Agent in Place

“A militia?”

“Conventional wisdom in the West is that Azzam runs his military. That’s a fable. The Syrian regime is no longer a true centralized state; it’s a union of warlords, with a warlord politician at its center. In fact, it is very fractured, very tribal down there. A lot of different militias, offshoots of the military, all under the Azzam regime coalition. And they fight among themselves, as well. One of the most corrupt nations on Earth, because Azzam has to let all these warlords and chieftains rape the nation economically so they will continue to give him their support. I’ve been there three times in the past three years, and I can tell you, it’s a crazy place full of crazy people. Militias aligned with the regime but also affiliated with organized crime, and now you add in the Iranians and the Russians running around like they own the place.” He sniffed. “Regular civilians are caught in the middle.”

“If the Russians are there, why are the militias hiring labor from you?”

“The Russians are in the air, conducting special operations in the countryside, that sort of thing. They have Chechen and Ingush Muslim Special Forces down there, as well. But they are on their own, not folded in with the locals that support Azzam. The militias are all trying to professionalize so they can retain some power when the war ends. The Sunnis are helping Azzam now, but the fight will really be on when the rebels die off and ISIS dies off and the foreign enemies of Azzam give up.”

Court feigned casualness in his next question. “Who’s the client?”

“You’d be working for one of the roughest of all the regime-aligned units down there. They are called Liwa Suqur al Sahara. Heard of them?”

Acid fired into Court’s stomach now, but he didn’t even blink. “The Desert Hawks Brigade.”

The German grinned yet again. “You are a pro, Violator. Of course you know all the players, even in that quagmire. I have forty-three contractors positioned there right now at different bases for the Hawks and there’s something like a dozen different PMCs plying their trade down there with other groups. Most of what my boys do is training . . . but . . . there is extracurricular work that comes up. What the Desert Hawks Brigade have my guys doing after hours . . . it’s shit the fucking Chechens wouldn’t even touch.”

Court felt unease in the pit of his stomach, but he didn’t let on. He feigned thinking it over, then said, “This will do. I need to get to a place where I won’t be tracked.”

“Well . . . you can’t get much more off-grid than a free-fire zone in the Middle East. You want the job, it’s yours.”

Court breathed slowly, careful to not give off any cues as to his true feelings.

“I’m in.”

“Sehr gut,” Klossner said with a nod. “An Aussie guy working at the Hawks Brigade base in Babbila near Damascus just got a kneecap shot off in an ISIS attack on his convoy on Monday, and I had a guy ready to replace him going down tomorrow. I can bump him and send you instead, if you like. Or we have a couple of openings at other bases around the country, but I figured you’d rather be near civilization.”

“Damascus will do fine. I appreciate it.” It was better than fine. Court had been prepared to ask point-blank to be stationed near the capital in the event he was being sent to some backwater. He couldn’t believe his good fortune.

Klossner looked at his watch. “Gut . . . I have to get my people to work on your papers all night, but we can do it. You’ll fly from Munich to Beirut in the morning. There we have an arrangement with a charter airline that will do the short hop up to Latakia. It’s on the Syrian coast, and the air base there is controlled by the Russian air force, so we don’t violate the no-fly zones in the interior.” Klossner winked now. “Hate to have you blown out of the sky on the way in. Anyway, the bad news about the Damascus base is that to get there you’ll have to truck across country . . . and it’s not exactly the most peaceful drive these days. Another military company lost a couple guys on the highway recently, but it’s nothing a man like you hasn’t seen before.”

“I’ll be fine,” Court said, but he was already second-guessing this surefire way of his to infiltrate Syria.

Klossner shrugged. “I’d be a son of a bitch if I didn’t fill you in about the loss rates. They are high, but I guess you’ve experienced worse in other theaters.”

“Tell me.”

“Let me put it this way. I’ve been sending operators into Damascus for three years, and in that time, eight out of ten of my guys have made it out in one piece.”

Terrific, Court thought. His cover identity had a built-in twenty percent casualty rate. He was even less optimistic about the chances of his actual operation, which would no doubt be several orders of magnitude more dangerous.

Klossner stood and crossed the room over to Court now. The big man kept his hands away from his body, and Court was sure this was to keep his dangerous visitor at ease, but it made Court worry that Klossner was going to try to get him in a bear hug. Instead he stopped a few steps away from Court by the wall. “Normally there would be a physical, but you look pretty good to me. Have to ask, though . . . you aren’t doing drugs, are you?”

“No drugs.”

Klossner scanned Court up and down like he was livestock at a sale. After a few seconds, he said, “You’re different. Not physically. I just mean . . . taking this job, knowing you’ll be working for the Azzam regime. You’re sure you’re not on something?”

Court said, “Look me over like a mule, but you aren’t getting blood or DNA.”

“God no. Of course not. I understand you are a different case, a damned celebrity, and you will be treated as such.” He raised his eyebrows as a new thought came to him. “I’d like to exploit this, financially. Tell the Syrians you are special, require special rates.”

“No,” Court said with authority. “I don’t want to stick out. Especially not down there.”

Klossner waved a hand through the air. “The Gray Man. I get it. Forget I mentioned it. The guy I’m bumping to send you down. He’s Canadian. You’ll take his documents, assume his identity.” Klossner shrugged again. “It’s a fake name, anyway. All my guys use pseudonyms on their ops. Safer for everybody. I’ll have my people come here tonight and get your picture to match it to the docs. I’ll get more papers for my Canadian contractor and send him to Caracas.” Klossner shrugged. “He was a coward anyway, didn’t want to go to Syria.”

“Works for me.”

Klossner reached out and shook Court’s hand. “The motherfucking Gray Man,” he said, still marveling over the fact that the legend was here in his presence.

* * *

? ? ?

Court lay folded in a small closet in a guest room of Klossner’s penthouse apartment, the door cracked and his pistol by his side. He’d unmade the bed, then turned on the light in the bathroom and closed the door. If anyone came into his room tonight they’d think they’d caught him up and taking a piss, and this would buy him some time to mount a counterattack.

He stared at the dark ceiling, thinking about the operation to come. He’d have to be in a car on the way to the airport in less than four hours, but for right now his nerves kept him awake.

So far, everything was proceeding according to plan. He’d known for a long time that Lars Klossner was running mercs into Syria, and making a small fortune doing it. He’d also been reasonably sure Lars wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to send him down if given the chance to do so. Court had hoped he’d be on his way in two or three days but was astonished to find out he’d be getting on a plane within eight hours. It didn’t give him much time to study maps, but the quick infiltration into Syria was one of the first good things that had happened for the chances of little Jamal Medina in the past three days, so he told himself he should just try to relax and go with the flow, up until the moment when he had to break his cover legend and make a run for the kid.

Court wondered about the job ahead. Not the kidnapping of the child; instead he speculated about what he might have to do as a contracted member of a Syrian regime militia.

He hadn’t known Klossner was working with the Desert Hawks Brigade, and this sucked, because he knew all about them and what they were doing in Syria.

At the darkest portion of the war for Azzam, he signed a decree that allowed businessmen to raise their own militias to defend their capital assets. This action, in one fell swoop, turned the smugglers, con men, and kleptocrats of the nation into warlords.

The Desert Hawks Brigade became one of the most successful and violent pro-regime armies in the conflict. Independent of the Syrian military chain of command, they helped the regime by fighting its enemies, but they were also able to spend their time stealing and smuggling, assassinating their rivals in the underworld.