“In the basement under the shop, sadiqi, but what does my tiny enterprise and its oven have to do with your reason for being in Syria? I use it to make pieces for the hotel and gifts for the powers who keep the hands of their men off my hotel and its guests.”

  “You’re best not knowing. You’ll be well paid. Even more if there’s a private way from the hotel into the basement of the shop.”

  “There is most certainly. Define well paid.”

  “You should’ve been a western capitalist, Ahmed, one without principle. Have you ever worked for the banks? You’d fit right in.”

  The Syrian’s mustache hairs straggled down in front of his teeth added a certain texture to his smile. He rubbed the calloused surface of his thumb against the softer pads of his fingers. When Ryan didn’t reply right away, El Sayed raised his eyebrows and repeated the hand gesture for money. The edge of his tongue eased out to wet the adventurous hairs from his mustache.

  “I can’t win with you, Ahmed. You’re Syria’s greatest negotiator. “Five thousand dollars for about one hour, perhaps a little longer, of secure use of your shop, plus a little assistance with related matters.”

  “American dollars? I did two years of college in the States, Chicago. One day I will return.”

  “Yes, U.S. I’ll double it if you can provide within the next hour or so, three things, all of which should be easy, one of which you can give me now. The others within the hour.”

  “Double sounds good, but first I must know the nature of . . . these easy things. There are risks I will not take even for you, sadiqi.”

  “You’re a valued resource the western governments want safe and in place. The first two’ll be easy for a man of your talents and wisdom. The third will also be easy, but, regrettably, perhaps a little distasteful.”

  Ahmed crossed his legs and slowly raked one eyebrow with the dirty fingernail of his little finger.

  “A key to your glassblowing shop, and knowledge of how to move from here into your shop without going outside the building. I’ll return the key late tonight.”

  “And the other two things?”

  “You are to drive me back to the Carlton and wait. When I come out I won’t be alone. You’re to keep your eyes front, say nothing, and drive us to your shop entrance in the back alley behind your hotel.”

  “What else?”

  “I’ll need the body of a dead child. Preferably, a girl, small. Little more than an infant would be ideal, one without enough face to be identified.”

  El Sayed took his feet down from his desk, reached behind him, and opened a small refrigerator. From it he took two bottles of Al-Chark. He popped the caps and ran his palm over the opened neck of each bottle, possibly a habit followed to suggest wiping away some grit or unseen germs. Or, he could just be scraping the dirt from his hand. He passed one to Ryan. He reached back to the top of the refrigerator and picked up a bowl filled with something that looked like trail mix—but wasn’t. He put it on his desk within Ryan’s reach.

  “Ah, sadiqi, given the destruction that rains down on our city daily, there is no shortage of death in all sizes mixed within the rubble as well as openly scattered on our streets. Still, to do such a thing would bring me great sadness.” El Sayed used the rough side of one of the bottle caps to rake over the callouses on the outer edges of the palms of his hands, first one and then the other.

  “Yes. Well, that’s the reason for the second five thousand. No one else is to be involved.” Ryan used the fingers on his hand to flip back and forth between himself and the innkeeper. “Only you and me. And, while, as you say, it’s sad, I assure you in a small way, it will move us toward ending the violence that rips your country apart every day. Most importantly, my payment to you will advance your plan to eventually leave Syria.”

  El Sayed fisted a handful of whatever was in the bowl on the desk and threw it into his mouth. He looked at his hand, his eyes crossing as he leaned closer and licked his palm. “I sometimes feel as if the weight of Israel, perhaps the free world is hanging around the neck of this little Syrian merchant of hospitality.” He wiped his open hand on his shirt front, then used it to dust the snack crumbs from the beard around his mouth.

  “Don’t be melodramatic. This is the time to get real. Your hand is hanging around the neck of that excellent Syrian beer. For now, that is enough. You can save the free world another day.”

  “That is a terrible simile, if that is the right use of the word, sadiqi.”

  Ryan leaned forward and extended his bottle. “Drink up. We need to get this deal made.”

  After clinking bottle necks with Ryan and leveraging him into increasing the total to twelve thousand, U.S., Ahmed El Sayed pledged to do as Ryan requested.

  “Alone, Ahmed,” Ryan repeated. “No one is to be made aware of this. No one. Not even the European women whose favors you trade for rent.” After Ahmed paused, he nodded, then Ryan put forth more conditions. “When I’ve left Syria safely, with my mission completed, I’ll arrange for our mutual Israeli friends to bring you the twelve-thousand, plus another eight-thousand, American, on two conditions.”

  El Sayed’s eyebrows rose. “I like money, this I admit most freely, but I do not like conditions, sadiqi.” He crossed his arms.

  “This is bonus money over and above what I’ll pay you for tonight.”

  “The conditions?”

  Ryan held up one finger. “The first is that I must get out of Syria safely.”

  “That I cannot control, sadiqi. My, ah . . . services are available only in Aleppo.”

  “I understand, however, this bonus is to assure you do nothing to impede my leaving.”

  A knowing smile came to El Sayed’s mouth, the corner farthest from the candle. His eyes grew larger. His smile widened in the direction of the flame to reveal his discolored teeth. His center right tooth was chipped.

  “And the second of these conditions, sadiqi?”

  Ryan raised the index finger on his other hand. “That nothing happens to a certain guest in the Carlton. That he, too, departs Syria without incident.”

  El Sayed’s fist again dove into the bowl. The withdrawal deposited into his mouth. He licked his palm, and wiped his damp hand on his shirtfront. And dusted the snack debris from his beard.

  “Who is the guest?”

  “Not important.”

  “I cannot agree, sadiqi. It remains possible that the identity of this guest may bring me a greater reward than this token bonus you promise. Not that I would betray you, sadiqi, for any reason, of course.” His grin included a wedge of his tongue appearing through his chipped tooth. He leaned back into his chair and took a long chug on his Al-Chark.

  “Ahmed, if these two conditions aren’t met, we’ve already arranged for you to receive a different bonus; the amputation of one of your arms and one of your legs. Then there is this.” Ryan leaned forward and slid a scrap of paper toward his host.

  El Sayed picked up the small paper and angled it to reflect the candlelight. His face lowered, his eyes shadowed by his forehead. “Numbers?” He shrugged. The paper rested in the middle of his open palm. He extended the edge of the paper into the flame and let it consume itself in the cup of his calloused hand.

  “As you immediately recognized, the numbers identify your accounts in two different Swiss banks. If you betray me or the Mossad, you’ll become a penniless double amputee living out your days here in this hellhole called Aleppo. We know you do favors for the Syrian forces of the government as well as for Israel, and for the opposition to the Assad government. That’s what provides you the influence and contacts you need to do our bidding. We accept your need to do a certain amount of double dealing. Still, you should not be foolish. Never put their interests ahead of ours in anything we pay you to do.”

  “I find such talk offensive, sadiqi. I would never betray you.”

  “I never thought you would, but now we both know you have reason not to.”

  El Sayed stood and extended his hand, after again wiping it on his shirtfront. “How soon shall we begin the things you want done tonight?”

  “As soon as you show me the most private entrance into your hotel, and how to move between your hotel and your glassblowing shop.”

  El Sayed stood and placed his open hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Come.”

  7

  SOMEWHERE NORTH OF WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The man in the expensive suit walked in on small feet. He took off his custom-tailored black suit coat and draped it over the back of a side chair, the label having been cut from inside the garment. He was a slender man whose height would be listed as average. He went to the window and watched the wind push its way through the shrubs bordering the parking area. After getting a cup of coffee, he took a seat at the head of the table. Two other men, still wearing their jackets, and one woman already sat the table. The three went silent, immediately surrendering their attention to him even before he cleared his throat.

  “The president has made it official, he’s running for a second term. Not that it surprises any of us. Still, making it official does dial up the need for exactness in all that we do. Let’s review where we are and then get the hell out of here. Where do we stand on Billy Knight and this Darby woman?”

  “With respect to Linda Darby, team two remains in place. Darby is under surveillance in Portland, Oregon. Every indication is that first thing in the morning, she’ll visit the boarding school her daughter attends to confirm that the girl is unharmed. Darby won’t be of much use until she has that assurance.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then, John will—”

  “No names. None of our names. Anywhere. … Not now. Not later. Phone or in person. Period. … Get that straight.” The leader finished with his index finger in the Uncle-Sam-wants-you position. “Okay, continue.”

  “Our man taking the point with Darby will contact her again and put her in position to see the target.”

  “Are we ready to reveal his identity? Is Darby that on board?”

  “Not yet. Soon we will, without revealing the target, put her deeper into an emotional box. Show her the inevitability of it. That, in any event, the target will die. The only question for her is will she sacrifice her daughter or follow your orders.”

  “We’ve got to keep this moving. Every day we delay raises the risk of the target selling his story or blurting it out to some bartender or hooker.”

  “Sure. Sure. That’s understood, but Darby’s not fully primed. If you want us to go ahead and take him out, we can get that done before noon tomorrow.”

  “No. We need to wrap this tight. It’ll immediately become the number one media story around the world. The damn 24/7 news will drag it across the headlines and TV screens for weeks. It’ll instantly be one of those stories that’s constantly repeated whether or not there are any new developments. Once those bastards get hold of a lead story like that, they cover it ad nauseam. We need a fall guy. A way to shut it down afterwards, immediately move it toward old news. As long as some emergency doesn’t smash our timeline, we need Darby. We’ll salt her forensics into a rendezvous point where they supposedly have been meeting. We’ll have them seen together in public. Her prints and DNA will be in his house in Portland. We just need a day or two to get her ready … convinced. In the meantime, we’re watching her target very closely. If he tries to take his story anywhere for fun or profit, we’ll know. Should that happen, we’ll come to you fast for the order to put him down.”

  The third man at the table spoke for the first time. “What’s he been up to?”

  “Drinking. Whoring some. Dealing with his shame. He’s been discredited. He grew up a pretty rich kid who never had to deal with rejection. Monday is the two-week anniversary of his being fired from the Secret Service. He’s still keeping his trap shut. That means he hasn’t finished rationalizing it fully in his mind. There’s a normal progression to these things. Right Doc?”

  “Damn it. No names.”

  “That’s not a name.”

  “Technically, sure,” the doc said, “but it’s too damn close. Watch it. As for him, you’re pretty much on point, before one starts to talk about this kind of thing, one needs to settle their mind as to the who and why of it all. He’ll eventually conclude the real fault lies with the nympho first lady, the arcane policies of the Secret Service, his immediate boss, even the president for not having adequately serviced his own wife. In the end, he’ll blame anybody, everybody, but not himself. When he reaches that point, he’ll decide he’s the real victim. That he’s entitled to make a buck off his story after what they did to him. The Secret Service promised him a solid reference, implicitly in return for his keeping his mouth shut. When he gets near the end point of these mental gymnastics, all he’ll remember is that the service has endured more than a half a dozen scandals in the past decade. That the service made him that promise to protect their own reputation, to protect the president and his reelection. Not to protect him. He owes them nothing in return. They’ve done nothing but fire him. I expect he’s weighting that if he reveals the scandal it will destroy his chance for another job in law enforcement.”

  “So,” the leader summarized, “he’ll make a deal for a tell-all book. He’ll figure that’ll set him up so he won’t need another job. Along with the inheritance he’s expecting from his wealthy old parents. He’s an only child.”

  “Right. In today’s America anything that brings you enough attention will make you a celebrity, even if it’s for betraying your duty and pounding another man’s wife. Believe me, he’ll get a book deal. It just hasn’t yet come full circle. People love to read about sex in the house of power. Who boffed the first lady with a candlestick in the library, like it’s the sex edition of a frigging game of Clue. But the book won’t just be about him and the first lady, it’ll include all the fellows she’s played hide the weasel with. The Secret Service guys know all the inside dirt. He’ll likely throw in a few escapades by her old man, POTUS himself. Fortunately, our Commander-in-Chief doesn’t command much sexual prowess these days, but he still grabs an ass now and again when the opportunity presents itself. The foxy gals in the press corps have all heard not to stand next to POTUS while the flag is going up the pole.”

  “What about the others you mentioned? Ah, . . . the others with the first lady.”

  “There’ve only been two others.”

  “That we know of.”

  “Yeah. That we know of. But I think we’d know. At least since POTUS started receiving Secret Service protection.”

  “What about those two?”

  “Both members of our party, married. One’s an elected official, the other, a former congressman and now a lobbyist, people with their own reasons for keeping this under wraps. And for wanting to see the president reelected.”

  “Okay, back to our target. Have we got a tight net on him?”

  “The man’s always been a cunt hound. We’ve got two women who do a threesome with him whenever he’s feely starved for attention. They keep him fed and watered, liquored and sexed up. From what they report, the man’s got a spigot between his legs that flows every time it’s turned on. They’ll know before he brings his story out into the light. I expect he’ll get drunk and try his reasoning out by telling them all about it and why it’s not his fault. So, yeah, for now anyway, we’ve got it covered.”

  Each person at the table glanced back and forth at the others. They were all nodding. The man who called the meeting spoke. “Okay. It all sounds as solid as it can be. Keep me posted on Darby. If she’s not ready soon, were moving forward with a plan B, but we want Darby to pull the trigger, that’s plan A.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “We’ll do a Lee Harvey Oswald to Jack Ruby handoff. Then take out our Ruby. There’s always another nut to be used. I’ve got it sketched out. Another squad is working that part of it. I’ll meet with them later today. If we work it right, we’ll have Darby taken out by on-the-scene security, or soon after. If so, we won’t need our Oswald or Ruby. Your job is to prime Darby’s pump. After that I’ll only need a day, maybe two to have the rest set up, or activate plan B, which has fewer moving parts.”

  The one who was referred to as Doc moved in his seat. “Anything else?”

  The sea-gray eyes of the man at the head of the table looked at the tired faces sitting on each side. “Meeting adjourned. Get out of here. But stay on this stuff. Any cracks, don’t try to patch them. I want to know.”

  8

  At seven, Linda stood on the front porch of The Hobart School, her back to the door, looking out toward the street, her umbrella lowered. The sky looking like a television screen with the signal lost.

  The sound of a latch key released the deadbolt. The time had finally arrived for her to see Steffi. She turned to face the aproned matron when she opened the door far enough to allow Linda to enter. Not wanting to present herself as being harried, she calmly mentioned she was passing through Portland on her way to Seattle. Her time was limited, but she hoped she might see her daughter.

  “The girls will be down in the next few minutes. May I escort you into the cafeteria? Hopefully, you can stay long enough to join Steffi for breakfast.”

  “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  Linda reached out over the cement porch and spun her umbrella to shed its loose water. She set it in the hallway, open, and rubbed her hands together to offset the cold from the dampness that generally accompanied Portland drizzles. After the perfunctory smiles and nods to others whose names were thrown her way, Linda followed the lady into the cafeteria. She was directed to one of the smaller tables for four.

  “The girls come through that door.” She pointed. “I’ll watch for your daughter and bring her to your table.”

  Linda thanked her again and sat down. Her eyes focused on the doorway, eager to see that Steffi was still in the school and safe. Irrationally, she feared the matron would return in a frazzle to report that Steffi was missing from her room, her backpack found on the floor, its strap torn, her books scattered in the hallway. Linda moved to the edge of her chair as the girls began crowding through the door.