No . . . these guys were likely FSA, the Free Syrian Army. And this was the best news he’d had in a very long time.
Court tried to determine exactly who the American was now. Most likely he was U.S. Army Special Forces, a Green Beret, though he could have been from one of the “White Side” SEAL units, or possibly even the Army’s special-mission unit, commonly referred to as Delta Force.
The bearded man just looked Court over, saying nothing, so Court added, “Let me help you out. This is the part where you ask me who I’m working for.”
The man smiled. “Is it? Okie-doke. Thanks for the tip. Who are you working for?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Is that because you’re workin’ for ISIS, workin’ for Jabhat al Nusra, or working for the SAA?”
“None of the above.”
The big American stood up fully, reached into his belt, and pulled out a pair of thick contractor gloves. As he began putting them on, he said, “Let me tell ya ’bout a little unwritten rule we have around here when it comes to prisoners.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Talk shit . . . get hit.”
“I wonder why you haven’t written that one down.”
The soldier laughed, genuinely enjoying the repartee. “Bunch of tightasses at the State Department and Pentagon send us memos tellin’ us we can get in trouble for coldcocking a prisoner without cause, but somethin’ tells me I can get away with it as long as the prisoner is another gringo. I think I might have to bust your smartass mouth just to find out.”
Court smiled. He liked this guy. “You’re SF. Fifth Group? Third? No . . . you’re Tenth Group.”
The American blinked when Court said the third number, so faintly the man didn’t realize it himself.
Court said, “Yeah, Fort Carson, but doubt you’re seeing much of Colorado these days.”
“Who the hell are you?” the man asked. He sat back down in the chair, forgetting about his gloves and his plan to punch his prisoner in the face.
“Can’t tell you that, but I bet you twenty bucks I can guess your name.” Court squinted in the sunlight beaming through the hole in the ceiling, looking over the man’s face. “Bobby? Billy? Randy . . . Ronnie? You look like a Ronnie.”
The bearded man now made a slight but obvious reaction.
Court took this to mean he’d nailed it. “Okay, Ronnie. How about you have one of your little guys back there bring me some water? It will help me talk.”
The American in the body armor called out to the men behind him without taking his wide eyes off his prisoner. “Meyah lal shereb!” Water!
A young man with a wispy beard and a shiny black Adidas jacket with white stripes pulled a bottle of water out of a pack on the floor and brought it over. He spoke English to the soldier as he handed it to him. “Who is this guy?”
“Dunno yet.”
Court was not untied, but the American soldier squirted several ounces of water into his mouth. Court drank it down, closing his eyes a moment as he let the water bring him back to life. Then he said, “Ronnie, you’ve got a tough job. But I’m going to make it a little bit easier today.”
“Are you?”
“I’m going to give you a phone number that will connect you to an office building in McLean, Virginia. Call it yourself, or kick it up to your command and have them call it. This will get straightened out and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“McLean, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re saying you’re CI—”
Court shushed him before he could finish it.
The SF man scratched his beard. It was clear to Court that the man wasn’t sure what to do.
Another bearded American with body armor and forearm tats entered the room and spoke before he looked up and saw his colleague in the middle of an interrogation. “Hey, Robby, second platoon snipers spotted SAA helos about ten klicks north of—”
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Court nodded to him. “Hey, man. Any chance you could run and grab the sat phone for Robby? He’s got a really important call to make.”
The new Green Beret stared at the prisoner for several seconds before turning to the big man sitting with Court. “What the fuck?”
“He says he’s an American.”
Court chuckled. “Either that, or I’m a Bedouin camel herder who just watched a shit-ton of Sesame Street growing up.”
Robby said, “And he’s tellin’ me he’s OGA.” OGA meant “other governmental agency,” and it was the “down low” way of saying CIA when out in the field.
Court shook his head. “Didn’t say that, Rob. Said they’d vouch for me. Look, you’re obviously in charge here, so that makes you, what, a captain?”
“None of your business, Slick.”
Court said, “Lieutenant, then. Got it.”
The other man in the room laughed despite himself. Court was clearly the last thing they’d expected to run into in the hills of the Syrian Desert. He said, “You want me to get the phone?”
Robby said, “Negative. Take the FSA guys and give me a few minutes alone with my new friend here.”
When the room was empty other than Robby and Court, the American Green Beret said, “You gotta help me out, man. You’re saying you are, or are not, CIA?”
Court shrugged. “I’m something, Robby, that’s really all I can tell you. Just put me on the phone with them. That’s not me playing tricks, that’s me doing you a favor. The person on the other end of the line is going to be really pissed off that I’m right here, right now, in your custody, and there is no sense in them taking out their anger on you.”
Robby just stared at Court another minute, still in silence.
Court said, “All right. I’ll cut you in just a little, but I’m code word, so your TS/SCI clearance doesn’t get you into the party. You can’t even know I exist, understood?”
Robby nodded, a dazed look on his face now.
“I’m on the job. I was in cover as a contractor for a regime-backed militia, but one of your little buddies RPG’d me and I ended up right here. Now I’ve got to get back on my time-critical mission, and the only way I can see to do that is to have you talk to Langley so they can tell you to let me go.”
Robby said, “The other guy the FSA picked up?”
“He goes by Broz; he’s a Croatian mercenary, working for KWA.”
“Those bastards.”
“Yep. They shot civilians yesterday at the refinery along the M20 highway. Don’t know what you can do about it.”
Robby shrugged. “Me, either, in the grand scheme of things. But I sure as hell can make him miserable while I’ve got him.”
Court said, “Talk shit, get hit?”
The man smiled. “I bet a merc who just committed war crimes is gonna talk some serious shit.”
“Before you tune him up, you mind making that call?”
Robby nodded slowly. “Okay, Slick. I’m curious enough to play along.”
He was on board now, at least partially. He squirted some more water in Court’s mouth, radioed for the sat phone to be brought to him, and then went out into the hall, leaving Court tied up alone in the room.
Robby was curious—he wasn’t stupid.
* * *
? ? ?
A half hour later Robby and three other Americans walked purposefully back into the room. Robby pulled a knife off his chest rig and cut Court free.
As Court stood, the soldier extended a hand. “Captain Robert Anderson, Tenth SF. Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Court shook his hand. “I was pretty happy to run into you myself.”
“I apologize about the treatment. We hear some tall tales in this job, and I’ve run into a couple of Brits running with ISIS and Al Nusra, so even your American accent didn’t prove you were on the level.”
“You’d have been a fool if you acted any other way.”
“I checked with my command, and they okayed me calling the number you gave me after they checked it out to make sure it went to Langley. I spoke with a woman there, she wouldn’t give her name, but she confirmed you were one of hers. She didn’t seem too happy to hear from me.”
“Her name is Suzanne, and I’m only telling you that because it would piss her off if she knew that I did.”
“Yeah, well, she wants you to call her ASAP. Here’s the phone.”