Homeland: Saul’s Game. Andrew Kaplan
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bad?” She could hear in his voice just how bad this news was. First the failed SOG mission, now Cadillac down. This was shaping up as a total disaster. Was the network blown? How to let him know in such a way so that the Syrians—if they managed to decipher their conversation—wouldn’t understand?
“Remember last Christmas?” she asked. Saul had flown into Baghdad. They’d all gotten together, her, Perry, Warzer, some of the other key CIA personnel, in his room at the Al-Rasheed Hotel in the Green Zone, everyone getting plastered and telling stories over Scotch and Russian Standard martinis and Mrs. Fields cookies.
When it was his turn, Saul had told them about growing up in the only Orthodox Jewish family in Calliope, Indiana, and how when he was a kid, on Christmas Eve, when his parents were asleep, theirs the only house without a tree or lights or presents in the whole town, he would sneak down and watch the black-and-white movie A Christmas Carol on TV. “The one you told us. Do you remember the first line of that story?” Come on, Saul. The first line of the Charles Dickens story: “Marley was dead.” “That’s how bad,” she said, hoping to God he’d get her meaning.
For a moment, he didn’t answer. Please say something, she thought, the seconds ticking. Please. With every second, she could feel the GSD closing in on her, imagining Toyota SUVs, tires screeching as they closed in around the taxi, blocking off the street any second now.
“Are you absolutely sure?” He got it. God, he was smart. She loved that about him.
“A thousand percent,” she said grimly, trying not to think of Cadillac’s body, what they had done to him, what they might do to her.
“Any idea what might have caused it?” he asked. She had nothing, only speculation. He wanted to know if she’d spotted something, someone. But in her heart, she knew. Cadillac, the deserted compound, just missing by a few hours. None of it was a coincidence and it wasn’t the SOG team. They’d had nothing to do with Damascus. There could be only one possible explanation.
“I’m thinking maybe it was an animal.” Come on, Saul. I’m all alone and we’re getting killed out here. What the hell do you think it is? Because I’m thinking a mole. A small furry animal that likes to dig, doesn’t he, the miserable worm-eating son of a bitch?
“I’m thinking the same. You’d better get going,” he said.
She was right, she thought, exhaling, not realizing she’d been holding her breath. Saul agreed with her. They had a mole. And he was also telling her to get the hell out of Syria. Now.
“I will. Just have to check on something,” she said. Orhan.
“Take care,” he said, and hung up.
She checked her watch. Four minutes. Too damn long. The GSD would be onto her. They would be closing in on her taxi any minute. She opened the cell phone and, with her fingers fumbling and sweating, took three tries to take the stupid SIM card out of the cell phone. Come on, Carrie. Come on, she told herself.
The taxi’s back window was half open. She checked the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He was watching her.
“Keep your eyes on the road, please,” she told him, and waited to see that he did. She looked to see where she was. All around were the older buildings of the Old City, TV satellite dishes sprouting on the roofs like mushrooms. Still plenty of traffic despite the hour. When she was sure the driver wasn’t watching, she tossed the SIM card out the window. Ahead, she could see the dome and minarets of the Umayyad mosque.
“I changed my mind,” she told the taxi driver. “I want to go to Naranj, not Leila’s.”
“Naranj, madam? On Straight Street?” Naranj was a famous restaurant. As for Straight Street, it was the oldest street in Damascus, maybe in the world. It was mentioned in the Bible.
“Yes,” she said. “Go around the mosque.”
“It’s better if I turn around and go back, madam,” he said.
Yes, and get stopped by the GSD, she thought, her nerves drawing tight as a violin string. God, was her bipolar kicking in? Not now, please, feeling her heart rate skyrocket. Take it easy, Carrie. She had taken a clozapine. It just had to kick in.
“I’m not in a hurry. Go the back way,” she said, waiting till they had gone four or five blocks before she dropped the empty cell phone—minus its SIM card—out the window, hearing the faint plastic click as it hit the cobblestone street.
Now there was nothing to connect her to the call except the driver, she thought as they drove behind the Umayyad mosque, which supposedly contained the head of John the Baptist, as well as the tomb of Saladin, the great Muslim warrior, who defeated the Crusaders. They zigzagged around the outside of the mosque to Al Sagha Street then over to Straight Street. Somewhere behind them, she heard the sound of police sirens.
She didn’t like the way the taxi driver looked at her when he dropped her off in front of Naranj, a platoon of Mercedes and Porsches parked in front of its high arched windows. If questioned, that taxi driver would remember her. Maybe because of Cadillac’s body. Not good. She had to get away from here as quickly as possible, she thought as Naranj’s doorman bowed and opened the door and she went inside.
Damascus was becoming too dangerous. But she had to find out if Cadillac ever made it to the drop. And if he had left something for her. And what had happened to Orhan. Because if the GSD had finished with Cadillac, there was a good chance that Orhan was next. And the clock was ticking.
As always, Naranj was crowded and noisy, the two-story, high-ceilinged restaurant filled with the most important people in Syria, from political leaders to TV stars. At first, the maître d’ looked at her oddly, a woman alone, just standing there, but then, taking a good look: an attractive American woman, long blond hair, not wearing evening clothes, but still, borderline, perhaps somebody important’s mistress, best not to offend till one was sure.
“Are you meeting someone, miss?”
“Yes, but I just saw his wife’s Mercedes, that lying son of a whore! Is there a back way out?” Carrie whispered, slipping him a twenty-dollar bill.
“Of course.” The maître d’ smiled, pocketing the bill smoothly as he motioned to a waiter and whispered instructions. He gestured for Carrie to follow the waiter, who led her to a corner of the crowded atrium toward the back of the dining room, the thick smell of kebabs wafting from the kitchen. The waiter led her to a side door and outside to a sidwalk terrace and the street. She had gotten turned around, but now she realized where she was. They were on a side street opposite the big St. Mary’s Greek Orthodox Church, lit up a bright white in the night behind an arched facade.
She tried to tip the waiter, but he refused any money. He stepped out into the middle of the street and refused to leave until he had waved down a yellow taxi. The waiter opened the taxi door for her.
“God willing, all will be good, madam,” he said, as if he knew she was in trouble.
“God willing,” she murmured back.
“Where to, madam?” the driver asked.
Time to decide, she thought, her throat dry, unable to swallow. It was incredibly high risk. Every second she stayed in Syria, the danger increased exponentially. By now the Syrians had to know about the Black Hawk incursion into their airspace. Plus Cadillac had been tortured and killed. There was a damn good chance he had told them about the drop location, in which case the GSD would be sitting there, waiting for whoever showed up.
A female CIA agent would be an unbelievable catch for them. What was in her head could blow everything Langley had going in the Middle East wide open. The downside risk was enormous. If they got their hands on her, the GSD would open her like a can of tuna.
What a coup it would be—not just for them, but also for their patrons: the Iranians and the Russians. And what a disaster for the CIA, for the United States, for Saul.
On the other hand, there was a chance that before he was picked