DAMASCUS: DATELINE 1956: AN ALAN HARPER NOVEL

By Joseph W. Michels

On October 30th, 1956, a CIA-sponsored coup (code-named “Operation Straggle”) was to take place in Damascus with the support of the Syrian military. The operation was cancelled on October 29th, one day before the planned coup, after Israel, the British and the French launched attacks on the Suez Canal. History refers to these events as “The Suez Crisis”, and it provoked the Syrian military into refusing to go along with the coup.
Two weeks later, the Soviet Union and Syria signed a Pact in which the Soviets promised Syria heavy weapons and other military support in exchange for more political and foreign policy influence.

Alarmed by these events, and suffering an involuntary drawdown of CIA personnel in Damascus, Beirut’s CIA station chief sends two covert operatives into Syria a week later to monitor a Soviet intelligence team that had arrived in Damascus, ostensibly to implement the terms of the Pact. Alan Harper, posing as a freelance investigative reporter, and Anne Small, posing as his Arabic-speaking interpreter, soon discovered the real objective of the Soviet team. The action is fast-paced as Harper and Anne, at great risk to themselves, fend off the Syrian secret police, a Soviet hit squad, and the Soviet intelligence team itself, in their attempt to disrupt the Soviet operation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9781663259486

Joseph W. Michels

JOSEPH W. MICHELS came to fiction writing after a long career as an archaeologist and cultural anthropologist. KAGNEW STATION: DATELINE 1956 is a sequel to the ALAN HARPER TRILOGY. The author became acquainted with Kagnew Station in 1974 while directing a large archaeological project in the region. The project’s headquarters was two blocks from the entrance to Kagnew Station and the project’s staff made extensive use of the base’s facilities.

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DAMASCUS:

DATELINE 1956

AN ALAN HARPER NOVEL

JOSEPH W. MICHELS

DAMASCUS:DATELINE 1956

An ALAN HARPER Novel

Copyright © 2024 Joseph W. Michels.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Credit for cover art photo:

Copyright © Mahmod 5cy/Shutterstock.com

Credit for author photo:

Copyright © 2023 Dorothy Shi Studio

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-5947-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5948-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023924699

iUniverse rev. date: 01/08/2024

Contents

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 One

Alan Harper spotted Anne Small waving from Beirut airport’s observation terrace as he descended the rolling stairs that had been hastily brought over to allow passengers to disembark from the Middle East Airline’s DC-3. He waved back, then hurried across the tarmac to the terminal’s arrivals entrance, anxious to get through passport control and customs so he could meet up with her.

He ran into some troublesome questions at passport control when the officer learned Alan was a freelance journalist, but Alan assured the officer he was simply making Beirut his base of operations and intended to pursue stories elsewhere in the Middle East.

Finally, however, he emerged from customs and found Anne waiting for him.

Welcome to Beirut, Alan, she said as they hugged. Then added, examining him carefully, How are you feeling?

Alan shrugged, It’s only been six weeks but the wound has healed nicely. If it hadn’t been for the four hour flight from Rome to Cairo, followed by the two hour flight here, I’d be a hell of a lot more chipper…I guess it shows.

Anne smiled, It does…a bit…but otherwise you look great! Let’s get you over to my place where you can relax…maybe have something to eat.

Sounds great! said Alan as he picked up his luggage and followed her out of the terminal.

Anne drove a new 1956 Citroen four-door sedan, which she pointed out to him proudly as they crossed over to the parking lot in front of the terminal. I bought it early last month after I returned to Beirut. I needed something to take my mind off the events in Eritrea…especially you getting shot and almost losing a kidney. That’s true, isn’t it…you didn’t lose the kidney?

I’m fine, Anne, but the doctors did say I might not have been so lucky if it hadn’t been for your quick thinking…getting me on a plane out of Asmara and eventually back to Washington.

Anne shook her head, Christ, it’s been what…six weeks did you say…since the shooting? And already Langley has you back on duty…giving you an assignment in Damascus, no less!

Alan shrugged, I don’t know the details yet, but, yes, the Company feels there’s some urgency in the matter.

Well, you’ve got an appointment with my chief of station, Alex Ruiz, tomorrow morning. I suppose you’ll learn then what’s so urgent, commented Anne as she unlocked the doors of her car.

Alan slid his aluminum suitcase onto the back seat, then came around and climbed into the passenger seat. Anne started the engine, checked the rearview mirror, then backed out of the parking space.

Where are they putting me up? asked Alan some minutes later as Anne turned onto the Beirut-Saida coastal highway.

After checking with your Cairo contact, P.J. Meyer, Ruiz booked you into the Normandy Hotel on a week-to-week basis, explained Anne. It’s a fairly new five-story hotel done in an architecturally modern style. But it’s best feature is its location—right on Avenida des Français, facing Saint George Bay. A most fashionable location…I can assure you, added Anne teasingly.

Where’s your apartment…close by? asked Alan.

It’s on Kantari Street, only about a kilometer and a half southeast of your hotel; a walkable distance, clearly, and only five minutes by car, replied Anne.

Alan nodded, then turned his attention to the coastal view, with its palm trees and panoramic views of the Mediterranean.

Mid-afternoon traffic was light so Anne soon managed to cover the eight kilometers separating the airport from Beirut. And only minutes later she pulled up in front of a two-story, tall-ceilinged, Norman-styled building with elaborately ornamented balconies facing the street. My apartment is the one with the balcony on the right, said Anne as she turned off the engine. You’d better take your suitcase up with you, she cautioned, but the suitcase you had me hold for you while you were in Eritrea has already been placed in your room at the Normandy Hotel.

Thanks, said Alan as he inspected the distinctively styled building Anne lived in. It was made with red brick, with windows framed in tall narrow Romanesque treatments that rose to form sharply pointed arches.

Anne, catching Alan’s interest, said, It’s an old building, but I find it charming.

Well, let’s go up, said Alan.

Anne unlocked the door at the street entrance to the four apartments and held it open for Alan to enter with his suitcase.

Watch the steps, she cautioned, the treads are rather short…meant for smaller people I suppose.

Not a problem, Alan assured her as he climbed up.

Once Anne unlocked the door to her apartment and stood aside so Alan could enter he immediately saw why she liked it so much. Comfortably furnished in second-hand French provincial furniture and window treatments, the four-room apartment had a spacious, airy look, especially once Anne opened the French doors to the balcony.

Take a seat while I make some coffee, said Anne.

Alan nodded, then carefully sat down on a delicately cushioned armchair, hoping his muscular 6 foot 2 inch, 190 pound frame, wouldn’t cause the chair to collapse under him.

Take off your suit jacket, loosen your tie, and tell me how you’ve been, prompted Anne as she set down a tray with a pitcher of coffee, two cups, and a Hazelnut ring cake.

Well, after the doctors in Washington confirmed I was on the mend I flew back to Illinois to be with my parents and sister, began Alan as he slipped out of his suit jacket. After explaining I’d been shot again doing freelance work in some foreign country they’d begun to figure I wasn’t telling them the whole truth about what I did for a living. But they didn’t push. Even my sister, who I think figured it out, didn’t say anything. We all simply pretended I just needed some rest. So, really, it was a fairly uneventful period of time…lots of reading, TV watching, attendance at local sports events, and conversations about unimportant events affecting my parents.

How’d you maintain your operational skills? asked Anne, worried.

That was a big problem, began Alan. If I went through my personal combat routines at home, where they could see me, they’d have definitely pressed me for more information. But fortunately I found a working class boxing gym in a nearby town where I could rebuild my strength and practice my moves without anyone caring. How about you?

Anne shrugged, After flying back, I returned to my cover job at UNESCO…almost as if I hadn’t even been away. Remember, I’d only been gone a few days…just long enough to assist you in closing down the Kagnew Station op, then accompanying you back to Washington for medical treatment. But I have to tell you, Alan, all of us connected with CIA’s Beirut station have been a bit tense as the Middle East crisis has been unfolding. So far, fortunately, Beirut has remained quiet, but we don’t expect the calm to last much longer.

Alan didn’t say anything, just watched as Anne poured them each a cup of coffee then cut slices of cake which she carefully placed on plates of delicate porcelain—part of an imported coffee service from Germany that also included the pitcher and coffee cups.

A couple of hours later Anne drove Alan to his hotel. He stared at the building, It’s almost like a ship, he commented, with the front bulging out…almost as if it’s about to be launched into the bay.

Anne laughed, Well, it wouldn’t have far to go, the water can’t be more than forty feet away.

Alan climbed out of the Citroen, collected his suitcase, then leaned in, Thanks, Anne…for everything. Will I see you tomorrow?

I think we’re both expected to meet up with Ruiz in the morning, so he’s asked me to act as chauffeur. I’ll pick you up at 8:30.

Where’s the meet?

Anne shrugged, A safe house on Lyon Street…it’s not far.

Alan nodded, paused for a moment, then stepped away from the car. Anne gave him a little wave as he stood there, then drove away.

The name’s Alan Harper…I’ve a reservation, said Alan to the hotel’s desk clerk.

Yes, of course, Mr. Harper…you’ll be staying with us for a week, I see.

Actually, indefinitely…on a week to week basis, corrected Harper.

The clerk gave the reservation a second glance, then looked up, Yes, I see. then resumed his introductory remarks, We’ve given you a room on the top floor…it’s a bit further back, but I believe you’ll find it still offers a splendid view of the bay.

I’m sure it will do, said Harper dismissively, as he signed the registration form.

The clerk signaled for a bellhop to come forward and collect the key.

The bellhop led Harper over to the elevators, pressed the elevator call button mounted on a brass wall panel; the doors to one of the cars opened up immediately. They both stepped in, with the bellhop carrying Harper’s suitcase. The ride to the top floor was slow but steady. As he left the elevator Harper found himself in a brightly lit hallway with minimal decorative accents. The smoothly plastered walls and ceiling were painted white—in keeping with the hotel’s modernist exterior, he supposed.

As he stepped into the room Harper immediately spotted his other aluminum suitcase, placed there by Anne before his arrival. He tipped the bellhop, took possession of the room key, then began studying the room once the bellhop was gone. He judged it to be fairly utilitarian but more than adequate for his limited needs.

After unpacking his two suitcases and arranging things he walked over to the door leading to the balcony and stepped outside. A fresh sea breeze greeted him, rustling the double line of palm trees along Avenida des Français. His best view was towards the south end of the bay where a peninsular section of land jutted out. What looked to be a large luxury hotel had been built on it, and moored to the quay adjacent to the hotel was what appeared to be a large dinner-cruise boat, similar to those seen motoring up and down the river Seine in Paris. Whether it actually went out to sea or remained tethered to the dock he couldn’t tell from where he stood.

Curious about both the hotel and the vessel tied up next to it, Harper decided to walk over, thinking he could use the exercise and figuring the hotel would probably have a dining room where he could get dinner.

Chapter Two

Tell me about Ruiz, said Harper as he and Anne headed for the safe house on Lyon Street. What kind of guy is he?

Anne shrugged, He’s an ex-jock…powerfully built and aggressive—likes to get in your face. Early forties…made his rep last summer dogging the Israelis as they reacted to Nasser’s Suez Canal move.

Alan didn’t say anything, just nodded, thinking. He was dressed casually—just a pair of khakis, white dress shirt and blue blazer…wondering how it would go over with his new boss.

Soon, Anne made a right turn onto Lyon Street. They’d gone less than a block when she began to slow down, It’s that one, she said, pointing to a single story white stucco structure with overly large windows that were heavily curtained and covered in a robust security grillwork. As Anne pulled the car to the curb and parked Alan asked, Is this where you usually meet with him?

She nodded, then turned off the engine and slipped the keys in her purse. Let’s go, said Anne, who then climbed out of the car along with Alan. Then with grim determination they crossed the quiet street and approached the building’s entrance.

The door was opened by a CIA officer dressed in a suit.

He’s the station chief’s security man, whispered Anne as the agent led them into a large parlor where Alex Ruiz was standing.

Welcome to Beirut, Harper, said Ruiz as they shook hands, Hope you found your lodgings suitable. Meyer, your Cairo contact, said you prefer a hotel room over an apartment.

It’ll do fine, said Harper absently as he studied the man. Anne’s description seemed to have been right on the mark. Harper was surprised, however, to find the man wasn’t taller; Harper, at six foot two inches, stood out.

Anne making you feel at home? Ruiz pressed.

She’s been very hospitable, replied Harper warily.

Well…let’s get down to business, said Ruiz, gesturing for Harper and Anne to take seats. Langley seems to believe you’re ready to return to duty and have assigned you to Beirut Station…under my care. Do you concur with their opinion?

I do, sir, replied Harper.

Good…well, then, here’s how I plan to use you, began Ruiz, taking a seat across from them. You’re to be Langley’s eyes and ears in Damascus, monitoring Soviet efforts at securing actionable control over decision making officers of the Syrian government. Let me, first, give you some background.

Last month, with the support of our National Security Council, together with a former Syrian minister, Langley authorized a CIA operation in Syria called Straggle. The Company budgeted a half million Syrian pounds with the intent of enabling the Syrian military to take control of the country’s frontier posts while also securing key sections of Damascus. The operation was scheduled to start on October 25th, but was delayed until October 30th as tensions ramped up in the region over the Suez crisis. Then on the 29th of October Israel initiated an armored thrust deep into the Sinai while the French and British landed troops along the Suez Canal. In the face of these provocations the Syrian military refused to cooperate and we had to cancel Operation Straggle.

Then, around the middle of this month, Syria signed a pact with the Soviet Union enabling the Soviets to have significant influence within the government in exchange for a generous supply of military equipment, including planes and tanks. Obviously, none of the promised military equipment has yet been delivered, nevertheless the Syrians were quickly pressured to minimize the presence of American diplomatic and intelligence personnel.

So, now…a week later…the Company finds itself with few agents in country; mostly officers handling local informants in Aleppo, Homs and other secondary urban centers. As for Damascus, the Damascus station chief, himself, has been recalled.

So where do I fit in? asked Harper.

As I said earlier, you’ll be our eyes and ears in Damascus. The Soviets have only a tenuous hold on key decision making within the Syrian government. Langley wants you to monitor Soviet efforts, and interdict any actions on their part that come to your attention. You’ll be a new face…as will Anne, who’ll serve as your backup, just as she did in Calcutta last year and in Istanbul this past summer.

Will we be supplied with dossiers on Soviet intelligence personnel operating in the city? asked Harper.

What we know about them is in this packet, replied Ruiz as he handed a thick envelope to Harper. It also contains the address and keys of three safe houses, the names and addresses of informants you might find useful, and a quantity of Syrian currency.

I suppose you plan for me to use my cover as a freelance journalist, and for Anne to pose as my girlfriend? commented Harper.

No…actually this time I think it might be better if she’s identified as your interpreter…let officialdom in Damascus believe you don’t speak Arabic, replied Ruiz. And your journalistic assignment, should people be curious, is to report on the growing influence of the Soviets in the Middle East—not just in Syria, but throughout the region. You’ve simply chosen to begin your coverage in Syria…to be followed by stints in Beirut and then in Cairo.

What about transportation…are we expected to use Anne’s car?

"No, but it’s a car Anne is familiar