“For now,” Plecas answered.
“I do not understand,” Fedorov said. “We should attempt to break trail, deploying countermeasures and shifting to the electric drive.”
“Patience, First Officer. Now is not the right time. Let us see what the American captain does when we enter the Marginal Ice Zone, and then I will decide.”
Buglione studied the geographic plot, his concern that Pittsburgh would be counter-detected by the Russian crew beginning to ease. Kazan remained steady on course and speed, proceeding northwest at ten knots, while Pittsburgh worked its way around the Russian submarine. In a few minutes, they would be behind her in an optimum trailing position.
When Pittsburgh intersected Kazan’s trail, Buglione ordered, “Helm, right full rudder, steady course three-two-five. Ahead two-thirds.”
Pittsburgh turned right and slowed, steadying up five thousand yards behind the Russian submarine, matching its course and speed. Buglione was pleased with his crew’s performance, successfully skirting around Kazan.
Lieutenant Commander Schwartz called out, “Possible contact zig, Master one, due to upshift in frequency.”
Schwartz stood behind the combat control consoles, his eyes shifting between the displays. “Zig confirmed,” Schwartz announced. “Set anchor range at five thousand yards. Master one has turned north and remains at ten knots.”
Buglione examined the geographic display again. In a few minutes, Pittsburgh would also turn north, staying in Kazan’s baffles.
Schwartz turned toward Buglione. “If Kazan continues north, she’ll enter the Marginal Ice Zone.”
Buglione nodded. “Where Kazan goes, we go.”
21
DAMASCUS, SYRIA
A purple-orange dawn was breaking across the horizon as a Dassault Falcon approached the eastern shore of the Mediterranean Sea, nearing the end of its twelve-hour flight. As daylight crept westward, the jet began its descent toward Damascus International Airport. Jake Harrison looked out his window, examining the historic metropolis. Wide boulevards radiated out from the Old City — an oblong region defined by ancient walls, of which sizable stretches still stood — within which lay most of the city’s Hellenistic and Roman architecture. Descending from the Anti-Lebanon Mountains, the Barada River divided into seven branches upon reaching Damascus, irrigating a large and fertile oasis called the al-Ghutah before its waters vanished into the desert.
The jet coasted to a halt not far from a man leaning against a black sedan. Harrison, Khalila, and Durrani descended the steps to the tarmac where they met Nizar Mussan, a CIA officer serving as an executive assistant for Bluestone Security. The introductions were brief, and after placing their luggage in the trunk and joining Mussan in the car, they pulled away from the Dassault Falcon as its twin engines spun down to a stop.
Damascus was only a few miles away, and shortly after entering the city, Mussan stopped by a side street. Durrani pulled a thick envelope of money from his briefcase and handed it to Khalila, then informed her and Harrison that he’d be only a phone call away to provide any assistance they needed. He stepped from the vehicle and disappeared into an alley as Mussan pulled back into traffic.
Mussan stopped a short while later in front of Beit Al Mamlouka, a small boutique hotel on Qemarieh Street, where he unloaded Harrison’s and Khalila’s luggage and handed a garment bag to Harrison. Upon departing Langley a half-day ago, Harrison had learned that Khalila was already packed, apparently prepared for short-notice departures. On the way to the airport, they had stopped by Harrison’s hotel for clothes.
An examination of his wardrobe had elicited a sour look from Khalila, although he wasn’t sure what was wrong with his jeans and polo shirts, plus he had a pair of khaki slacks and several dress shirts to choose from. She took a picture of him as he stood facing her, and after learning his height and shoe size, sent the photo and a short message on her cell phone. When Harrison inquired what the photo and information were for, her response was a curt—You need appropriate clothes. Apparently the garment bag contained the items Khalila had ordered.
Harrison and Khalila entered the hotel lobby while Mussan waited in the car, since their meeting with the Syrian weapons dealer was in less than an hour. They were greeted at the lobby counter by an elderly Arab who appeared to be meeting Khalila and Harrison for the first time, although Harrison noticed a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes when he addressed Khalila.
While checking in, Harrison learned that Beit Al Mamlouka had only eight rooms, five of them surrounding a courtyard containing a fountain and citrus trees. They were given the keys to a room on the second floor, which contained a terrace overlooking the courtyard.
“Welcome to Damascus, Mr. Connolly and Ms. Dufour,” he said. “I hope you enjoy your stay at Beit Al Mamlouka.”
It took Harrison a second for his new name to register.
It wasn’t until they entered their room and Khalila tossed her luggage onto the single, queen-sized bed that Harrison realized they had been booked into the same room.
“We don’t have separate rooms?” he asked.
“We stay together for now. No one will care. If we have to stay overnight, you can sleep in the bed with me, but don’t get any ideas.”
“Fair enough.”
Khalila approached the window and pulled the brocade curtain back slightly, examining the courtyard and adjacent terraces. Apparently satisfied with what she observed, she unpacked her luggage, then shed her business suit and blouse, stripping down to her bra and panties. As Harrison wondered what she was doing, she pulled two knives from her suitcase, each set within a spring-loaded device, and strapped one to each forearm.
“Nonmetallic,” she said, noticing his stare. “They won’t set off any metal detectors.”
Up to this point, it hadn’t occurred to Harrison to inquire about Khalila’s training. It was obvious she’d been to the Farm — the CIA’s training complex in Virginia — receiving at least some level of specialized training. As he wondered how proficient she was in close combat, she donned a pair of slacks instead of a skirt, plus a short-sleeved blouse instead of the long-sleeved one she had removed, then put her black suit jacket on again. After assessing herself in a full-length mirror, she rotated her right wrist outward and flexed her hand sideways, and a knife popped down into her palm.
She turned to Harrison. “Don’t bring a weapon. You’re a Bluestone executive for now.”
Khalila then wrapped a black scarf around her head and neck, adding a matching niqab that left only her eyes exposed. Harrison, meanwhile, unpacked the garment bag Mussan had given him. It contained two suits, several dress shirts, ties, a belt, socks, and a pair of black dress shoes.
“You can ditch the tie for today’s meeting,” Khalila said. “A suit and open-collared shirt will work fine.”
Harrison selected a shirt and suit, which fit amazingly well, and was soon ready to depart.
“During the meeting,” Khalila said, “you don’t have to do anything except respond to my questions. You’re a prop, giving me the cover I need to inquire about Mixell and the large weapon procurement. I’ll talk with you occasionally in English, and we’ll need to make it seem like you’re making decisions and giving me direction, in case anyone at the meeting understands English. Just play it by ear. Any questions?”