A couple other men at the table backed up the assertion. It was apparent to Court that no one at the table had seen him leave the room, with the possible exception of Saunders, so there was no more suspicion on him than anyone else.
Walid and Saunders continued talking to the angry soldier, and Walid himself was getting pissed off about the exchange. The younger Syrian said something Court didn’t understand, and then Saunders turned back to Court. “Bloody hell. All these guys are Qiwat al Nimr. Tiger Forces.” Court knew that the man whose phone he’d taken had been a special forces soldier, but he hadn’t known that the other nine or ten guys with him were part of the same group. Saunders had explained earlier in the day that the Tiger Forces unit of the Syrian Arab Army were bitter rivals of the Desert Hawks Brigade.
For an instant Court was worried about this turn of events, but he wanted to slip away from the bar for a few minutes to call Paris, so it very quickly occurred to him that nothing would serve his purposes right now like a good old-fashioned bar fight.
That said, he had no illusions that if a brawl did kick off, it would be anything like a normal bar fight. There was one inebriated Desert Hawks major and five foreign mercenaries against ten or fifteen Tigers paramilitary men. He saw that at least one guy in the mix had a pistol. He doubted any of the mercs here with him were armed, and if Walid did have a piece, in his inebriated state he was probably more of a danger to himself than anyone else.
It was clear to Court that a fistfight in a bar in a nation as wrecked as Syria wouldn’t be the same as one in most other places. If it did come to blows around here, it probably would end with somebody getting killed.
And if a fight did start, it would help Court’s cover if it happened organically. If he just picked up a chair and threw it at the Syrians now to instigate action, everyone in the room would point him out after the fact, he would be the least likely in the room to slip away, and the suspicions that would arise from this would threaten his entire cover and his operation here.
So he hoped a confrontation would start without him being the one identified with starting it.
And to that end, things looked like they were going his way. The Russians were up and heading over towards the commotion, with a couple of the Tigers in tow.
A big Russian stepped up to Court, and he spoke in English. “You take this guy’s mobile phone?” It appeared one of the Tigers was a Russian speaker, and he wanted a translator he thought would be on the side of his friend missing the device.
Court stood from his chair, not aggressively but certainly not passively. A group of a dozen Russians and Syrian special forces men stood around the KWA table now, so all the other KWA men at the table stood up, ready to defend themselves if necessary.
Court lifted his shirt and turned around, exposing his bare stomach and back. In English he said, “This guy is full of shit. I don’t have his phone.”
The Russian spoke in Russian to the Syrian special forces man, Walid butted in with a comment of his own, and several Arab men began shouting at Walid.
Court stepped forward a half step, and the big Russian saw it as a provocation. He put a hand out and shoved Court in the chest. It was an aggressive move, but it didn’t constitute the opening to a brawl. Court realized if he started slinging punches it would be obvious he was the one who started the fight, and if that happened, it would further single him out among the other patrons in the bar.
Walid and the Tiger soldier whose phone was now in a garbage can in the back alley began yelling at each other again, and the KWA men had more or less squared off against the Russians. Brunetti—the Argentine—put his finger in the face of another Syrian and began threatening him in Spanish that was understood by no one else in the room save for Court.
The semispontaneous fight Court had been hoping for was gathering steam. But none of the confrontations going on in the room had crossed the line to the jumping-off point where all the testosterone present would lead to the massive melee he was looking for.
An idea came to Court that he hoped might just make the fight break out without him being the one to throw the first punch. The big Russian—still looming over him—looked like he was about to turn around and go back to his seat, so Court addressed him in Russian.
“My friend here with the Desert Hawks thinks you Russian Air Force guys are pussies because you are afraid to fight on the ground like men.”
The man looked at Court cockeyed. Court’s mastery of Russian wasn’t complete, but he’d clearly gotten his idea across. The Russian turned to Walid and pointed angrily but he spoke to Court in Russian. “Take this militia loser out of here before we beat his ass.” Court put his hands up, as if to say Okay, and he smiled, and the Russian Air Force soldier glared a moment more before looking back to his friends. The Tiger Forces men seemed to think the drama was over, so they, too, seemed to relax their guard a little.
But Court turned back to Walid, and as he did he dropped his smile and adopted an expression of astonishment.
Walid saw the look on the Westerner, and he’d heard Court speak to the Russian in his own language.
In Arabic, Walid asked, “What did he say?” He looked to Saunders for the answer, but Court understood the question, and he replied in Arabic.
“Something in Russian. Just talk. Forget it.”
But all Court’s facial cues were controlled to give the impression the man had said something horrible while pointing to Walid. Not satisfied with Court’s answer, the Syrian major shouted now. “What did he say?”
The Syrian men turned back towards the table with the mercs and the Desert Hawks officer.
Court took a brief moment to weigh his options. He had been in the Middle East many times with the Goon Squad years ago, and back then he and the guys had a running tally of all the creative ways people swear in Arabic. Court’s personal favorite was Khalil aire wa kloo, which meant “Pickle my dick and eat it.” But for purposes of sending Walid over the edge right now, he decided to take a bigger tool out of his toolbox. “He said, ‘Yelan el kees hali khalakak.’”
Court knew there might have been a ruder phrase to an Arabic man than “Curse the pussy that made you,” but if there was, he sure couldn’t imagine it.
Walid’s eyes narrowed, and then they flashed over to the Russian. The big Russian saw the anger, and he froze to evaluate the Arab’s look. The special forces soldier missing his phone turned to the Russian in surprise, not having heard what the Russian had said but hearing Court’s translation over the music.
Other Arabic speakers near Court’s table gasped.
It was as if all the air in the room had been sucked away in a breath.
And then, in the center of nearly twenty angry men, Walid was the first to move.
With a jolting and frantic motion, he reached behind his back, under his shirt, and he pulled out a gun.
CHAPTER 36
Court hadn’t known that Walid was in possession of a firearm, which meant the major had done a good job concealing it, both from Court and from the bouncer downstairs. Apparently the other contractors also were clueless, because they all reacted with shock and surprise.
Broz was closest to Walid, and he saw the pistol as the militiaman swung it up towards the Russian. The Croatian’s reflexes were damn good, but consistent with the principle that action beats reaction, all he could do was stick a hand out for the gun as the Syrian leveled it at the Russian.