“Go where?” Court asked. He barely had the energy to stand.
“Anywhere!” Basset said with a wide smile.
“I like this plan,” Court said, and then he dropped face-first into the mud.
Basset called some men over to help move the American to the truck.
CHAPTER 79
Captain Robert Anderson sat in the main cabin of the UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter as it streaked impossibly low over the dark desert landscape, and he steeled his stomach to what was about to come.
Over the cabin intercom he’d been notified by the pilot that they were moments from hitting the hills, and when that happened, this low and fast flying was going to make life difficult for him and the eight other men here in the back of the helo.
Of course he knew the computers on board kept the machine from slamming into terrain, but he also knew that every time he flew nap-of-the-earth he got nauseous.
He almost never puked, but he always felt like he was going to puke.
Just as he told himself to put the motion of the helo out of his mind, his headset came alive again.
“Captain, we got a FRAGO comin’ in from the JOC.” A FRAGO was a fragmented order, meaning an addendum to an operations order in place. Their current order was to leave Syria, to head north straight up towards the Turkish border as fast as possible, and Anderson hadn’t expected any FRAGOs to interfere or delay this order, because his Joint Operations Center had seemed very insistent he carry it out as soon as possible.
Anderson said, “Roger. Send FRAGO.”
The captain listened to the transmission for over a minute, then made some notes on a pad he kept in his load-bearing vest. A smile grew on his face. “Copy all. Zulu out.”
Seconds later, the UH-60 banked to the northwest, picked up even more speed, and entered the hills. It lurched upwards to miss a steep rise, and Robby Anderson immediately regretted eating the two candy bars he’d downed not twenty minutes earlier.
* * *
? ? ?
A half hour after receiving his FRAGO, Anderson and the rest of his twelve-man A-team leapt out of their two helos in a rugged mountainous area to the northeast of Palmyra. He knew they couldn’t remain on the ground for any time at all without endangering his men and his helicopters. Fortunately, he had no plans to hang out here for the rest of the evening.
With his weapon on his shoulder, he and his team pushed forward into a walled structure, where they found a large Russian Ural truck parked alone. The men cleared the area, making sure there were no hostiles, and then Anderson himself climbed into the bed of the vehicle. He found a man sitting Indian style, his hands in the air, and another lying on his back with his face partially bandaged. Anderson illuminated him with the flashlight on his rifle and confirmed he had the two he was looking for. “ID confirmed. I need two up here to help me move them.”
The two men were carried off the truck and into the back of the helo; less than three minutes after landing, the helicopter rose into the air, then returned to its stomach-wrenching nap-of-the-earth flying to the north.
* * *
? ? ?
Inside the Blackhawk, the new passenger prone on the deck lay still, until a Green Beret medic held smelling salts under his nose.
Then the man lurched a little, and opened his eyes.
Captain Anderson knelt down over him. “Sir? Sir? Can you hear me?”
The American Anderson only knew as Slick seemed to come to his senses quickly. “Oh, hey, Robby. What’s goin’ on?”
“You know. Not much. The usual.”
The man smiled a little, and looked around. “Yeah.”
“You’ve lost some blood, and you’re probably dehydrated. We’ll fix you up.”
“Thanks.”
Robby nodded. “Had a rough couple of days, I see.”
“The usual. Where’s Basset?”
Basset waved from the other side of the helo when the American looked his way. A medic was tending to his bloody forearm, hand, and foot.
Robby said, “He called my command about forty-five minutes ago and gave us your coordinates. We just happened to be passing through, so we swung by to pick you up.”
“Passing through?”
“Yep. We’re exfilling Syria. Getting the hell out before anyone knows we were here.”
“I thought you said you’d be here a couple more months.”
“Yeah . . . well, that was before.”
“Before what?”
“Sir, if you don’t know, then you’re pretty much the only man on Earth that doesn’t.”
Court thought he understood. “He’s dead? Azzam’s dead?”
A slow smile grew on Anderson’s face. “Ahmed Azzam is dead as dirt. State TV confirmed it this afternoon. Killed by terrorists while personally leading the fight on the front lines of Palmyra.”
The American nodded. “Yeah, that’s exactly what went down.”
Robby turned somber now. “Yusuf and Khalid didn’t make it.”
Court nodded. “They are heroes of their nation.”
“No doubt about it.” Robby looked into the night for a moment.
The man said, “Someone gave you the okay to come get me?”
“Affirm. I’ve got orders to get you to Incirlik, Turkey. After that, you can do whatever you want.” He smiled. “I suggest a vacation.”
“You won’t believe this, but this was my vacation, Captain.”
Robby looked at him like he was insane, then handed him a bottle of water.
Court said, “You got a sat phone?”
Robby moved to the bulkhead and took a phone out of his backpack. He handed it to the man on the gurney. Court dialed a number, then looked at Robby, who took the hint and moved away.
After several seconds the line went live. “’Allo?”
Court put a finger in his left ear and held the phone hard to his right. “It’s me.”
Vincent Voland did not hide his shock at hearing the American’s voice. “Mon dieu, you are alive!”
“Tell me about Jamal and Yasmin.”
“They are in Jordan, with me, and they are safe.”
Court blew out a long sigh of relief.
Voland said, “You did it, didn’t you?”
“You mean Azzam? No, I didn’t, but apparently it got done.”
“Right,” Voland said incredulously. Clearly he believed the Gray Man had assassinated the Syrian president, but he didn’t press. Instead he said, “I have someone else here who wants to say hello, but first, I need you to believe me.”
“About what?”
“I gave you some bad information when we last spoke, but I was acting on the best intelligence I had at the time.”
“What are you talking about?”
The phone was silent for several seconds, and then Court heard a woman’s voice. “Monsieur? This is Bianca. I want to thank you for everything you have done for my son.”
Court couldn’t believe it. “You’re alive?”
“Yes. I am, Jamal is, and Yasmin is, as well. All thanks to you and Monsieur Voland.”
Court just laid his head back onto the gurney and stared at the ceiling of the Blackhawk’s cabin. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
EPILOGUE
It was a nice summer evening for Sebastian Drexler at the chateau in Lauterbrunnen, Switzerland. He sat on the deck and looked out at the stars, watched deer and rabbit run across the hectares of private land, and enjoyed a Cheval Blanc Bordeaux from 1970.
Things were nice, but they weren’t perfect. This wasn’t his chateau; it belonged to Meier Privatbank, but he was living here now. For the past month he had been in charge of the protection detail watching a client of the bank, a woman with a Swiss passport that claimed her name was Ara Karimi, and she was a refugee from the Syrian war.
No, things weren’t perfect at all. Ara Karimi was, in truth, Shakira Azzam. The woman had arrived in country on a private jet with her children right after the death of the president of Syria, and through special circumstances arranged by the bank, she’d not had to appear in person at any consulate or embassy to obtain her documentation. She’d just flown into the country, gotten a few stamps on her visa and passport from an immigration official who was “a friend” of Meier, and then she’d come here.
Drexler had been on the same flight from Syria, and although she had been the last person in the world he’d wanted to see before he was put on board the ship in Greece, once he got to Syria and found out Azzam was dead, she became his ticket home to Switzerland. Her life was in danger during the tumultuous days after Ahmed’s death, and she was one of Meier Privatbank’s most important clients. They wanted her safe from harm, and Drexler was uniquely positioned to make that happen.
Accidentally so, but he was there, nevertheless.
He’d gotten the family out in an SAA plane to Lebanon, and from there they used the Swiss documents to make it into Europe. The kids had immediately been relocated away from the mother, for everyone’s benefit. The two daughters were given new identities and sent to boarding school in Lausanne.
And now Drexler was back home in Lauterbrunnen, which was good for him.