Reel pushed backward, away from the crowd, and managed to ease into a sliver of a side alley.
She walked quickly down it and reached another street, a
busy thoroughfare. A taxi pulled up to the curb and she climbed in.
“Where to?” the bearded driver asked in Arabic.
“I think you know,” she said in English.
Robie hit the gas and the cab sped off.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Close?”
“Close enough,” she said.
She pulled the remote from her basket and held it up. “This came in handy. Once they find the source of the ‘We have the shooter’ voice they won’t be happy.”
“A little boom box in the street never hurts,” said Robie.
As they rounded a turn she tossed the remote out the window.
He looked in the rearview mirror again and saw the crowds spilling into the streets behind them. “They’ll know the shooter got away. So we’re not free and clear yet.”
“Face it, Robie, we’ll never be free and clear again.”
“They found the sniper’s nest. Even though you didn’t fire from it.”
“Big surprise. But at least it validates what your guy told us about the double cross.”
“I wonder how they felt back in the ops room watching?”
“One of my greatest regrets in life will be missing the looks on their faces. Especially Tucker’s.”
He turned right and then left and sped up again. Traffic was lighter now. But Robie could envision roadblocks being set up right this minute.
Damascus to Israel was a short trip, but that would be the exit the Syrians would be expecting. And also the one designed by the CIA. So that option was out.
The trip to Amman, Jordan, was a little over a hundred miles. But the border between the two countries had been strengthened, with limited crossing points. So that was also out.
Iraq was to the east. It was a long border with many ways across. But neither Robie nor Reel saw much advantage in sneaking across the northern border of Iraq. They would most likely die there.
That left one option. Turkey, to the north. It was also a long border, hundreds of miles. The closest major Turkish city was Mersin, about 250 miles distant. There was a shorter route they could take through a narrow section of Turkey that poked like a misshapen finger into Syria a little north of Al Haffah. But Mersin, though farther away, would have more options for their onward travel, and a large city was easier to hide in. Besides, Robie wanted to put greater distance between them and the Syrians than the finger of Turkish land provided.
But they had to get there first.
And though the border had many holes in it, Syria and Turkey were also informally skirmishing with each other. Bombs dropped from planes and guns fired by roving packs of soldiers were becoming the standard of the day around the border. Plus there was a lot of illegal activity involving the trafficking of drugs, immigrants, guns, and other contraband through the region. And the criminals typically had one response to pesky witnesses.
They killed them.
“On to Turkey,” said Robie.
“On to Turkey,” she parroted back.
She didn’t take off her disguise. Not yet. She had papers, in case they were stopped. She had to hope they would be good enough.
As Robie looked up ahead, he knew they were about to be tested.
He had shaved his head, grown a trim beard, and stained his entire body darker. His blue eyes were hidden by tinted contacts. He could speak Arabic fluently, with none of the accent of a westerner. Reel, he knew, could as well.
The checkpoint had been set up quickly, faster than Robie had thought possible. He wondered if the double cross had anything to do with that.
Security checkpoints were far more frenetic in the Middle East than in other parts of the world, barely controlled chaos where guns were pulled at the slightest misstatement or an ill-timed glance.
Robie slowed his taxi to a stop. There were three cars and a truck in front of his. The guards were searching vehicles, and Robie saw one of them with a glossy piece of paper in his hand.
“They have our photo,” he said.
It involved the Special Activities Division of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service. Within that division was the SOG, or Special Operations Group. They were the best of the best, running around the world doing the bidding of the United States either with a gun or by inserting themselves in the riskiest settings for purposes of intelligence gathering. They were the most clandestine special ops force in America, if not the world. Most of the members came from the military elite.
Most, but not all.
The ceremony was held in an underground room at the agency’s installation at Camp Peary in Williamsburg, Virginia. It seemed appropriate that the event was below ground, in the shadows, and unknown to the rest of the world.
In attendance along with about two dozen others were Evan Tucker, APNSA Potter, the three-star, and the DHS director, who had watched the events unfolding in Damascus. And Blue Man.
Robie and Reel were each awarded the Distinguished Intelligence Cross, the highest award given out by the CIA. It was analogous to the Medal of Honor and was usually given posthumously. It was only bestowed