CHAPTER 5

      Al-­Hamidiya Souk

      Damascus, Syria

      12 April 2009

      19:14 hours

      “This amber necklace is made for you, madam. It brings out the gold of your hair, the blue-­green of your eyes, like the sea,” the merchant said, his hand tracing the curve of Carrie’s hair in the air. He was the same mustached businessman in sunglasses she had seen playing tawla with Orhan earlier in the day. There was a good chance he had just saved her life.

      “How do I know it’s real amber?” she said.

      “Many ways.” He smiled. “Feel it grow warm in your hand. Real amber is alive. Rub it with a piece of soft cloth or fur. It will become charged with static electricity and attract lint and dust. Did you know the ancient Greeks called amber ‘electron’? The word ‘electricity’ comes from amber.” Again he smiled. “There are simple tests for true amber. Put it in salt water. Real amber floats. The fakes, plastic, glass, they all sink. Or rub a drop of alcohol or nail polish on it; doesn’t bother real amber, but the fakes turn nasty. Hold it in a flame. Real amber burns nicely with a wonderful pine aroma.”

      “I wouldn’t want to burn this,” she said.

      “No, miss. Allah forbid. Not this necklace.”

      They were in his shop in the Al-­Hamidiya Souk, an Aladdin’s cave of jewelry and expensive handicrafts, handmade gold, silver, and amber jewelry, Damascene silk brocades hanging from racks, copper engraved pots and vessels, mother-­of-­pearl-­inlaid tables. “One of fourteen shops I own,” he told her.

      Carrie had been walking fast toward Orhan’s shop in the souk, checking for watchers, but seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Despite the late hour, there were still plenty of shoppers and a few tourists wandering the lanes of the souk; some young ­people gathered at an ice cream stand. Most of the shops were open, but strangely, many of the shopkeepers were not at the front, beckoning ­people inside as they normally did. True, it was late, nearly time to close, but still, not normal.

      Internal alarm bells began to go off. Her skin began to prickle all over, like before one of her descents into depression, the opposite of her bipolar “flights,” when she wasn’t on either lithium or clozapine. The black times when she could barely move, when she would sit for hours, days even, catatonic; the only ray of light, the terrible beckoning seduction of the small Glock 26 pistol in her handbag. Lift me out, it seemed to call to her. Why go through it all when you can end it with a little squeeze of the trigger? Trying to tell herself, it’s not me, it’s the bipolar talking. It’s not you, Daddy, because sometimes it was the voice of her father, Frank. And it’s not me.

      Something was happening. The souk seemed normal enough. The strolling water vendors, the side streets open to the night, the women in hijabs with plastic shopping bags. But was it her imagination, or were two shopkeepers talking furtively to each other as she approached the turn that led to Orhan’s shop? And there was a man in a suit jacket talking into a Bluetooth headset while standing next to a shop selling women’s shoes. Shit, she thought.

      The question now was whether they had arrested Orhan already. The needle was off the chart on this approach. She decided to get near enough to see if his shop was open and then leave by a side street.

      “Do you remember me, lovely miss?” The merchant who had been with Orhan earlier in the day had stepped out of his shop into the passageway. Then coming closer, he whispered: “The rug dealer is dead. Come inside.”

      “You were playing with Orhan,” she said, stunned, as though she’d walked into a wall. She stepped into the merchant’s shop and looked around. Delayed reaction, she told herself. Like when you just miss getting hit by a truck. For the moment, they appeared to be alone. She said the first thing that came into her head. “You know he cheats.”

      “So do I,” he said, offering her a seat on a chair with an intricate inlay of mother-­of-­pearl. Clapping his hands, the merchant told a teenage boy who suddenly materialized from the back to bring them tea.

      “Bring baklawa and ghraybeh cookies too,” he added. As the boy left, he introduced himself. “Aref Tayfouri, miss. Businessman; also import export.”

      “And what game are we playing now, Mr. Tayfouri?” she asked, exhaling. Suddenly realizing she’d been holding her breath all that time.

      He leaned closer.

      “Listen, miss. I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what Orhan’s done. I don’t know you. I don’t want to be involved,” he whispered, at the same time showing her an exquisite honey-­amber necklace with a gesture that would not have been out of place from a courtier presenting a crown to a queen. “Lovely, isn’t it, miss?”

      “Why are you helping me?” she asked, her eyes darting to check out passersby then looking at the necklace. It looked very expensive. If Orhan had been arrested, the souk must be thick with GSD agents, she thought.

      “I don’t know. Here.” He handed her a copper-­and-­honey-­amber brooch. “A gift.”

      “I can’t,” she said, pushing it away.

      “Please,” he insisted, pushing it back to her. “It’s from your friend. For you, lovely miss. Perhaps to match the beautiful necklace, if you would like to buy,” he said loudly, then whispered urgently: “Truly, I thought of throwing it away. But what if they traced it to me? Ah, good, the chai,” as the boy brought the tea and pastries on a copper tray. “Please,” gesturing for her to enjoy.

      Carrie took a sip of the tea and a bite of baklawa. She wasn’t sure how far to trust this Tayfouri; clearly he was scared and out of his depth. Or pretending to be. Making sure no one was watching, she pinned the brooch on her blouse based on the theory of hiding in plain sight. But first she needed to confirm that it had come from Orhan and when.

      She fingered the amber necklace. It looked expensive.

      “Lovely,” she murmured. “When did he give it to you?”

      “The brooch is mine, madam. It has a clasp that opens. I thought it best, understand?” he whispered back.

      She nodded. There was something concealed inside.

      “Barsani came to me barely an hour before they came for him,” he went on. “How he knew they were coming, I have no idea. The rumor in the souk is that when the security police came for him, they found him wrapped in his favorite yellow Bidjar rug. The rug was soaked red with blood. He had cut his own throat, the knife still sticking in it. Can you imagine?”

      He took out a pack of Marlboros and lit one, his hand shaking. He angrily snapped the lighter shut. “I have a wife and three children, miss. I don’t need this.”

      Two Syrian policemen armed with submachine guns walked by the entrance to the shop and looked inside. Carrie had to grab her teacup with both hands to keep it from spilling. After a moment, the two policemen walked on. Now that she thought about it, the souk had grown suddenly empty. Her nerves, never her strong suit, were screaming. She had to get away from here soon. But she was a trained operations officer. She couldn’t take this at face value. She had to know why Orhan, no matter how desperate, would risk giving something for the CIA to Tayfouri.

      “Why did he come to you?” she asked.

      “I don’t know. We’re both Kurds. Do you know what that’s like in this country?”