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  THE CYPRUS

  COVERUP

  BOOK TWELVE IN THE JUSTIN HALL SERIES

  ETHAN JONES

  To God and my family.

  Thank you for your wonderful love.

  Table of Contents

  Front Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Epilogue

  Bonus - The Corrector Chapter One

  Bonus - The Corrector Chapter Two

  Bonus - The Corrector Chapter Three

  Bonus - The Corrector Chapter Four

  Bonus - The Corrector Chapter Five

  Bonus - The Corrector Chapter Six

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  February 5

  Al-Hamidiyah Souq

  Damascus, Syria

  Justin Hall was the first to notice the asset’s face among the sea of people wandering through the Al-Hamidiyah Souq. Souq meant market or bazaar, and this huge bazaar stretched from al-Thawra Street to the west all the way to the Ummayad Mosque plaza to the east. It was about six hundred square meters of covered trading space, always teeming with vendors and buyers. The bazaar made for the perfect place to meet with the asset. He seemed to be ambling aimlessly, slowing down or stopping to check all sorts of merchandise displayed on the tightly-packed stalls overflowing onto the narrow sidewalk. Once in a while, the asset would look up, toward the café, which Justin had told him was going to be their meeting place.

  But Justin did not trust the asset.

  He was someone neither Justin nor Vale—Justin’s partner with the Canadian Intelligence Service or CIS, who was observing the bazaar from the opposite side, about fifty yards from Justin’s position—had ever met, and they knew very little about the asset. He had promised highly-classified Syrian government intelligence. While not impossible, such a scenario was very improbable. The third and perhaps the main reason for Justin’s suspicion was the fact that the asset has asked for the meeting.

  Always a red flag.

  So Justin had moved almost two blocks away from the café. He was standing near the east entrance to the vast market and was keeping an eye on both exits he had identified, if a swift getaway was necessary. His vigilant glances were taking in the movements at all stalls around him, as well as people and vehicles on the small street just outside the entrance. Justin’s eyes registered everything, but his mind focused on only those faces and gestures that could be interpreted as threatening or appearing out of place.

  Or if something just did not look right.

  Like someone spending more time glancing left and right than at the products in front of them. A man showing more interest in people walking by then in haggling with vendors hawking their wares. A woman paying little attention to how a scarf or a bag looked or felt, and instead, her eyes studying the ever-changing surroundings.

  So far, Justin had identified two potential watchers: a middle-aged man sitting across from the café, and a young woman standing about twenty paces away from the man. They were both strategically positioned to cover the café’s entrance at all times. Neither of them had moved more than three or four feet in any direction during the last ten minutes, the time Justin had been observing them. And neither of them had noticed Justin.

  At least as far as he could tell.

  He drew in a deep breath. His nostrils were filled with the smell of grilled donairs and freshly baked pastries. Then he nodded at the man with whom he had been having a light conversation for the last five minutes. One of the vendors selling coffee, tea, and desserts. Justin had bought a piece of melt-in-your-mouth baklava, the traditional rich pastry made with lots of honey and walnuts. Then he had washed it down with a large cup of coffee and was now working on his second cup.

  “So, do you think the peace treaty will hold?” the man asked and brushed his thick, grey-peppered mustache.

  “Of course. It has wide support, right?”

  The man shook his head. “No, many people don’t like it. Especially some of the rebels or former fighters.”

  “Well, let’s hope Allah blesses this land again. I’ve got to go now. Salam alaikum.” Peace be with you.

  The man nodded. “Alaikum wa salam.” Peace to you too.

  Justin tightened his red-and-white headdress around his neck, then whispered into his throat mike. “Asset approaching from the west. Dressed in long-sleeved blue shirt and blue jeans.”

  “Roger that.” Vale’s firm voice came into Justin’s earpiece. “Right behind him.”

  “Good, but watch your back.”

  “Got it.”

  Justin finished the last of his coffee, then looked around, seemingly for a trash can. But he also glanced over his shoulders, toward the two watchers. The woman was no longer in his line of sight. The man was now on his feet and gazing in the asset’s direction. Justin could not be sure the watcher was eyeing the asset, but he also could not dismiss that possibility.

  “MW might have eyes on the asset,” Justin said into his mike, MW being the nickname for the male watcher.

  “I see FW is also on the edge,” Vale replied.

  Justin frowned. If they were reading the signs correctly, the watchers knew about the asset. Another team from the Idarat al-Mukhabarat al-Amma—the General Intelligence Directorate or GID, Syria’s fierce internal security service—had probably tracked down the asset and followed him to the bazaar. The team had relayed the information to the watchers, putting them on high alert.

  Another, more fearsome option cropped up in Justin’s mind: could the asset be working with the watchers and the GID?

  The frown on Justin’s broad frown deepened. He scratched his beard, wondering about his next steps. One part of his brain was sounding the alarm system, urging him to abort the mission. If there were two watchers, there were bound to be more operatives hidden around, especially if the asset was working with the Syrian service, and this was a trap.

  The other part of his brain argued that he was just being paranoid. He had no concrete evidence the asset had been made or that the man and the woman were watchers. Maybe he was seeing what he wanted to see, what his weary mind was serving him: the worst-case scen
ario. This was only a brush pass, probably the most basic spycraft technique. Justin would walk close enough to the asset for him to hand over to Justin the USB drive carrying the intelligence. It would take only a few seconds, and, in the bazaar’s commotion, none would be the wiser.

  He let out a deep sigh. His mind was on overdrive, pondering both options. Justin would have to make a quick decision. He had maybe twenty seconds before the asset would be within reach.

  He sighed, then left the empty coffee cup at the edge of a stall, near a large carpet hanging from a hook. We’ve come so far. Not gonna give up now. “I’m going in, Vale.”

  “Roger that.”

  Justin turned around and headed toward the asset. He was a young man, who had just turned twenty-five a few weeks ago. Wavy black hair, like Justin’s, but at six feet two inches, the asset was taller than Justin, who stood at five ten. What Justin lacked in height, he made up for in muscle strength.

  They were now about ten yards away from one another. Justin locked eyes with the asset, who gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod. Justin did not acknowledge the nod. Instead, he looked over the asset’s shoulder, at the mustached man. He was moving quickly, behind the asset. The man’s gaze did not seem fixed on the asset, but Justin could not be certain.

  No turning back. No turning back.

  The asset’s right hand was in his jeans’ front pocket. He began to slowly pull it out.

  Justin slowed down his pace, so the USB drive could change hands.

  Five more steps, and the exchange would be complete.

  Four.

  Three.

  The mustached man hurried his pace.

  Two.

  The asset’s hand was out of his pocket and held something small and shiny.

  Justin’s eyes went to the watcher, then they dropped to the asset’s hand.

  One.

  The object in the asset’s hand glinted under the bazaar’s dim lights. It was not the expected USB drive.

  It was a serrated knife blade, and the asset thrust his hand up toward Justin’s chest.

  Chapter Two

  February 5

  Al-Hamidiyah Souq

  Damascus, Syria

  Justin had a split second to react.

  With no time to pull his pistol from its holster, he did the only thing he could.

  He blocked the knife with his bare hand.

  The razor-sharp blade sliced through his flesh causing a deep gash.

  Justin clenched his injured left hand, then tightened his right hand into a fist. He threw it against the asset’s head, connecting with his jaw.

  The hard blow took the asset by surprise. It knocked him off balance, and he fell against one of the stalls. He tried to grab onto one of the carpets, but his hands slid and he fell to the ground.

  “Justin, you okay?” Vale said.

  “Yes, abort mission.”

  “Roger.”

  Justin grabbed a couple of scarfs hanging near the carpet and wrapped them around his bleeding hand.

  A bullet whizzed right above his head and pinged against a large copper pot.

  Justin crouched behind one of the stalls, almost knocking over the startled owner. People were scattering in panic, hiding behind the stalls or lying on the ground. Bullets shattered pottery, jars, and decorative plates all around Justin.

  He pulled out his Sig Sauer P229 pistol and held his breath. He could see neither the mustached man nor the asset. But gunshots sounded nearer, along with heavy footsteps.

  Then the asset tackled him from the side.

  Justin raised his pistol and fired a round.

  But the asset was faster. He speared Justin with a hard shoulder, throwing him onto the ground. The asset jabbed with his knife, but Justin was able to block it with his pistol. He threw his arm back and pistol-whipped the asset across his face. Blood spurted from his nostrils, a clear sign that Justin had broken the asset’s nose.

  Justin shoved him away, then crawled under the nearest stall. A man and a child were hiding there, their eyes shimmering with fear. Justin placed a finger over his lips. The man nodded his understanding and held the child closer to him.

  Justin slid to the other stall, while shouting, crying, and shuffling of feet came from all directions. He listened for a moment. No gunfire. He stole a peek to the left where he had last seen the watcher.

  A bullet almost blew Justin’s head off.

  He returned fire. Then he crawled back under the stall and further to the right, away from the incoming fire. Bullets pierced through the carpets and clothes for sale. His hands and arms scraped against debris scattered on the ground. But he kept crawling away from the gunman.

  When he had covered about twenty feet, he reached the end of the stalls. He glanced behind him at the narrow alley. People were rushing by, bent at the waist. Justin returned the pistol to his waistband, then glanced behind. No mustached man.

  So Justin dashed into the stream of people and entered the alley. He glanced at his hand. The flow of blood had slowed down, but it was still trickling. He could move the fingers, but the pain was excruciating.

  He looked over his shoulder, but all he could see was the wave of people escaping the firefight. Once he put some distance between himself and the closest men, he whispered, “Vale, I’m heading south.”

  “Copy that. Meet you at the RV.”

  Justin nodded. Their rendezvous point was the Ummayad Mosque, three blocks to the east.

  He hurried his steps, keeping pace with the others fleeing. He could have bolted faster, of course, but that would have drawn the watchers’ attention. He was not sure if he had lost the mustached man or the woman, or if there were others Justin had not spotted. Even if it took longer, he could not afford to stick out right now.

  He followed a small group that cut to the left, and they meandered through the narrow streets. A couple of men glanced at him, but Justin looked down and away. If the GID interrogated these people, Justin did not want them to remember him.

  He re-tied the scarf around his hand and was able to stop the blood. The wound did not seem as deep as the jolts of pain spearing through his arm would cause him to believe. But he would need some serious medical attention. As soon as we arrive in Italy.

  He reached the end of the alley and turned left, along with a small group of people. A few of them slowed down. There had been no more gunfire echoing from the bazaar. Perhaps they felt safe.

  Justin pressed on toward the mosque.

  He turned into the next alley.

  The female watcher was waiting for him.

  She fired a round that hissed near his head. A few inches to the right, and he would have been dead.

  Justin dropped behind the wall of the nearest house.

  Another bullet struck the other side of the wall, sending shards toward his face.

  Justin stepped back and pulled out his pistol. He glanced behind him. None of the group of people was following him. Justin had no place to hide.

  He checked the nearest gate, but it was locked. His eyes went to the eight-foot-high wall crowned with sharp glass pieces. He removed his jacket and rolled it around his right hand. He placed his foot against the gate and scaled the wall. The jacket protected him from most of the glass, but a sharp piece cut along his forearm. He bit his lip and dropped onto the yard, making as little noise as possible.

  Justin took small shallow breaths and stood there in silence. He held his pistol near his face and glanced at the gate.

  Light footsteps came from the other side, followed by a low whisper of a female voice.

  The watcher.

  Justin took a step back along the wall.

  The gate rattled as someone—most likely the watcher—tried to open it. Then a kick. And another.

  The gate held.

  Justin aimed his pistol at the door. If the watcher’s next kick shoved the gate open, she would be met by his bullets.

  She did not try a third time.

  Her light
footsteps grew distant then disappeared.

  Justin heaved a breath of relief and looked at the gate. Then he turned his head toward the house’s entrance. An old man perhaps in his seventies was giving Justin a curious glance.

  He lowered the pistol to his side and stepped closer to the man. “Salam alaikum,” he greeted the man in Arabic, then added, “I come in peace. Security service shooting, killing people at the bazaar.”

  The old man nodded. “Alaikum wa salam. I heard the gunfire. You need a place to hide?”

  “No, but very grateful for your offer. And your silence.”

  “May Allah be with you.” The man gestured toward the back of the house.

  “And with you and your family as well.” Justin dashed in that direction.

  He came to a smaller gate and stopped and listened. A rush of heavy footsteps came from the alley. He was not sure if it were people still fleeing the gunfire scene or watchers looking for him.

  So he waited another long moment.

  When the noise died down, Justin unbolted the gate very slowly. There was a loud creak from the rusty hinges, so he readied his pistol. He pulled the door hard and jumped out in the alley.

  The female watcher was waiting for him.

  But Justin was prepared for her.

  He fired a round at about the same time she did.

  The watcher’s bullet singed Justin’s hair.

  Justin’s bullet caught her in the right side, just above the waist. She collapsed to the ground and tried to reach for the pistol that had flown out of her hand.

  “Don’t do it,” Justin shouted in Arabic and took a few steps toward the woman.

  Her stretched hand made another attempt to grab the pistol.

  Justin fired another round that struck near her hand. “Don’t make me kill you.”

  The watcher gave him a defiant look. “Go ahead,” she said in a firm voice.

  Justin glanced deep in her big beautiful black eyes. They were full of wrath and hate. In another life, in another place, the watcher could have been a highly paid model, maybe even a movie star. She definitely had the right facial features and body form.

  “No, I’m not here for you.” Justin picked up her Beretta 92FS pistol.