Thunderstrike in Syria (5 page)

I stared at her, letting my intuition have a free hand and watching how she was moving her left foot in little circles.

"Does your brother's illness change any part of the plan?" I asked.

"I can lead you to the SLA base in the As-Suwayda hills. Ahmed's being in the hospital does not pose any problems in regard to your mission. Would you like a drink?" she added, her voice sultry.

She didn't wait for me to answer. A teasing smile playing around the edges of her mouth, she got up, went across the room and stopped by a small table. She pressed a button in the wall, and slowly the bar moved forward from its hidden compartment. Seeing my surprise, she explained that she and her brother had many Western friends who drank and that many of their Moslem friends did, in spite of the Moslem prohibition against alcohol.

I looked at the bar. "Well stocked, I see." I deliberately moved closer to her, inhaling her faint perfume and eyeing the thrust of her nipples against the thin material of her dress. I pulled out a pack of Syrian
Triangle
cigarettes as she put her lush behind on a stool, indicated the other side of the bar with a hand and gave a tiny laugh, her upper lip rising to show the tip of small, evenly shaped teeth.

"Help yourself," she said. She looked at me as I moved behind the bar. "Nothing for me. I don't drink, not only because of my religion but because I consider drinking a weakness."

I lit the
Triangle,
vaguely wishing I could have had my own monogrammed brand which I had imported from Turkey.

"I'll buy that," I said, placing a fifth of Scotch on the bar. "Booze is almost as bad as smoking. Cigarettes killed my grandfather. He died at ninety-six." I poured a generous slug of scotch into a glass, then reached for the ice cubes in the West German-made ice maker underneath the bar.

"You don't seem to be concerned about getting to within sight of Karameh's main base," she said. "Or could it be that you're only being polite and really think that I can't do the job?"

"You said you could do it," I shrugged. "I assume that you can. I am interested in how dangerous the journey will be and what method of travel we'll use. I certainly don't look like an Arab and I can't see myself bouncing up and down on a camel."

Miriam laughed. "Transportation is not a problem. You see, I have an American van. I believe the make is a Dodge. It was once used as a laundry delivery van. It will be very comfortable."

"A van," I repeated. "What some Americans refer to as a
sin-bin,
and yet you say we'll be comfortable in it!"

Miriam looked at me in astonishment.

"I suppose I didn't make myself clear," I said, laughing. "Actually I meant the heat. We'll roast in a van."

"No, we won't," Miriam said. "My brother had the van completely renovated. It's air-conditioned, and the rear has been turned into living quarters — small but comfortable. The van is also equipped with heavy duty springs and Land Rover tires for rough country travel."

Tired from all the walking I had done, I took my drink, went back to the sofa and said, "How far is it to the As-Suwayda hills, and what kind of country will we be going through?"

Before leaving Israel, I had studied a detailed topography map of Syria and had discussed the entire situation with Hamosad experts; therefore, I knew that the distance from Damascus to the As-Suwayda region was roughly 50 miles. I also knew that, while there was a road part of the way, the last several miles would have to be travelled over very rough terrain. But I wanted to hear Miriam tell me her version. Her information was similar, although she wasn't sure about the distance.

"Much of the way is a well-travelled trade route," she said. "The rest will be over rough country, rocky but not impassable. As for the sand dunes, the true desert is farther to the east." She got up from the sofa, walked across the short space and sat down beside me. "There could be some problems though."

I frowned. "The Syrian Desert Patrol? It was my understanding that the Syrian government more-or-less ignores the SLA!"

"The government soldiers won't bother us," she explained, sliding closer to me. "They know the van. Ahmed is an amateur archeologist and he and I often go out into the desert to poke around old Roman ruins." I saw her face tighten with solemnity. "The trouble might come from bandits, either Syrian or Jordanian bandits. It is difficult for either our own government or the Jordan government to control the Bedouin scavengers. We'll have automatic weapons, but we'll have to be constantly on guard, especially after we leave the trade route. We can leave tomorrow morning, unless there is some reason why we shouldn't."

"What kind of automatic weapons?"

She looked at me in annoyance, as if I had asked a dirty question.

"An AK-47 assault rifle and a Skorpion machine pistol," she said. "And before I forget — Ahmed obtained the other things you will need for ascertaining the exact location of the camp, although the sextant and the celestial computer were not easy to get. "Her voice softened. "Like I said, we can leave tomorrow morning. Naturally, you will spend the night here."

I began to get ideas that had nothing to do with finding the Syrian Liberation Army base; yet I had to be sure that I had not misread the subtle invitation in her low voice, or that she wasn't just a teaser.

"Yes, with your brother in the hospital, his room is empty," I said with an innocent smile.

"Ahmed would not like a stranger sleeping in his bed, any more than I would want you to sleep on one of these uncomfortable sofas." Her voice was low and tinged with faint mockery.

Watching her smiling at me, her crimson lips curled slightly in amusement, I decided that it was time to make my move. I began to run my hand along her forearm, over skin that was soft, almost like silk. She sighed deeply and began to breathe faster as I moved my hand to her back, my fingers pulling the zipper tab downward. Then my fingers found smooth, cool flesh, while my other hand began pulling the black dress over one shoulder. My lips closed over hers and opened again, and she reached inside my mouth with her tongue. She helped me pull the dress over her other shoulder, and then wriggled out of it completely.

Laying back on the couch, she laced her arms around my head and neck, drawing me close as I moved my face down between her full heaving breasts. I traced the delicate curve of one with my tongue while her fingers fumbled with my belt, unfastening it. She writhed against me and moaned softly, as I slipped out of my pants and shorts. Her eyes were closed as though in some kind of trance, her lovely breasts indicating her increasing passion, rising and falling with greater rapidity, the nipples as hard as stone.

I began to stroke and kiss her eyelids and fine-boned nose, moving my lips, tongue and fingers slowly over her body — down over the bared neck, the heaving breasts, and smooth belly. With deft fingers I probed the wedge-shaped area of curly hair at the meeting of the inside of her thighs.

I carefully edged myself over until I was on top and my legs firmly entrenched between her warm thighs… Both my hands enfolded her body and I lowered my head to hers until my lips met her trembling mouth and she accepted my anxious, darting tongue. Then and only then did I arch forward, pushing the lance full length into her begging orifice. She gave a tiny cry of mingled pain and delight; her arms tightened around my neck, her legs over mine, and carefully I began those vital in-and-out motions. We were both starving for that supreme moment, that final, explosive sensation, and rapidly the pace became more furious.

It was — now! The rapture of our two bodies had merged fire and flame together, so that when it was time for one it was time for the other… pure passion overflowed and swallowed us both in a strange but beautiful exhaustion.

Miriam stared into my eyes and whispered, "We're going to enjoy the trip to the As-Suwayda hills."

Sure we would,
I thought.
But what about the return trip?

Dressed in khaki pants, matching shirt, and wearing walker boots, Miriam acted as though we were going on a long camping trip instead of a dangerous mission. As the hours passed and Damascus was far behind us, I tried to decide whether she was very brave, or an important cog in some machine of deceit and treachery. I was positive about one thing: She wasn't a fool. And she certainly wasn't an idealist, unless she was lying to me, but rather a very sensuous woman whose prime motivation was simple greed.

The van was everything she had said it was. In place of sliding bus-type doors on each side, there were regular doors that could be locked on the inside. In the rear were two bunks, one on either side, a built-in stove and a refrigerator, both powered by propane gas. A small metal table was bolted to the center of the floor and there was ample storage space in the wall lockers.

The food locker and refrigerator were well-stocked. I calculated that there was more than enough food for a five or six day journey, which meant that Miriam had packed enough for a return trip. Still, I was suspicious of her. In this business, «trust» is a word used only by fools.

Before we left, I had inspected the compartment where the firearms were stored, checking the Russian AK-47 assault rifle and the Czech machine pistol, relieved that there was plenty of ammo for both weapons, as well as for the two Spanish 9-millimeter automatics and the U. S. Gwinn Bushmaster. I felt like singing
God Bless America
when I saw the campsite intruder detection system, all neatly packed in its box.

During the night Miriam had told me that she and her brother had joined the Syrian Liberation Army for two reasons: because they hated Jews and "World Zionism," and because they were convinced that the «dispossessed» Palestinians deserved a state of their own. I had then asked her why, in spite of such honest beliefs, she and her brother were working not only for the U. S. Special Espionage Agency but for Hamosad, the worldwide intelligence apparatus of the very nation they hoped to destroy!

Miriam's answer had been prompt and practical — money. "One can't buy the finer things of life with political idealism," she had said, adding that, as she and Ahmed had analyzed the situation, all the Arab terrorist organizations were unrealistic, violent dreamers. Israel would never fall; the United States could not afford to let that happen. There was also Arab disunity, centuries' old hatreds which made it impossible for the Arab nations to work together.

Now, as I drove the van over the concrete road, I decided that maybe Miriam was telling the truth, and maybe she wasn't. I'd have to wait and see.

There isn't anything interesting about the Syrian countryside, the dominant feature being the Syrian Desert, an arid region that stretches between two fertile regions: the Mediterranean coastal lands on the west and the valley of the Euphrates River on the east. This desert comprises all of central and most of southeast Syria.

The Hamad, the south-central area of the desert, reaches almost to the foot of the Anti-Lebanon Mountains in places. To the east of the Hauran district, in the southwest, lies the Jebel ed Druz, a plateau reaching its highest point in a peak of the same name at 5.900 feet.

The As-Suwayda hill region lies in southeast Syria, an inhospitable region of wind-swept rock and stony slopes dotted with buckthorn and tamarisk. There is little natural forest, only scrub Aleppo pine. Further up the slopes of the As-Suwayda grows steppe-like vegetation, and there is some grass around wadis.

We took turns driving, neither of us trying to break any speed records. Not only was the road a winding ribbon filled with camels, donkeys and ox-pulled carts, along with a sprinkling of cars and trucks of every make, but the hot concrete demanded that we go slow to protect the rubber of the Land Rover tires.

When we came to empty stretches of road, heat devils danced ahead of us, but the interior of the van was cool and comfortable, the air conditioner working at maximum. The nights would be far different. Once the sun had dropped below the horizon, the sand and rocks would quickly lose their heat and within a few hours the temperature would fall to the mid-fifties and we'd have to use the Primus Model infra-red heater to burn the chill from the air.

We reached the end of the road at 3:30 in the afternoon. One moment there was hot concrete, then only hard topsoil baked hard by the sun, and scattered limestone. Some of the rocks were the size of small boulders, but most of it was pebbly.

We bounced along until sunset, then parked and set up camp for the night. In case anyone in the distance was watching through binoculars, I waited until dark before setting up the intruder detection system.

Battery-powered, the I.D.S. was actually a very simple system consisting of a central station, about the size of a box of kitchen matches, and a spool of wire; it was geared to be set up in a two perimeter defense. All I did was stretch the ultra-thin wire around the camp, one end of the wire connected to the receiving station; should the wire be broken, a red light would flash and a beeper alert us.

I established two circular perimeters around the van — the first slightly over ninety feet from the van, the second at half that distance. If the wire of the second perimeter was broken, both red lights would flash and the tone would change to a pulsing beep. Luckily there were no intruders that night; Miriam and I were both exhausted from the day's driving.

The strain the next day was even worse because we had to find our own route and pick our way around large boulders and over slab rock. Yet we made good time; when daylight began to fade, Miriam said we were still on schedule.

Once more we parked the van under a ceiling of wide-open sky, with nothing around us but the uneven flow of worthless land. After I set up the two perimeter defense system, Miriam closed the fiber-board partition separating the driver's section from the rest of the van, while I covered the glass of the rear door with thick paper, hoping to make the van invisible from any lurking enemy.