He saw no fast way down to the ground floor other than a straight drop of twelve feet. It was just sidewalk below, so he decided against this approach. Instead he lay down on his stomach on the window unit, and it creaked and squeaked against the strain. Feeling down below it he was happy to find braces that led at 45-degree angles to anchor into the wall of the building, and he held on to one of these, lowered himself off the unit, and swung down below it.
With his feet just three feet off the ground now, he dropped the rest of the way onto the sidewalk. Here dozens of men and women—patrons of the bar, mostly—stood around. Parked in the street not far away, Court saw two Toyota Hilux pickup trucks bearing the symbol of the NDF, the National Forces, the pro-government militia that had been co-opted as a secondary law enforcement entity here in the police state of Damascus. The vehicles seemed to be unmanned, and Court thought about stealing one to get away, but since there were people watching him right now, and since the phone he’d gone through so much to get was still sitting in the garbage behind the disco, he decided to go for that instead.
Court entered the front door of Bar 80 now, heading to the back exit. There were a surprising number of patrons still inside, idiots all, Court told himself, and the police and NDF were all over the place. With Court’s dark hair, beard, and civilian clothing, he didn’t stick out in the crowd, so he just moved through, heading to the back exit so he could get to the alley.
As he passed the stairwell, a group of police and NDF descended, with Saunders at their center. He was handcuffed, his upper lip was fat, the buttons of his shirt had been ripped off, and sweat mixed with a little smeared blood on his bald head. The Brit, who had been cursing out the cops in Arabic, saw the man he knew as Wade and switched into English.
“You lucky prick, how did they miss you?”
Court kept walking, but gave the man a wink.
“Find Walid and get back to base. Don’t go alone. You’ll get popped at a checkpoint if you try. We’ll be out in a few hours, but Brunetti’s got ’imself a busted nose.”
Court nodded but kept walking towards the back; he didn’t want the cops to pay any attention to him.
At the back door he turned around and looked towards the stairs. Brunetti, Anders, and Broz all were being led out in restraints by NDF and police, along with Russians and even Syrian Tiger Forces soldiers.
Court was alone.
He exited the back door, stepped into the alley, and walked over to the garbage can. The phone was still there, lying on a pile of beer bottles. He plucked it out, wiped it on the leg of his cargo pants, and then began running off, back in the direction of Walid’s car.
He realized the opportunity he had now. This was no longer about finding five minutes to make a phone call before deploying to another part of the nation tomorrow.
Instead, Court knew he had to go for the baby. Right now.
No . . . this wasn’t a perfect situation . . . Far from it. But he would have to make it work.
CHAPTER 37
Court was astonished to find Walid in the parking lot by his car, still holding the bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hand. The Desert Hawks officer had apparently staggered out of the club with the booze, and while he was obviously shitfaced drunk, Court determined he was not drunk enough to suit Court’s purposes.
Together both men took a swig out of the bottle, and they spent a few seconds talking about the fight that had just taken place. Court’s sudden rudimentary Arabic surprised the major. Walid took a second swig of the booze, and then Court directed him to the front passenger seat of the car.
Court climbed behind the wheel, took the keys from a compliant Walid, and then began driving west through Old Town Damascus.
After less than a minute on the road, however, Walid looked out the windshield, then told Court in slurred Arabic that he was going the wrong way. In response Court encouraged him to drink some more whiskey. Walid did so, and as soon as he lowered the bottle, Court removed his own seat belt, then carefully shifted in his seat. He turned his body to the side so he could face Walid and drive at the same time with his left hand. Walid noticed the odd positioning, and he looked at Court with dopey, tired, and just slightly puzzled eyes.
“What are you doing?”
Court answered by firing a blazing right jab out, connecting with Walid’s left eye socket and knocking him flat against the passenger window. The big man went unconscious, then slumped forward, hanging there by his seat belt.
* * *
? ? ?
A minute later, Court pulled into a dark parking lot at the edge of the Old Town. Here he climbed out, then looked under the dashboard of the car, using the light of the mobile phone to help him. He began identifying fuses that led to different lights in the vehicle. He pulled out the fuses for the rear lights and the brake lights until the lights went out when he tried to deploy them, but he left the fuses barely in place so he could unplug them easily. Righting himself in the driver’s seat, he leaned down and indexed the correct fuses so he could both disconnect and reconnect them without looking.
He spilled a little of the Jack Daniel’s on the major’s tunic and put the bottle in the unconscious man’s right hand. He pulled Walid’s head back to where he didn’t look completely out of it, and when the drunk man’s head drooped forward again, Court lowered the angle of his seatback a few degrees so that his head would stay up.
Court looked at the man through the window with the door closed. He hoped if he got stopped at a checkpoint he could talk his way through with a story about how the major had passed out and Court was taking him home.
This was not a good plan, Court knew, but he didn’t know what else he could do.
He got back on the road, and while he drove, he opened the secure communications app on the cell phone and dialed a long number. It took a full minute for the call to go through, but when it did, Vincent Voland answered quickly.
Court said, “It’s me. I’m here.”
“In Damascus? Already?”
“Yep.”
“Incredible. Any problems?”
“Nothing but problems. Problems all over the fucking place, as a matter of fact. But I made it, I’m operational, and I need to talk to Bianca, now.”
“Of course. I’m heading downstairs to her room to put her on the phone.”
Court drove the Hyundai one-handed, holding the phone to his ear with the other. While he waited he asked, “Any sign of Drexler?”
“No sign at all, but that means nothing. He’s coming. I feel it in my bones.”
“Have you beefed up security there at the house?”
“Oui. We are ready should he bring associates.”
Court could only hope Voland had the situation in hand up there, because Court had more than his share of problems of his own down here.
Seconds later Bianca came on the line. She had a hopeful sound to her voice, which buoyed Court to hear. “Is it you?”
“It’s me. I’m in Damascus.”
“I did not think I would ever hear from you again.”
“No time to talk. I need your address, and I need you to tell me the best way to get to your place.”
“Of course. Where are you, exactly?”
“I’m leaving Old Town, heading west, towards Mezzeh. I’m going for Jamal right now.”
“Now? You . . . you can’t be on the road at this time of night! They’ll spot you.”
“Unfortunately, this is something I can’t take care of on my lunch hour tomorrow.”
Court saw a line of brake lights on the road ahead, and he worried it might indicate a checkpoint. He scanned around quickly for some way to turn off, and he looked down at the map on the phone for help, as well.
He slowed and took a left turn down a darkened side street. This led him to the south, and on the phone he saw he could pick up an east/west street that would put him back on course.
Bianca spoke through the speakerphone. “Hello? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Please listen to me.” He could hear the worry in her voice. “I drive at night from Old Town and must pass through several roadblocks. My security detail gets me through, but who’s going to get you through without them catching you?”
Court turned and looked at the passed-out militia major slumped against the passenger door next to him. “Let me worry about that,” he said, but the truth was he was very worried about that.