Andrew Kaplan: Scorpion Betrayal

“I leave you here. Go to the third floor. The apartment on your left,” the first Arab said, opening the door and going back outside. The Palestinian glanced around the vestibule and looked up the staircase. There were no obvious hiding places for anyone who might be waiting for him. He went up the stairs, knocked on the door and went inside.

The apartment was dark and sparsely furnished. A blanket hung over the only window, the only light coming from a candle on a wooden table. It was likely a temporary meeting place, only used this one time, he thought. The old man, in a round white taqiyah cap and gallabiya, sat behind the table with a glass of mint tea, and even in the dim light the Palestinian could see he was blind.

“Salaam aleikem, Imam,” he said.

“Wa aleikem es-salaam,” the old man said, gesturing for him to sit. “You will have shai atai.” It was not a question. The old man’s hands trembled as they found the battered metal teapot and poured the mint tea into the glass, adding lump after lump of sugar and stirring it with the spoon from his glass. The two men sipped their tea in silence.

“There is a hadith of the Prophet, rasul sallahu alayhi wassalam, peace be upon him, who instructed us that there is no faith for one who has no trust, and no religion for one who does not fulfill his promises. You do not need to tell me why it was necessary to kill the shopkeeper in Cairo,” the old man said, holding up his hand. “I know it was necessary or you would not have done it. You need not make explanations to me, now or ever.”

“It was necessary.”

“It is of no consequence,” the old man said, waving his hand as if brushing away a fly. “But are you ready for what is next?” he said, looking at him with his sightless eyes.

“I understand your meaning of the hadith. The warning has been delivered. We must fulfill our promise,” the Palestinian said.

“We shall teach the unbelievers a lesson they will not forget. Are your preparations ready?” the old man asked, the glass trembling in his hand.

“Phase one in America is complete.”

“How was it?”

“It went well. I entered California from Mexico, then shipped the parcel to New York. The Americans do not monitor internal package shipments.”

“I thought they had improved their security.”

“There are tens of millions of packages every day. It would be impossible. After, I went back to Mexico. There was only one casualty. A narco, a drug runner. He showed too much interest in my backpack. From the moment I hired him, I knew I would have to kill him. It was inevitable.”

“You did as you should. The Americans will learn fear. It will be their new home. What of phase two?”

There is still much to do, but inshallah, we will be ready,” the Palestinian said.

“And the main target?”

“That will be the greatest difficulty. They will tighten security. There will be checkpoints everywhere. Getting close will be almost impossible.”

“Is it impossible?” the old man whispered, his voice quavering.

“Inshallah, God willing, anything is possible. What is most important is that there is no photo of me. No one knows who I am,” the Palestinian said.

“No one,” the old man agreed. “You are invisible to them, but you will end the war against Islam in America and Europe.”

“Inshallah, God willing, all will be completed.”

“It is well. How you accomplish this, you will decide. Whatever you need will be supplied. Whatever orders you issue to our people will be obeyed without question. If you need to spend more, no matter how much, the money is at your disposal. If you need to enforce discipline, you must do as you see fit. And may the blessing of Allah be upon you.”

The Palestinian sipped the sweet mint tea and didn’t say anything. He watched the specks of mint in the glass swirl in the candlelight.

“You go to Russia next?” the old man asked.

“Not yet. There are things I must do. Then Russia.”

“Trust no one there. They are godless creatures, the Russians. For them is reserved a special place in jahannam…” The old man hesitated. “You have not asked about what is most important of all. I appreciate your discretion, but you should speak. We shall not meet again.”

The Palestinian stared at the old man’s blind eyes.

“You know what I want,” he said. “How is she?”

“She is well.”

“Swear it. Swear she is well.”

“It is not permissible to swear. But I assure you, she is well,” the old man said. “Here,” holding out an envelope. His hand was shaking, the skin spotted with age and waxy yellow, almost translucent, the veins clearly visible in the candlelight. “Here is your contact information. Memorize then burn it.”

The Palestinian took it and stood up.

“Ma’a salaama. Inshallah, we will meet in the world to come, in Jannatu al-Khuld,” he said.

“Alla ysalmak, my Brother,” the old man said, looking up with his blind eyes. “As of this moment, you are the most important man in the world.”

Damascus, Syria

They were caught in a traffic jam on Choukry Kouwalty Avenue, the air shimmering from the heat rising from the pack of honking cars, yellow Star taxis and Service minibuses barely moving in the hot sun.

The taxi driver shrugged. “Ma’alesh. Damascus traffic is always shit.”

“Mafi mushkila,” Scorpion said. Not a problem. He glanced out the side window. In the distance beyond the buildings, he could see the brown slopes of Jabal Qassioun, the mountain looming over the city. In this most ancient of cities, it was said to be the mountain where Cain killed Abel.

He wasn’t concerned about the traffic; his errand wasn’t essential. He was on his way to 17 of April Square to interview the director of the Syrian Central Bank for Le Figaro. He had set up the interview because, as Koenig used to drill into them over and over, “Cover isn’t a false identity; cover is who you are.” The director was probably waiting for him in his office now, but Scorpion’s real interest was in the two cars-one a white Toyota SUV with four men in it three cars behind them, the other a blue Renault Megane a few cars ahead-that were tailing him. It was a standard front and back tail, and he’d recognized one of the men in the Renault as the man with the mustache and white shirt who followed him to his hotel last night. He had to find out who they were, his mental clock clicking down the precious seconds, wasting time dealing with tails while the Palestinian, who was likely no Palestinian, moved step by step closer to his target.

The taxi inched forward, the driver’s worry beads dangling from the rearview mirror swaying as they moved toward the cause of the jam, the crossroads where Choukry Kouwalty intersected with three main streets. Ahead, beyond the intersection, loomed the stone tower and wall of the Damascus Citadel at the entrance to the Old City. In the twelfth century the citadel had been the headquarters of Saladin, revered by Muslims as the leader who liberated Arab lands from the Crusaders. Scorpion thought about trying to lose the tail there, then glanced back at the white SUV in the rear window and made up his mind.

“Turn right on Al-Jabry,” he told the driver.

“The bank is the other way,” the driver said, turning his head for a second.

“I’ve changed my mind. Go right as fast as you can. I’ll tell you where to stop. Yalla! Go now, quickly! Dilwati!”

“Dilwati, inshallah,” the driver said, hitting the horn and swerving in front of another taxi, squeezing by with not an inch to spare and up on the curb, barely missing a pedestrian. They turned right onto Al-Jabry Boulevard, the traffic easing as they moved away from the intersection. Behind them, Scorpion saw that the Renault was too far into the crossroads over toward Port Said Street to follow, its way to the right jammed. But the SUV behind them was blaring its horn, and one of the men in it was leaning out of the window, shouting and holding up a badge, ordering traffic out of their way and pointing to the right toward Al-Jabry.