It looked utterly peaceful, but he knew that the area around Latakia was anything but. It was in the hands of the Syrian regime and its proxies, but insurgent attacks were not uncommon.
Here in the cabin with him were a dozen other men. He hadn’t spoken to any of them, nor they to him, but he took them all for security contractors of some sort. A couple were Hispanic-looking, a couple more had to have been Japanese, one was black, and the rest were fit-looking bearded white guys. Just like Court himself.
They all sat in silence, their packs in their laps or by their sides.
Over the airfield Court had a moment of deep unease about his decision to come to Syria. Latakia’s only airport, Martyr Abdul al-Azzam, had been divided into two separate entities with two separate names. The Russians had erected Hmeymim air base virtually on top of the commercial airport, and they effectively ran the vast majority of the place now, so much so that even before he touched down he could see evidence of their presence everywhere. The first three aircraft Court saw upon landing all bore Russian military markings. A pair of Su-27 fighters and a massive Ilyushin Il-76 cargo jet were all taxiing to the parallel runway, and a long row of new and massive bombproof hangars to the east showed him that the Russians were dug in and planning on staying awhile.
Court had read that this was Russia’s only fixed air base outside its borders anywhere on Earth, which told him something about their commitment to maintaining influence over Syria. A Russian admiral had bragged that Hmeymim was its newest “unsinkable aircraft carrier” in the Med, a boast Court understood better now as he looked around at the incredible amount of military aviation hardware on display.
As his plane touched down and raced along the runway, it shot past a couple of Syrian Arab Air Force MiG-25 Foxbats, then a Russian Mi-8 helicopter, a pair of Russian MiG-29s, and more Russian and Syrian cargo and transport aircraft.
The Saab turboprop taxied to the only nonmilitary apron on the entire airfield and parked next to an Iranian commercial Airbus A320, and here Court followed the other passengers and a member of the flight crew to the exit.
He stepped through the hatch with just a small bag holding a small amount of clothing and gear, his orders from KWA, a wallet stuffed with euros, and his forged documents for Syrian immigration; Lars Klossner had assured him the KWA men working with the Desert Hawks would provide him everything he needed and, since he’d be thoroughly searched by Syrian immigration officials on his arrival, there was no point taking anything he didn’t need that might get confiscated.
As he deplaned on the warm, sunny tarmac, a cluster of three armed Syrian officials greeted him and the others with bored nods, and together they walked up a metal stairway and into the terminal. Here, Syrian Arab Army forces stood around acting as security, wearing camouflage uniforms. Court saw that most were outfitted with AK-103 rifles, and a few carried pistols. Several armed Russian soldiers were sitting around, as well, which was an odd sight in an airport terminal, especially considering the fact that the men were armed but didn’t seem to be providing any security or other function.
As Court followed the immigration men down a long hall, he saw the flag of the regime—green, white, and black stripes with two green stars—hanging everywhere, along with photographs and paintings of Ahmed Azzam. In some the thin ruler of Syria wore business suits and smiled, and in others he wore various military uniforms and scowled, but he was always there, always looming large over the airport terminal.
Court figured he’d be seeing a lot of Ahmed’s face in the coming days.
The American posing as a Canadian was X-rayed, wanded, and frisked; his satchel of gear was perfunctorily inspected by unsmiling men who seemed more interested in their next smoke break than capturing an assassin entering their nation by private aircraft. Probably, Court surmised, since there were hundreds of private security contractors in the country, and they were constantly coming and going via this same route.
But when his Inmarsat satellite phone was pulled out of his bag and looked over, the customs inspector confiscated it.
“No phone,” the man said.
Court was next separated from the other contractors and led to a desk in the immigration office, where they took his documents, looked them over, then looked Court himself over. An official there made a call and soon a middle-aged mustachioed man in a gray suit appeared, and he took the passport and checked both it and Court over even more carefully than the immigration officer had. Court took the man to be from Syria’s Mukhabarat.
The man with the mustache finally handed the passport back to the immigration officer, and he leaned over his shoulder while he checked it against a computer in front of him. As he did he addressed Court in accented English. “You are Graham Wade from Canada.”
Court nodded. “That’s right.”
“You are KWA. Contracted to Liwa Suqur al Sahara.”
“The Desert Hawks Brigade. Right again.”
The immigration officer began typing on his computer. Soon a printer behind him fired out several pages, and the official stamped them with three different embossing tools, folded them, and placed them in a plastic jacket. He stamped the passport and handed it all back to Court. The Mukhabarat man said, “You are permitted to enter the Syrian Arab Republic. You are not permitted to travel off your military base unless escorted by an officer of the Desert Hawks, the Mukhabarat, or the Ministry of the Interior. Failure to comply means you will be subject to arrest and expulsion, or arrest and a prison term.”
Court said, “No wandering around. Got it.”
“Photography, audio recordings, mapmaking, telephones for personal use, and GPS devices are prohibited.”
“Okay.” Court was allowed to pass, and when he stepped out into the arrivals hall, he saw more uniformed Russians, as well as a large group of men in business suits pulling along hand luggage. These men, Court assumed, were Iranians: either diplomats, businessmen, or a mixture of both, getting ready to leave on the Airbus he’d seen on the tarmac.
The other mercs from his flight all found their rides, and they trickled out of the terminal. Court, on the other hand, stood there in the middle of the small arrivals hall for a few minutes, and then, when he saw no one there to greet him, he walked out the front of the building and into the sunshine.
Across the parking lot he saw a beige pickup with a machine gun mounted in the back and four men standing around it. They wore Western-looking desert-print military uniforms, but they were all clearly Arab men. They didn’t look his way, so Court kept hunting for the KWA man he had been told he would meet here at the airport.
He noticed a bald man in cargo pants leaning against a newer-looking white Toyota pickup truck. He was just a couple of spaces away from the four men in desert camo, but he didn’t seem to be associating with them at all. The man gazed in Court’s direction, standing with his hands on his hips and a pair of wraparound sunglasses hanging out of his mouth by one of the arms. He was stocky, with a thick chest and forearms covered in tattoos, and he wore a black T-shirt.
The man made no move in Court’s direction, but he kept looking right at him.
It was no big trick for Court to identify the person he was here to meet. Court would be interacting with some hard men on this operation, so he’d not expected balloons and a banner. He walked over to the man and extended his hand. “I’m Wade.”
The bald man put on his shades, pushed off the vehicle, and ignored the handshake. He replied with a Cockney accent. “Remains to be seen.”
“What’s that?”
“You are whoever your KWA deployment orders say you are.”
“Yes, sir.” Court was in cover now, and he knew he needed to act and talk like a private security officer on a high-threat contract. He’d worked around such men on different assignments around the world, and he’d trained with some of the more high-speed contractors stateside.
He fished out his KWA folio from his backpack and handed it over to the Brit.
The man took the papers, looked them over, then returned his gaze to Court. He spoke softly, even though there was no one in earshot. “First things first, mate. I’m Saunders. I’m not ‘sir.’ I’m labor, not management, and I don’t need some terrorist sapper thinking differently. We straight on that?”
Court doubted there were any insurgents sneaking around here at a Russian/Syrian regime air base, and if there were, he felt confident they would have higher-priority targets around here than a couple of guys in T-shirts standing in a parking lot. But he didn’t argue. “Saunders. Got it.”