Voland nodded solemnly. “I understand, Paul. You may consider yourself and your men released from duty.”
Tarek Halaby had entered from the kitchen, and he’d heard this. He looked at Voland like he’d lost his mind. “What? What are you saying? We agreed we would not surrender!”
Voland turned to the Syrian doctor. “And that was the wrong decision even when we did have four top-level security men on our side. Now . . . there is absolutely no chance.”
Tarek Halaby pulled the radio off his belt, triggered the mic, and spoke into it in Arabic. “The Legionnaires have surrendered! For Syria, we will never give in to—”
Vincent Voland pulled the Walther pistol out from under his jacket and held it to Tarek Halaby’s right temple. “I’m so sorry, Doctor, this is not what I want. I am doing this for your own good. For your wife, as well. Put the radio down.”
Tarek lowered the radio to his side, but at the same time he turned his head slowly to the Frenchman. “Bastard!”
Voland said, “I am saving your life with this gun, Tarek.” He turned to Boyer now. “Let them in.”
Boyer stepped to the door of the hearth room and opened it. On the other side, Malik and three of his men stood there, dressed in black, their short-barreled rifles at the ready. Novak was with them, too, but he had already been disarmed.
Clearly Drexler had convinced Novak and Boyer to allow the Syrians to advance up to the building while Voland was talking to the Halabys.
The men in black flooded into the room, but as they did so, Tarek Halaby swept his walkie-talkie up and into Vincent Voland’s pistol, knocking it away from his temple.
He reached down with his other hand and grabbed his own gun out of his belt, and he began raising it towards the Syrians.
Malik shot Tarek Halaby twice through the heart at a range of ten feet.
The fifty-five-year-old Syrian doctor stumbled backwards, then fell onto the cold tile floor as Syrian government commandos flooded through the room, racing for the door to the kitchen. Boyer was disarmed, as well as Voland, and Sebastian Drexler was handed Voland’s pistol.
Boyer immediately radioed his two men at the front driveway and told them to leave the property.
While this was going on, Drexler took Vincent Voland by the arm. “Where is Medina?”
Voland did not reply. He just stared down at Tarek Halaby’s dead body, tears forming in his eyes.
“Tell me and you walk out right now! Don’t tell me and I shoot you dead!”
Voland replied with, “Promise me you won’t hurt Rima Halaby!”
“If she’s as foolish as her husband, I will make no promises.” He repeated, “Where is Bianca Medina?”
“Off the kitchen there is a stairwell that leads down to a wine cellar. In the back of it are two doors. One leads to storage, the other to a servant’s quarters. She’s in the servant’s quarters, the door on the right. She’s locked in. You will not hurt a hair on her head!”
Malik and his men had already moved as a team to the door that led to the kitchen. Drexler gave Voland a menacing look and waved the pistol in his hand. “Why would I hurt Mademoiselle Medina? I only want to return her to her home.”
Voland understood that there was a dynamic here between Malik and Drexler. The Syrian did not know that the Swiss intelligence officer had been, initially at least, planning on killing Medina. Voland only had to tell Malik about Drexler’s work for Shakira with the ISIS cell, and there was a chance the Syrian would shoot Drexler here on the spot. But there was also a chance he would not and, Voland knew, Drexler would shoot him immediately for incriminating him.
So Voland said nothing.
Malik called from the door to the kitchen. “How many Free Syria Exile personnel are on the property?”
“Other than Rima and Tarek, six more.”
Drexler said, “Bon. You and the Legionnaires may leave now, just walk away. After tonight you no longer work for FSEU. If you work at all . . . you work for me.”
Voland did not reply; he just looked down at the floor.
Drexler took the barrel of his pistol, put it under the older man’s chin, and pushed up, lifting Voland’s face up to meet his own. The men made eye contact.
“Say it,” Drexler said. “Who do you work for?”
“I . . . I work for you, Monsieur Drexler.”
The Swiss agent pulled the pistol away and holstered it. “Go.”
Vincent Voland looked back down, and he did not lift his eyes from the floor as he followed Boyer and Novak towards the back door.
Voland had only made it a few steps when the man at the front of the first commando at the door to the kitchen opened the latch and pulled the door open, his gun high.
Instantly the first man in the stack was shot through the head. He fell back into the hearth room, while his teammates returned fire. In seconds all the Syrian GIS men began pouring forward through the doorway, guns blazing, as they assaulted the house.
CHAPTER 47
The baby remained sound asleep as Yasmin followed behind Court through the hallway, past the dead guard in the chair. The American had told the young Syrian woman to keep her face tight into his back and to hold on to his suit coat so he could know where she was at all times, but he had no idea if she was complying with his wishes.
Court was only using the guard’s suit for camo in the dark now; there was no pretense of him actually looking like a member of the security unit here in the house since over his shoulder he wore a blue backpack full of diapers, the bottle, and other baby-related odds and ends, and Yasmin carried the child in her arms and remained tight against Court’s back.
At the bottom of the stairs he stopped and listened carefully. He could hear the sounds of slow and steady breathing from the living room. After fifteen seconds he turned to Yasmin, gave her a nod, and put his hands out to hold the baby. She refused to hand over the child at first, but Court took her by the arm and glared at her. He figured there was less chance Yasmin would alert the guards if she was worried about the kid, so he decided to use Jamal as insurance.
Finally she handed the sleeping baby to Court, who took him awkwardly, then brought him into his chest, hoping like hell he didn’t wake up.
Yasmin walked into the living room silently, then into the kitchen, out of Court’s view. He worried for a few seconds about what she might really be doing, but soon he relaxed when he heard the sound of a refrigerator opening, and then the soft rattle of bottles.
One of the men in the living room spoke, and Court took the baby in his left arm so he could wrap his grip around the pistol at his waist.
Yasmin replied to the man, but it was a quick, relaxed exchange that did not worry Court at all from its tone, although he could not understand the words.
He looked down at Jamal now and put his right hand on the top of the baby’s wispy black curls. So, you’re the little troublemaker, he thought.
Yasmin returned to the stairs an instant later, put four full bottles in the backpack over Court’s shoulder, handed him the car keys, and took the baby back in her arms. She clutched the tail of Court’s suit coat again, and the three of them began walking down the hall.
They passed the man in the alcove; Court had the long knife in his hand clutched close to his chest where Yasmin couldn’t see it, ready to launch himself on the guard if he showed any alarm at all, but the sentry remained soundly asleep.
He did not kill the man, but he knew the man had not exactly been spared. Court figured all the guards in this building would be executed as soon as Azzam found out about the kidnapping.
They entered the spare bedroom where Court had killed the first guard, and he headed over to the keypad in the dark. Yasmin stayed on his heels, just as he’d ordered, but now Court could hear the baby stirring. It was just soft noises, so he was not too concerned yet. He remained concentrated on his exfiltration.