Authors: David Ignatius
"Thanks for the concern, but don't worry about me. I am not the issue. I may be the problem, but I want to be the solution. That's why I'm here."
Hani looked at the American curiously, as if assessing his state of mind. "What are you talking about,
habibi
? You are not making sense today."
But Ferris knew exactly what he was talking about. It had become obvious to him, in a moment of absolute clarity. The light went on in his head and all the elements there had shifted their coordinates slightly to form a new pattern, one quite different but no less precise.
"Ground rules," said Ferris. "This conversation did not happen. I am speaking only for myself, not as an employee of the United States government. You will not inform anyone at the agency about my visit or what we discussed. Ever. Agreed?"
"Unusual rules. Perhaps I can agree. But you tell me so little."
"'Perhaps' isn't good enough. This one has to be 'yes' or 'no.' What I want to do won't hurt Jordan, and it probably will help. And you will have the advantage of knowing what I'm doing and using it however you want. I don't care. But I need your absolute promise that you will protect me."
Hani tilted his head to one side and lit a cigarette as he pondered the request. He eyed Ferris as if he were measuring him. He took several puffs on the cigarette. The Jordanian seemed almost pleased.
"My dear Roger, I have always said you are one of us. That means you put people before things, and that you put personal honor before anything else. I thought I knew that about you, but until now I could not be sure. So the answer is yes. Of course I will protect the confidence of this conversation. The room is ours alone. But now you must tell me what you want."
Ferris drew near Hani. His voice became low. So far as he knew, the agency wasn't bugging Hani's office. But then, there were many things he did not know.
"Can you make me disappear? So that nobody will find me--including and especially the U.S. government. And then, can you get me into Syria, so that no one will know?"
"I suppose so. That is not difficult for us. We control this space. But what is it that you want to do?"
"I want to contact the people who have kidnapped Alice Melville. I want to offer myself to them as a trade. They don't want her. They want me."
"
W'Allah!
" Hani opened his palms. "Are you crazy, my friend?"
"No. I just got sane, as a matter of fact. Before, I was crazy."
"But how will you contact them? They are not in the Yellow Pages, Al Qaeda. They are not so easy to find. Even for me."
"They contacted us. They sent a message to me, supposedly from Alice, asking me to call a mobile phone in Syria. Hoffman wants me to wait, so he can figure out some game. Some sting that he thinks will trick them. But his games are all bullshit. You know that better than I do. The only ones we're fooling are ourselves."
"But this is very dangerous, Roger. You know too many secrets. They will want them. It will be...unpleasant."
Ferris touched his pocket, and the plastic box that contained the dental bridge and its poison. He had kept it with him for these months, but he had never really imagined he would need it.
"I'll deal with that. But it's the only way to get her out. They won't let her go unless I offer myself in trade. That's obvious, isn't it? Hoffman will never let me do that, which means she's going to die. I have no choice. I have to do this. And I'm going to do it, no matter what you say. But I want you to help me. That way, I'll have a better chance of saving Alice."
Hani didn't say anything. He wasn't a man who made promises easily. Ferris took the Jordanian's hand in both of his own and held it. He would have knelt and kissed it, if he had thought it would do any good.
"Please help me," said Ferris. "I am begging you to help me."
Hani looked at him and smiled. It was an elusive smile, barely a trace on the lips and impossible for Ferris to read, but still there.
"Yes, my dear. Of course I will help you. You are a brave man, and you want to give yourself to save someone that you love. Only a dead heart could refuse you."
H
ANI MOVED
quickly. One of his men drove Ferris's car to Zahran Street and parked it on the street near the Four Seasons. When Ferris's colleagues at the embassy realized that he was missing, they would waste some precious time looking for him at the hotel. Hani made a few phone calls and met alone with his deputy; then he escorted Ferris to the GID garage where his big BMW limousine was parked. They took seats in the back and Hani closed the curtains. In a country where the GID's authority was unquestioned, they were now all but invisible. Ferris patted his pocket again, for reassurance.
They drove north from Amman toward the Syrian border. Hani opened the curtain once they were on the highway so that he could see the scenery, but Ferris left his side closed. They avoided the four-lane route through Al-Mafraq and instead took the old Highway 15 that crosses the Syrian border a few miles west, at Dera'a. As the big sedan rolled north, Hani explained his plan. Ferris asked a few questions, but only to make sure that he understood. Ferris's cell phone rang once. It was his deputy from the station. Ferris said groggily that he was trying to sleep and would be in the office the next morning after stopping at the gym.
Just before the Jordanian border town of Ramtha, Hani ordered his driver to take a side road that wound along the border. When they reached a little village called Shajara, they turned onto a dirt road and then into the driveway of a small compound of cement-block buildings whose roofs were topped by a bristle of antennae. In the driveway was a rusted Mercedes taxi with Syrian license plates. The border was less than a mile away. Hani led Ferris into one of the buildings. GID officers in plain clothes, who had been awaiting his arrival, greeted their chief with kisses and a tray of cookies and sweet tea. Hani waved them off and asked for a quiet room on the top floor. He closed the door and turned to Ferris.
"Now is the time to make your phone call," Hani said.
"Do you have a clean phone?" asked Ferris.
"Of course." Hani removed a new Samsung clamshell phone from his coat pocket and handed it over. Hani had an extra earpiece, so he could listen in. Ferris managed a thin smile at the Jordanian's careful preparation. He took out his wallet and found the number he had scribbled down while Hoffman was reading the text message. He dialed the number carefully on Hani's phone, 963-5555-8771. It rang three times before someone answered.
"Hello," said the voice in English. They were waiting for him. This phone could only have one caller.
"This is Mr. Roger Ferris from the CIA. I want to talk to Miss Alice."
"Okay, mister. Thanks God you are calling. I have question for you, to make sure you are you, please."
"Fine. What's your question?"
"Where do you take Miss Alice for dinner, first time?"
Ferris felt a well of nausea. They had gotten that out of her through interrogation. Either that or he'd been under surveillance.
"The Hyatt Hotel in Amman. The Italian restaurant."
"Yes, okay. Thank you, sir. And what is the name of the cat Miss Alice keep in her apartment, please?"
"Elvis. The cat's name is Elvis."
"Right. I think you are you. Mr. Ferris."
"Okay, can I talk to Alice now, please."
"Yes, but I am very sorry. Miss Alice not here. But she ask me to give you the message, if you call."
"What is the message?" Ferris was brusque. He wanted to cut the haggling and get to the point.
"If you want to see Miss Alice, you must go to where I say. You only. No trick, or Miss Alice will not be alive."
"Where should I go?"
"To Syria, please."
Ferris's eyes gleamed with tension and exasperation. "Yes, fine, but where in Syria?"
"Yes, mister. To Hama. That is where Miss Alice is."
Hani was nodding as he heard the name of the meeting place. Hama was Suleiman's hometown. It was where the ruinous history had begun, with the destruction of the Muslim Brotherhood in 1982.
"It must be a trade," said Ferris. "Unless I see Alice, I will not come to you."
"Yes, sir, yes, sir." The Arab voice on the end sounded eager, as if he could not believe that the American was actually going to give himself up. And he had a proposal all ready. "Sir, you will see Miss Alice at the
norias,
the waterwheels on Orontes River, in the center of Hama. You see her there. You see that she is safe and free. Then you call number and you wait for us. We will be watching. You leave, we will be killing Miss Alice, and you, too."
Ferris paused and looked toward Hani. He would need backup of some sort, to make sure that Alice would be protected once she was released. Hani seemed to have read his mind. He nodded and whispered the words, "We will be there."
"I agree to the trade," said Ferris. "What is the number I should call, once I see that Alice is free?"
"Sir, please call 963-5555-5510. Not me. I am only relay man. When they answer, tell them in Arabic that you are Mr. Roger Ferris from CIA and that you are ready to meet them, right now in Hama. You want number again?"
Hani had scribbled the number on a piece of paper and handed it to Ferris.
"Let me read it back to you, to make sure I have it right. 963-5555-5510."
"Yes, sir."
"And I should tell the person who answers that I am Roger Ferris from CIA and I am ready to meet them now in Hama."
"
Mumtaz
, mister. Very good. Okay. And when will you meet us in Hama, please?"
Ferris looked to Hani. The Jordanian scribbled a few words and gave the paper to the American.
"I will be in Hama tomorrow morning, at eight
A.M
., at the old waterwheels on the river. If Alice is not there, the deal is off. Do you understand?"
"Oh, yes, sir. I will tell them. I am relay man only. I think you are in a big hurry." He said it curiously, as if he could not fathom why Ferris was so eager to be tortured.
"Just make sure Alice is there. Then you get what you want. Otherwise, nothing." Ferris broke the connection.
"
W'Allah,
Roger, you are a brave man," said Hani, taking his hand. "No matter what happens to you, Alice Melville will know how you loved her. I will make sure of it. You will live in her heart."
T
HE
M
ERCEDES
taxi was downstairs. The driver was smoking a cigarette, ready to leave. The neighborhood beyond the compound was alive with the sounds of an Arab village at dusk. Children home from school, playing soccer in the dirt; mothers shouting out orders and complaints as they prepared the evening meal. The world had that sense of time suspended, as the shadows lengthened, the colors deepened and daylight gradually disappeared.
It was time to go, Hani said. He outlined his plan for Ferris. The car would take Ferris north into Syria through the Dera'a crossing. The driver was a smuggler, and the GID had used him often before. He had paid his bribes over many years to Syrian customs officials, who were so thoroughly corrupt that it was all one big family. Ferris would ride the few miles across the border in a compartment under the back seat. The uncomfortable part would only last thirty minutes or so; then Ferris could ride in the passenger seat. Hani would send two chase cars north to accompany the taxi through Damascus and then up to Hama. They would have to drive all night. Hani would have another team waiting in Hama. The moment Alice was released, they would surround her and bring her back to Jordan. There would be plenty of guns in case anything went wrong, but the Jordanian assured him that nothing would go wrong. And then, when the moment was right, Hani's men would do their best to rescue Ferris.
Hani handed Ferris a small electronic device that appeared to be a Bic lighter. "If you are in trouble and you can't wait, press the button," he said. "We'll come get you." Ferris took it and thanked his friend. The talk of rescue was generous. But Ferris knew that this was a one-way trip.
33
HAMA, SYRIA
F
ERRIS WENT DOWN TO MEET
the Syrian taxi driver alone. The man was in his forties, with furtive eyes and a thick moustache that hung over his lips like a paintbrush. The driver opened the back door of the corroded red Mercedes, pulled a hidden latch and yanked up the back seat, revealing a compartment just big enough for a body. A matted carpet was laid over the bare metal and there was a bottle of mineral water. "Business class," Ferris muttered. The driver nodded, uncomprehending. Ferris climbed in and contorted his body into the small space. It smelled of sweat and urine. Evidently Ferris wasn't the first hidden traveler. The driver said he would tap three times when it was safe for Ferris to come out. Then he lowered the seat, and Ferris was encased in darkness.
Ferris wasn't a morbid person. As a child, he had worried about death the way most children do, trying to comprehend the idea of his own nonbeing. The idea was too complicated and depressing, and so he mostly forgot about it. He had a period in his mid-teens when he feared that he would die a virgin, but after Priscilla Warren took care of that he stopped thinking about nothingness. Now, lying in the dark and smelly hold of the taxi, Ferris was forced to contemplate the prospect of his own nonexistence. He wasn't afraid so much of dying, but of the pain that would precede it. His poison dental bridge was in his pocket, and he pondered when he should use it. If he waited too long, it might be too late: They would take it from him before he could bite down on the poison and save himself from agony. But if he used it too early, he might kill himself unnecessarily, in the moment before rescue or reprieve. He would squander the chance to live a normal life, grow old with Alice and have children. That last negation bothered him most. He would have lived for nothing, as far as the species was concerned. That truly was an unproductive life, worse even than dying a virgin.
The taxi slowed as they neared the Jordanian border post. Ferris tensed, but the stop was quick and painless. Hani must have put in the fix. The car rumbled forward into no-man's-land, and Ferris sank again into his black reverie. If he lived, perhaps he could have children with Alice; if he lived, perhaps he might grow old with her. "Perhaps" was all he had. His hope was the same one that sustains the cancer patient even as his body shrivels and he can't eat or swallow--the idea that somehow the sentence of death will miraculously be lifted; that he will drag his brittle bones to the everlasting gate and trick the gatekeeper into another few hours, days, years. Ferris understood, in the abstract, that pain could become so awful that he would want to pass into nothingness--but not if there was a chance of rejoining Alice. They could smash his legs with a crowbar, shatter his kneecaps, pound his spine with a sledgehammer--yet in each moment of agony he would be thinking of Alice, and of staying alive for her.