The Syrian officer spoke reasonably good English. “There has been an attack in the Western Villas neighborhood in Mezzeh district tonight. A boy and his caretaker were kidnapped, and several security forces were murdered. We have been ordered to do a bed check to make sure all KWA contractors are present.”
Van Wyk looked around the room. “We’ve got a guy in the hospital and another there with him. Everyone else is present and accounted for, so we’re obviously not out kidnapping children.” He stuck a finger in the colonel’s face, treating the militia officer with no deference at all for his rank. “I want to know why you are lookin’ at us for a crime across town.”
The colonel replied coolly. “There was a fight tonight at a bar in Old Town Damascus between Western security contractors, Russian Air Force personnel, and SAA Tiger Forces soldiers. Four KWA men were arrested but not charged. This tells us at least four of you were off base, within a few kilometers of the attack.
“In addition to this, the security forces in Mezzeh told the police that the kidnapper had top-flight abilities. It wasn’t an insurgent group that pulled this off. It was one man. He killed or wounded multiple highly trained men in commission of his crime.”
Court saw Saunders flash a quick look his way. Court did not meet his gaze.
Van Wyk said, “Look, a few of the boys went out for drinks. No harm, but some Tigers were lookin’ to start a row. They got picked up by the police, but the cops let them go.”
As he’d feared, one of the young militiamen pointed at Court. “Sir . . . the others are in their underwear. But this one has his boots and trousers on.”
All eyes in the room turned Court’s way.
The colonel asked, “Where did you get those marks on your body? That cut on your head?”
Court said, “I was in action yesterday afternoon on the road from Latakia. You must have heard about that.”
The colonel nodded. “I did hear about that. But those look fresher.” He walked over to Court, looking him up and down.
“Yeah . . . I was in the bar fight tonight, too.”
The colonel seemed to accept this explanation, and Court thought the danger was behind him, but the Croatian contractor Broz spoke up. “Wait a minute. You were the one guy who didn’t get arrested. And when we got back here an hour ago, you weren’t in your bunk. Where you been for the past four hours, Wade?”
What an asshole, Court thought. There was no other team he could have run with in any other part of the world where one teammate would sell out another so quickly.
These mercenaries were hard men who didn’t give a shit about camaraderie.
Court looked around him. He couldn’t fight all these guys, and he didn’t see a way to talk himself out of this.
But just then Saunders said, “He’s not your man, gents.”
Now the attention in the room turned to the British mercenary standing there in his underwear.
Saunders said, “Tell ’em, Wade.”
Court said nothing.
“It’s all right. Go on, now. Tell ’em where you were.”
“I . . . uh . . .” Court thought Saunders was trying to help, but it wasn’t working. “I was . . .”
Saunders took over. “After the NDF brought me and Broz back to base, Broz came back here and I went to the loo. Not the one off the team room, but the one off the loadout room, the next building over. Wanted some peace and quiet to take a shit without all the other smelly asses. I walked into the loo, took one look, and turned back around.
“That bastard right there was pukin’ his guts out in the sink, but it was all over the floor, as well. Tell me you cleaned that shit up, Wade.”
“Uh . . . yeah. I did. Not a hint anything even happened,” Court replied.
The Desert Hawks colonel turned to Court. To make sure he understood the English slang, he said, “You were sick? Vomiting?”
Saunders answered for him, “Aye. Somethin’s got a hold of him. It’s either the killin’, the booze, or the food.”
After a moment Court shrugged. “It’s not the killin’.”
Broz looked incredulously at Saunders. “You told us this man can really fight. He shows up tonight, disappears, and later the Syrians come in and tell us someone with special skills snatched a kid. You’re certain you saw him after we got back from the police station? Because I sure as shit didn’t.”
“On me mother’s grave,” Saunders said.
The colonel addressed Court again. “If you were not arrested with the others, how did you get back to base?”
Court didn’t bat an eyelash. “Met a girl on the street in front of the bar who spoke English. I told her what happened. Figured she could help me get a taxi back, but she offered to drive me herself. Tried to pay her, but she wouldn’t take it.”
“The girl, what’s her name?” the colonel asked.
“I didn’t ask. I just needed a ride.”
Broz and Saunders both looked at Court now. They’d known that Walid had been their driver, and he hadn’t gotten himself arrested, so they figured Court would have returned to base with him. But even though his story was confusing to them, they weren’t going to say anything about Walid in front of the colonel that might get him in trouble.
It wasn’t that they were being kind. No, he was their ticket off base, and they’d do nothing to screw with that setup.
The Desert Hawks colonel left the room with his men a moment later, satisfied he could report to his higher-ups that his highly trained contractors had nothing to do with any crimes in the city that evening beyond cracking a few bottles over heads in a disco.
Court wondered how long it would take for the Desert Hawks forces to find out Walid wasn’t anywhere to be found, and what danger that might bring to his operation.
Broz and Van Wyk both asked about Walid as soon as the militiamen were out of the room. Court just shrugged and said he went looking for him after the fight but had no idea what had happened to him.
* * *
? ? ?
Thirty minutes later Court lay on his bunk, his eyes open, staring into the darkness above him. He had a million worries on his mind, but he wasn’t able to process them all, because he knew this long night was not quite over yet.
When Saunders appeared standing over his bunk, Court told himself he’d finally be able to deal with the last hanging thread of his interminably long first day in Syria.
Court sat up without a word, stood, and followed Saunders out into the team room. They continued through the front door, and walked through the dark for a full minute before arriving at a secluded area near an empty storage shed within sight of the main gate.
Here Saunders turned around and faced him. “You might think about sayin’ thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah? Well . . . I knew since you got here you weren’t who you said you were. I read Graham Wade’s CV, and you, mate, ain’t him. That shit on the road yesterday? You aren’t some old, washed-up, Canadian ex–infantry officer. You shoot, move, and communicate better than any other contractor I’ve ever worked with in me life.”
“You’re no slouch yourself. Look, what do you say tomorrow morning we tell each other how awesome we are? I really need to hit the rack.”
Saunders ignored him. “I knew you were up to something. All that wonderin’ about who we were fightin’ as if it fuckin’ matters around here. I sussed out you had another objective in Syria beyond comin’ down and fightin’ for the Hawks to earn a paycheck. I knew, but I didn’t know if whatever you were here for was good, bad, or indifferent.”
“I’m a good guy,” Court quipped.
“Right. Kidnapping kids? That’ll earn ya a sainthood for sure.”
“I had nothing to do with—”
“Sell me another. I told myself after the contact with Jabhat al Nusra that I was gonna watch you close. So I did. At the disco, I saw you leave with the Tiger Forces bastard’s phone, then walk right back in and deny it. I watched you trying to get the fight goin’ in the bar. Couldn’t figure out what your game was, but when we got back here and you still weren’t around, I went lookin’ for Walid. He’s not back, either.”
Saunders continued, “He was too bloody pissed to help out with a kidnapping, so I figure you just needed his wheels and his uniform. Is that it?”