Gentry, Van Wyk, and Brunetti all fired into the man, throwing him back into the corner of the room. He spun against the wall and fell forward onto his face.

Court had no idea if he’d just killed a Free Syrian Army soldier or a member of ISIS. Just like the day before on the highway, his survival instincts superseded everything else.

They cleared the rest of the room, a hall that ran off the back to the bathroom, and then the bathroom itself. On the way back through the office, Court stepped over to the body and rolled the man over. He was bearded, with long hair and a black T-shirt. An old brown sling full of rifle magazines hung around his neck. Court said, “Looks like ISIS.”

Brunetti re-formed tight behind Van Wyk to continue clearing the rest of the building. At the doorway he said, “Everybody looks like ISIS around here to me.”

Court re-formed at the back of the group and the three moved along the western end of the second floor of the control center building and prepared to go up a metal staircase to rejoin the other three men, but just as they started to climb, a burst of automatic gunfire erupted at the top of the stairs.

Quickly Van Wyk, Brunetti, and Court moved up in a tight three-man stack. They found a hallway with a pair of doorways at the end. Van Wyk called out, “Coming in!”

Saunders replied instantly. “All clear! We’re on the right.”

Court followed the other two into a large room. At the far corner, Saunders stood over a group of bodies lying by the window.

“What you got?” Van Wyk asked.

“Three dead.”

“Combatants?”

Saunders spit on the floor. “Enemy sympathizers.”

Court lowered his weapon a little and walked across the room to the bodies. Two women wearing hijabs, both in their twenties, were perforated from their collarbones to their pelvises. A third body was a boy of no more than fourteen. He had taken a round through the stomach.

Blood splattered the wall low behind them, giving Court the impression they had all been sitting on the floor when they were shot.

The three had been living in this wrecked storage room; that was clear from the blankets and boxes of crackers and trash and the two half-empty plastic jugs of water nearby. None of the three had any weapons Court could see.

“You motherfuckers!” Court couldn’t help it. He said it out loud.

He knelt to check for a pulse on the boy.

“What are you doing?” Broz asked from across the room.

Court did not reply. The boy was dead, and the ladies appeared dead, as well, but he began checking them both for a pulse.

Van Wyk said, “Kilo Nine is new here. You boys popped your cherries once. He’ll get used to it.” After a moment Van Wyk called out to Court. “That’s enough, Nine. Come on, a lot of rooms to check.”

Reluctantly Court climbed back up to his feet and rejoined the mercs, his jaw flexing as he thought about flipping his weapon to fully automatic fire and gunning down all five of these men from behind.

But he didn’t flip his selector switch, and he didn’t fire. Instead he spoke to himself. “Stay in cover, Gentry. Stay in cover and end this fucking war.”

CHAPTER 58

President of the Syrian Arab Republic Ahmed al-Azzam smiled, looked into the eyes of his beautiful wife Shakira, and kissed her sweetly. They hugged tenderly, and then they both looked up, to a point across the room.

Ahmed wore a blue pinstripe suit, warm in the hot lights around him, and a thin sheen of perspiration glistened on his forehead, despite the makeup he wore. He spoke in his native tongue. “Shakira and I have been blessed with a beautiful family, wonderful friends, and work that we both find fulfilling. While ours is a happy life, many of our fellow countrymen are less fortunate. You know I am engaged tirelessly keeping Syrians prosperous and safe from terrorists and foreign invaders, but you should also know that my lovely wife works day and night on the social programs that help the impoverished among us live healthy and gratifying lives.”

Shakira took her husband’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “Thank you, darling. We hope you will all join us in making a contribution to the First Lady’s Children First antipoverty campaign by calling the number on your screen now. Operators are standing by, ready to receive your donations.”

Ahmed put his arm around his wife and looked into the same camera. Together they said, “Shukran, jazelaan.” Thank you very much.

The lights flipped off, the director called “cut,” and the Azzams unfolded from their embrace without another glance towards each other. Shakira stood from the sofa in the main reception room of the palace to speak with her assistant, while Ahmed launched from the sofa himself, stepped over to his bodyguards, and left the room without a glance or a word to anyone, least of all his wife.

In the long corridor that would take him back to his office he felt his phone vibrate in his coat pocket. He answered it.

“Yes?”

“Ahmed? Ahmed, it’s me.”

His eyes narrowed as he heard Bianca’s voice. The facial expression belied a look of mistrust, but his own voice carried a light and thankful tone. “How wonderful to hear you. How are you feeling, my darling?”

“Thanks to God I am safe. Your men rescued me last night. I’m sorry I was too exhausted to talk when they freed me. My emotions had been so strained over the last days.”

Ahmed stepped over to a huge window that looked out over the gargantuan thirty-acre front court of the palace grounds. As he did so he waved his guards and attendants away. He spoke softer now. “Were you hurt in any way?”

“No, Ahmed. I was locked in a basement, but I was fed, attended to. I managed to escape just as your men attacked. The terrorists holding me tried to burn me to death, so I’m glad I was able to get out in time.”

“Yes, I heard. Very fortunate for you.”

It was silent for a few seconds. Then Bianca said, “When will I see you, my love?”

“The men who are with you now are competent. They will bring you home to me soon, inshallah.”

“Good. I can’t wait to return to you and Jamal.”

Ahmed analyzed every word Bianca said, each inflection, each breath he could hear. “Bianca . . . what did you tell your captives?”

“Tell them? I told them nothing.”

“Nothing? Did you mention anything about Jamal, perhaps? It is all right if you did, I just must know so I can keep him protected.”

“I . . . I said nothing. Not a word. Why . . . ? Is something wrong?”

Azzam did not know if something was wrong. He couldn’t detect a lie over a satellite phone. No . . . he needed to see his lover face-to-face to find out if she had told the terrorists about the existence of her son and where she lived.

“Nothing is wrong. Everything is just right, now that you have been rescued.”

“Good,” she said. “When I get off the phone with you, I will call Yasmin.”

Ahmed’s narrow expression of mistrust returned. He said, “I have ordered Yasmin and Jamal moved, for their safety, and there is no phone where they are. You will see them as soon as you return.”

“I . . . Yes, all right.”

“Come home to me. We have much to discuss.”

“Yes, love. Inshallah.”

Ahmed hung up the phone and adopted an impassive expression for the benefit of the men across the corridor. But in truth his body steamed with rage. His child had been taken from his city, and it would be days before he knew if his mistress was involved in the crime.

But for now he had to hurry to the airport. His flight north to Homs to appear at an Iranian base would be tomorrow, and then, the next morning, he would go to Palmyra to a Russian facility on the edge of the desert.

He didn’t want to go to these places. His son, the heir to his reign here in Syria, was missing, and even though he had thousands of police and internal intelligence officers looking for him, while this was going on it was hard for Ahmed to focus on other matters.

And doubly so because of Bianca. When she came home he was going to have her visited by his best intelligence interrogators under the guise of asking about her captors. But the real objective of his people would be to find out if she had any culpability, either in her disappearance or in Jamal’s disappearance. His people had been extracting the truth from terrorists, rebels, dissidents, turncoats, and political rivals for a long time. They would find the truth from beautiful Bianca, and if the truth was what he feared, he would have her tortured and then executed for her disloyalty.

As he walked back to his office, he decided he might even take part in the torture himself.

* * *

? ? ?

Bianca Medina did her best to keep from crying. She handed the satellite phone back to Malik, who stood there with Drexler and the French police officer, who clearly did not understand a word of Arabic.