KING PAWN

4979 Words

Chapter 1

He had been driving for over an hour through the desert to avoid the Syrian security forces. He had all the needed documents but preferred to remain under the radar. That was much better in dealing with the Syrians.

It was half-past four in the evening and the sun had started fading out. The fine dust of the desert covered his car entirely and he had to keep using his wiper continuously. The water in the washer tank had run out over an hour ago and the wipers, with the sharp sand grains, were making scratches on the glass. He could see dimly through the thin layer of dust that coated the windscreen.

Iftikar had left the highway at Al Qaim on the Iraqi side of the border with Syria and headed west into the desert to avoid the Syrian check post. He had got back on to N 4 near Al Bukhamal inside Syria. From Al Bukhamal, the shortest route to Palmyra was a straight line through the Syrian desert. But the desert was too treacherous to try that.

He wondered whether the merchants and travelers along the old Silk Road had ever taken that route. That would have been extremely dangerous. Once they left Al Bukhamal, they had to make it to Palmyra, the huge oasis, or die. Palmyra meant life. It was obvious why Palmyra had flourished for centuries and why she had fought even the Roman Empire. He had to start operations from there and this would be the most dangerous one that he had ever undertaken. Palmyra now meant life to him as well in a mission where death was more natural and probable.

He had worked out the plan very carefully. He coasted along N4 till Mayadin and then he had driven into the desert an hour ago. Now he had to make it to the M 20 somewhere near Sukhnah. After that, it should be an easy drive of about 70 kilometers along the deserted M 20 to Palmyra.

He had checked out all details the week before and knew that he should reach a Bedouin camp soon. Probably, he could reach the camp in fifteen minutes and fill up some water at least to clean the windscreen of his Land Cruiser. Being nomads, the Bedouins might move anytime. That was a risk you ran. Their camps were makeshift arrangements of tents with a few drums of water, some camels, and sheep. Some of them had become sophisticated with generators mounted on their pickup trucks to power their television sets and video players at night.

Now it should take less than two hours, he thought and it was possible to get to Palmyra before dark. Though planned that way, he was now running late. Winter was setting in and it would be dark by half-past five. The head beams of his Toyota in the desert would attract the attention of the Syrian night patrol. Iftikar looked at the GPS equipment fitted on the dashboard. With very powerful features, it had been delivered to him four days ago but looked like a normal Garmin. He increased speed and kicked up a larger cloud of sand dust behind him. His car had the Flir pathfinder with powerful infrared cameras that at night could show the terrain ahead on the windshield better than in daylight. But he had to get out of the desert and onto the road before dark. Trained by the Russians, the Syrian troops were sharp and lethal.

His journey had started several weeks ago in the coffee shop of a hotel in Baghdad, which catered mostly to American soldiers. Iftikar had walked in for his quick cup of coffee. He liked the strong Arabica coffee that was always freshly brewed.

A middle-aged man came and sat in front of him. He wore stylish blue jeans and a sweatshirt. Iftikar ignored him.

As he sat, he asked

May I sit here?

His accent gave him away as an Arab with a put-on American accent. Iftikar did not bother to reply. He never engaged in conversations with strangers unless it was part of his plan. It was a restaurant and anyone could sit anywhere.

The Arab was clean-shaven, had a long protruding nose, and thick eyebrows. He looked about forty five and had an overbearing presence. He wore an expensive watch on one hand and a Cartier gold bracelet on the other. His jewelry did not go well with his jeans and sweatshirt. The strong smell of Oudh created a haze of exotic space around him

For some time, they sat in silence. The Arab tried to make eye contact probably to start a conversation with him. Iftikar denied the Arab eye contact and concentrated on enjoying the full flavor of his coffee and sat looking through the window at the garden outside.

The Arab was waiting for his cappuccino. He was in no hurry and projected an air of calm confidence.

The young Iraqi man who brought the cappuccino seemed to recognize the Arab. They exchanged courtesies. The Arab tipped the young man ten dollars, which was excessive. Iftikar knew that the Arab was either trying to impress him or was filthily rich or an operator.

Slowly sipping his cappuccino, the Arab opened the conversation

Mr. Iftikar?

Iftikar was surprised. In his business, if someone recognized him, it usually meant trouble. He decided to take it on.

Yes.

I am Farhan Al Saud. Of course, that’s not my real name just as Iftikar is not your real name.

Iftikar was astonished. The Arab had done his homework and obviously, that meant business. Iftikar knew this would be serious business.

Under the table, his right hand moved to his gun. He loved his Beretta Nano as it was easily concealed and allowed use by either hand as its magazine release button could easily be reversed. That had saved his life twice.

Farhan sensed the tension and smiled as he said

I’m a friend. No problem. You don’t need your Beretta.

Iftikar now clearly smelled trouble.

What do you want?

Let me finish my cappuccino. Would you like to have one?

La, Alf shukr (No, a thousand thanks)

Iftikar replied in polite Arabic. He was uncomfortable and intensely attentive as he waited for Farhan to finish his cappuccino. He usually made other people wait. Now, this Arab was making him wait using a clichéd, yet effective, control technique.

Farhan finished his coffee, kept the cup on the table leisurely, and waved to the waiter to take the cup away. He patiently waited for the cup to be taken away and then lit a cigarette.

I know you speak fluent Arabic and many other languages. But we will use English here. I don’t want any Arab overhearing us.

Farhan looked around the room. It had antique furniture made of dark wood, which took almost all the light out of the room. Though it was early evening, it was dark inside. He seemed satisfied with the situation. His question was more of an assertion.

You must be tired of being in Iraq?

Iftikar did not respond. He did not want to.

Farhan went on.

I have an important mission for you.

I’m not interested.

Why don’t you listen? If I know about you and your work, you can safely assume that we are friends. You know there are only two sources from which I could have gotten information about you.

That was true. His mission in Iraq was highly confidential, and there were only two people who knew about it and who knew that the name he was using in Iraq was false.

The mission is crucial. Many of us are deeply concerned about it. We know the risks and so we want the best man. All of us think that you are the only person who can pull this off.

I have heard that before. Anyway, who are you? And who are the ‘we’ you are talking about?

The Arab did not answer his questions.

Please, Iftikar! There is no reason to get excited. I’m a friend. Let me order a cappuccino for you. I know you like it. I’m in no hurry.

Iftikar did not like the whole situation and wanted to leave.

What is it? I have to go.

The Arab smiled

I know you have no commitments this evening. The girl you were planning to take out tonight unexpectedly left for Cairo a couple of hours ago. By the way, please do not trust her. I know you are smart enough not to. And you have not scheduled anything else tonight. Right?

Iftikar was worried. This Arab knew a lot. And if he knew a lot, he also had a lot at stake. Iftikar repeated the question in a different way

Who are you? And what do you want?

We want you to take up this huge mission. It is the opportunity of a lifetime for you. And we will pay well. You set the price.

I always set my price.

You are mistaken. You’ve never played for stakes this high. We will pay many times the money you made in the last three years in Afghanistan and Iraq. Many times the money that you have in your bank accounts in Zurich and Dubai. You are in the game. Why don’t you play for the highest stakes?

Iftikar sensed that big players were involved in this and that he had been set up. He knew that his employers and the people he worked for, were involved. Otherwise, it was impossible for this Arab to know what he knew.

So, what is it?

OK. Let me tell you briefly

Over the next twenty minutes, Farhan outlined the mission to organize and lead the destabilization of the regime in Syria. Iftikar would be given an open budget, any equipment he wanted, information through the intelligence of some friendly countries, and any other support that he wanted. He could set his price and the glory would be his.

Iftikar sat thinking. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. But he did not want to give in easily. He wanted to know more. The Arab was eager to get his reaction.

So what do you think?

Nothing. I need to think.

Farhan sat quietly after ordering another cappuccino.

Iftikar knew the risks and the opportunity. With that kind of money, he might be able to get his wife and kids back. Such opportunities never appeared when you wanted them. The Arab talked to him in a warm tone as if to someone he had known for a lifetime.

My brother! This means a lot to many of us. You will help us as well as the suffering millions of Syrians to build a democracy.

Cut the crap out.

So you think it is crap! Have you ever spoken to your mother about her past? Why did she have to flee from Syria during the last uprising in Hama? Please talk to her. She will tell you a lot about what the Syrian people have been through over the past few decades. Why do you think she decided to marry an American and settle down in the US? Please talk to her, my brother!

Iftikar was astonished. Only once had his mother talked about the brutal atrocities that her family was subjected to in Syria. How much does this Arab know?

I’m sorry I had to say that. We know that you don’t have much contact with her. But please try to understand. Of course, we will pay a lot of money. But there is a much larger purpose here.

Iftikar was upset as memories of his mother from a very distant past came back.

His mother, Ourouba, had spoken only once about February of 1982 when the Syrian Army had annihilated thousands of people in Hama, where she came from.

On a cold evening, many years ago, some of her Syrian friends, who had migrated to the US, had come over for coffee in their large house in Washington. He was ten or probably eleven years old. It was the end of the fall and the spacious garden outside their house had turned into a riot of colors. The large windows of their house brought those colors into their living room. Despite having been in the US for several years, many of the women did not speak English fluently. And his mother naturally slipped into Arabic when she met with her old friends from Syria. As he spoke fluent Arabic, Iftikar had been asked to help serve coffee, cakes, and dates. And to be generally around.

As the women started talking, they forgot that he could understand Arabic very well. They started talking openly about their past and he had overheard. It was a rare evening when he got glimpses of the world that his mother had left behind. Most of her friends, like her, were from the Sunni community and had been rich landowners.

His mother was unusually eloquent about her father, who owned many shops in the souk Al Hamdiyyeh in Damascus. She described how she had marveled at the long, busy, and colorful market, with its large and high archway. The ingenious design of the arcade let light filter through as silver strands to create an atmosphere of openness and joy. She was in love with that souk and her father’s shops.

Her father had owned large areas of land. He was a supporter of the Muslim Brotherhood, whose members were mostly Sunni Muslims. The president, who headed the Baath party, stood for secular and nationalist policies. The president belonged to the minority community of Alawites, who were basically Shia. Many members of the Baath party came from financially weak backgrounds and favored radical economic reforms. The richer Sunnis, including her father, were against such policies.

Ourouba said to her friends

You may not believe this. My father never believed in fundamentalism but he used the Muslim Brotherhood as a tool to fight the Baath party. But we paid heavily for that.

Ourouba was studying at the Washington State University when her uncle in Hama sent his last message asking her not to return to Syria ever. All her family members had been tortured and slaughtered. Their houses had been razed to the ground and all their properties were taken over. Her life would be at risk if she returned. She had nothing to go back to, except the young and brilliant American boy who was with her at the University and madly in love with her.

Iftikar remembered that his father was strict and never allowed his mother to talk about her past. That was taboo. So, Ouruba went about life as if she were born in the United States and had had no past.

Iftikar had forgotten those stories long ago. He had never seen Syria when he was young. And he could not connect emotionally to his mother’s past. It was a fairy tale. Even when he had traveled through Syria in recent years, his missions were so dangerous that he never thought about his mother or her connections with Syria. He was more concerned about getting in, getting the job done, and getting out as soon as possible.

Iftikar woke up from his thoughts. The Arab gave him an understanding, almost patronizing, look.

You know, as we grow older, we start to understand our parents a lot more; especially our mothers.

Iftikar had a different concern now. If someone were to inform the Syrian authorities of his background and connections to the family in Hama, that could mean trouble. Hafiz’s son, the new president, was into the same power game now. And this Arab would not think twice to use the information if it suited him.

Was the Arab trying to blackmail him into accepting this mission? Is there a veiled threat in his statement about his mother and her past? Iftikar felt his uneasiness swell. He decided to get to business and check him out.

I need fifty million US and the full amount should be paid in advance.

Iftikar expected the Arab to negotiate. But he did not flinch.

Okay. If you want more, feel free to ask. Money is not the issue. It is about principles. You will know as you start working with this. This is the most important mission of your life. And mine.

Iftikar was curious. He had passed through Syria three times in the past year and had found it to be a peaceful country, where people lived in harmony. There was no religious oppression, and they respected one another. The regime was of course brutal and ruthless as in many of the countries that he knew in the Middle East. That was normal business in those countries.

Why Syria? Syria is better than many countries in the Middle East.

The Arab laughed.

There are many reasons and many players. You and I will never know all of them. Bashar Assad is playing ball with the Russians, who have their only naval base outside Russia in the port of Tartous. That is their only access to the Mediterranean. Syria sells oil outside the petrodollar market. And they are at war with Israel after Israel occupied Golan Heights. And they are friendly with Iran and Hezbollah. And for a long time, Assad and his father have run a brutal regime that has killed thousands of their own people. So there are many who want Bashar out for different reasons.

The Arab stopped for a moment and carefully watched Iftikar’s reactions. Iftikar pretended to be disinterested. The Arab spoke in a steady tone and delivered his words in a professionally measured doses.