“You can rely on me.”
“I want updates.” A pause. “And I look forward to your safe return. If something should delay you, I will reach out to my own contacts abroad to try to find you . . . in case you need some help.”
Drexler knew this was a not-so-veiled threat against him trying to run from Syria.
“I will be home within days, my darling.”
“And we will celebrate.” Shakira hung up the phone, and Drexler nodded to one of the officers in the back of the Mi-8, who then removed the headset.
The Swiss intelligence agent looked out the window now as the hills below gave way to the northern suburbs of Damascus, anxious but supremely confident about the mission ahead of him.
CHAPTER 27
Court Gentry sat in the back of a twenty-five-year-old Saab 340 turboprop, his mind full of worry about the mission ahead of him.
He was winging it, he knew, and until he got on the ground and took in the lay of the land, he would have no way of planning his next move.
The vibration of the landing gear lowering into place below his feet brought him back into awareness of his surroundings. He looked out the window over his right shoulder; all he could see from this vantage point was the endless green sea. The aircraft seemed like it couldn’t have been more than a thousand feet in the air, but just then the plane entered a hard bank to the north, tipping Court forward in his side-facing seat, and when it leveled off he looked out the window again and saw whitewashed buildings on the coastline, then terraced olive fields on a hillside.
It looked utterly peaceful, but he knew that the area around Latakia was anything but. It was in the hands of the Syrian regime and its proxies, but insurgent attacks were not uncommon.
Here in the cabin with him were a dozen other men. He hadn’t spoken to any of them, nor they to him, but he took them all for security contractors of some sort. A couple were Hispanic-looking, a couple more had to have been Japanese, one was black, and the rest were fit-looking bearded white guys. Just like Court himself.
They all sat in silence, their packs in their laps or by their sides.
Over the airfield Court had a moment of deep unease about his decision to come to Syria. Latakia’s only airport, Martyr Abdul al-Azzam, had been divided into two separate entities with two separate names. The Russians had erected Hmeymim air base virtually on top of the commercial airport, and they effectively ran the vast majority of the place now, so much so that even before he touched down he could see evidence of their presence everywhere. The first three aircraft Court saw upon landing all bore Russian military markings. A pair of Su-27 fighters and a massive Ilyushin Il-76 cargo jet were all taxiing to the parallel runway, and a long row of new and massive bombproof hangars to the east showed him that the Russians were dug in and planning on staying awhile.
Court had read that this was Russia’s only fixed air base outside its borders anywhere on Earth, which told him something about their commitment to maintaining influence over Syria. A Russian admiral had bragged that Hmeymim was its newest “unsinkable aircraft carrier” in the Med, a boast Court understood better now as he looked around at the incredible amount of military aviation hardware on display.
As his plane touched down and raced along the runway, it shot past a couple of Syrian Arab Air Force MiG-25 Foxbats, then a Russian Mi-8 helicopter, a pair of Russian MiG-29s, and more Russian and Syrian cargo and transport aircraft.
The Saab turboprop taxied to the only nonmilitary apron on the entire airfield and parked next to an Iranian commercial Airbus A320, and here Court followed the other passengers and a member of the flight crew to the exit.
He stepped through the hatch with just a small bag holding a small amount of clothing and gear, his orders from KWA, a wallet stuffed with euros, and his forged documents for Syrian immigration; Lars Klossner had assured him the KWA men working with the Desert Hawks would provide him everything he needed and, since he’d be thoroughly searched by Syrian immigration officials on his arrival, there was no point taking anything he didn’t need that might get confiscated.
As he deplaned on the warm, sunny tarmac, a cluster of three armed Syrian officials greeted him and the others with bored nods, and together they walked up a metal stairway and into the terminal. Here, Syrian Arab Army forces stood around acting as security, wearing camouflage uniforms. Court saw that most were outfitted with AK-103 rifles, and a few carried pistols. Several armed Russian soldiers were sitting around, as well, which was an odd sight in an airport terminal, especially considering the fact that the men were armed but didn’t seem to be providing any security or other function.
As Court followed the immigration men down a long hall, he saw the flag of the regime—green, white, and black stripes with two green stars—hanging everywhere, along with photographs and paintings of Ahmed Azzam. In some the thin ruler of Syria wore business suits and smiled, and in others he wore various military uniforms and scowled, but he was always there, always looming large over the airport terminal.
Court figured he’d be seeing a lot of Ahmed’s face in the coming days.
The American posing as a Canadian was X-rayed, wanded, and frisked; his satchel of gear was perfunctorily inspected by unsmiling men who seemed more interested in their next smoke break than capturing an assassin entering their nation by private aircraft. Probably, Court surmised, since there were hundreds of private security contractors in the country, and they were constantly coming and going via this same route.
But when his Inmarsat satellite phone was pulled out of his bag and looked over, the customs inspector confiscated it.
“No phone,” the man said.
Court was next separated from the other contractors and led to a desk in the immigration office, where they took his documents, looked them over, then looked Court himself over. An official there made a call and soon a middle-aged mustachioed man in a gray suit appeared, and he took the passport and checked both it and Court over even more carefully than the immigration officer had. Court took the man to be from Syria’s Mukhabarat.
The man with the mustache finally handed the passport back to the immigration officer, and he leaned over his shoulder while he checked it against a computer in front of him. As he did he addressed Court in accented English. “You are Graham Wade from Canada.”
Court nodded. “That’s right.”
“You are KWA. Contracted to Liwa Suqur al Sahara.”
“The Desert Hawks Brigade. Right again.”
The immigration officer began typing on his computer. Soon a printer behind him fired out several pages, and the official stamped them with three different embossing tools, folded them, and placed them in a plastic jacket. He stamped the passport and handed it all back to Court. The Mukhabarat man said, “You are permitted to enter the Syrian Arab Republic. You are not permitted to travel off your military base unless escorted by an officer of the Desert Hawks, the Mukhabarat, or the Ministry of the Interior. Failure to comply means you will be subject to arrest and expulsion, or arrest and a prison term.”
Court said, “No wandering around. Got it.”
“Photography, audio recordings, mapmaking, telephones for personal use, and GPS devices are prohibited.”