Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Ascendancy by Eric Van Lustbader

here. And what happened? The inevitable, that’s what. The Sunni majority became overwhelming. You think the rebels want democracy? Well, some of them, maybe. But there are a whole hell of a lot who are Iraqi Islamics, and others like the al-Qaeda-backed al-Nusra Front, Hezbollah, and El Ghadan’s Tomorrow Brigade—jihadists using the current chaos to spread more chaos.”
    He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets, his shoulders rising, which made the suit jacket appear even more ill-fitting. “Do you know what will happen to us Alawis if the Sunnis ever gain power? We’ll all be rounded up, set against a wall, and shot. That’s no exaggeration.”
    He craned his neck, peering as far down the stairs as he could, as if he expected an enemy lurking in the shadows. Satisfied, he turned back to them. “The West hates Bashar, but do you know the current president’s history? He went to England to study and work. He was happy there. He’d washed his hands of Syria altogether. Then his older brother—the heir to their father’s rule—went and slammed his two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar convertible into a roundabout, totaling it and himself. Bashar was recalled under enormous pressure.”
    Hafiz shrugged, his expression turning more mournful by the moment. “He was a reformer. For five years he gave the Syrian people a taste of freedom. Then the war came and, along with it, the Sunni refugees. His father’s old-line inner circle threatened him. They told him that if he didn’t clamp down on the Sunnis they would kill him. So what choice did he have? Not only were the reforms rolled back but the Iraqi Sunnis were persecuted—tortured and, in many instances, killed. Now you see the result—over one hundred thousand Sunnis killed.”
    “Once the genie is out of the bottle…” Zizzy let the first part of the statement speak for itself.
    “No kidding.” Hafiz’s look of disgust was unmistakable. “We’re holding on with everything we have against both the rebels and the jihadists. I’m afraid it’s a losing battle.”
    “That’s the reason I came in person,” Zizzy said. “I want to get you and your family out of here before it’s too late.”
    “It’s already too late,” Hafiz said. “I appreciate the offer, Zizzy, but Damascus is my home. I cannot abandon it to the ravening hordes.”
    Zizzy allowed a moment of silence to underscore the gravity of the situation before he nodded. “I understand, Nazim.” He gestured toward Bourne. “However, as long as we’re here, I’m wondering if you could do me a favor.”
    Hafiz spread his hands. “Anything, Zizzy. You have only to ask.”
    “Actually, it’s a favor for my friend, Yusuf.”
    Now Hafiz stared at Bourne with keen interest. “How can I be of assistance to you, Yusuf Al Khatib?”
    “You know, I am sure, Minister Qabbani.”
    Hafiz nodded. “Naturally. Though we are in different departments, we manage to cross paths now and again. Budget meetings and so forth.” His eyes narrowed. “There was a recent incident in Doha, I believe. The minister would have been killed had he not had the foresight to hire a Blacksmith.”
    “You know about that,” Bourne said.
    “But of course.” The ghost of a smile played around Hafiz’s wide mouth. “Qabbani fought tooth and nail to gain the funding to pay for the Blacksmith.”
    Interesting, thought Bourne. “Minister, why do you think he fought so hard?” A less seasoned agent might have added, “Could he have had foreknowledge of the incident?” But Bourne wanted to see if Hafiz would come to this conclusion on his own.
    “To be honest, Qabbani wanted to weasel out of the summit,” Hafiz said. “When that didn’t work, he went the Blacksmith route. He argued he’d be safer here in Damascus than at the Doha summit. As it happened, he was correct.”
    “Lucky guess,” Bourne said.
    “I’m not so sure it was a guess.”
    “What do you mean?” Bourne said.
    Hafiz returned to