“Jesus,” Court muttered.

“When Tarek and Rima’s children were killed, they could no longer avoid involvement in the war itself. They started raising money for weapons and other equipment in the West, sneaking it over the border with their relief supplies.” And then he added, “I was hired to facilitate this operation, and then along the way I learned about Medina, Drexler, and the ISIS plan. I arranged to bring you in to help with that.”

“And here we are,” Court said.

“Here we are,” Voland confirmed.

“Now they want me to go in and get the baby.”

Voland cracked a smile now, as if this were the most ridiculous notion he’d ever heard. “Of course they do. The operation to compromise Azzam’s secret talks with the Iranians will only go forward with Medina’s help, and they will not allow me to use enhanced techniques on the woman. It would be a boon to the Halabys’ operation if you’d go to Syria and rescue this child, but personally, I think it utter madness.”

“I want to talk to Bianca,” Court declared flatly.

“For what purpose?”

“For the purpose of determining my level of madness.”

Voland was gobsmacked. “So, there is a chance you will go to Damascus?”

“There’s a greater chance I’ll get on the next bus leaving town.”

“Monsieur . . . if you go to Syria, you will die.”

Court repeated himself. “I want to talk to Bianca.”

“Very well. I can arrange this.”

It was silent in the unfinished room for several seconds. Then Voland said, “Ah . . . you mean now.”

“I do mean now.”

CHAPTER 20

President of the Syrian Arab Republic Ahmed al-Azzam was a tall and thin man, always impeccably dressed, but his fashion acumen did little for him, because he had yellowish skin and a seemingly constant five-o’clock shadow. Even as he sat behind the massive walnut desk in his expansive office, amid art and antiquities and bodyguards in tailored business suits, he still did not look the part of the leader of his nation.

Sebastian Drexler had met him a few times before and he was always left with the same impression. Whereas Shakira Azzam was a beautiful, mature woman, classically featured, and with an air of brightness about her, Ahmed Azzam looked grim and disengaged, even when he smiled.

He looked less like Shakira’s husband and more like her uncle the undertaker.

But today he appeared even more drawn and anxious than usual. Drexler knew why, but he pretended like he did not.

The Swiss operative fought the undertaker imagery now as he sat in Ahmed Azzam’s large palace office, facing the man with the too-narrow eyes and the too-thin chin. Drexler was here on a mission, and the mission required him to be taken into Ahmed’s confidence.

So Drexler merely smiled back.

Azzam motioned to the tea service on the corner of his desk, and then he reached for one of the empty cups. Holding his hand around it, he said, “You are well, Mr. Drexler?”

Four male attendants stood close by, and one poured for both men, while the other three kept their eyes on the foreigner and their hands near the pistols inside their jackets.

When the tea was poured, Azzam ignored it, so Drexler did, as well. He said, “I am very well, sir. Thank you for inquiring.”

“Our lovely weather is to your liking, I assume?”

The daily highs in Damascus this time of year were in the low eighties, and the lows in the midfifties. It was, indeed, beautiful weather, Drexler had to admit, although he would have given it up in a heartbeat to stand in a snowstorm in his homeland.

“Damascus is an oasis, Mr. President.”

Azzam’s little mouth stretched into a forced smile. “I am hearing interesting things about you from my people in the Mukhabarat.”

Drexler’s chest tightened. No one likes to hear that a nation’s intelligence service is saying anything about them to the president of the nation. But even less so when the person in question is targeting the president’s mistress and sleeping with his wife. He wondered if Azzam had brought him here only to tell him he was to be executed.

Drexler managed to force out a neutral enough “Is that so?”

“Yes. My people in GIS tell me you have been helping them out on some operations in Europe with your contacts there. Work that is above and beyond your duties on the finance side. You have my personal gratitude for your assistance. As you are well aware, this is a difficult time for our nation. Your connections overseas are crucial to our operations to keep Syria strong.”

Drexler relaxed somewhat. It didn’t sound like he was to be trucked off to the notorious Saydnaya Prison for execution after all. “It has been an honor to serve Syria, and to live in this amazing city and nation. I owe you a personal debt of gratitude for that.”

Azzam bit at an unruly fingernail, then took a sip of tea that proved to be clearly too hot, so he put it down. He nodded distractedly. “I have a new operation for you and your contacts . . . it takes place in Europe, and it needs to be done quickly and with discretion.”

“Mr. President, I will do my best, but it is difficult for me to travel in Europe. Nevertheless, as you know, I have people all over the continent. My best efforts and my best contacts are at your disposal.”

Azzam kept biting at his nail. “I wonder if there might be a way you could possibly go yourself?”

Drexler pretended to think on the question, but in truth, he was marveling on the fact that this was going even better than he’d hoped. “Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, there is a way. I have discussed with your Mukhabarat what I would need if I were ever called upon by your government for a personal mission into one of the nations where Interpol has impeded my safe travel.”

“Tell me the procedure you would use.”

Sebastian Drexler did so, giving Azzam a quick layman’s explanation for a complicated operation, and the Syrian president actually smiled and even gasped once while listening to the details.

“You seem to know all about this,” Azzam said when Drexler was finished, and this unnerved Drexler a little. The procedure he outlined was a means to get into Europe, and for Drexler to know it so well, he wondered if Azzam suspected he might have been preparing to flee Damascus and return home at some point. But Drexler sold his knowledge of the method as more professional necessity than an actual plan of action.

“Mr. President, if there were a book written on this procedure, I would have been the one to write it. I have been working on this with doctors and scientists for five and a half years, beginning back when I was living in Sudan.”

“But it’s untested?”

“We’ve tested it. We sent agents to Europe two times using this method, and both times we were successful.”

Now Azzam nodded enthusiastically. “Oh . . . then we shall use this procedure to move you into Europe.”

“Thank you, sir. Obviously it will require some significant resources to accomplish, so I assume it is something that would only be approved in the case of a national emergency.”

“Approved,” Azzam said with a hand wave. “How quickly can you go?”

Drexler feigned surprise. “Well . . . depending on the nature of your operational necessities, I can begin preparing the resources immediately. It will take several hours to get the equipment and people in place and brief them, but I could be on a plane leaving Damascus within twenty-four to thirty-six hours of you authorizing the mission.”

Azzam gave a squirrelly, awkward smile. “Then the day after tomorrow you will leave. Time is critical, you see.”

Drexler nodded, and then he hesitated before asking the next question. “What can you tell me about the operation, sir?” He was worried about where this would lead, but it would have been inauthentic and suspicious if he did not inquire.

Azzam looked out his window. From there he had a good view of the southern districts of Damascus, though they were mostly obscured by darkness. “There is a young woman in Paris who has been kidnapped. Did you hear about the attack there last night?”

“Yes, of course. It’s all over the news. ISIS raided a private hotel, kidnapped a young Spanish fashion model. A very beautiful woman, from the pictures on Al Jazeera.”

Azzam smiled again. Drexler knew him to be an oddball, so he was no longer creeped out by his mannerisms. The Syrian president said, “The media says she was the lover of the emir of Kuwait, but they have it wrong. That woman is my lover.”

Shit, Drexler thought. He’d hoped the president would send him off with some ruse, but the man seemed unabashedly proud of the truth.

Drexler feigned shock for a moment, then said, “My condolences, Mr. President, but I understand the gravity of the situation. I and my team in Europe will find her, and we will bring her back to you.”