<div style="text-align: center;"><a class="postlink" href="http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02278/dam_2278580c.jpg">[ img ]</a></div><br/><br/>"7:30," Pinar responded with that familiar light hearted lilt in her voice. She enjoyed the acting part of her job. It did break up the monotony. She had been placed in this position six months earlier when the Soldiers of Christ began planning the operation. She didn't know all the elements of the assignment or what this Malik Topçu person was doing in Syria. She did know Syria was a dangerous place right now and there was an excellent chance Malik, or whatever his name was may never make it out alive. She would know if they were ever assigned to a similar mission again someday. "I hope that is not too early for you? It should give you just over two hours to check in and settle down." She laughed; a faux nervous laugh. Pinar was not at all nervous. "I have your room ready for you at the front desk. We just need you to sign in and get the key card."<br/><br/>After getting Malik checked in, Pinar returned to her duties working the front desk. She was one of three receptionists who helped guests with their room assignments. She previously arranged with her co-workers to take the time to pick up Malik and then have dinner at 7:30. The management appeared to be fine with this and her co-workers were not put off by it as well.<br/><br/>When time permitted, she chatted incessantly about her friend Malik Topçu. How he was a photojournalist for<span style="font-style: italic">Today's Zaman</span>. How he had just returned from America, covering a story on US-Iranian relations. She made a point to NOT mention where he was heading. For now that was Top Secret information and should not be shared with anyone. "I hope to hear more about the<span style="font-style: italic">land of decadence and opportunity</span>at dinner." She was pleased with herself and wanted to give off the impression she was excited about his visit, albeit a brief one.<br/><br/>Hazan, a young woman of 23 hung on every word. She was a few inches shorter than Pinar and got along marvelously with her. She kept her black hair, cut short and her dark brown eyes were deep set in her head. "Wow! I would love to visit America some day. Your friend Malik sounds like a fascinating young man. How did you meet?"<br/><br/>"We met at Yaşar," Pinar responded, from script, but it did not sound scripted. "We both attended Yaşar University in Izmir. I went there for Hotel Management. We all know the reputation of Izmir," Pinar giggled at that. Izmir is about as close to a sin city as it gets in Turkey. "He was there for the School of Journalism. We became close, but not too close, you understand." Hazan nodded with the same grin on her face.<br/><br/>"We agreed to keep in touch. If he is in town, he stops to visit and if I happen to be wherever he is, I visit him. Normally, it is him visiting me." Pinar was confident she was selling this to her friend and co-worker.<br/><br/>"Is there any chance of marriage?" Hazan blurted out.<br/><br/>Expecting this, Pinar feigned a shocked surprise. "Hazan! No! He's not like that! Sure, I would like to settle down some day, but I'm just not ready. His career takes him all over the world. He's not the marrying sort. You understand."<br/><br/>The dinner reservation came, Pinar remained in the same attire she wore earlier in the evening. She was still working and needed to dress this way. The two shared a relaxing dinner with wine and a pleasant ambiance. The restaurant was rather dark, with light coming from candle light. Pinar never trusted the Indian food and stuck to traditional Turkish fare. When the meal ended, they both agreed to wake up early, before the sun, meet in the garage and head out before Icel and the east bound highways became burdened with traffic.<br/><br/>Pinar guided Malik to the E982 east, which changed into the O51 north of Tarsus and O50 at Adana. When they reached Ceyhan, the same road turned into E90. If you weren't from the region, it would be confusing how often one stretch of highway changed names. At Dokuztekne, they exited the highway onto a southbound expressway, the O53.  This stretch remained the same all the way through to Iskendrun along the coast.<br/><br/>The highway skirted the most eastern end of the Mediterranean at Payas. Pinar always enjoyed driving in this section of the country. The landscape was beautiful and even with the war going on just twenty or thirty miles away, you could not tell. The buildings and grass belts were well manicured and the economy remained healthy. It was beautiful countryside. Pinar smiled, her normal smile as she smelled the fresh air coming off the Sea.<br/><br/>South of Iskendrun, they had to take the E91, E98 and D827. The closer they got to Syria, the more nervous and focused Pinar got. She knew it was grim over there. She gripped the wheel with no intention of crossing<span style="font-style: italic">that</span>border. At the town of Reyhanli, she pulled the Landrover off at a Kadoil fuel station to fill the tank. They had just traveled a little over 200 miles in four and a half hours. The one thing to note about Reyhanli, was the cleanliness. There was no litter on the ground. The streets were swept clean and the air still had that crisp Spring morning smell. The temperature was already in the low 80s (F) at nine in the morning. Today was going to be another scorcher.<br/><br/>"Take the D827 for another six miles.You will come to a check point. I am told it is manned only by Turkish border guards right now. The Syrians are busy. They won't check your ID at the border. The Syrian Arab Republic controls this section of the country. They will stop you and check your ID. Getting through SAR lines to the South may prove tricky. Keep playing up that media card. Don't be shy about being a reporter or being Turkish. It should help. It should get you to where you need." She returned the fuel nozzle to the pump, clapped her hands and looked at the man, "Well Malik, this is where I get off," Pinar smiled at the Christian assassin. "I will take a taxi from Reyhanli back to Icer. Best of luck to you and your task at hand. Write a good story and take many photographs. I hope you get what you are looking for." She smiled, gave the man a peck on the cheek, turned and walked away. She didn't want to think about his chances or that she may never see him again. She was sad. She only knew this man for over twelve hours, but had grown somewhat attached to him already. As she walked away, she whispered a prayer, 'May God bless this soldier of yours. Let his aim be true and his temper be made of steel. Guide him and care for him, blessed Lord above.' She blessed herself and continued on her way. In the taxi cab back north and west, a tear descended her cheek.<br/><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="color: #8080FF">031000May15Z Damascus, Syria</span></span></span></span><br/>The three-man surveillance team watching the Lion laid in a hide spot on a hillside overlooking his palatial estate on the north side of the city. Their position was well camouflaged and they were very careful about light and noise discipline. Everything was camouflaged.  They carried Soviet made Kalishnikovs and wore Syrian Army  Battle Dress Uniforms. But even this close to the capital, a city primarily controlled by the government troops, it could get dangerous.<br/><br/>The men in the hide spot could hear distant sounds of mortar rounds leaving a tube. It could have been three kilometers away. They waited the expected ten seconds to hear the impacts upon government troops no more than two kilometers away. But then, they didn't know the location of where the Syrian Arab Republic troops were shooting at.<br/><br/>The first round landed fifty feet from their position. The explosion was deafening. Their hearts immediately began racing. They tried hard to press their terrified bodies into the sandy soil. This was the sort of experience that made hard men shit their pants. The second round landed a hundred feet away. The heat from the two successive blasts overwhelmed the three men, even though they were at least three feet underground. The third round was still another fifty feet further away, but the concussive heat wave, like someone turned on a hair dryer for a split second washed over their bodies, three times in rapid succession. The men waited. They glanced at each other. They were still alive, they smiled, tried to be brave, but their eyes were wide as drachmas. The Team leader used hand signals to tell the other two to remain quiet and stay down. He heard the second volley of rounds leaving their tubes the same three kilometers away. This time, the volley landed five hundred meters away near the Lion's palatial home. The  surveillance  team leader could detect no damage to the building, but there was no third volley.<br/><br/>"Dealer, this is black jack fife," the team leader spoke in a broken whisper into the radio. He was scared, but needed to give the recorder/handler a status.<br/><br/>"Go ahead, black jack fife, this is the dealer, over," Farid Al Hammasa responded on the radio.<br/><br/>"We just came under mortar fire, no casualties. Rounds landed within fifty meters of the lion's den. No signs of activity, over."<br/><br/>"Roger, mortar attack at lion's den, no damage, out." Farid wrote this entry into his log. He flicked the ashes from his Turkish cigarette on the ground, placed the butt back between his lips and fumbled in his left breast pocket; pulled out the smart phone and hit the speed dial.<br/><br/>The phone rang three times and went to voice mail. "Mr Topçu, my name is Farid Al Hammasa. I will be responsible for assisting you with contacting the right people for your media coverage when in Damascus. Please call me back when you get the chance."