Lady Death

Wilson said. His enthusiasm carried over the line.
“Do we have people in-country?”
“Small team, yeah,” Wilson said. “They’re in Damascus. If she’s there, they will find her.”
“Good luck. Give Fisher my best.”
Wilson laughed. “Sure. He loves you.”
“See you soon, Clark.”
Raven hung up and returned to his seat. He dealt the cards, and they played another hand. This time, Raven won.

8
Syria was too nice a place to have a war.
But “Tiger” Joe Hayden, CIA officer, knew it was wishful thinking. Hell, Syria was in the Middle East. When hadn’t there been a war?
He sat at a small table, back to the wall, in a Damascus café. He’d have preferred to smoke one of his beloved Cuban cigars, but when in Rome, do as the Romans do. He instead puffed on a hookah, enjoying the flavor of the tobacco. He rolled it around his mouth and blew a stream of smoke. The cloud joined the haze hovering beneath the ceiling.
Along with the hookah, he sipped hot cardamom coffee. The spice went well with the tobacco.
He wasn’t alone in the café. Had he left the table to use the restroom, he’d have to step around dozens of other patrons at small tables to get there. And for a good reason. This morning, the café welcomed The Storyteller.
The Storyteller, dressed in a white robe and red fez, sat on a throne across the room. He read aloud from a book of Syrian history, dramatizing events of the past in a booming voice. He required no microphone. The patrons sat as if in a trance, taking in every word.
It beat the heck out of television. The workday hadn’t yet begun, so the patrons had time to listen. Syrians wanted to know their history. He wished Americans shared the same passion.
Storytellers had once been ubiquitous in Syrian restaurants and cafes. As the years went on, they became less and less of a fixture. Only a few cafes in the city, and country, still featured storytellers, and only on certain nights of the week.
It was one of the joys of his assignment in Damascus. He was working under the cover of a United Nations humanitarian aid administrator, with a Canadian passport. While he did go deeper into the country to oversee such operations, he had two jobs. He kept one eye on the aid packages and the other open to observe terrorist and rebel activity.
The United States may have pulled out of Syria, abandoning the flawed policy of trying to topple the Assad regime, but officers like Hayden remained. There was work still to be done, albeit covertly. He didn’t mind. It was a beautiful city, with wonderful people. If he could help end the current crisis and send the bad actors elsewhere, he’d consider his work a success.
He wasn’t self-conscious of being the only white man in the café. Nobody cared. He was familiar enough to the owner to always have a table available. What bothered him was the circuitous route he’d have to take back to home base. He had to make sure nobody tried to kill him on the way.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Once, twice.
He’d turned off the ringer before entering. He didn’t want to disturb the listening. Setting down his coffee cup, he inspected the screen. A text message from home base. Two words.
Dad Called.
It meant he had to get back for a video conference with Langley. Something was happening.
He downed the rest of his coffee. Nobody in his right mind let cardamom coffee go cold. He left the rest of the tobacco in the hookah unsmoked. Such was life. He purchased a bag of fresh-ground cardamom coffee and said goodbye to the owner. The old man took Hayden’s money and returned his rapt attention on The Storyteller. Tiger Joe left the café and stepped out onto the street.
He carried the bag of coffee in his left hand and kept his right hand in the pocket of his jeans. He didn’t bother with a jacket despite the coolness of the morning. Hayden dodged other pedestrians on the crowded walkways and noted the heavy traffic. He carried no firearms, but he wasn’t without defense. His right hand gripped the T handle of a sharp push dagger.
He wasn’t any taller than the average Syrian, a hair over five-foot-six. He ran marathons to stay in shape, and his condition showed in his walk. An army veteran, he moved with fluidity and confidence. His Everyman face helped him blend into any crowd. There was nothing noticeable about him. He was perfect CIA material.
He cut through side streets and ducked into alleys, hiding in alcoves for several minutes at a time. Within an hour he returned to the building where the humanitarian mission kept its offices. Hayden and his CIA team occupied space in the basement.
The outside temperature’s crisp 68-degrees and the clear blue sky almost too nice to leave behind. But duty called. There were plenty of days like this one to enjoy. Hayden showed his pass to the outer guard and entered the building. When he stepped out of the elevator to the basement office, his crew was waiting for him.
He had a staff of two. Colleen Andreev, a Russian expert, had been attached to his unit because of the Russian activity in the country. Freddy Lymann, a former member of the Ground Branch unit of the Special Activities Center, had worked throughout the Middle East as a shooter. He now helped Hayden and Colleen sort incoming intelligence. He was no good in the field anymore, having lost part of his left leg to a bomb. Unless he wore shorts, they never saw his prosthetic.
“What did you bring?” Colleen asked.
Hayden tossed her the coffee. “Sounds like it will be a long day.”
She opened the bag on the way to the coffee machine in a corner.
Hayden sat down beside Lymann. “What does Langley want?”
“In five minutes, we’ll find out.”
Colleen brewed the coffee, and the scent of the spicy roast filled the room. Calling it