Saunders sniffed. “We aren’t even halfway to Babbila, are we?”

The man had a point. “No. We’re not.” Court added, “That was a large attack, but they did a lot wrong, which is the only reason we’re alive.”

“I’ll take a bit of good luck, though; God knows I’ve had my share of bad.”

As they walked back to the truck the Englishman said, “And since you were so bloody curious about it, I can tell you who we were fighting. The only force around here that’s got technicals with ZU-23s on them is Jabhat al Nusra.”

“The local branch of AQ?”

“That’s right.”

Court made no outward reaction, but a weight was lifted off him knowing he hadn’t just flown into Syria and killed a group of democratic forces fighting against Ahmed Azzam.

* * *

? ? ?

Minutes after the firefight, five Syrian Arab Army two-ton trucks, carrying some forty infantrymen in all, rolled slowly through the traffic jam of civilian vehicles, then made their way between the broken vehicles and scattered bodies to take up security positions. The dead and wounded were attended to, and Saunders was told equipment trucks were on the way to move the wrecked vehicles and to create a path in the brush to bypass the massive hole in the highway.

The wreckage of the convoy was horrific: vehicles smoking and burning, bodies and blood everywhere, thousands of spent shell casings and dozens of empty magazines lying on broken asphalt. The wounded moaned and men shouted orders to keep eyes on the hills in case the attackers decided to brave the helicopter circling overhead and return for more.

Three of the four Desert Hawks soldiers survived, although one of the survivors had taken an AK round through a hand. Court himself expertly bandaged the man’s wound, and he helped the other two Hawks load their injured comrade, as well as the dead one, into the back of the SAA truck.

Two of the Russians had died in the fighting, and five more were wounded, including the platoon’s medic. Three Syrian Arab Army soldiers were dead, with six more injured.

Six dead, twelve wounded, but Court knew that number could have been a hell of a lot higher.

While Court was bandaging an eighteen-year-old Syrian private’s shredded but intact leg, word got around the area about the Western security contractor who shot both ZU-23 gunners, possibly saving the lives of everyone in the convoy. The three Mukhabarat men, who all managed to survive unscathed by finding a ditch to hide in on the north side of the highway, all came over to shake Court’s hand.

Men that Court would gain great pleasure from killing in other circumstances smiled at him, tried to give him cigarettes, and patted him on the back.

Court found it surreal.

CHAPTER 31

Sebastian Drexler had spent the day traveling, and while doing so he did everything in his power to keep from touching anything with his new fingertips. In this endeavor he had been mostly successful. He’d touched little other than his mobile phone and his luggage while leaving Syria on his four-hour chartered flight to Moscow. In the bathroom of the aircraft he’d donned gloves to gently handle the zipper of his slacks.

Russia was the easiest way into Europe from Damascus, so he chose that route. He found it unfortunate that he had to fly hours out of his way to get to France, but sanctions against Syria meant only certain nations were allowing airline transport into and out of the Middle Eastern nation.

In Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport he went through a VIP line for customs and immigration, out into the Arrivals hall, and then he immediately walked over to Departures and checked in for his flight to Paris. He took care to keep his new fingerprints as shielded as possible, even when hurrying through the airport to board his 3:10 p.m. Air France flight to Charles de Gaulle.

In the first-class cabin he drank a vodka on the rocks, carefully holding the drink away from his fingertips, but he’d declined anything to eat, knowing that the most important part of his return to Western Europe was fast approaching, and the less he did that involved his hands, the better.

His flight landed at 6:15 in the evening; he was one of the first passengers to arrive at the immigration kiosks, and here he slid his passport across the desk to the official with a tired smile. He was asked to put his fingers on the reader, and he did so carefully, making certain to place them straight down so none of the glued areas would be recorded.

The immigration officer looked at the clean-shaven Drexler, then at the bearded man on the Finnish passport of Veeti Takala, and he made a little face, but he did not react with any noticeable suspicion. Then he looked over to his screen, presumably to make sure the fingerprints matched.

“How long will you be staying in France?” the officer asked.

“Three days. Then a train home to Helsinki.”

The sound of the stamping of Takala’s passport almost filled Drexler with ecstasy. He was home . . . or at least close enough for now.

* * *

? ? ?

Sebastian Drexler had told Malik he’d contact him the second he arrived in Paris, but his plane had landed forty-five minutes earlier, and he’d yet to make that call. Instead he sat in a plush living room in a suite at the Hilton Hotel Paris Charles de Gaulle, smoothing out the wrinkles of his navy Tom Ford sharkskin suit. A cup of coffee sat in front of him, but he ignored it and instead concentrated on what he was about to say.

The door to the suite’s small dining room opened, and an attractive blonde in a business suit stepped out. Drexler detected an Austrian accent in her German. “The principals will see you now, Herr Drexler.”

“Vielen Dank.” He stood and stepped by the woman on his way through the door.

There were four sitting at the table, all stern-faced men. He made the rounds with officious handshakes, though he worried that his borrowed fingertips might be damaged with all the touching. But after the greetings he realized he needn’t have worried; he found these four to be in possession of the weak handshakes of weak men.

He knew all these men by name, although he just thought of them as “The Bankers.” They were with Meier Privatbank, Drexler’s employer, and they had flown in to Paris Charles de Gaulle on this Saturday evening at his request. It was not a small thing to summon the directors of one of Switzerland’s oldest and most secretive banks to travel some six hundred kilometers for a meeting, and as Drexler sat down at the mirror-polished table, he couldn’t help but revel in the thought that he commanded that level of respect from these men.

The revelry faded as he thought about it. No . . . he didn’t command their respect. She did. These men were here because of Shakira Azzam. They thought of Drexler as a necessary evil. A cutout between her dirty money and their sanitized and perfect lives in Switzerland.

The man at the head of the table was forty-year-old Stefan Meier, the great-grandson of Aldous Meier, the bank’s founder. Stefan was vice president, behind his older brother, Rolf, in the company and familial pecking order, but he was the only Meier who ever got his hands remotely dirty, which meant he was the only family member involved with the institution Drexler had ever met.

Meier said, “We know you are here on an important assignment for our client in Damascus. Is everything on track with that?”

Drexler assumed Meier didn’t want to know any details about the work he was here to do. The vice president would only know that Shakira had demanded he fulfill an obligation to her, and if he completed the obligation to her satisfaction, she would reward the bank with more deposits and more business. If he failed to do the work, she could pull her accounts from the bank.

Drexler said, “I expect to have the job completed this evening.”

“Excellent,” Meier replied. “I know our client is rewarding you handsomely for going above and beyond your duties to her accounts, and our client’s husband has been pleased with your work in maintaining his foreign interests, as well.”

“I’m gratified to hear that.”

Stefan Meier said, “The bank is more than satisfied with your work.”

The words coming from the vice president were flattering, but none of the four men across the table were smiling. Drexler knew they were all here waiting for the other shoe to drop, to learn why their agent in Syria had demanded a meeting with them right in the middle of an operation.

Enough of the bullshit, Drexler thought. He’d just tell them. “I asked you all here because I would like to request immediate reassignment.”

In the silence that ensued he scanned all four faces. There was no surprise, no alarm, no discernible emotion.