Son of Syria Read online

  As we walked through the center of the room, I saw some of the analysts and technicians glance up at me. Most went right back to work, but a few gave me covert nods of approval. One young woman, a pale redhead who was barely out of her teens, even gave me a thumbs-up. The gesture was unprofessional, but I appreciated the sentiment behind it.

  Our escort led us through the controlled chaos of the Operations Center to a soundproofed conference room. I hadn’t noticed how noisy the Operations Center was until the door closed behind us. The room had a simple but flexible design, with a long wooden conference table surrounded by office chairs. Two plasma televisions, much smaller than the ones outside, hung at either end of the table, although neither of them was turned on now.

  An open black briefcase obscured the features of the man at the far end of the table, but I recognized him immediately. Paul Hannigan was one of our few direct liaisons to the Vatican. He was wearing a three-piece suit, the same shade of black as his briefcase, which cost more money than I cared to think about. As an advisor to the Secretariat of State, he was outside the hierarchy of both the Order and the Vatican, though he would likely have chosen the word “above.”

  Hannigan had the complexion of a man who spent his life in one air-conditioned office after another. His bald spot had swollen since the last time I had seen him, dominating his scalp. What little hair remained formed a dark blond halo around the top of his head. He would have looked better if he just shaved it all off, but I think he liked the image of holiness that his hairstyle presented. When combined with his doughy features, I thought it just made him look old.

  Hannigan’s gaze shifted to Cuvier. “Bernard, please have a seat.” My mentor nodded and sat down on the side of the table to Hannigan’s right. I took the seat across from Cuvier. I drummed my fingers on the table while I waited.

  Hannigan never looked at our escort. “That will be all, Vincenzo.” The Squire left the room without a word, leaving Cuvier and I alone with a man who didn’t officially exist.

  “Mr. Hoyek, before we get started, I want you to know that we were all very impressed by your actions in Afghanistan.”

  “Always happy to help someone in need.”

  “I see. A commendable attitude.” He glanced at Cuvier. “Has Bernard told you why we wanted to see you today?”

  “To give me a medal?”

  Hannigan’s smile turned frosty. “Not quite.” He pulled a short stack of papers out of the briefcase and set them on the table. “We want you to go home.”

  “Home, sir?” I covered my surprise with a mask of relief. “Like a vacation?”

  “You get a vacation as soon as I do,” Cuvier quipped.

  Hannigan’s tone was flat. “Bernard’s right. This trip will be strictly business.”

  I sat back in my chair and stared at him. “Uh, business? In Boston? I didn’t realize that we were authorized to operate in the States.”

  Hannigan shook his head. “Not that home, Mr. Hoyek. I mean your birthplace. Your homeland.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “We need you in Syria.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe that was a question, Mr. Hoyek.”

  I leaned forward to match his posture. “I don’t care. You have my file. You know what happened there. My mother—”

  “Your mother has nothing to do with what we are asking you to do,” Hannigan said. “I’m not asking you to take a trip down memory lane. I am telling you that you are needed there because of your history in the region. There is no one else we can send. This mission is delicate and we need someone who knows the area in case something goes wrong. You know the language. You know how to blend into the culture. You have just completed an assignment and are free of other commitments. You have the job.”

  Hannigan must have noticed my expression because he added, “Oh, cheer up, Kyle. We’re not asking you to move there. You should be on the ground for less than a day.”

  “If it’s so easy, why send me?”

  “Because the Vatican needs a win right now,” Hannigan said. “And so do you.”

  “Hey, what happened to all the praise that I was getting a minute ago?”

  The amused expression vanished from Hannigan’s face. “You made a dumb choice in Afghanistan, Mr. Hoyek. The only reason you weren’t vaporized is that you got lucky. The Cardinal does not believe that is a solid long-term strategy. You need to show that you are still a team player around here.”

  I glared at him. “Is it that the Cardinal doesn’t believe in me? Or could it be that he has no faith in the version of events you told him?”

  Hannigan didn’t back down. “I have told the Cardinal everything he needs to know.”

  Cuvier looked at me. “For what it is worth, Kyle, I told him to find someone else for this operation.”

  Hannigan rolled his eyes. “Oh, the both of you are so dramatic.” He pointed at the door. “You saw the roster on the way in, Mr. Hoyek. You also saw how many new situations are popping up on our radar every day. We are stretched too thin. I know you think that what happened to you is somehow unique and that it gives you license to turn down any assignments you don’t fancy.”

  He put a fist down on the table with enough emphasis to attract attention. “But I want you to understand me. There is a plane waiting to take you to Damascus, but it can just as easily dump you back in Boston. You do remember what life in Boston was like, don’t you?” he sneered. “No house, no job, and no friends. If you want to go back to life as a loser, be my guest.”

  Cuvier bolted to his feet. “Now wait just a minute!”

  “Calm down, Bernard, before you have a stroke,” Hannigan eyed me like a predator. “That was not a threat, merely a reminder of the choice that lies before Mr. Hoyek.”

  I scowled, but I knew there was really no choice. “What’s the mission? Are we finally making a move against the Islamic State?”

  “I know you believe you have a special hatred for that group, but we would all like to see their reign of terror brought to an end.” Hannigan sighed. “However, that task is beyond our current capabilities. What we have in mind is a bit more limited. Have you ever heard of something called the Obadiah Project?” I shook my head. “Good. Only a handful of people within the Order have been briefed on the program. It started out as an exercise by the Intelligence division to determine how to get our priests and missionaries out of a hostile country if a specific threat to their lives was discovered.”

  “Like Obadiah, who hid the prophets of God in a cave to protect them from Queen Jezebel,” I said.

  “Very good,” Hannigan nodded.

  “Do we have a priest in Syria whose life is in danger?”

  “Well, yes, but that isn’t your mission,” Hannigan replied. “The Obadiah Project expanded to anyone in the Christian community who was the target of a specific, credible threat and needed to disappear for their own protection.”

  “Like a witness protection program,” Cuvier added.

  Hannigan nodded. “Precisely.”

  “Are we in the business of refugee relocation now? I thought the point of the Order was to help persecuted people stay in their homes and defend themselves.”

  “And nothing is going to change,” Hannigan replied. “This is an emergency protocol when individuals under extreme risk need a new start. The concept has evolved well beyond its original scope. We need to ensure that the process can work before we widely disseminate the information to the rest of the Order.”

  I held up my hand to stop him. “Are you telling me no one out there,” I pointed to the door to the Holy War Room, “knows anything about this?”

  “This was kept need-to-know. A small number of support personnel have set up the new identities for the subjects. And a handful of priests in select nations are coordinating things on their end. They have gathered information on the best possible candidates for this program. This project has been under development for a long time. We chose Syria years ago as a test bed
because we believed it was a low-risk area of operations. Maybe this was God’s timing.”

  “Most of the moving pieces are in place,” Cuvier added. “We have everything prepared once the subjects are safely escorted out of the country. We just need you to cover that critical stage of getting them out of Damascus alive.”

  “Time is a luxury these people can’t spare.” Hannigan eyed me. “We cannot wait until another Knight becomes available. You are the only hope these poor souls have.”

  I tried to glean some clues from the papers stacked in front of Hannigan, but it was no use. “And who are the subjects that I will be escorting?”

  Hannigan shrugged. “I have no idea. That information has been compartmentalized to protect their identities. All I know is that there will be six subjects waiting at the Chapel of St. Paul when you arrive in Damascus. You will be met by a man working for Father Abiad, our representative in Damascus. He will take you to the chapel, and you will go from there to the rendezvous.”

  “Okay, so you want me to go over to Syria, put some dignitaries on an airplane, and then turn around and fly straight out. Simple enough.”

  Hannigan stroked his chin. “Ah. Yes, it would be, if that was the plan. Unfortunately—”

  I sighed. “I hate that word.”

  “Unfortunately,” Hannigan said with emphasis, “we cannot risk passing the subjects through security at the airport. You will rendezvous with a helicopter at a landing zone just south of Damascus shortly after your flight lands.”

  Hannigan divided the stack of papers in front of him in half and slid one of the segments across the table. On top was a picture taken from one of those online services that provided maps based on declassified satellite and aerial photography. It showed the southern tip of Damascus and the surrounding area. A desolate area of flatland a few miles south of the city limits was highlighted as the landing zone. “The helicopter will take you across the border to Beirut, where the freighter Haroutyoun will be waiting for you.”

  I flipped through the papers in front of me, taking a cursory glance at any relevant information before I really started to dive into it. It was all in here: Father Abiad, the helicopter, the port in Beirut where we’d rendezvous with the freighter. I studied the details. For security reasons this file would never leave the building, and there wouldn’t be a second chance to review the material.

  I made a point to memorize the faces of the pilot and mechanic we had hired to take us out of Syria in case any one of our potential threats tried to switch helicopters on us.. Then I checked the page for the Haroutyoun to do the same for its crew. When I saw the crew list for the freighter, I found a name I recognized.

  Cuvier noticed my reaction and said, “I believe you are already familiar with Captain Grimm.”

  I nodded. Captain Roger Grimm was one of several outside contractors that the Order used for logistical support. The captain knew us only as an international non-profit charitable organization. He ferried supplies and personnel for us in and around the Mediterranean Sea. He was a rough man, Canadian from what I could tell, and seemed determined to live up to his name. I had met him twice and not once had I seen a smile crack his weather-worn features. But he was reliable if the money was good.

  Some details were omitted. “What’s our destination?”

  “Again, that information is classified. When you are in international waters we will send further instructions to Captain Grimm.”

  I frowned. I didn’t like being kept out of the loop, but I understood the logic. Some things needed to remain secret from the operatives on the ground in case an operation went south. The thought made me uncomfortable. I don’t like thinking about failure. And I really don’t like thinking about the capture, torture, and execution that would accompany that failure. But that just gave me more incentive to succeed.

  Hannigan stood. Cuvier followed him, and I followed Cuvier. “Are you clear on your assignment?” Hannigan asked.

  I counted on my fingers. “Get into Syria. Meet the subjects. Get to the helicopter. Meet the Haroutyoun. Come home a hero.”

  Cuvier suppressed a chuckle, but Hannigan’s smile was pure ice. He clapped his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “And try not to get killed. Training new operatives is such an expensive process.”

  As he left, I said, “Nice to know you care.”

  Hannigan smirked. He opened the door, and a wave of sound came pouring into the conference room from the Operations Center. Cuvier waited for the door to close behind Hannigan, then said, “He cares, Kyle. If you get killed on one of his operations it would make him look bad. He might even have to write a report.”

  “We can’t have that.” My voice lowered. “What is he even doing here? Why is someone from the Vatican giving out missions in the first place? You’re the Operations Supervisor, for crying out loud. Why weren’t you the one telling me this?”

  “I’m one of several Operations Supervisors,” Cuvier corrected. He steepled his fingers and said, “And right now we are getting into topics that would best be discussed another time. Or another place.” He didn’t quite look up at the camera that was unobtrusively recording everything that happened in the room, but I got the point.

  I exhaled and rose to my feet. I looked the digital clock on the wall. “There’s still time before my flight leaves. We should grab something to eat.”

  “I know just the place.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  DIONNE’S Kitchen was a nice, quiet restaurant near the center of the city. It was small but clean, with pictures of saints and celebrities adorning the walls. It reminded me of the decor in the administration wing of the Operations Center, but here it seemed more quaint than boastful. Two gray-haired men sat at the bar sipping at tea. They looked like the old hecklers from the Muppets. Other than those two men, Cuvier and I had the place all to ourselves.

  A matronly woman with curly black hair and a turquoise dress, Dionne herself, smiled at Cuvier as she placed our plates on the table. Cuvier was a regular sight in this cafe and thus warranted such personal attention from the owner. I didn’t rate a second glance.

  Cuvier ordered rabbit marinated in red wine and garlic, a popular dish in Malta and the featured item in the menu. Because I had just come from one Muslim country and was on my way to another, I decided to order pork chops with parsley and lemon.

  Once Dionne was out of earshot, Cuvier blew a sharp breath through his nose. “There are a lot of pieces moving right now, Kyle. I know very little at this point, and what I do know I am not prepared to share.”

  “Are you telling me that I need to prove myself worthy before you can tell me anything?”

  “Quit whining like a child. I trust you, Kyle. I just don’t want to worry you until we have information we can use. Suffice it to say that a lot of careers are resting on this mission.” I snorted. “Not to mention the lives that are at stake.”

  “Lives are always at stake in our work,” he observed.

  I took a bite of my pork chops. As a man who worked for the Pope, albeit indirectly, I was no stranger to religious experiences. These pork chops made the list. Soft moans escaped my lips. I heard one of the old men asked Dionne if he could have what I was having. I had to tear myself away from the ecstasy in my taste buds if I wanted to contribute to this conversation. I swallowed, allowing my mouth to once more focus on forming words.

  “There’s something different about this one,” I told him. “You’ve been acting strange ever since you met up with me in Kabul. What’s bothering you?”

  Cuvier frowned. “I do not like that they want to send you out to test this concept without any backup.” He was pushing the food around his plate, but had yet to take a bite. “At least in Afghanistan we could call upon the American military to pull you out if things got too hot.”

  I smirked. “If you recall, it wasn’t the Taliban launching missiles at me.”

  Cuvier dropped his fork and looked up at me. “Can you please be serious for a moment? There
is something unsettling about this whole situation.”

  Cuvier was rattled. Cuvier didn’t get rattled. I took another bite. Before I finished chewing, I asked, “You think this is a trap?”

  He shook his head. “I think this is a mistake. Hannigan was right about the project taking a long time to get started, but he forgot to mention that the Order had priests in five different countries searching for candidates. Cameroon, Chad, Colombia, and Croatia were also floated as possible sites. Why choose Syria as the test bed for this idea?”

  “Because it’s the only country that doesn’t start with a ‘c?’” I guessed. Cuvier raised an eyebrow and sliced a delicate strip of meat from his rabbit. I put some more thought into it. “Well, it could have something to do with the fact Syria’s deep in the middle of a civil war.”

  “That only places an additional strain on the project. Why make such a risky situation even more dangerous than it needs to be?”

  “To add to the drama? I don’t know.”

  Cuvier dabbed his mouth with his napkin, clearly not amused. “Please, just think for a moment. It could save your life someday.”

  I took a quiet moment to consider the question. “You said that careers would be resting on this mission. If I fail, I’ll be dead, so job security is kind of low on my priority list right now.” I looked at my mentor. “But you would be on the chopping block if things went south.”

  “Among others, yes. I have been with the Order since its founding. In that time, I have made enemies. Hannigan, among others, would love to push me out of my position of influence to expand his own power.”

  I ran a hand through my hair. “You’re telling me that Hannigan wants to put you out to pasture, and he’s setting me up to die to do it?”

  “No. Hannigan came here to Malta to deliver the mission with a personal touch. If he knew that this was a trap, or was setting us up to fail, he would have stayed as far away from it as he could. He wants you to succeed. He wants to be seen giving you his support so he can leverage this if you manage to make it out of Syria.”