Murdock could think of was “The Farm,” the historic country estate where CIA agents were given most of their training.
After another fifteen minutes they came to a stop at a steel gate. Two guards hustled out of a stone sentry box, checked the outside of the rig, then opened the door andlooked inside. The uniformed guard nodded at the SEALs, talked with the driver a minute, then the steel gate rolled back and they drove through.
The rig came to a stop and the front-seat man opened the sliding door. “We’re here,” he said and the SEALs stepped out of the van into a pleasant country setting with two rambling buildings that looked more like town houses than dormitories. Don Stroh came out the door of the nearest building and waved.
“Right over here, men. Welcome to The Farm. You won’t see much of it while you’re here, but this is it. Right this way to your quarters. Murdock, you’ll bunk with the men as usual. First on the schedule is wardrobe as we movie people say. You’ll have two new sets of clothes, all slightly worn, all authentic Syrian civilian. You will wear them while you’re here. Yes, gents, our target for tonight is Syria. So let’s get cracking. We’ll go from your dorm to costuming, then I.D. and then dinner. Right after that we have a three-hour session set for your introduction to the Arabic language and to the culture, and specifically to everything that is Syrian.” He looked at Murdock. “Is the fishing really that good on the overnight boats?”
“Better. A month ago they were taking up to four albacore per pole. You missed it again.”
They walked over to the barracks, a small building with just eight bunks, designed for small groups. They had no gear to leave there, so Stroh took them to the costuming specialists. Two of the four women were Arabs.
“These will be working-class civilian clothes, absolutely authentic and made in Syria,” one of the women said. Her dark eyes surveyed the six men for a moment, then she said something in Arabic to the other woman, who left and came back with a rack of clothes on rolling wheels.
It took an hour to outfit the men with a set of clothes, and then to put together a second set for backup. They took the extra clothes to their barracks packed in Syrian small suitcases that looked as if they were made of cardboard. They were.
“Remember not to sit on the luggage,” Lam said.
Dinner was in a mess hall with a serving line and trays with real dishes. The food was surprisingly good.
“Not your usual mess hall chow,” Bradford said. He’d been back for seconds on the stuffed pork chops.
Stroh had eaten with them and now led them to another nearby building that held a classroom. A dark-skinned Arab-looking man stood in front of the class dressed much like they were-unremarkable pants and shirt and light jacket. The colors of all the clothes were muted in black and dark browns, with a few dark blues.
“Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Marwan Jablah. I lived in Syria for thirty years before I came to this country, thank God. I’m a naturalized citizen and am proud to work for the CIA. No, I am not a spy, but I teach many men and women how to be spies and how to fade into the crowd in any Syrian city. This is almost the last thing I’ll say in English. This is total immersion; you’ll be over your head in the Arabic language. You learn it fast or you don’t go to the bathroom, or eat or sleep. Now, which of you speak Arabic?”
Murdock and Rafii held up their hands.
He spoke in Arabic then: “Don’t help the others. Make them learn the words, the mannerisms. They might be in a situation where they can be killed if they don’t know Arabic.”
Bradford followed some of it. Fernandez frowned trying to get some meaning from the words. Lam and Jaybird scowled, not understanding a word or inflection.
After three minutes of talking to them in Arabic, the instructor handed out booklets.
“Now, let’s get to work. First some
After another fifteen minutes they came to a stop at a steel gate. Two guards hustled out of a stone sentry box, checked the outside of the rig, then opened the door andlooked inside. The uniformed guard nodded at the SEALs, talked with the driver a minute, then the steel gate rolled back and they drove through.
The rig came to a stop and the front-seat man opened the sliding door. “We’re here,” he said and the SEALs stepped out of the van into a pleasant country setting with two rambling buildings that looked more like town houses than dormitories. Don Stroh came out the door of the nearest building and waved.
“Right over here, men. Welcome to The Farm. You won’t see much of it while you’re here, but this is it. Right this way to your quarters. Murdock, you’ll bunk with the men as usual. First on the schedule is wardrobe as we movie people say. You’ll have two new sets of clothes, all slightly worn, all authentic Syrian civilian. You will wear them while you’re here. Yes, gents, our target for tonight is Syria. So let’s get cracking. We’ll go from your dorm to costuming, then I.D. and then dinner. Right after that we have a three-hour session set for your introduction to the Arabic language and to the culture, and specifically to everything that is Syrian.” He looked at Murdock. “Is the fishing really that good on the overnight boats?”
“Better. A month ago they were taking up to four albacore per pole. You missed it again.”
They walked over to the barracks, a small building with just eight bunks, designed for small groups. They had no gear to leave there, so Stroh took them to the costuming specialists. Two of the four women were Arabs.
“These will be working-class civilian clothes, absolutely authentic and made in Syria,” one of the women said. Her dark eyes surveyed the six men for a moment, then she said something in Arabic to the other woman, who left and came back with a rack of clothes on rolling wheels.
It took an hour to outfit the men with a set of clothes, and then to put together a second set for backup. They took the extra clothes to their barracks packed in Syrian small suitcases that looked as if they were made of cardboard. They were.
“Remember not to sit on the luggage,” Lam said.
Dinner was in a mess hall with a serving line and trays with real dishes. The food was surprisingly good.
“Not your usual mess hall chow,” Bradford said. He’d been back for seconds on the stuffed pork chops.
Stroh had eaten with them and now led them to another nearby building that held a classroom. A dark-skinned Arab-looking man stood in front of the class dressed much like they were-unremarkable pants and shirt and light jacket. The colors of all the clothes were muted in black and dark browns, with a few dark blues.
“Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Marwan Jablah. I lived in Syria for thirty years before I came to this country, thank God. I’m a naturalized citizen and am proud to work for the CIA. No, I am not a spy, but I teach many men and women how to be spies and how to fade into the crowd in any Syrian city. This is almost the last thing I’ll say in English. This is total immersion; you’ll be over your head in the Arabic language. You learn it fast or you don’t go to the bathroom, or eat or sleep. Now, which of you speak Arabic?”
Murdock and Rafii held up their hands.
He spoke in Arabic then: “Don’t help the others. Make them learn the words, the mannerisms. They might be in a situation where they can be killed if they don’t know Arabic.”
Bradford followed some of it. Fernandez frowned trying to get some meaning from the words. Lam and Jaybird scowled, not understanding a word or inflection.
After three minutes of talking to them in Arabic, the instructor handed out booklets.
“Now, let’s get to work. First some
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