were running out of time.

Renee had actually been waiting on them when they landed, and it was a good thing because she brought a bag full of cash with her, compliments of Mr. David. Mason thought she looked great, waiting at the hangar, and wondered about giving her a hug. Renee had answered the question for him by tossing him the sack of cash and telling him to get in the car.

By the time they got out of the airport and to the apartment, Mason had doled out ten thousand dollars in bribes. The CIA had no assets in Syria, and they were forced to rely on Ahmed’s network of agents and fixers. His men covered North Africa and the Mideast and could get Mason anything he might need, for a price.

Tarek arrived before the sun came up, and as soon as he saw Renee, he forgot about everything. Luckily, she knew a thing or two about computers, and she and Tarek began working on Nantz’s and Decklin’s laptops. He was explaining the program he had written to search both drives when Mason decided to head down to the souk for supplies.

The city appeared calm, but Mason knew that in a war zone things could go to shit at a moment’s notice. He began looking for any signs that the government was in control of the area, and when he didn’t see any soldiers, he began checking for escape routes.

The market was already bustling with locals buying the groceries they would need for the day. Mason loved the early mornings and the feeling of promise that came with them. Everything was fresh and possible, and he felt renewed as he bought a carton of cigarettes. As he was slipping one into his mouth, the smell of fresh coffee drifted like an unspoken promise across the market and grabbed his attention.

Living in North Africa for as long as he had, Mason understood that making good coffee took time, and you were rewarded if you waited. He followed the rich, earthy smell until he came to a merchant who was roasting his beans over an open fire. The American told the man what he wanted, then waited patiently while the coffee merchant used a mortar and pestle to grind the beans into a fine powder.

Mason had done some investigating into the subject. Coffee had come from Syria to Constantinople in 962 AD, and legend had it that one of the first coffeehouses had been opened by a man from Damascus. While every Middle Eastern country had its own style of coffee, the Turkish style was likely the best.

As the American watched the man grind the beans, he realized that he was looking forward to sharing this with Renee. His wife had loved coffee, and every morning after his run, he would grab her a cappuccino and a bagel before heading in to work. The simple gesture never failed to make her day—that is, until the trouble started. Then he would find the coffee and the untouched bagel in the trash when he got home. He watched the merchant pour the powdered grounds into a plastic bag, surprised at the unwelcome memory, and then paid the man before grabbing a few more things for breakfast. Ahmed had taught him how to properly make the region’s coffee,
often saying, “Good coffee should be black as hell, strong as death, and sweet as love.”

Back at the apartment, Mason used a stainless steel
cezve
, basically a pot with a long handle attached, to heat the cold water. As soon as the water was hot enough, he added six spoonfuls of ground coffee and three spoons of sugar and stirred until the grounds sank. Lowering the heat so that it wouldn’t boil, he stopped stirring and allowed the water to extract flavor from the ground beans.

The key was in the foam that was beginning to form around the top of the metal pot. Mason had to constantly adjust the heat to retain as much as he could.

Once the coffee began to boil, he removed it from the stove to let the mixture settle. He repeated this step three more times before turning off the gas stove and removing the pot.

While the coffee cooled, he grabbed four glass cups and a plate. Filling the plate with a layer of figs and sweet breads, he prepared himself for the final challenge. Equally distributing the coffee’s thick foam was the hallmark of a true master, and some coffee shops sold just the foam, which cost more than two cups of coffee.

Carrying the coffee and the food into the den, he placed them on the table before grabbing a cup for Renee. She gratefully took the cup and flashed him a smile. He went over to the couch Zeus was sleeping on and kicked it, waiting for his friend to sit up.

The Libyan rubbed his eyes and reached for the glass with a grunt. After taking a sip, he smiled and took the cigarette offered by his friend.

“This is really good. Did you make it?” Renee asked from the table.

“Yeah, a friend taught me how to do it.”

“You’re a man of many talents,” she said, getting up from the table and walking over to him. She let her hand brush his and Mason felt his face grow hot.

The phone on the table rang, cutting off the conversation, and
Tarek checked the number before answering. “Yes?” He nodded as the caller spoke and then handed the phone to Mason.

“Hello? Good morning, Ahmed, how are things?”

“Mason, your friends crossed the border last night at Ramtha. There was a gunfight at the crossing and they killed a bunch of rebels. One of my men was able to track down their safe house. It’s in the suburbs of Damascus.”

“Where are they now?”

“They left the safe house five minutes ago in three vehicles. My man is following them. They appear to be heading into the city.”

“Ahmed, I need to know where they are going.”

“He won’t lose them, but I suggest that you get ready. There is a lot of chatter coming out of Aleppo, and I believe that July is going to be a bad month.”

“I owe you.”

“Well, what else is new? I have my people standing by if you need them.”

“Ahmed, we are going to need more than that. All we have are small arms and I’m going to need something bigger. If they are going operational, I’m going to need them soon.”

“I can have someone meet you. Call me when you are ready.”

“Thank you.” Mason hung up the phone before handing it to Tarek. “Barnes is here and on the move. Ahmed has a man on them but doesn’t know where they are heading.”

“Both of these computers speak of ‘target alpha.’ Only one of them goes into any detail. Decklin’s computer had an encrypted folder that I almost missed. Whoever is doing their computer work is quite competent, but not more so than I am,” Tarek said with relish.

“Does it give a location?”

“No, they are much too sophisticated for that, but the folder was called ‘
Hafeedah
.’ ”

“ ‘Granddaughter’?” Renee said as she took a sip from the cup.

“It has to be the Sayyida mosque,” Mason added.

“It would make an excellent target,” Zeus replied as he stood and stretched, the cigarette smoking from between his lips.

“What does that mean?” Renee asked, looking at Zeus.

“According to Shia tradition, the Sayyida Zaynab Mosque contains the grave of Muhammad’s granddaughter Zaynab bint Ali. She was captured after the Battle of Karbala and forced into exile in Egypt after the death of her brother,” he began. “Since the 1980s the Shia faithful have made mass pilgrimages to the site in honor of her strength and sacrifice. It’s a very important site to them.”

“So Barnes is trying to eradicate terrorism all by himself?”

“It’s our best guess. We need to move,” Mason said, jumping in.

He finished the last of his coffee and grabbed his bag, while Zeus stuffed a sweet roll into his mouth.

As soon as the Libyan started the car, Mason dialed a number into the new phone Tarek had gotten him and waited.

“We are on the move. Where can we meet you?” he said as a man answered in Arabic.

“Go to the tobacco shop,” Ahmed replied. “Zeus knows where it is. We will be waiting for you there.” The line went dead, and Mason told the Libyan where the meet would take place.

Damascus’s history was one of occupation. Almost every country in the region had ruled the city of 2.4 million people at one time. The broad streets were laid out much like Paris, with wide straight avenues and large concrete medians. Traffic was a nightmare due to the countless minibuses that provided the main means of public transportation. The buses didn’t run on a set schedule or service regular stops. Passengers would tell the driver where to stop, and he would simply pull over and let them out.

The civil war had caused an influx of people from the countryside and from other cities like Aleppo. The ancient city was bursting with refugees and their cars. Getting from one place to the other was definitely an exercise in patience. Unaware that the small car weaving through traffic was trying to stop a bombing, the city went about its business.

Zeus cursed as his feet bounced between the clutch and gas pedal. Buses and cars didn’t bother signaling before they switched lanes because they knew if they gave any warning they wouldn’t be let over. Mason braced himself as a minibus cut them off, causing Zeus to slam on the brakes. His knuckles were white as he hung on to the “oh shit” handle for dear life.

The Libyan shot him a dirty look that accused him of being a terrible passenger. Mason shrugged and tried to relax by lighting a cigarette. Tarek was sleeping like a baby in the backseat, and Renee pulled a hijab over her blond hair and shot him a smile.

It took them thirty minutes to reach the store, and Ahmed’s men were posted outside the shop with rifles at the ready. A man with an AK-47 approached their vehicle with his rifle up. He looked at Renee, sitting in the back, before motioning for Zeus to roll down his window.

“We are guests of Ahmed,” he said simply, and the man motioned for them to head around the back.

The Libyan followed the drive to the rear of the building as another one of Ahmed’s armed men swung a large bay door open and motioned for them to drive the car inside. Zeus squeezed the sedan through the doorway before putting it in park.

Ahmed was walking around the large storage room with a satellite phone held to his ear. He held up one finger and yelled into the phone as his eyes played over Renee.

“What do you mean, they are coming? Why do I pay you so much if it takes you this long to give me information? The government is helpless. They couldn’t stop a parade.” Ahmed slammed the phone shut.

“I guess we have a problem?” Mason asked him.

“Yes, we have a big problem. One of my sources has confirmed the rebels are launching an offensive to take Damascus. Who is this beautiful creature?” he said, offering his hand to Renee.

“Renee, this is Ahmed.”

“It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, taking her hand and lightly kissing it. Mason had seen the urbane version of Ahmed many times, but this was the first time it had made him a little jealous.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” she said in Arabic, causing the Libyan to arch his brow in delight.

“I am sorry that we couldn’t have met under better circumstances.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Mason said, taking Renee by the hand and pulling her away from his mentor.

“Ahh, so you are the one I have been hearing about? The first American woman to join their elite commandos.”

Ahmed smiled before becoming gravely serious.

“Why have you brought her here? This isn’t a place for a lady.”

“She can take care of herself, I promise you.”

Ahmed only needed to glance at her stony face to realize that might well be true. “We need to leave this place before it gets too dangerous.”

“I can’t do that, and you know it.”

“Mason, the man you are looking for is going to die out there, and so will you if you don’t come with me. I know you have a death wish, but are you willing to sacrifice her life?”

Renee spoke up. “It’s not his decision. The man we are after killed my men, and I can’t let that pass unavenged.”

“I understand you have suffered, child, but this is not a fight for you,” Ahmed said soothingly.

“I’m not leaving and neither is he,” she replied.

“Leave it to you to find a woman as stubborn as you are. Fine, but it is on your head,” he said, pointing to Mason.

The storeroom was lined with shelves and boxes. In one corner the wooden shelves had been modified to conceal a set of stairs that led down into a small basement. Ahmed turned and headed down the stairs. As they descended, Mason saw a single bulb hung from the
ceiling, which cast enough light to reveal a space filled with neatly stacked wooden crates. In the center of the room was a large table covered with a respectable assortment of heavy weapons and ammo.

“Nice setup,” Mason stated as he approached the table.

Zeus strolled around the table like he was buying vegetables off the street. He picked up a few items and looked them over before setting them down and moving on. Near the end of the table he found a canvas backpack with three RPG-7 warheads nestled inside. He checked the safety wires attached to the noses of the warheads, then began looking for the launcher.

While Mason was filling his assault pack with Russian grenades, Renee lifted the top off a wooden crate and found an RPG-7 launcher inside. The model had been designed for paratroopers and allowed the operator to break the launcher into two pieces. It still had the packing grease on it and was already mounted with the two-power optic.

Holding the two pieces aloft so that Zeus could see them, she snapped the launcher together and checked the optic and the flip-up sights.