After traveling from Damascus up to the interior of the nation, Court finally found himself about twenty-five feet away from where he really wanted to be. This was progress, yes, but he also found it frustrating as hell.

He’d been led into the Desert Hawks battalion command post on the second floor of the refinery control building, but he’d been moved along a wall and taken to a communications station at a long table in the corner. He stood there with Van Wyk and a few Desert Hawks captains and majors, but twenty-five feet off his right shoulder was an open and damaged doorway to another part of the command center, and right inside this room was a detailed map lying flat on a large table. The map appeared to Court to be the size of a twin bed, and militia officers moved around it, talking to one another and on handheld radios.

He was certain the map held the secrets for whatever this security operation was all about, and if, in fact, an Azzam visit to Palmyra was the reason behind the operation, then Court knew he needed to find his way into that room.

Court stole glances over to the table every chance he got, but from his position he couldn’t make out a single feature of the map.

He had been standing here waiting for the radioman seated in front of him to dial in the Russian Air Force frequency that would put him directly in touch with Russian forces. It was weird, he had to admit. He was about to request that the Russians send air support to attack retreating Free Syrian Army forces. The thought made him feel nauseous, but he was in cover, and he’d seen no other way to finagle an invitation down into this room, where he knew he might be able to find the answers he was looking for.

Court was in this mission all the way now. He’d do what he had to do to get the intel for the FSA that could target Azzam personally.

Finally Van Wyk gave Court a long list of instructions relayed from the Syrian officers standing around the radio table, who themselves were in radio contact with the two companies pursuing the enemy forces to the north. When Court had everything written down, he took the radio and actuated the microphone. “Calling Russian air assets on this frequency. This is Desert Hawks Brigade battalion tactical operations center.” Court gave the code name of the Hawks unit commander, as instructed by the Syrian officers standing around.

“Send your traffic, Hawks Brigade,” came the terse reply in Russian.

Court was working off a map in front of him, although it wasn’t the map he wanted to see. On the table where the radio was set up was a laminated map with grease pencil notations, showing this command position in the refinery, the highway to the north, and the hills farther north where the FSA were running from the two regime militia companies. Court glanced at the map and said, “We have enemy in the open, fleeing to the northeast. Request any air assets in the area to prosecute. How copy?”

There was a long wait before any reply, and when it came, it was a different Russian voice.

“Who is broadcasting on this network?” the Russian asked.

Court replied, “I’m a contracted PMC officer for the Desert Hawks Brigade.” Court repeated the code words for the unit commander.

There was a pause. “You’re not an Arab.”

“That is correct. I am Canadian, Klossner Welt Ausbildungs security.”

Another pause from the Russian. “We have a Russian officer who speaks some Arabic. Put a Syrian on the radio.”

Court translated this for Van Wyk, and added, “These Russians have something against Canadians, apparently.”

Van Wyk translated for the Desert Hawks officers, and one of them got on the radio to speak with the Russian air assets.

To Court it looked like he’d just outlived his usefulness. There was a good chance he was going to be sent back to the KWA room upstairs because he wasn’t needed here.

He realized the only way he’d learn anything here in the command center was by walking into the other room and right up to the map, so he decided he needed to risk doing just exactly that.

Van Wyk was engaged with the majors, and none of the other men in the commo room noticed him slip away.

Court walked into the room with the map table like he had every right in the world to be there, and he judged the movement of the group of men around the table to position himself where he could see the most. The men were engaged in their conversation; Court wasn’t picking up the words but it seemed to be something of an argument.

He walked the length of the room and through an open door on the far side. Here was a small empty room with a window, but no way out. It would be awkward to just turn around and retrace his steps, but he was the Gray Man; he knew he could pull it off.

Court turned around and walked right back past the map, again as if he belonged, and headed back to the radio room. He’d spent fewer than ten seconds close to the map, and had only looked at it for two or three.

But he saw what he needed to see. The map clearly displayed the city of Palmyra, and a series of concentric circles. Different unit markings were evident around the maps, although Court didn’t recognize all the units.

To the far east it was easy to decipher, because this part of the map was a much more detailed version of the smaller laminated map Court saw on the radioman’s table. Court couldn’t read the Arabic script, but he had seen the location of the Hawks’ position in the refinery and also north in the hills.

Court could also see that there were two more small towns to the east of the refinery along the highway.

To the west were markings for other units, and from what Court had heard in the bar the night before, the SAA was providing the inner line of defense around the Palmyra area.

Inside of the SAA protective ring, the nucleus of the entire map had not been drawn around the city of Palmyra itself, but instead, it looked like it was about a mile or a mile and a half outside the city. And the nucleus was not a circle . . . it looked like the outline of a dumbbell lying at a 45-degree angle. At the center of the entire map, the nucleus around which the dumbbell emanated, was a spot on the M20 highway just a mile or so east from the eastern edge of the city of Palmyra.

Court had no idea what was at the center of this security cordon, but whatever it was, it involved two locations close to each other, and a protected zone between them. Clearly the focus of the entire security operation lay both north and south of the highway to the east of Palmyra.

This was key. He couldn’t just call Voland and have him tell the FSA that Azzam would be in Palmyra at a certain time. The FSA couldn’t flatten the entire city. But if there was some sort of a Russian base a mile or so to the east of Palmyra, and Azzam was planning on visiting it Tuesday, then that might represent actionable intelligence. The FSA might be able to send rocket crews close enough to attack the base, or set up shoulder-fired surface-to-air crews to target Azzam’s helicopter.

Yes, Court now knew the “where.” As for the “when,” it was sometime between tomorrow, which was Monday and when the security cordon was supposed to be in effect, and Tuesday afternoon, which was when Azzam had told both Bianca and Yasmin that he would return to Damascus.

The “what” was not hardened intel. This was all still speculation that this security operation involved Ahmed Azzam at all, but Court had executed many operations in his career on less solid intel than what he’d managed to acquire that corroborated his theory, so he was confident that the president would be coming to this area.

Court stood back by the radios, behind Van Wyk, and concentrated on committing all the information he had just seen to memory. In the middle of thinking over what it all meant, he looked up and was surprised to see Van Wyk looking directly at him.

“Kilo Nine! Pay attention.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“You’re up.”

“What?”

“The Russian’s Arabic sucks, apparently, so you’re back on the mic.”

Court took the radio and began speaking again with the Russians. He looked up to Van Wyk. “They say they can send a pair of Mi-24s for a couple of runs with rockets, but they are low on gas. After about two passes they will have to leave to refuel, and it will take them an hour to return.”

While Van Wyk discussed this with the Syrians, Court thought about this bit of information. Quickly he realized this was intel he needed. He figured the turnaround time to fuel an Mi-24 would be up to a half hour, and certainly not less than fifteen minutes. If the Russian attack helicopters had to fly both ways from the hills north of the refinery to their refueling bladder, and they could make the entire trip, including refueling, in an hour, Court thought there was a significant chance this meant there was a Russian refueling operation set up around Palmyra, and possibly in the “dumbbell” on the map in the other room.