Political Thriller: RUSSIAN HOLIDAY, an American Assassin story
“Just do the damn job, and all is forgiven.”
“What about my exit?”
“It’s all set up. Everything’s there, in the file.”
He took a drag of his cigarette, then flicked it with his index finger and it hit the sidewalk in an explosion of sparks. Without another word, he left the bench along with the deposit he had made, and walked away.
Robert thought about killing him right there and setting his body on the bench, posed like a mannequin reading the paper, crossing his legs for extra authenticity. He imagined himself putting a bullet in the man’s head as he walked away. As the man with no name disappeared, Robert sat back down on the bench and regarded the file folder as if it was a rotten piece of stinking meat.
He stared at the dossier sitting on the bench as if it were worse than a pestilential virus; as if touching it would somehow infect what was left of his soul, if he ever had one. He was an atheist, of course, not one of those crusaders who believed he was killing in the name of God and country. He wasn’t a believer in heaven, nor hell for that matter. As far as he was concerned, if hell did exist, it was right here on earth. What made man think he was any more significant than any other mass of protoplasm stimulated by electrical impulses? Why were we any better than the bugs we squash under our feet? If anything, we were worse. Surely the insects provided more benefit to the earth than we did. They recycled tons of waste. All we did was create it. They provided tons of food for birds and animals. All we did was eat and shit. We killed each other to get the other one’s stuff, we killed animals for food, and we were the only ones who also killed them and each other just for fun.
To Robert’s way of thinking, everything man touched was ruined.
What made us humans so special? What gave us the right to think we were the chosen race, above the monkeys and the lions, the tigers and turtles? Because we kill for no reason? Or for any reason? Because we’d thought of a way to kill everything on our planet with the push of a button? Or was it because there was so many of us, even if we never pushed that button, our destructive presence alone would wipe out every living thing on earth?
In the end, Robert was an instrument, not a philosopher. He lived by a code and that code was his religion. This was his job, and the purpose of his life was to perform it, not question it. He extracted a large wad of cash from the folder and shoved it into his pocket, and tucked the folder itself into his jacket.
***
The next day on the bridge was his last. As he sat next to Dimitri, he imagined building a life for himself there in Istanbul as the anonymous fisherman. But, unfortunately, it could never be. He watched as the old man cast out his line and settled back on the bench. Robert was not doing as well with his catch as usual.
“Something wrong, malaka?”
“How did you know?”
He motioned to Robert’s empty bucket. “You’re not catching any fish. Looks like you’ve lost touch with ‘the force’.”
“I have to leave.”
“When are you coming back?”
Robert hesitated. “I’m not.”
The old man nodded as if he had already known.
“I’m going to miss this place.”
Dimitri put a hand on his shoulder and looked in his eyes. “Home is not a place, malaka. You can find the peace you have found here anywhere. Just remember what you’ve learned about fishing. Remember how many times the fish slipped off your hook and got away?”
“Yeah.”
“And remember the days that were all like that – close calls, and you caught nothing?”
Robert nodded and smiled.
“But you didn’t give up, did you?”
“No, I guess not.”
“That’s right. You kept up at it until you became as good a fisherman as any of us on this bridge. Sometimes it’s the failures in life that define you, not the accomplishments. Plus they make the winning all the more sweet.”
Robert nodded, understanding.
“So the next time you can put a pole in your hand, let your mind wander to this time, here. And, if at the end of the day, your bucket is full of fish and your mind is free, you will know that you are home.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Robert sensed something was off about Gaziantep. It was a large city, but not as big as Istanbul. It was chock-full of apartment buildings and mosques with picturesque protruding minarets, but there was a jihadist undercurrent to it that Robert could almost smell. Its proximity to the Syrian border made it the logical place for new recruits to meet their ISIS escorts and for sex traffickers selling women to the Islamic State. It also was a hub of the nefarious money exchange operations Robert had learned about when he was researching his hit on Naifeh. Gaziantep was only 11 hours from Istanbul by car but a world away culturally. In that respect, it was closer to its neighbor and sister-city Aleppo, only 60 kilometers away.
He waited in a café in the old section of town for his two Special Forces counterparts to show up. Their mission was to deliver materials and training aid to the Free Syrian Army, a name self-proclaimed by several different loosely organized bands of rebels whose self-declared mission was to fight Bashar al-Assad’s rule of Syria. When two young men with cropped hair and wearing conspicuous tourist clothing showed up, he knew it had to be them.
They were both in their early 20s, - babies really –probably right out of live environment training, and too full of pride and testosterone. Both tall, one wore a baseball cap over his blonde crew cut and a white T-shirt and blue jeans. The other was in blue jeans and a print shirt that had “Turkey” written across it instead of the name of a sports team. They nervously looked around the café like it was their first time on the block, and it probably was. Failing to spot Robert, they sat down at a corner table, removed from all the patrons. Robert picked up his coffee cup and walked over to them. They both looked up at him in surprise as he sat down at their table.
“Mind if I join you gentlemen?”
They both looked up at Robert curiously. The blond spoke up first. “Actually, we’re waiting for somebody.”
Robert stared at them incredulously, eyebrows raised. “Aren’t you going to ask me what the countersign is?”
The second one fired back, “What is the countersign?”
Robert frowned. “Sex. Really guys, could you be even more American? Why didn’t you just dress in your uniforms?”
“Our orders were to dress like tourists.”
“Like tourists or American flags?”
The blond piped up. “So we should dress like a bag of smashed asshole, like you?”
Robert stared him down and his face twitched when his partner kicked him under the table.
He was actually glad the young soldier had been rude. It meant they didn’t know anything and the secrecy of his own mission was intact.
“Guys, I was a soldier once, just like you. We don’t need to prove whose dick is bigger here. All I need from you is a short ride, so let’s all try to get along, okay?”
That comment evoked smiles, even from the blond, and the frost was finally thawed. Robert reached his hand across the table. “Bob.”
The brown-haired guy was the first one to shake his hand. “I’m Sergeant Bill Reeves and this is Sergeant Patrick Schofield.”
Robert shook their hands with his vice-grip special. As they got to know each other over coffee, guards remained up but the mood became more civil.
“You’re to meet us at the SP at o-seven-hundred. Have you got a pen?”
“Don’t need one. Just give it to me.”
Robert memorized the address, put money on top of the bill and left.
***
Robert reported early to the joint Turkish and U.S. command center and was issued the desert camouflaged uniform that the rest of the unit he was traveling with would be wearing, sans insignia, which suited him just fine, along with a duffle bag that contained indigenous clothing. He was also issued two cases which contained his “tools
of the trade.”
He joined up with Reeves right away and took a seat in his Humvee along with three other men, introduced to him as Lieutenant Samuel Peterson, Specialist Hamil Jordan and PFC Joe Walker. Robert sensed it wasn’t the first rodeo for the three others and that they weren’t too keen on their Reeves being as green as he was. He was just happy not to be travelling with Schofield.
They took off as part of a small convoy of military vehicles and brand new Toyota pickup trucks, and were soon crossing over into Syria through the Ocupinar Gate. The air was dead calm, with less dust and a whole lot cooler than it was during Robert’s last time around. He figured it to be about in the mid-80s which was like sitting out by the swimming pool with an ice-cold lemonade compared to the blistering heat of July.
“So Bob, is this your first time to Syria?”
“Sorry, Lieutenant, I’m not allowed to tell that to anyone – it’s classified – but from the looks of you I know you can figure it out.”
“Yes, I think I can. So I suppose I don’t have to tell you this whole effort completely sucks balls.”
“How so?”
“You don’t know?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Well, not knowing exactly what your mission is, I can only give you general advice and that’s to watch your back.”
Robert furrowed his brows, bewildered. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, sleep with one eye open if you can. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not questioning my orders. I’m a soldier and I follow them. But nobody here on the ground believes in this mission. Almost half of these bastards we’re training have defected to al-Nusra.”
“I see.”
“This is my second tour here and it’s even worse than it was in Jordan.”
“Have you reported this to your command?”
“Hell, yeah. Like I said, I don’t question my place. We’re just following orders, but it doesn’t feel right, you know? We came here to fight terrorists, not teach them how to fight us, and that’s what it feels like.”
Robert could sense Reeves’ enthusiasm was already waning.
“Plus now we’ve got the Russians running around.”
“Russians?”
“Yeah, you see them around at the checkpoints and stuff. They’re not in uniform, but you see ‘em hanging out with the Syrian officers and you can tell they’re Russians, all right.”
Of course, Robert already knew about the Russians but there was nothing he could say about it. At that point, Walker couldn’t help but chime in. “We’ve seen them in the air, too, sir.”
“Yeah, we’ve spotted Russian drones all over the place.”
“I suppose they’re fighting ISIS, too.”
“I guess. But they’re also fighting the FSA, the Levant Front and the Army of Conquest – all these guys who we’ve been providing aid to. Makes you feel like we’re smack dab in the middle of another cold war.”
“War’s never cold, Lieutenant. It’s always hot.”
Peterson smiled. “You’re right about that, sir.”
By the time they had arrived at Robert’s drop point in the village of Azaz, the conversation had lightened and turned to women, something Robert had no input to provide. But, listening to the guys talk about their girls back home made his thoughts drift to Lana. She had always been out of reach, someone he could never have. Now she was also an enemy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Azaz was a blown-out shithole, similar to Aleppo, but a lot smaller. When they arrived at the checkpoint, Robert began to see for himself just what Peterson had been talking about. Being an expert in tracking down jihadis, he was astonished that the members of the Levant Front, the rebels who were operating the checkpoint, looked remarkably like the targets he had been stalking. He noticed it first when they stopped. The guards wore their socks pulled up past their ankles, almost halfway up to their knees, like they were wearing shorts or their camo pants were too short for their legs. It was haram to wear anything over the ankles, so the exposure of black socks gave them up as extremists right away. They wore their uniforms just like ISIS militants.
Robert hitched a ride in the cab of one of the Toyotas, in a group of seven headed for rebel-controlled eastern Aleppo. As they drove in formation toward the city, it reminded Robert of the jihadis who, driving the same type of Toyota pickup trucks, had attacked him the previous summer. He felt like he was riding with the enemy. But, this was his last assignment. After that, he’d buy a little sailboat with the money he had saved up, fish and live off the sea.
I’m definitely getting too old for this shit.
General Hemsani was a “hands-on” commander. Using the fresh Intel Robert had memorized from the file, he figured the general would not be too hard to find. The Syrian Army had established a base in the ancient Citadel. Perched on a 160-foot high hill and surrounded by a 72-foot deep moat, it was a site that Robert felt would be the most logical for a command center. Robert set out for the citadel on a one-man recon mission to locate the general and formulate a plan to kill him. He bought a Chinese motorcycle off one of the rebels and set off toward the old city.
***
Without the benefit of drone surveillance himself, he had to do it the hard way. Since the tallest structure near the citadel, the 1,000-year-old minaret of the Great Mosque, had been destroyed, he climbed to the top of the minaret of the nearby al-Atroush Mosque, which was only 200 meters south of the fortress, close enough to hit it with a golf ball. Crouched on the cool stone pavement of the uppermost floor, he surveyed the castle with field glasses. Robert had studied the citadel as part of his courses in military history when he was in the Army. It was one of the oldest castles in the world, protected by UNESCO, as was the old city surrounding it, which had been all but completely destroyed.
Upon its already formidable protective walls were machine gun emplacements, stacked with white sand bags. He also noticed several PRP-4A Argus reconnaissance vehicles with artillery placed in guard positions around the grounds in the old city, which confirmed to him the Russians were there or were at least supplying them. Despite the pounding the fortress had taken in the years of civil war, it still remained virtually impenetrable. But nobody was entering the fortress through the impressive bridge and main entrance complex.
How are they getting in there?
He sketched their comings and goings, and it appeared to him they must be using underground tunnels for access. He knew that the citadel had them.
The western gate had been destroyed by the same guys Robert was hanging with. Like the Carlton Hotel, which his compatriots had taken down in 2014, they had blown it up with the use of an underground tunnel network they had been working on for years to wage subterranean warfare against the Syrian government forces. The citadel wasn’t the only culturally protected site destroyed in Aleppo. That and the defectors to al-Nusra Peterson had told him about gave him a very uneasy feeling. Robert was a killer, but he had always felt he had been on the right side. Now he felt like he was fighting with the terrorists instead of against them.
It was impossible to strike the interior of the fortress from anywhere in the city. That, and the fact that Robert didn’t know the general’s location or even if he was, in fact there, made this assignment the most complicated one he had ever been given. At nightfall, he left the mosque and rode back to base camp, determined to learn as much as he could about the citadel before he returned. Knowledge to him could mean the difference between life and death.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Back in Azaz, Robert was able to hook his laptop up to wireless Internet provided through Turkish wireless services to the rebel camp. In addition to the regular Intel being fed to him by the man with no name, he found a wealth of information on the citadel from the Aga Khan’s restoration project and tourist guides. From the documentation, Robert determined the two structures in which the general would most likely establish his command post would be either the old barracks, which had
been converted into a visitors’ center and museum, or the completely restored Mamluk Throne Hall which rested on top of the main entrance complex. From the rare but recent photographs he had seen of the throne hall, it appeared to be uninhabited and was lacking comparable facilities. A night attack on the visitors’ center made the most sense to him, that was, if the general was even there. He memorized the floor plans of both structures and their locations within the fortress, as well as the general plan of the interior.
He finally received the confirmation he so badly needed when Manizek informed him that reliable intelligence showed that the general was, in fact, in Aleppo and had taken up headquarters in the citadel. Robert would enter the castle through one of the secret passages under the slope. Since it would be guarded, he would wear a protective mask and flood the tunnel with fentanyl gas. From there he would have to kill any guards at the other end of the tunnel and then do a fast recon on the visitors’ center first and then the throne hall, if necessary, to determine the most likely command post location. Then, it would be an assessment of the opportunities to take the shot, and what hostilities he would likely face afterwards.
The most complicated part would be the escape route, since there were so many variables that were unknown. To cover his escape, he needed a diversion. Once at the visitors’ center, he would cut the main power lines, sneak away as much as he could and fight the rest of the way out in the dark. If the way he came in was blocked, he would use another secret passageway below the throne hall to get away.
***
The following day, Robert was back into the Darknet, where he discovered another PGP mail from Manizek, which he assumed would be another one of his many Intel briefings. It was not.
FRAGO: You will execute the mission and be followed by a rebel breach team, who will assist you if necessary.
It was then Robert realized the general was not as important to them as the rebels breaching the citadel. He was the guinea pig they were sending in to pave the way for a rebel death squad to go in there, kill everybody and take the citadel for themselves. Not only would they capture key pieces of Russian military equipment, but also a strategic position in the city that would enable them to hold out should the Russian involvement increase.