Vulcan's Fire

1

The stalkers awaited the signal.

It came in the dappled gray light of 5:00 A.M. because delay was as much an enemy as the dedicated men inside the remote building.

Outside the five-room house, the assault leader gave a quick click-click of his tactical headset. The eleven members of his team recognized it as the preparatory signal. Receiving no response, he proceeded with his countdown.

“Ready… ready…”

A long three-second wait allowed anyone to delay the inevitable. No one did. The four men on perimeter guard saw nothing to interfere with the operation. Meanwhile, the two assault teams and the command element were tensed, leg muscles coiled to propel them from the shadows.

The team leader licked his lips. He had extensive experience but it was always like this: an eager dread. He glanced around. Only his radio operator returned his gaze; everyone else was focused on the objective. It looked good: they had probably achieved surprise, but surprise without violence was useless.

“Ready… go!”

Two explosions shattered the Mediterranean air, two seconds apart. The first was a Chinese-made RPG whose high-explosive warhead blew a hole in the brick-and-mortar wall facing the sunrise. The second was another RPG near the opposite corner that smashed through a window and detonated on the interior wall.

Assaulting together, each section was preceded by Rheinmetall flash-bang grenades to compensate for any defenders who escaped the RPG blasts.

A quick two-count, and both teams entered through the holes. It was doctrine: avoid the usual entrances, which could be mined.

The attackers’ mission was simple: kill or capture everyone present. Take no unnecessary chances.

There were no novices on either side of the door.

The raiders held the advantage, exploiting the stunning effects of the grenades and flash-bangs. Moving with fluid rapidity, they “ran the walls,” closing the distance on the defenders, firing short, disciplined bursts. The Egoz reconnaissance unit allowed its members a great deal of latitude: most chose 7.62 Galils but a few carried AK-47s. Both were lethally effective.

Three defenders were shot down in the front room; only one got off a round and it went high. A fragmentation grenade arced through the entrance to the next room. Before it exploded, the men inside opened fire with their AKs. The 150-grain rounds shredded the blanket separating the two rooms, and some were deliberately aimed low. One raider dropped with a Kalashnikov’s bullet through the left thigh.

The grenade fizzled. Too long in storage — the result of clandestine acquisition policies — it exploded in a low-order detonation that inflicted minor wounds. Inside the small room, a close-range firefight erupted. It was fought at near muzzle contact.

One raider was killed, taking a round above the ballistic plate of his tactical vest. Another was clipped in the right bicep.

The defenders were shot down in an ephemeral moment of loud noise, bright muzzle flashes, and icy terror. Each body received one or two rounds to the head before the last brass clattered on the wood floor.

One man escaped the house, fleeing through the back door. The designated marksman with a scoped Galil shot him from sixty meters.

Order, if not quiet, returned to the shattered structure.

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

Without awaiting instructions, the raiders moved through the house according to their individual priorities. Two guarded the bodies on the floor while two others secured the victims’ hands with flex cuffs. The fact that they were dead was irrelevant; some of the raiders had seen dead men kill the living.

The number two man turned to his superior. “No useful prisoners, Chief. Sorry.”

The team leader shrugged philosophically. “I know. It couldn’t be helped.” As papers were gathered, the radioman began taking photos with his digital camera.

Hearing the all-clear, the team medic entered through the door— the only one to do so. He had one immediate case and two lesser. He was experienced and calm; combat triage was nothing new to him.

“Arterial bleeding here,” said one man, leaning over the first casualty. The medic went to work, knowing that his friends would treat other casualties for the moment. He glanced at a green-clad form, not moving. One of the raiders merely shook his head. The decedent’s family would be told that he died in a training accident, body unrecoverable. Knowing it was a lie, the parents would accept the fabrication.

The other killers began tearing the place apart. They searched thoroughly, quickly, indelicately. They opened every cabinet and drawer, spilling the contents, and pulled mattresses off beds. They searched for loose boards and pried at the ceiling. Finally one of them returned to the living room.

“Nothing here, Avri.”

“It has to be here. Look again. Everywhere.”

Abraham pulled the kaffiyeh off his head and allowed it to drape over his tactical vest. “We’ve already looked everywhere. Twice. I’m telling you, it’s not here.”

Avri looked around the house. “God damn it!” For the grandson of a rabbi, he was famously profane.

He grabbed the radioman. “Get me Capri Six. Priority.”

The RTO handed over the instrument. “Scramble mode selected.”

“Capri, this is Purchase. Pass.” The commander released the transmit button, allowing the scrambler to do its work. In an instant the carrier wave was back.

“Purchase, I read you. Pass.”

“The well is dry. Repeat, the well is dry. End.”

The response was decidedly nonregulation, but the transmission from the south drew no comment. After all, this time the offending voice belonged to an agnostic.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re in trouble.”

Rear Admiral Michael Derringer had been retired for longer than he cared to remember but he had lost little of his command presence. As founder and CEO of Strategic Solutions, Incorporated, he had conned the company through its early years, building success upon success as the military contractor market expanded. Working around the world, performing often clandestine tasks for the U.S. Government, SSI had become the go-to firm when DoD or State needed something done without official recognition.

But that was then; this was now.

“Still no new contracts?” George Ferraro, SSI vice president and chief financial officer, had no problem guessing the admiral’s intent.

“Correct.” Derringer’s balding head bobbed in assent. “SecDef canceled our electronic warfare project in Arabia and State vetoed us for another African job. Oh, we’re still getting business but it’s paperclip money: security work, training assignments, small-scale jobs. About the only advantage is that they keep some of our regulars on the payroll. But they don’t reduce the red ink, and we can’t operate on our stock portfolio indefinitely.”

Among the nine people sitting around the polished table was Lieutenant General Thomas Varlowe, U.S. Army (Retired), the gray presence who never quite shed the three stars he once wore. As chairman of SSI’s advisory board, he had little financial stake in the firm but remained interested in the fascinating projects that came down the Beltway. Though he seldom spoke up in board meetings, the situation called for an exception.

“Ahem.” Heads turned toward the former West Point track star. “I wanted to talk to Admiral Derringer before the meeting but I didn’t get the chance. In case there’s any doubt about the company’s lack of work, I can elaborate.”

Derringer barely managed to suppress a tight smile. The two retirees were “Admiral” and “General” to one another in SSI meetings but friendly rivals named Mike and Tom the rest of the time — especially in November for the Army-Navy game.

“Go ahead, General.” The Navy man knew what was coming.

Varlowe shoved back from the table. “It’s that job with the Israelis. Damned poor situation to get into…” He came within an inch of adding, As I tried to tell all of you. Instead, he pushed ahead. “I’ve snooped around and found that new business dried up almost before that ship sank… what was it? Three or four months ago? Sure, our people prevented the uranium ore from reaching Iran, but that hardly matters.”

“I’ve been traveling in Europe, General. What does matter?” Beverly Ann Shumard, with a PhD in international relations, was one of two women on the board of directors, and among the most outspoken of all.

Derringer interjected. “Dr. Shumard, the mission summary is still being prepared owing to, ah, security concerns. But the short version is, our training team in Chad got involved in a double play set up by the Israelis, presumably against the Iranians. Colonel Leopole can provide some operational details, but basically our tasking changed from instruction to interdiction, preventing a load of yellow cake from being shipped to Iran.”

Shumard shook her head. “I’m sorry, Admiral. As I said, I’ve been away and didn’t know the particulars. But why would Iran want ore from Chad? I mean, Iran has its own mines.”

Derringer nodded to the chief of operations.

Lieutenant Colonel Frank Leopole looked, talked, and acted as Central Casting would expect of a Marine Corps officer. He was tall, lean, and hard with a high and tight haircut that screamed “jarhead” to the Army and Navy men in the office. His tenure with SSI had been marked by some notable successes and few failures.

“Deniability, ma’am. At least that’s what our intel said. Presumably Tehran wanted foreign yellow cake to use in a weapon and avoid the nuclear fingerprints of its own ore. So our team went chasing off across Chad and Libya, then through the Med and down the west coast of Africa to overhaul the shipment. All the time we were working with the Israelis, who provided most of the information and logistics. We caught the ship, which was scuttled with its cargo, so presumably everybody was happy.”

“But I take it nobody really is happy.”

“Nobody but the Israelis,” Varlowe added. It was an uncharacteristic interjection from the normally taciturn soldier. “As I was going to say, our team — this firm — was stiffed by Mossad. The Israelis concocted the plot in the first place to distract us — the U.S. — from their genuine concern. They had their own operation going against Iran’s nuclear program but were afraid we would learn about it and bring pressure to bear. Apparently their real plan failed but what matters is, they tossed us a straw man: something credible that we could pursue and leave them alone.” He gave an eloquent shrug. “It worked.”

George Ferraro spoke up. “See, that’s what I don’t understand. We did what the government and the administration wanted done. So why are we the heavies now?”

“There are several major players,” Derringer replied. “Not least of which is the CIA. The agency accepted the Israelis’ ploy, apparently almost at face value. Our own sources — mainly David Dare — sniffed out the facts but too late to affect the operation.”

Shumard accepted that explanation without reservation. Though not involved in intelligence or operations, she and everyone connected with the firm knew the eye-watering reputation of the former NSA spook. It was said that if you wanted to know what Japanese porn film Kim Jong Il watched last night, ask Dave Dare.

“So Langley’s embarrassed that SSI figured out what was going on, and wants to cover its hindquarters.”

Derringer spoke again. “It’s bigger than that, Doctor. We’ve taken hits before from various agencies, and I admit that a few were justified. But usually when some agency tries to stiff us, it’s as you say: embarrassment or jealousy or some sort of perceived rivalry. In this case, we’re criticized by State and Langley and to an extent by DoD.” He grimaced, then adjusted his glasses. “In a way I can understand it. Considering the high stakes involved in any Israeli-Iranian conflict, nobody this side of the pond wants to be blamed if something goes wrong.”

Marshall Wilmont spoke up for the first time. As SSI president and chief operating officer, he had a finger in most of the company pies. “So much for the reason for our drought. What I want to know is, what can we do about it?”

The question hung suspended above the polished table, lurking in brooding silence.

The dream returned again.

“Afrad mosallah!”

At the command, the executioners assumed their positions: squatting or kneeling with their rifles aimed at the condemned men’s chests.

The sequence usually resembled a grainy black and white newsreel, for the sleeper was one of those who seldom dreamed in color. When awake, in the rare moments when he had nothing else in mind, Ahmad Esmaili sometimes pondered the odd situation. As a participant in the event that stalked his nights, he expected to relive the glorious, dreadful moments from behind the sights of a Heckler & Koch rifle. But more often his perspective was that of an observer, seeing himself and his colleagues from several meters away.

In 1979, at eighteen, Esmaili’s first full-time job had been on a revolutionary firing squad. The first day had been dreadful, and if anything the second day was worse. But by the end of the week it was tolerable. After a while, to display his revolutionary fervor, he notched the wood stock of his G3 for each of the Shah’s vermin he shot. However, as the imams noted, hell was reserved for infidels— those who rejected Islam. Presumably even Muslims who oppressed others of The Faith had a chance to achieve Paradise.

Apart from former government officials and Savak policemen, Esmaili also had dispatched evildoers such as drug addicts, perverts, and Kurds.

Esmaili had to admit that most of the dictator’s men had died reasonably well, some with the Koran in hand. Resigned to their fate, they had stood their ground, eyes bound but hands free, and accepted the ayatollah’s justice delivered almost from powder-burn distance. But the former revolutionary guard seldom alluded to that aspect of the process. A few early attempts from twenty meters or more had resulted in some messy episodes, and eventually the range was diminished almost to muzzle contact.

“Atesh!”

Esmaili felt the heavy trigger pull, then somebody was shaking him awake. It was two hours before dawn.

Forcing his consciousness to swim upward through the haze of REM sleep, he surfaced to think: No good news arrives in darkness.

He was right.

Esmaili sat upright on his cot, rubbing his eyes and stifling a yawn. He merely said, “Tell me.”

“It is Malik’s team.” The tone of the messenger’s voice told Ahmad Esmaili as much as the words. “They are all with God.”

The Iranian was fully awake now. He focused on the face of his colleague, a young man from Tyre who called himself Hazim: Resolute. He was more enthusiastic than capable but occasionally he showed promise. Esmaili had decided to cultivate him.

“All of them?”

Hazim nodded gravely.

Esmaili swung his bare feet onto the floor of the small house. His toes found his sandals and slid into them, rising in the process. Otherwise he was already dressed. “When?”

“Early this morning. We only got word a little while ago.”

The senior man shook his head. “They could not have been more than forty kilometers from here. Why the delay?”

Hazim defaulted to his passive setting. “I do not know, Teacher. I only pass the message from the courier.”

“Then I need to speak with him, not an errand boy.” The words were selected to cut, to hurt. To teach. He stalked from the house, making for the larger building that served as headquarters for a few days.

Hazim trailed in his master’s wake, biting down the pain. Belatedly he realized that he should have informed himself of more details before awaking the Iranian. Or I could have brought the messenger with me.

He was learning.

In the main building Esmaili found the courier drinking thick tea and devouring some biscuits. Showing deference to the Iranian, the Lebanese fighter stood and inclined his head. “Teacher…”

Esmaili waved a placating hand. “Please sit, brother. You are a guest here.”

The two men were within three years of one another’s age, both in their mid-forties, both dedicated and competent. But few Hezbollah operatives possessed Ahmad Esmaili’s depth of experience. From the revolution onward, through the nightmare of the Iraq war of the 1980s and what the Zionist lackeys called the present “terror” war, the Iranian liaison officer had been constantly engaged. His masters in Tehran knew his worth — and so did his acolytes in The Lebanon.

The messenger was called Fida, and while he surely had sacrificed much of his earthly life to the service of God, it had been a willing sacrifice. This night, he knew what the Teacher wanted to know without being asked.

“We were to meet Malik and his team this morning for a joint reconnaissance. When they did not appear, we searched for them.” Fida sipped more tea but did not taste it. “We probably arrived two or three hours after… after the Jews.”

Esmaili’s obsidian eyes locked on to the courier’s face. “You are certain it was Israelis?”

Fida reached into his vest pocket and produced a metal object. From across the table, Esmaili recognized an IDF identification disk. Neither man read Hebrew but both recognized the characters.

The Iranian’s mind churned through various options. “This might be a ruse to mislead us. The killers could be local militia trying to drive us from the area.” He thought for an additional moment. “Was there expended brass?”

“Yes. It was unmarked — no head stamps.”

So it was the Jews.

“In any case, Malik and his men are dead,” Fida continued. “We buried them properly and came here. I thought it best to avoid the radio. We are almost certain that the Jews have learned our frequencies again. We will have to change…”

“You did well, my friend. Now rest here. I have much to do this night.”

The intercom buzzed on Derringer’s desk. “Admiral, there’s a message for you at the front desk.”

Derringer turned from his copy of Naval History. There wasn’t much else to occupy him that morning, and besides, as an admiral himself, he often sympathized with Takeo Kurita’s dilemma at Leyte Gulf. “What is it?”

Mrs. Singer’s contralto voice crackled over the line. “Cheryl said it’s just a calling card in an envelope addressed to you. She can bring it up.”

“No, I should stretch my legs. Tell her I’ll be right down.”

In the lobby fronting on Courthouse Road, Derringer greeted the receptionist. “Hello, Miss Dungan. I understand there’s a message for me.”

“Here it is, Admiral.” With her Peach Street drawl, Cheryl Dungan pronounced it “hee-yer.” She handed over the envelope and beamed a heartbreaking smile. Office gossip said that she had been engaged twice but was having too much fun to change her marital status after just twenty-six years.

Suppressing his sixty-something male hormones, Derringer forced himself to concentrate on the message. It was a plain white envelope with the recipient’s name and “PERSONAL” typed on the front. The CEO opened the envelope to find a business card.

Mordecai Baram, Minister for Agriculture and Scientific Affairs, Embassy of Israel, 3514 International Drive Northwest.

There was also a handwritten note that Derringer read in a glance. He turned to the receptionist again. “Who delivered this?”

“Oh, a man who spoke with an accent. Maybe thirty, thirty-two. Kinda cute.” She said “kee-yute.”

Minutes later Derringer walked into Wilmont’s office and closed the door. “Marsh, take a look at this.”

Wilmont looked up with a furrowed brow. “Agriculture and science? That’s got to be some kind of cover.”

“Concur. If I’m not interested, I’m to leave a phone message. Otherwise the note says to meet him at Natural History, 1100 tomorrow. At the evolution exhibit.”

The SSI president slid the card across his desk. “What do you plan to do?”

“I see no reason to pass this up. I admit that I’m curious.”

Wilmont’s paunch bulged beneath his vest as he leaned back. “Obviously that’s what Mr. Baram intended. But I wonder why he didn’t just call or send an e-mail.” He thought for a moment. “Have you ever met him? I’ve never heard the name.”

Derringer shook his head. “Me neither. But that’s probably the way he wants things.”

“So you’re going to keep the appointment?”

“Affirm. But I’m not going alone.”

2

The Hall of Human Origins was a well-attended exhibit, partly because it generated such fervent debate on both sides of the Darwinian fault line. As Michael Derringer paced down the millennia of human evolution, he found himself more interested than he had expected. From arboreal hominids to fire starters and Homo erectus tool crafters; from hunter-gatherers to the incredible spurt of the last 150,000 years.

“It makes you wonder about intelligent design, doesn’t it?”

Derringer was caught off guard by the voice. It seldom happened to the SSI founder, who prided himself on his situational awareness. But the man had seemingly materialized beside the former naval officer.

“Mr. Baram?”

The Israeli extended a hand. “Mordecai.”

They shook, openly regarding one another. Derringer saw a slender man in his mid to late fifties, slightly taller than himself with a close-cropped beard showing traces of gray.

“Mike.” They released their mutual grip. “How’d you recognize me?”

Baram smiled tightly. “I did a Google image search. Do you know that your name produces 447 hits? Of course, not all are actually photos of you, and you share a name with a well-regarded artist. But there were enough likenesses that I could pick you out.”

It was Derringer’s turn to smile. “That’s odd. I couldn’t find any images of you.”

The diplomat spread his hands in a deceptively helpless gesture. “Alas, the result of an obscure career in an obscure field.”

For the first time Derringer wondered if the man’s name actually was Mordecai Baram.

“Mordecai, why do I doubt that you’re approaching me about agriculture? If that actually is your area of expertise.”

Baram seemingly reacted to the American’s skepticism by rocking back on his heels. “Oh, my, yes. It truly is. I was a kibbutznik, you know. I grew up with dirt beneath my nails — hands and feet — so I come by my earthy trade quite honestly.” The ironic grin was back. “But I deal in other areas as well.”

Turning away from Australopithicus, Derringer asked, “Should we talk here or go somewhere else?”

“I suggest the cafeteria. It’s on the lower level and we can find a quiet corner there.”

The American nodded. “Very well.” He glanced at his Rolex. “Ah, how long do you want to talk?”

The Israeli shrugged. “As long as it takes, Adm… er, Mike. If you have another appointment… or need to meet somebody else…”

“Oh, no. I’m alone.”

Baram, who knew about a good many things besides agriculture, had already made Derringer’s close escort. The athletic young man known as Breezy was fairly discreet, but spent too much time watching his principal. However, the hefty black woman was the more accomplished at tradecraft. Martha Whitney had logged time with the agency in some interesting venues, having long since mastered the ability to fade into a crowd.

“I too am alone,” Baram responded. “So we’re both footloose and free.” He stepped back, allowing the American to precede him toward the lower level. Baram’s chauffeur maintained visual contact but mingled with a group of schoolchildren. Breezy missed the mark; Whitney did not.

Braced with coffee and tea, the two professionals selected the farthest two-seat table from the serving line. Derringer noted that the Israeli sat facing the entrance, back to the wall.

“Mike, I am here to make you an offer. More exactly, I can make SSI an offer.”

Derringer sipped his coffee. “I guess it doesn’t involve farming.”

“No, it does not involve agriculture.”

Derringer nodded. “Go on. Please.”

The diplomat allowed some girls from a Catholic school to pass, herded by two nuns. When the giggling crowd had moved on, he resumed his pitch.

“You follow the news, Admir… ah, Mike. You know that Israel’s 2006 incursion into Lebanon stirred up a hornet’s nest. In fact, the heavy resistance we met from Hezbollah was described as a defeat in some quarters.”

“Including inside Israel, I hear.”

Baram closed his eyes briefly, nodded, and seemed to choke down something in his mouth, and refocused his concentration on the American. “We cannot afford to allow Hezbollah and its Iranian sponsors to gain more strength and influence in southern Lebanon. The outcome could only bring greater conflict, possibly disaster. But neither can we provide open support to the Druze communities that oppose those factions. It’s just not a political possibility, no matter the prospects on the ground.”

“So how does this involve SSI?”

Baram leaned closer. “We want to hire you both as an operational asset and as a cutout — a cover, if you will.”

The American sat back, trying to formulate a response. “SSI in Lebanon? Why us?”

“Well, Mike, at risk of seeming flippant, I’ll say that apparently SSI has no other business at present.” He allowed that intelligence to sink in. Then he smiled. “I believe the timing is fortunate for you. Isn’t it?”

Derringer was careful to keep a level gaze with his new colleague. “Well, as somebody once said, the devil is in the details. Tell me more.”

Mordecai Baram told him.

“It’s your call, Avri.”

The pudgy, balding man in his late fifties wore regulation green fatigues devoid of rank or emblems. His relationship with the thirtyish officer in working clothes and Israeli military boots was part professional, part personal. The younger man was the son of the elder man’s sister.

Captain Avrim Edrim slumped against a cedar and mussed his hair. Ordinarily thick and curly, it was matted with sweat and dust. “We’re short three men now. One dead, two wounded.”

Colonel Yakov Livni studied his nephew. The senior officer wanted to reach out and touch the youngster’s arm, but people were watching from a respectful distance. “That’s why it’s your decision, boy. We can’t get any replacements for two or three days. They’ll be good men, well qualified, but of course they won’t be fully integrated into your team.”

Edrim raised his chin and locked eyes with Livni. “The briefing stressed that we need to keep up the pressure here. We don’t have enough teams to cover the area adequately, even with our Druze contacts. At least not yet.”

“My information is that nothing has changed.”

Edrim could not keep the irony from his voice. “No, nothing’s changed. The information was wrong, Yakov. There was no sign of ‘the package’ that we were sent to find. I’m not convinced it even exists.”

Livni ignored the gibe. “You know that any such ‘package’ is too important to ignore. I cannot reveal sources, of course, but there have been persistent reports that Hezbollah is working to deploy tactical weapons.”

“Well then…” Edrim’s mind was set. “If Mossad believes it’s worth the risk to keep understrength teams in the field, I have to accept that assessment.”

The older man felt a twinge of guilt. “Avri, you know I asked Mossad’s special operations division for some help. Twice, in fact.”

“Yes, I know. They’re more involved in assassination and kidnapping and sabotage than…”

“Well, yes. But with the current political climate in Tel Aviv, our friends in the Metsada are, well, gun-shy, as the Americans would say.” Livni thought for a moment, resting an elbow on his paunch. “Of course, we could try some bureaucratic tricks. We used to call it ‘shuffling the deck.’ You know, transfers from one agency to another on a ‘temporary’ or ‘liaison’ basis. The trouble is, when we try that, anybody who looks closely sees through it right away.”

Edrim squinted at his uncle in a parody of the colonel’s nearsightedness. Yakov Livni was too vain to wear glasses for anything but reading. “So you’re telling me that headquarters has tried shuffling the deck before?”

A blink and a smirk. “Youngster, I am not telling you anything.”

“Aah… I see.” The familiar grin was back on the captain’s tanned face.

“Look here, enough bantering. Hezbollah is trying hard to establish a larger operating area here and in Nabatiyeh Governate. We don’t think they expect to control both regions simultaneously — at least not yet. But they keep probing, keep pushing to gain a secure base of operations. The indications are for a bigger effort than before. What form it might take, we can only guess.” Livni wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. “In any case, we cannot let them consolidate more than they already have.”

Edrim leaned forward, away from the tree. Standing upright, he replied, “Well, Uncle, that’s clear. You said it’s my choice, and I choose to continue. I have some really good boys; we’ll be all right.”

Mentally, Livni berated himself. Damn it! I was speaking of the large picture, not Avri’s team.

But there was no turning back: Edrim would not permit it of himself. “All right, then. Where do we go next?”

Livni pulled a topographical map from his satchel and spread it so they both could see the area. A pudgy finger stabbed the grid north of Bint Jubayl. “Right here.”

Frank Leopole lost his patented leatherneck cool. “Work with the Israelis again? Admiral, you gotta be shitting me!”

Milliseconds later the erstwhile O-5 realized his gaffe. His face reddened beneath his tan and he murmured, “Ah, I’m sorry, sir. That kinda slipped out. But…”

The three grades between the two retired officers had long since melted in the warmth of their professional relationship. Derringer continued, his aplomb largely intact.

“Gentlemen — and ladies — you should understand something. We’re not here to debate the issue. The board has already approved it, and much as I’d rather work for somebody else, we really have no choice. I hate to sound like a bean counter, but with our accounts receivable problems, and accounts payable only accumulating, we have to take this contract.”

Sandra Carmichael, an Army lieutenant colonel in a previous existence, approached the situation from an operational perspective. Foreign ops were, after all, within her realm. “Sir, I have two questions. One: I agree with Frank. How do we know we can trust the Israelis? And two: what happens when DoD and the rest of the administration hears about this?”

Though Marshall Wilmont was present, the firm’s chief operating officer deferred to the CEO and founder. Having fought the battle for approval with the board of directors, he nodded to Derringer, who accepted the conn for the current meeting.

“After the previous mission, it’s certainly understandable that many of us are wary of the Israelis. Yes, they stiffed us before and they’re capable of doing it again. But to what end? They’re in a bind, which is exactly why they offered us this contract. In fact, they’re not even trying to lowball us. So if Tel Aviv hangs us out to dry, the government will be exposed not only to its political opposition, but to the world at large.” He shook his head. “So no, I don’t think we’re taking any unwarranted risks. But I agree that we should proceed with caution. We’ll get to that later.

“Now, as to your second question, that’s problematic. Believe it or not, we still have friends in the Pentagon and on the hill. There’s also the matter of practicality to consider. Some of the suits around town may not care to be seen in our company, but they know what’s at stake in South Lebanon. If Hezbollah gains a permanent foothold, it’ll certainly lead to a bigger, wider conflict. That’s in nobody’s interest, except Iran’s. So like us or not, we’re probably going to get a pass from the administration.”

Carmichael sat back, drumming her manicured fingers on the table. “I see your point, Admiral. But I’d like to start planning right now for a way to extract our people on short notice. In fact, I want to develop a primary plan and an alternate.”

Leopole took up the sentiment. “Concur with Sandy. Once we know how many operators we’ll need, and how they’ll be deployed, we should have our own assets in place. This looks like another potential job for Terry Keegan. After all, he’s the resident expert in dustoffs on hot LZs.” The former Marine grinned self-consciously. In recent years the dedicated leatherneck had bought a few rounds for Mr. Keegan, erstwhile squid and dedicated rotorhead.

“Very well,” Derringer interjected. “However, I’ll arrange for Frank and Sandy to meet with our Israeli liaison. He’s the one who contacted me, and in fact he expects to coordinate with our operations officers in drafting a presentation for the people we’ll use. It will probably be a few days.”

“Sir, who is the contact?” Leopold asked.

“Mordecai Baram. Officially he’s their embassy rep for science and agriculture but obviously he does other things as well.”

Sandy Carmichael leaned her elbows on the table. “Frankly, sir, that makes me nervous. We relied on one major contact with the yellow cake mission and we got hammered as a result. I’d feel better if we had broader support, from their embassy and maybe some military folks. Later we’ll need more…”

“Yes, that’s been arranged,” Derringer replied. He looked around the room. “Remember, everyone, this is a fairly large operation, requiring detailed coordination as well as secrecy. If you’re thinking that’s a tall order, you’re right. There are multiple layers with multiple players, including third-party nationals. But we are not — I repeat not — going into this project with our eyes half open. I’ve had a couple of frank discussions with Mr. Baram, who seems to understand our concerns. He’ll be here in person in a few days and I think you’ll find him open and knowledgeable.” He paused, sensing the mood in the room. It came to him as a mixture of anticipation leavened with skepticism.

“All right, then. Sandy, Frank, you’re authorized to start compiling a preliminary list of operators. Matt Finch already has a heads-up, combing the data bank for those with instructor backgrounds, Mideast experience, and Arabic language. As usual, we’ll go with Omar on a training program.”

As the meeting broke up, Leopole and Carmichael retreated to a far corner. “Whatchutink?” he asked.

“I think, better the devil you know than the one you don’t.”

“Well, we know this one,” Leopole replied, “and that’s the devil we’re dancing with.”

“There they are.”

The Hezbollah scout was twenty-two years old and had nearly seven years of experience. He knew the area intimately, from the days he played hide-and-seek with his two brothers and five cousins.

Of those seven playmates, two cousins were still living; one remained addled after a miraculous survival from an Israeli shelling several years ago.

The scout had noticed the Israeli-Druze team taking a night defensive position just below the crest of a hummock. It was well chosen, for though the position was only about eight meters above the surrounding terrain, it afforded an excellent view of most approaches. If not for a metallic glint in the slanting light, the Zionists might have gone undetected.

Ahmad Esmaili squatted beside his Lebanese colleague and squinted into the sunset. He detected nothing — no reflection, no movement. “You are certain?”

Tawfiq merely nodded, keeping his eyes on the rock pile that was his reference point.

“What is on the reverse slope?”

“More rocks, a little steeper. They will have one or two men watching that side.”

Esmaili thought for a moment. This was a rare opportunity and he wanted to optimize it. “Do you think these are the ones who have been hunting us?”

Another nod. Tawfiq was a man of deeds, not words.

Esmaili patted the scout on the shoulder. “Keep looking.” Then the Iranian slid sideways, rejoining the rest of his patrol in the brush. Gathering his fighters around him, he sketched the situation in the dirt. “The Jews are on this small hill about seventy meters ahead. They are positioned to watch all approaches so we will wait.”

“How long, Teacher?” Sarif was new; devout beyond all question and eager to learn but also too eager to act.

An orange-yellow wolf’s grin shone on the evening’s face. “Until they come to us.”

“Why will they do that?”

“Because they must.”

3

Dawn’s gray hues stretched themselves across the landscape, revealing the eastern slopes of Al Janub’s hummocks and hills. Well concealed within the shadows, the Hezbollah fighters had been deployed for nearly an hour before they saw movement on the hill.

Ahmed Esmaili had considerable knowledge of ambushes, and he was well enough educated to share the Christian sentiment that ‘tis more blessed to give than receive. He was confident that the Zionists descending the higher terrain were unaware of the ballistic gifts he intended to dispense.

A whisper slid through the dawn. “Avri, I’ve got something.” Golem lowered the Galil with a Litton generation III thermal sight and compared the green image he had just seen with his unaided vision.

“What is it?”

The designated marksman leaned forward from his sitting position beside a Joshua tree. “About 120 to 150 meters or so, on the far side of that gully. It’s not moving but there’s some kind of heat source.”

Avrim Edrim knelt beside the shooter. “Could it be an animal?”

The rifle was back on Golem’s shoulder, his master eye scrutinizing the object. “Maybe. It’s an irregular shape. Probably behind a shrub or something.”

“Take your time. See if there’s anything else out there.” Then Edrim emitted a low whistle, catching the attention of the other eight men. The nearest pair saw him gesture palm down and passed the word. In seconds the team disappeared behind rocks and foliage.

Two minutes passed in the gathering light. At length, Golem lowered his Galil. “There’s another source maybe one hundred meters northeast. The first target still has not moved.”

The captain leaned close. “Go back to the top and scan the other side. If there’s no sign, we’ll leave that way. Use your radio.”

Golem cradled his Galil and, taking care to guard the expensive optic, crawled toward the crest.

The radio operator snaked his way to the team leader. “Avri, how long can we stay here? If we don’t get going we’ll…”

“I know that!” The words snapped out, harsher than intended. But the youngster was right. If the team did not get off the hummock before long, the Israelis risked being trapped by the stalkers who might be waiting in the brush. Still, that was far better than getting caught in the open.

The carrier wave crackled in Edrim’s headset. “Avri, there’s nothing in the scope. But that doesn’t mean nothing’s there.”

Edrim turned to his Druze guide. “Hamzah, you know this area.”

The militiaman nodded gravely. “Surely. My family has—”

“What’s the terrain west of here for three hundred meters?”

The Lebanese glanced over his shoulder, toward the dawn. “Just like that. Maybe more foliage, some trees…”

“Lots of places for an ambush.”

Hamzah permitted himself an ironic grin. “Captain, this is Lebanon.”

The officer rolled onto his stomach and pulled out his map. Using a red-lensed flashlight, he studied the geometry of the situation. His objective was a cluster of buildings four kilometers away. Intelligence — for whatever that was worth — thought that a Hezbollah cell led by a competent Iranian would be there sometime this morning. Deciding to enter the area on foot, Edrim had shunned helo and ground transport in an effort to surprise his quarry. Now he had to consider that his men were the target, afoot deep in hostile territory.

The shadows slowly receded on the hummock, forcing the Israeli into a decision. We’re running out of time. Rising to a crouch, he signaled his men. With a motion of his left hand he indicated an exit over the crest, into the darkness to the west.

Less than 150 meters away, another radio carried a terse message. “They are moving. As you expected.”

Esmaili almost smiled to himself.

The Iranian pressed his transmit button. “Wait my command.”

Avrim Edrim glanced around him. His team was deployed properly— a small wedge-shaped formation that provided both frontal and flank protection, though it was difficult keeping alignment in the broken ground. He wished yet again for his missing three men: they would have provided another maneuver element besides additional firepower. But as he had told Uncle Yakov, one had to accept risks, and the need was deemed urgent. If only…

Automatic fire. Both sides, under twenty meters. Muzzle flashes sparkling in the growing dawn. Men down. No time to stop. Choke down the bile rising in the throat, ride the adrenaline spike, focus it. Use it. Assault out of the kill zone.

Booted feet pounding over the rocks and scrub brush. Hosing short, ill-aimed bursts at the enemy muzzles. Nearly there, almost to the thicket.

Hammer blows to thigh and pelvis. Something awful happening down there. Legs not responding. Sudden realization of one’s face in the brambles. Arms still work but fingers have lost fine motor function. Pull the rifle forward from belt level. Bolt locked back: reload. Hands fumble for a spare magazine.

It’s so quiet!

That means it’s over. They’ve killed us.

“Three men: I should have waited for three men.” Coppery taste in the mouth, energy draining away… so… so tired.

“What did he say?” Esmaili spoke little Hebrew.

Tawfiq had some difficulty understanding the Jew’s words, choked as they were. “Something about more men. Three men.”

Two gunshots snapped out behind the Iranian. He did not bother to look back; his men were experienced and did what needed doing.

“This one was the leader,” Tawfiq added. He leaned down and picked up the officer by the hair. “He will not last.” He retrieved the officer’s map case and handed it over.

Esmaili accepted the documents but wasted no time. He could examine them at leisure in more secure surroundings. Finally he took in the scene: it was much as the aftermath of most ambushes. He had been on the receiving end himself on two occasions. “None left to question?”

Hazim trotted up. “No, Teacher. Most were already dead. The others…”

The youngster had picked up a Galil with an impressive optic. Other Hezbollah fighters were slinging additional Israeli rifles and satchels over their shoulders.

Hazim saw a chance to ingratiate himself with his mentor. “An excellent plan, Teacher. Leaving two men to be seen by the night-vision device sent the Jews off the hummock, into the trap.” He smiled in the fresh daylight. “They came to us, as you said.”

The Iranian ignored the sycophancy but noticed that the boy had done reasonably well during the brief episode. He had even remembered to reload when it was over.

“Teacher, I wonder…”

“Yes?”

Hazim hefted the scoped Galil. “How did you know they would have night vision?”

Esmaili shrugged dismissively. “The Americans provide the Jews with everything they want. This time was no different.”

“Ah, I see.” Obviously he did not, but it mattered little. “But if they did not have the device?”

“Then I would have followed the alternate plan, of course.” The Iranian found the youth’s manner consistently irritating. Without elaboration, the leader formed up his team. “This position soon will be untenable so we are rejoining the others. But you all did well, brothers. We are one step closer to our goal in this area.”

With that, Esmaili turned and began walking southeasterly. He could not admit to his men that he had not been told the nature of that goal.

Marshall Wilmont opened the meeting. “So, who do we need for this job? And who’s available?” He addressed the question to the room but intended it for Jack Peters.

As a former Army officer with experience in two other private military contractors, Peters was valued as SSI’s human resources chief. However, he cordially detested the title, which Wilmont insisted upon for Beltway reasons. “I was a freaking S-1 in the Army,” Peters insisted, “and I’m a freaking S-1 now, whatever the letterhead says.”

Everyone present knew that Peters enjoyed minimizing his military record. He had been hired partly on the strength of his Special Forces background, and had been lured away from another successful PMC where he demonstrated a knack for scouting fresh talent.

Peters responded to Wilmont’s rhetorical question with some specifics. “Well, sir, it’s much as we expected. The contract calls for training experience, preferably with Arabic speakers. We’re always short of those, but I’m reaching out to Dave Main again.” He smiled to himself. “After he raided the gene pool at Fort Bragg for the last job, he probably has to grow a mustache and carry a broom to get near anybody down there anymore.”

Even Wilmont appreciated the humor. As the firm’s DoD liaison, Colonel Main was not above dipping his PMC ladle into sensitive waters when SecDef wanted something done quickly and quietly. “Well, he certainly delivered the goods for the Chad operation,” Wilmont conceded. “I just wonder how many more Arabic linguists we can pilfer… er, recruit… who can also perform as weapons and tactics instructors.”

Peters shuffled his briefing papers. “Well, sir, we have commitments from most of the Chad team except Gunny Foyte.” He glanced at Frank Leopole. “I understand that Gunny has a redheaded priority these days.”

Leopole did not try to suppress a grin. “That’s affirm. Besides, he didn’t relate real well to the Africans. Kept lapsing into his redneck mind-set and calling them ‘boys.’ He didn’t mean it as ‘house boys’ or anything — he just meant ‘guys’ but you can imagine how that went over.”

“In that case, it’s just as well we won’t have him calling Lebanese militiamen ‘ragheads’ or worse,” Peters replied. He returned to his roster. “We can count on Bosco and Breezy, of course — they’re always willing to add to their IRAs — plus Chris Nissen and Josh Wallender. Chris is golden: small-arms instructor and Arabic speaker. Josh is a good man, mostly a commo guy, who speaks French.” Peters looked up. “Some of our clients are likely to be French speakers so that can help.”

“What about Johnson?” Leopole asked.

“I have a call in to him. Some of you know that J. J. has, well, issues about going into the field again. I can’t blame him after the way al Qaeda tortured him in Afghanistan. Frankly, I was surprised he went to Chad, but of course that also was a training mission.”

“I’d like to have him if we could,” Leopole replied. The former Foreign Legion veteran was not only fluent in French, but an excellent instructor who spoke a smattering of Arabic.

“Hey,” Leopole exclaimed. “What about Vic Pope? He outdid himself in the Chadian maritime op.”

Peters shook his head. “I already asked. He’s not interested in most jobs above the high tide mark these days.”

The former Marine was clearly disappointed. “I’d feel better if he were with our people. I never knew a better man in a tight spot.” He grimaced as much to himself as anyone. “But I guess SEALs like to keep their feet wet.”

“Who else, Jack?” Wilmont wanted to keep things on track.

“Several other operators we’ve used before, but none with language skills. Ashcroft, Barrkman, Furr, Green, Jacobs, Olson, a couple of new guys. Then there’s…” He flipped through his papers again.

“Pitney. Robert Pitney. Former cop, been to Lebanon and speaks good Arabic.”

Leopole leaned forward on his elbows. “But what’s his military background?”

Peters shook his head. “None. Main heard about him through shooting circles. He’s a nationally ranked action pistol shooter, won the Bianchi Cup two years ago.”

“How’s a guy like that speak Arabic?”

“He married a Jordanian gal and learned the language to please her family. Ah… he also converted to Islam.”

Wilmont rubbed his chin. “He converted to marry this lady?”

“Affirmative. They have two children.”

Leopole drummed his fingers on the table. The cadence was a tattoo accompanying the silent strains of John Philip Sousa. For the Eighth and I parade ground Marine at HQ in D.C., “The Thunderer” beats “Stars and Stripes Forever” every time. “Sounds like a great catch, especially knowing the culture and the language. But…”

“Yeah,” Wilmont interjected. “How’s he going to fit in with the others?”

“Well, I figure he’ll fit in because that’s his job, if nothing else.”

Wilmont asked, “You mean he’s officially on board?”

“No, sir. He’s officially interested. So far we haven’t formally signed anyone to this job.”

Wilmont, who knew that elemental fact, cleared his throat. He recovered his poise by changing the subject. “Dr. Mohammed, I think we should hear your thoughts on the training angle. After all, that’s what the contract is about.”

The director of training was, as always, prepared for questions. “Based on Mr. Baram’s information, this is a straightforward assignment. We are to help improve the standard of readiness and training for selected Druze militia units and villages in southern Lebanon. We will receive covert logistic support from the Israelis, and our team will be broken into smaller units depending on where our services are needed.

“As of now, it looks like a bread and butter operation, the kind we have done so often before: small-arms use and maintenance, basic infantry tactics, and undoubtedly defensive measures. Hezbollah is active and often aggressive in the area, trying to expand its influence and seeking fresh advantages. It is especially interested in gaining more high ground, either for launching rockets into northern Israel or for spotting purposes.”

Sandra Carmichael interjected, being one of the senior operations officers. “Doctor, one thing troubles me. Given the tactical and political situation on the ground, how can we reasonably expect our people to remain uninvolved? I mean, any of them could come under attack almost anytime.”

“Quite so. That is the nature of the work, especially in Lebanon. Obviously, it is also why we have been offered so lucrative a contract.” He thought for a moment. “In their own way, the Israelis are being generous to us. After all, they could have — as you might say — low-balled us, knowing our financial situation.”

Wilmont expressed the dominant sentiment in the room. “Let’s be thankful for small favors.”

“It’s better you don’t look, Yakov.” The words were nearly lost in the dust and noise of the departing UH-60 Owl helicopter.

Colonel Livni stared at the shrouded bodies laid in a row. It did not occur to him that perhaps only in the Israeli Army would a first sergeant address a field-grade officer by his given name.

But Rav samál rishón Maier Boim was more than a fellow soldier, let alone merely a subordinate. They had first served together when Livni was a ségen, the executive officer of an infantry company. They had shared much over the years, including loss. But seldom like this.

Livni knelt beside the longest shroud, knowing intuitively that it contained the body of his nephew. His mother will never forgive me, he told himself. Even if it wasn’t my fault, she would never forgive me. But it is my fault. I gave him the latitude to continue, knowing he would take it.

In his mind’s eye, Yakov Livni saw the face of his sister. Even in her youth, Esther had been no beauty, and neither was her brother. But her son and his nephew was beautiful. In so many ways.

Captain Avrim Edrim had lived by IDF law codified in the Purity of Arms. With a quiet, fierce pride, Livni recalled the time when Avri had risked censure or worse to abide by the code, protecting an obviously guilty Palestinian gunman from an outraged crowd of armed Israelis demanding street justice.

Livni braced a hand on his knee and levered himself upright. Maier Boim moved to help his friend, then stopped in midreach. The colonel looked at the sergeant and merely nodded. “You are right, Maier.” He even allowed himself a public gesture by patting his comrade on the shoulder. “I do not need to see him like this. I should remember him as… he was.”

“We’ll take good care of him, Yakov. The battalion’s rabbi is on the way.”

The pudgy old soldier straightened up, squared his shoulders, and looked around. He knew that Avri and the others would be laid in Israeli soil within the prescribed time. Taking in the ancient, disputed hills to the north, he forced his mind back to the present and the recent past. Anything to get Esther off my mind.

“Tell me, Maier. How did it happen?”

The first sergeant recalled the scene. It was terrible, ugly. Years had passed since he had seen nine dead Israeli soldiers.

“It was an ambush. The boys had left a night defensive position on a small hill, apparently intending to complete their mission. We had intelligence that the Iranian…”

“Yes, yes. I remember.”

“Well, they got about 150 meters before they entered the trap. Apparently two died immediately. The others assaulted through the kill zone but didn’t get very far. Avri… got the farthest.”

Livni nodded silently, slowly, knowingly, still facing south. “Was he…” The officer’s voice trailed off.

“Tortured? No. Multiple hits. He didn’t last long.”

The colonel was in control of his voice now. “What of the other boys?” He reminded himself that eight other families were about to be aggrieved.

“Two were finished off. Head shots.”

Yakov Livni turned in the midday sun to face the veteran NCO. “All right, Maier. You have told me what happened. Now I need to know why it happened. How did Hezbollah track Avri’s team and force it into a trap? He was too old a soldier, too smart an officer, to fall for a simple trick.”

Boim spread his hands in a futile gesture. “Colonel, that is above my pay grade. I think you should ask the special operations branch.”

“I intend to, First Sergeant. I intend to.”

4

Robert Pitney was on trial, and he knew it.

While driving the 120 miles from Reading, Pennsylvania, to Arlington, Virginia, the prospective Lebanon team member had time to contemplate his interview with Frank Leopole and Jack Peters. Making his way to SSI’s office took some doing in the D.C. area traffic, but he parked his Nissan Xterra in the employees’ lot as directed and entered the lobby eighteen minutes beyond his ETA.

Pitney introduced himself at the front desk and waited for his hosts to appear. It was immediately apparent who was whom: the former Marine O-5 with the high and tight haircut and the ex-Navy officer who looked completely at home in a three-piece suit.

“Colonel Leopole, I’m Robert Pitney.” The erstwhile cop extended his hand and exchanged grips with the operations officer, hard and fast. Peters’s handshake was equally firm without the same testosterone dose. “I apologize for being late,” Pitney hastened to add. “I hope you got my cell phone message.”

“Not a problem,” Leopole replied. “The receptionist passed your call while we were meeting with Admiral Derringer.”

Peters was aware that the two shooters were sizing up one another. He sought to ease the atmosphere, which was neither tense nor warm. “You did well to get here when you did… Robert?”

Pitney nodded. “Yes, sir. My father was Bob and I didn’t like ‘Bobby’ so I’ve always been Robert.” He grinned self-consciously. “Some people think it sounds pretentious but it’s better than ‘Hey kid.’ “

Leopole showed the way past the desk into the office spaces. “How long did it take, Robert?”

“I allowed three hours. I took Thirty to East York, then Eighty-three to Baltimore and Ninety-five on down, but there’s more construction and delays than I expected between here and 495.”

“Always is,” Leopole replied. “But I don’t suppose it would’ve been much of a saving if you’d flown.”

“No, sir. Besides, I don’t fly anymore unless I have to. The security bothers me, and it can be tedious traveling with a gun.”

“Ah, do you have one on you?” Peters asked.

“In the car. I figured I shouldn’t wear one in here without permission.”

Leopole felt himself warming a bit. “Well, don’t sweat it, Robert. We’re a gun-friendly outfit. Besides, you still carry a badge, don’t you?”

“Actually, Colonel, I do not. I left my department in Massachusetts after a couple of disagreements with the chief.” He paused, testing whether the SSI men were interested in the details. He took their silence as curiosity and ventured a brief explanation. “I’m a gun guy, but most law enforcement officers, LEOs, aren’t. When I became our training sergeant I requested a bigger budget, more than just qualification. The chief wanted to put the money into surveillance gear and radios. Well, we had a couple of, ah, marginal shootings, and I told the investigators what I thought.” He shrugged. “It cost the city some money and my services were no longer required. So I moved my family to Pennsylvania.”

“What do you carry?” Leopole asked.

“I have two Springfield XDs in the car. A .40 and a .45.”

Peters was puzzled. “Why two?”

“Well, sir, if I have to use one I still have the other to get me home.”

Frank Leopole appreciated the practical aspects of Robert Pitney’s philosophy. “I’m a 1911 man myself, but it’s not about gear. It’s about training, which is what we’d like to discuss with you.” He motioned toward a chair in the conference room and the three men settled down to business.

Peters took the lead, as he expected. “Robert, as you know we’re forming a training team to work in Lebanon. Frankly, we’re quite enthused about your background, especially since you’re well qualified on weapons and you speak Arabic.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Peters. But I should say up front that I’m a pistol shooter and rifleman, mainly from IPSC three-gun competition. I don’t know much about belt-fed weapons and nothing about explosives. But I do have a lot of experience as an instructor, and you have the references from my police and military clients. As for the language, well, it’s mainly conversational. I’d have to study some to get up to speed in terminology for weapons and tactics.”

Peters said, “We’ll introduce you to Omar Mohammed, our head training officer. He speaks all the major Muslim languages and can brief you on some of the technical aspects we’re addressing.”

Leopole threw out a toss-up question. “Have you been to Lebanon?”

Pitney’s green eyes narrowed slightly. He’s testing me to see how I think on my feet. “Twice. My wife’s family used to have business there and I’ve seen Beirut, Tyre, and Sidon.”

“May I ask what kind of business?” Peters interjected.

“Import-export. Last time was in 2002, but I’m not involved in that.”

Leopole decided to cut to the religious chase. “Robert, I understand that you converted to Islam. Is that correct?”

Pitney gave the SSI man a three-count before answering. “Colonel, Shareefa’s family is Sunni, like ninety percent of Jordanians. So that’s my affiliation, and our children’s. But if you’re wondering about me because I’m officially a Muslim, well, you already mentioned your Mr. Mohammed…” He allowed the sentiment to dangle in midair.

Leopole shifted in his seat. “No, no, nothing like that, Robert. You’re right about Dr. Mohammed. He’s invaluable here. But he was born a Muslim, and I just want to clarify things. You understand that some of the operators you’d be working with might wonder why an American would convert to Islam in… times like these.”

Pitney leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “Colonel Leopole, I married Shari nine years ago. Some of my fellow policemen wondered the same thing, before 9-11. Most of them saw I was the same guy, doing the same job to the same standards as before. I was still Sergeant Pitney, not Sergeant Abdullah. The ones who let it interfere with their work got transferred to other divisions.

“Now, my daughters inherited a tough situation. They’re growing up with kids who’ve never known anything about Islam but the war on terror. Their knowledge of Muslims is limited to suicide bombers and religious zealots. But my little girls were born in this country and they’re going to be raised as loyal Americans.” He leaned back, fingers drumming on the table. “Next question.”

Leopole looked at Peters, who looked back at Leopole. Finally Peters asked, “Mr. Pitney, when can you start?”

Colonel Yakov Livni brushed a topographical map with the fingers of one hand. “Solly, we need to reassess our operations in Lebanon. We’re already overextended, and it’s… costing us good men.”

Brigadier General Solomon Nadel knew exactly what Livni meant. The brigade commander had attended the burial, then put it behind him. Though two years younger than his subordinate, he had more than a year in seniority, and was connected besides. Not that it mattered: they were both professionals who respected one another’s opinions, however infrequently they meshed.

Nadel scratched his head, habitually sunburned beneath his thinning hair. He often wore his beret stuffed in an epaulette rather than wearing the ridiculous cap. Away from the troops he preferred an American boonie hat, which at least afforded some protection to the face and neck, but a Tat alúf had to set an example.

“Yakov, I do not disagree with you. My God, you know the situation in Northern Command as well as I. The whole brigade is overextended, guarding its assigned area and supporting your Egoz boys across the border. For that matter, so is most of the Ninety-sixth Division.” He spread his hands in frustration. “I have made two requests through channels for more assets or fewer operations. The division commander supports me but Mossad and the cabinet want to keep the pressure on Hezbollah, and supporting the Lebanese is the best way to do that.”

Livni turned away from the chart table and slumped into a camp chair. He almost upset the Galil rifle leaning against a file cabinet. The general’s personal weapon reminded him that Solomon Nadel had not always been a map reader or logistics pervader. Not so long ago he was an enthusiastic shooter, and he still kept dust on his boots most of the time.

“All right, Solly. All right. We’ll continue doing what we can, but hear this: I refuse to commit any more understrength teams to an operation. You hear me? I absolutely refuse! If we cannot accomplish a mission with the men on hand, then I’ll pull in others to get the job done and let the other mission wait. But Ari was…”

Livni choked off a sob. He swallowed hard, looking around for a glass. Nadel read the signs and handed his colleague a plastic bottle. The colonel thanked the general with a quiet nod, drank deeply, and handed back the water. When he looked up at his superior, he could not think of anything else to say.

Nadel pulled another chair across the wood floor and sat beside the veteran commando. “Yakov, listen. The word is getting through at cabinet level. There is more support for covert operations with friendly Lebanese, especially the Druze. In fact, there’s a growing Druze presence outside the traditional areas around Beirut. I know of a couple of areas along the Syrian border. As far as I’m concerned, you’re already eligible for distribution of that intelligence, so come back tomorrow and we’ll talk again.”

Livni stared at the floor, nodding again. At length he looked at Nadel and trusted himself to speak. “You know, Solly, I was just thinking what old Colonel Baharof used to say in command and staff school.”

“Yes? What’s that?”

“We operate on incomplete information, and things are seldom as good or as bad as they seem.”

Ahmad Esmaili believed in thoroughness. It was one of the many reasons he was still walking the earth, praise be to Allah. Secretly he admitted to himself that he had been fortunate on several occasions, but far be it for a holy warrior to doubt that Fortune often represented the Will of God.

At least that is what he told his superiors, let alone the occasional imam who crossed his path. The revolution had taught him nothing if not the utility of carrying a Koran and quoting it at opportune moments.

Unlike many Hezbollah leaders, Esmaili believed in marksmanship and weapon maintenance. The former had just been put to good use, though admittedly the element of superior firepower at close range had been a major factor in slaying the Zionists. But now, after the excitement his men felt in the wake of the successful ambush, the Iranian insisted that they disassemble and clean their weapons. Properly.

Essam Tawfiq was reassembling his RPK faster than the others manipulated their AK-47s. But then Tawfiq was Esmaili’s most experienced man, one of the few who seemed genuinely enthusiastic about small arms. That was why the Iranian had designated him the machine gunner.

Leaning against the wall of the command building, Esmaili inserted a loaded magazine in his own rifle. Then he began refilling the one magazine he had used in the ambush. Loose rounds rolled on the tarp serving the five men nearest him. He noted that young Hazim was the next fastest in pounding his receiver cover into place, cycling the bolt twice, and tripping the trigger. True, the newcomer’s muzzle was pointed at Abdullah’s foot, but if the latter was unaware of the indignity, Esmaili was not inclined to make an issue of it. He thought, One accidental discharge now and then serves to focus the men’s attention.

As Hazim laid his weapon on the tarp — muzzle pointed away from the group — the boy looked around, obviously pleased with himself. He accepted his leader’s tacit praise, expressed by a nod of the head and the faintest of smiles. It had been a very good day for the neophyte fighter. He had claimed two of the Israelis, being certain of at least one, proven his worth to his fellow jihadists, and won the quiet approval of the man he most respected.

And something more. Hazim reached behind him and produced his prize, the Galil with side-mounted dovetail base to accept the weight of the American night scope. Nobody else had tried to usurp the treasure, but neither had Esmaili nor Tawfiq pronounced that he might keep it. Rather than delay the resolution, he ventured a question.

“Teacher, what shall we do with this?”

The Iranian extended a hand, and noticed the boy’s ephemeral delay in passing it over. When the weapon was relinquished, Esmaili made a point of grunting at the nine-kilogram weight. Some of the other men laughed in appreciation, exchanging knowing glances. One whispered to a friend, “Perhaps now Hazim knows why none of us wanted it!”

Esmaili removed the magazine and locked the bolt open. The muzzle incident moments before had happened to someone else. This latest breach had occurred to the leader. “Did I fail to teach you proper manners, boy? I believe that I did when you joined us. But that was weeks ago, and my dimming memory serves me poorly these days.”

Hazim blushed beneath his tan. His eyes lowered to the tarp as he muttered a muted apology.

Tawfiq shot a mirthful glance at his friend and colleague. He always enjoys times like this. Now he will regain the young fool’s devotion.

The leader made a point of visibly checking the chamber, then pretended to look through the Litton optic. With a dissatisfied grunt he handed the Galil back, followed by the magazine. “For your lapse in weapon handling, your punishment shall be to carry this burden for as long as it remains workable.”

Hazim’s carpenter hands wrapped around the scarred stock, then cradled the captured rifle in a gesture more befitting a parent with a child. “Thank you, Teacher! I promise my best efforts to learn this rifle’s proper use.”

The Iranian waved a cautionary finger. “That means you will have to find a source of American ammunition for it and suitable batteries for the scope.”

Hazim’s smile faded at the realization of the challenge he now faced. He did not even know the designation of the 7.62x51 NATO cartridges remaining in the magazine. As for batteries… where did they fit in the scope?

Esmaili and Tawfiq smiled broadly at one another. Each knew that the Iranian possessed both ammunition and batteries, but would reveal neither until the boy had worked himself into a quandary trying to solve the problem he had just brought upon himself.

5

The Lebanon team was taking shape.

Frank Leopole and Omar Mohammed presided over the first assemblage, Leopole as operations officer and Mohammed in charge of training.

“Now,” Leopole began. “Since I have no other pressing commitments, I’ll take the lead with our in-country team, at least in the beginning.”

Some knowing glances were exchanged in the audience. The message was tacitly clear: since SSI lacked meaningful employment with the U.S. Government, the firm’s operations officer had nothing to keep him home. Besides, he had not smelled gunpowder since the Afghanistan contract and was between significant others. In short, the timing and circumstances were favorable.

Sitting near the back of the room, Lieutenant Colonel Sandra Carmichael folded her arms and feigned indifference. Alternating with Leopole as the company’s director of international operations, by rights the option to take a foreign-deployed team should be hers. But not even a West Point ring and “U.S. Army (Ret)” behind her name could overcome most cultural barriers. Not for the first time she regretted that so many SSI contracts involved Islamic nations, where a white American female would not be well received. She let her notepad slide to the seat beside her, musing that while Leopole got the potential for some trigger time, she was obliged to produce some additional overseas business.

The dozen men occupying the chairs in the briefing room were mostly known to one another but Leopole wanted everyone familiar with their teammates. He began by introducing most of the regulars.

“I think all of you know Jason Boscombe and Breezy Brezyinski. But Bob Ashcroft, Phil Green, Jack Jacobs, and Jeff Malten also are among our old hands. More recently we’ve acquired the services of two of Fort Bragg’s finest, Chris Nissen and Josh Wallender, who have deployed with us to Africa. They’re well qualified in small-arms and small-unit tactics and are cross-trained as medics or communicators.

“Our snipers are Rick Barrkman and Robbie Furr. They sort of lurk in the background and don’t talk very much, except to themselves.” Since the pair had in fact sat in the rear row, the observation drew the chuckles he expected. “They deployed with us to Afghanistan a while back, and they’ll introduce our clients to precision rifles in Lebanon.”

Leopole glanced around, taking stock of the audience. His gaze came to rest on the newest acquisition. “Also, I want to recognize Robert Pitney, who’s probably known to you who follow the shooting sports. Robert, would you introduce yourself?”

Pitney briefly stood and faced the audience. “I’m Robert Pitney, Reading, Pennsylvania. Former police training officer, full-time firearms instructor and competition shooter.” With that brief statement, he sat down.

Leopole interjected. “Robert’s being modest. In case any of you don’t know, he’s one of the best pistol shooters in the country. He’s won the Bianchi Cup and he’s also a top-ranked competitor in three-gun matches. He’s married to a Jordanian lady and speaks pretty good Arabic.” For the moment Leopole decided to omit Pitney’s religious preference.

Chris Nissen raised a hand. “Excuse me, sir. What’s the Bianchi Cup?”

Leopole nodded to Pitney, who obviously did not want to be seen blowing his own horn. “It’s the national action pistol championship. There’s categories for iron sights or red dots.” He grinned. “I finally put it all together and won the open category.”

Two rows away, Breezy leaned over to Bosco. “Man. If that guy can shoot with Leatham and Koenig, he’s gotta be some talent.”

Bosco was unconvinced. “Dude, shooting falling plates ain’t the same as whacking bad guys who want to whack you.” He looked at Pitney from behind, noting the former cop’s well-developed shoulders. “I wonder if he ever capped anybody.”

Marc Brezyinski regarded his partner and saw an opportunity for mischief. “Why don’t you, like, ask him?”

Jason Boscombe shrugged off the suggestion. Both operators knew The Code: you never asked another shooter if he had ever scored. It was just plain rude, like asking someone his bank balance. Besides, eventually the word got out, either by professional reputation or in the course of relating war stories.

Privately, Bosco considered himself a superior trigger man. He prided himself on his marksmanship, but it had nothing to do with his expert rifleman badge. He knew that he was better than Breezy, who was generally unconcerned with interpersonal rivalries. Among those present, only Barrkman and Furr were acknowledged better riflemen but they plied the sniper’s arcane art, which was distinct from the stand-up kind of combat that Bosco practiced.

Leopole was speaking again. “As usual, we’re short of language specialists. Pitney and Nissen speak passable Arabic while Wallender is qualified in French, but Mr. Baram assures me that there’ll be English speakers on the other end.”

“Hey, speaking of French, any word from J. J.?” Boscombe seldom was reluctant to interrupt anyone. His partner Breezy said, “You know Bosco: never an unspoken thought.”

“No, it looks like Johnson’s sitting this one out.” Leopole decided that he did not need to elaborate. The former Foreign Legionnaire had endured a brutally brief time in al Qaeda captivity in Pakistan, accepted a subsequent training job in Chad, then returned to Idaho. “But he’s still available for domestic work.”

The former Marine officer resumed his personnel rundown. “Malten and Brezyinski have combat medic ratings, and we’ll have them update everybody before we leave.”

Chris Nissen’s baritone rose out of the second row. Sandy Carmichael would never admit it, but she always enjoyed the Special Forces sergeant’s Barry White voice. “Colonel, I realize this is a preliminary briefing, but I’m wondering how much we can expect to get shot at.”

“Well, I’d put the odds at better than fifty percent. That’s why you’re getting the hazardous duty bonus in addition to the overseas base pay.”

“Teacher, you have a visitor.”

At the sound of Hazim’s voice, Ahmad Esmaili was immediately alert. The Iranian had hoped for an afternoon nap, an ambition that was as rare as his ability to accomplish it. Ordinarily he kept going, remaining focused on each task as it arose. He had not lived through the previous thirty years by taking anything for granted. Multitasking was fine for those who could do it, but inevitably most of them overlooked something. Therefore, Esmaili had taken to making lists. At least he did not yet require spectacles to read them.

The Hezbollah leader slid his feet into his sandals and arose from the cot. “Who is it?” He tasted the morning taste and wanted something to rinse out his mouth — neither tea nor water. Banish such thoughts, he told himself.

“He calls himself Mohammad. He said to give you this.”

Esmaili accepted the business card. The Farsi inscription was as simple as an ice pick through the eye. “Dr. Gholamhossein Momen, Tehran.” Below the printed name was a handwritten line: My son, Please come with Mohammad Azizi. Dr. Momen.

Hazim saw the expression on his master’s face and felt a tiny shiver somewhere inside. In all the time the youngster had worked with Esmaili, never had the Iranian betrayed any emotion other than mild satisfaction or icy anger. The fact that Esmaili was obviously impressed with the obscure name on the card was in itself — impressive.

“Bring him in,” Esmaili said. His voice was quiet, respectful.

Hazim and one of Esmaili’s bodyguards returned with the visitor, who regarded the Hezbollah operative with a calm demeanor and steady eyes. He introduced himself as Mohammad Azizi, also of Tehran. Esmaili made a quick assessment and determined that it might even be the man’s true name.

“Assalamu Alikum we Rahmatulah wa Barakatu.” Esmaili spoke Arabic for the benefit of his Lebanese colleagues.

“And peace and the mercy, and blessings of Allah be upon you,” the guest returned, shaking hands. He accepted a seat at the table in the small kitchen while Hazim poured tea and produced a plate of thin wafers. After the perfunctory formalities were concluded, Esmaili dismissed his acolytes with a flick of his head.

He faced Azizi, mindful that whatever the courier knew about Dr. Momen, it could be a ruse. Therefore, Esmaili kept the table between them, his right hand on his belt with the holstered Sig. He noted that the visitor kept both hands flat on the tabletop, apparently as a sign of good faith.

Azizi spoke first. “I believe that you are familiar with Dr. Momen.”

Esmaili nodded slowly, gravely. “Yes. I worked for him several years ago. As part of his security detail.”

“At the research institute.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Correct.”

The courier drummed his fingers briefly. “He remembers you, brother. And your devotion to the cause of Islam.”

There was only one response. “I am honored. May the blessings of Allah be upon him.”

Azizi felt more confident, or at least more comfortable. He crossed his arms and leaned toward his host. “The doctor would speak with you again, in person. If you are willing…”

Ahmad Esmaili knew an order even when couched as an invitation. “Certainly I am willing. But obviously it will not be here.”

“No, no. In Tehran.” Azizi glanced around, as if ensuring there were no eavesdroppers. Esmaili suspected that the gesture was more for effect than for real. “You will understand the need for caution. Even our most secure radio links can be compromised, so I was sent to, ah, invite you to return home for a visit.” He smiled knowingly. “It must be some time since you saw your family.”

“When would I leave, and for how long?”

Azizi leaned back, fully at ease now. “If you can arrange matters here, in perhaps two days. We would be in Tehran for three or four days, then return.” He ran the numbers in his head. “Say, ten days in all.”

“Then we can leave day after tomorrow.”

“That is excellent,” the messenger replied. “But you will not be coming back here. The plan calls for your group to move to an area closer to the Syrian border, so make arrangements before you leave.”

Esmaili did not enjoy receiving orders from a stranger, but if Azizi spoke for Dr. Momen, there was no arguing. The Hezbollah chief heard his voice say, “It will be done.”

6

“In your American phrase, I’m not going to blow smoke at you,” Mordecai Baram began. “This will be hard, dangerous work. You can expect to take casualties.”

Baram’s words had the desired effect. His audience — mainly composed of SSI operators — was focused, quiet, attentive. The Israeli had their full attention in the first of a series of Lebanon briefings.

“What’s the opposition really like, sir?” Chris Nissen spoke the question on each American’s mind.

“You have all heard about Hezbollah, the main Islamic force in Lebanon. Well, that’s what you’re up against. It’s a Shiite organization with strong ties to Iran, which is almost ninety percent Shiite itself. There’s also significant logistic support from Syria, which is mainly Sunni.”

Breezy squirmed in his seat. “Sir, I gotta admit I don’t understand the whole Sunni and Shiite thing. What’s the story?”

Baram knew the answer, chapter and verse. But he did not want to be distracted from his main topic. “I will be glad to explain that after the briefing, Mr… ”

“Brezyinski. But just call me Breezy.”

Baram grinned in appreciation. “Thank you, Mr. Breezy. For the moment I will just say that to you gentlemen, the difference is largely irrelevant. It has to do with the leadership of Islam, whether by bloodline from Mohammad or by popular acclaim. Not unlike the difference between Protestant and Catholic, with the role of the pope. But in some cases, it assumes so much relevance that people kill each other over relatively minor differences.”

“Oh. Gotcha.” Mark Brezyinski was very much a lapsed Catholic, to the lasting consternation of his Polish family. By his grandmother’s reckoning, young Mark Casimir had broken at least five Commandments (depending upon one’s distinction between killing and murder], as he was blatantly guilty on Honoring Thy Parents, Keeping the Sabbath, Blasphemy, and what he called the “Coveting Thing.” Though he did not care to discuss Adultery, he felt safe on the matters of Other Gods, Graven Images, Stealing, and False Witness.

Baram resumed his briefing, focusing on SSI’s major concerns. “Hezbollah is wholly of Lebanese origin, formed in response to the Israeli invasion in ‘82. The name means ‘Party of God’ and that can be taken literally. Besides its terrorist and paramilitary activities, it’s increasingly involved in the Lebanese government as a political party. In 2005 Hezbollah won fourteen seats in parliament, and there are some cabinet ministers, too.

“Now, Hezbollah has gained battlefield credibility as well. In the 2006 fight it surprised a lot of people in the region and impressed others around the world.” The diplomat gave an eloquent shrug. “Some were ready to be impressed, I admit, but still it pays to be objective. My advice is, don’t take anything for granted.”

Baram thought for a moment, barely referencing his notes. “Another thing to consider. Though it’s heavily Lebanese and Iranian, Hezbollah recruits internationally. There have been reports as far afield as Singapore, and of course Indonesia is the world’s largest Muslim nation.” He looked at Frank Leopole in the front row. “Your linguists will, of course, have to speak Arabic but you might plan on Farsi as well.”

Leopole shot a sideways glance at Omar Mohammed. SSI’s training officer caught the motion and chose to ignore it. Having been operationally involved in Pakistan and Afghanistan, the Iranian-born Mohammed had seen quite enough of fieldwork, thank you very much.

Sandy Carmichael generally was a low-key presence but as one of two senior operations officers she had an iron in the fire. “Mr. Baram, could you maybe bring in somebody who’s operated in Lebanon recently?”

The Israeli had anticipated the question. “Officially, no. Besides, none of our attachés have been on the ground there. However…”

“Unofficially?”

The shrug again. “Maybe I know somebody who knows somebody.”

“Well, for the present, how about a general perspective?”

Baram thought carefully, wondering how much to reveal. Finally he decided to open up. “Frankly, we’re lost a lot of good men in South Lebanon in recent weeks. Not so much in actual numbers, which have to be kept pretty small, but in terms of percentages. One team was wiped out and a couple of others were badly hurt. I shouldn’t be too specific, you understand, but I think it’s only fair that you know something of what you’re up against.”

Baram acknowledged to himself that he was gilding the Lebanese lily. One team had two survivors, only one of whom would ever return to duty. He had seen some of the classified debriefings and recognized a few names.

“It’s not just our own people who are taking hits. We work with some Druze militias because we just don’t have the strength to conduct such operations ourselves. Actually, the whole situation turns on the Druze. It’s their territory, and many of them are fighting for their homes, their own land. They’ve been badly mauled in several actions but they keep fighting.” A frown. “They have no choice, really. Fight or leave.”

The flight from Damascus to Tehran covered fifteen hundred kilometers and a little over two hours. Finally Esmaili decided to risk a question of his escort.

“You have not said why Dr. Momen wants to see me.”

Azizi kept his face turned toward the window of the Airbus A320. The Syrianair flight was on schedule, descending toward Mehrabad International, and Esmaili’s curiosity finally had overcome his usual caution. He did not want to learn the reason for his trek at the last moment, when it might be difficult or impossible to decline whatever honor was headed his way.

Mohammad Azizi spoke in a subdued voice, even though he had requested two seats well removed from other passengers. “That is correct. I have not said.” He finally turned from the window, a wry smile on his face.

Before Esmaili could respond, Azizi interjected. “It speaks well of you that you have not pressed for more information until now. The doctor will be pleased at your patience.” The smile vanished. “But in truth, it would speak better for you had you not asked at all.”

The Hezbollah leader had not survived decades in the field without developing mental agility. Without blinking he replied, “The doctor knows my record, brother. Otherwise he would not have requested me. And he knew that I would not refuse him. Therefore, I believe that my time over the past few days could have been well spent in considering whatever he has in mind.”

Azizi regarded his new companion through objective eyes. He is much as the doctor said. After a moment he said, “When you meet the doctor day after tomorrow, much will be revealed. For now, I can say that patience remains a virtue, brother.” The grim smile was back. “As it always has been.”

While Azizi dealt with customs — there was precious little baggage — Esmaili looked around the terminal. He had not been in Tehran for almost three years, but the sights and smells came rushing back at him. A city of more than seven million residents, home of half of the nation’s industry including military, textiles, chemical, construction, and electronics.

But the expansion brought problems. Esmaili had seen the most evident example during the landing approach — a heavy layer of dirty air. The pollution was inescapable — it was said that two dozen people died there every day from respiratory diseases.

On the other hand, Tehran had a large cultural community with mosques, museums, art galleries — and even synagogues. There’s an irony for you, Esmaili thought.

Taking a taxi from the airport, Esmaili saw the Azadi Tower’s formidable bulk. There was no ignoring it. Built in 1971 to honor the 2,500th anniversary of the Persian empire, its fifty meters of gleaming white marble had originally been dubbed the king’s tower, but the Islamic revolution led to renaming it Azadi — freedom.

Pondering the drastic changes in Iranian life since 1979, Esmaili reflected on yet another irony: how much freedom ensued from toppling the despot who called himself Shah?

He kept such thoughts strictly to himself.

The cab turned onto the Ashrafi Esfahani Highway, then north to Iran Pars Highway. There the driver made a right turn, heading east. It was apparent that he knew the address Azizi had given, as he asked no questions en route.

At length the cab stopped at an undistinguished building in the Evin district in the north of town. Azizi paid the driver and led Esmaili into the entrance. It proved to be an apartment complex with a dining area, evidently at one time for upscale patrons. Now, based on Azizi’s easy mastery of the layout, it seemed to be owned or at least controlled by Dr. Momen’s organization.

Esmaili was quickly shown to a small, well-appointed room with a bath and was instructed to make himself comfortable. Azizi said, “I will call for you tomorrow after lunch. We will see the doctor then. Meanwhile, talk to no one about your work. No one. But other than that, enjoy the area.” He indicated the view from the window.

The Evin district was composed of the older section featuring orchards and gardens and the newer section with modern skyscrapers. Esmaili already knew that it lay near Shahid Beheshti University and Evin Prison with its notorious political prisoner’s wing. SAVAK used it before 1979 and the Ayatollah’s minions ever since.

After his guide left, Esmaili took a walk to familiarize himself with the building and the area. It was an acquired habit of long standing: he was unable to relax until he felt comfortable with his surroundings.

Strolling in the afternoon sunlight filtered through the perpetual smog, Ahmad Esmaili allowed himself to wonder what one of his nation’s most prominent scientists wanted with him.

7

Frank Leopole had no idea how many briefings he had delivered in his time at Strategic Solutions, but he was comfortable with his audience, and increasingly with his subject. Like any good O-5, he had done his homework.

“Gentlemen, as you know, our mission involves working with Druze militias in central and southern Lebanon. There’s increasing Hezbollah pressure in the area, trying to expand the territory where Iranian-backed groups can train and equip for operations against Israel. As you probably know, the Beirut government is largely unable to defend its own interests in some provinces. So we’ve been asked to step in, providing training and actual defense of specific villages and tribal areas.

“The primary Druze area is southeast of Beirut, fifty or sixty miles from the Israeli border. But the region has excellent defensive terrain, and the Druze control some of the best artillery positions in the country, including hills east of Beirut. The Hezzies would like to grab some of it for artillery positions and observation.

“The fly in the ointment is the Israeli concern with appearances in the international arena. Tel Aviv does not want to be seen backing the Druze in any overt manner, even though it’s an open secret that the IDF works inside Lebanon, especially since there are Druze in the Israeli Army.

“Basically this is another training mission. But to maintain the charade we’ll be working with Israeli Druze who will provide liaison and translator services. However, I’m hoping to assign at least a couple of our Arabic speakers to this operation.”

Jason Boscombe raised a hand in the second row. “Sir, if we’re going to work with the Druze, shouldn’t we know more about them?”

“Odd you asked,” Leopole replied. He turned and said, “Dr. Mohammed?”

Omar Mohammed was SSI’s resident Middle East expert. The Iranian native had been hired for his reputation as a training officer but with a PhD in international relations, fluent in most Muslim languages plus French and Russian, he was as Frank Leopole said, “A one-stop shopping center.”

Typically elegant, Mohammed smoothed his Brooks Brothers suit coat as he stepped to the lectern.

“Most of you are familiar with Lebanon’s recent history, which briefly stated is one of internal conflict, frequent foreign occupation, and government disintegration. As an aside, I can say that in my youth, Beirut was called the Paris of the Mediterranean. A beautiful, cosmopolitan city that has since been destroyed in repeated fighting among the Syrians, Israelis, and Lebanese themselves.”

Mohammed opened his PowerPoint presentation with a map of Lebanon on the screen.

“Lebanon is smaller than Connecticut with about 3.8 million people. More than ninety percent are of Arabic ancestry though roughly forty percent are Christians who do not identify with the Muslim culture.

“The nation is divided into six mohafazah, or governates, including Beirut. Those are in turn composed of districts or what we would know as counties…”

“Excuse me, Doctor,” Leopole interjected. “I was looking at the CIA World Book, and it says there’s eight provinces.”

Mohammed gave an eloquent shrug. He stroked his salt and pepper beard, then ventured, “Well, that’s the agency for you.” He waited for the laughter to abate, then proceeded.

“The country is geographically divided along religious lines. The Shia are concentrated in the south, Sunnis in the north and east, and Christians in the center. The Druze are mostly between the Shia and Christians in the south-central region around Beirut.

“For a moment I want to address the two southern governates bordering with Israel. They are the main source of conflict at present.”

Using a laser pointer, Mohammed sketched the boundaries of both areas. “South Governate, or Al Janub on some maps, lies here along the coast and Nabatiyeh farther inland. These are the areas of most military activity. Hezbollah, with strong Iranian backing, has established enclaves in several districts in both provinces, and obviously intends to stay. In fact, it is making overt efforts to expand its control in the region with the obvious intent of increasing attacks on northern Israel.

“Now, the United Nations maintains a so-called peacekeeping mission called UNIFIL, for U.N. Interim Force in Lebanon. ‘Interim’ calls for some perspective, since UNIFIL has been there since 1978. It varies but has run as high as twelve thousand troops from several member nations. I would imagine that you will have some dealings with U.N. officials, but they are far more observers than enforcers. You will have liaison officers to meet with UNIFIL and other agencies, so don’t be overly concerned.”

“Don’t worry, Doc. I’m not.” Breezy’s off-the-cuff response prompted chuckles in the audience and a smack on the head from Bosco.

Mohammed, who nursed a quiet fondness for the brash paratrooper, ignored the lad’s flippancy.

“As far as the Druze themselves, they are an Islamic reformist sect, mainly in Lebanon but with adherents in Jordan, Syria, and Israel. I can explain the religious aspects, but few Druze consider themselves Muslims. They’re actually monotheists.”

Breezy turned to Bosco. “Monotheists?”

The erstwhile Ranger nodded. “Like, they believe in one God.”

Mark Brezyinski wrinkled his forehead. “Well, so do we, dude. So what’s the diff?”

“About that much.” Bosco rubbed a thumb and forefinger together as if dispensing salt.

Mohammed was speaking again. “They have been in the region for about a thousand years but since they’re neither Muslims nor Christians they’re mistrusted by both. Most Americans never heard of them until their militia became a factor in the Lebanese Civil War of 1975-90 when they defeated the Christian Phalangist militia. Later an accord was reached, and the two parties became nominal allies.

“In Lebanon the Druze are seen as a separate religious community with its own courts. In Israel the Druze are loyal to the government. Many serve in the armed forces and even in the Knesset. Others along the Golan identify with Syria.”

Bosco raised a hand. “I’ve heard of them but not much in a long time. If they’re involved in all these different countries, why don’t we know more about them? I mean, like Hezbollah or Hamas?”

“Well, remember,” Mohammed replied. “They’re not Muslims and they have nothing in common with Hezbollah or Hamas. But mainly we don’t hear much about them because secrecy is a large part of their culture. The Druze seldom accept converts, owing to a long history of persecution.”

“So can we trust them?”

Mohammed shrugged. “That depends upon the individuals. It’s like Christianity: everybody quotes the Golden Rule but how many Christians actually practice it?” He permitted himself an ironic smile.

“If you deal with serious Druze, you are likely in good hands. The tenets of the faith include belief in one God, honesty, protecting the family and homeland, helping those in need, and respect for the aged. They disapprove of alcohol or tobacco, usually don’t eat pork, and reject polygamy. They do not marry outside the faith. As a rule, they reject materialism though some are successful businessmen.”

The Iranian-American felt himself warming to his subject. Though he realized that most of the door-kickers in the audience were only marginally interested in such things, he felt that he owed the operators the benefit of his knowledge.

“There are two main groups: al-Juhhal or The Ignorant are denied secret holy literature. They form the political-military leadership, about ninety percent of all Druze. Those are the ones you’ll be working with.”

“What about the others, Doctor?” Leopole asked.

“Well, the inner group is al-Uqqal or The Knowledgeable Initiates. They are entirely unlike Muslims since women are considered spiritually preferable to men. Female al-Uqqal often wear a loose white veil to cover their hair and long skirts to the ankles. Men usually grow mustaches, shave their heads, and wear dark clothes and white turbans.”

Breezy enjoyed playing the hey-dude surf bum to the Oxford educated lecturer. “So, Doc. Does that mean, like, we can ID most of the Druze by their clothes?”

The lecturer squinted his brown eyes in concentration. “It means you can tell the Druze by their clothes if they want you to identify them.” He paused for effect. “Or it means they are someone else who wishes to appear as a Druze.

“Now,” Mohammed concluded. “The Druze have fought just about everybody at one point or another. In the 1860s they massacred a lot of Christians, leading to French intervention about the time that Maximilian was engaged in Mexico. Since then the Druze have been allied with Christians and Jews and various Islamic groups.” He looked up. “In short, gentlemen, you should remember one thing. The Druze are expert survivors.”

Brigadier Solomon Nadel dismounted from a Merkava Mark III and tugged a shop cloth from his cargo pocket. Wiping some errant diesel fuel from his hands, he greeted his guest with a smile. “Yakov, I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.” He nodded over his shoulder. “Sometimes even a brigade commander needs to get his hands dirty.”

Colonel Yakov Livni recognized the flippant tone for what it was. “General, you don’t fool anybody. You can’t stay away from your Chariots.”

Nadel grimaced dramatically. “You found me out. Once a charioteer, always a charioteer.”

“Well, let’s just hope that we don’t need these Chariots north of the border.” Livni gave his superior a penetrating look. “You know, Sol, the days of battle tanks may be coming to an end.”

Pausing in midstride, Nadel turned to look at the Merkava. It was a tanker’s tank: designed for survivability with severely angled armor to protect the four-man crew; a twelve-hundred-horsepower engine for speed and acceleration; and a 120mm smoothbore as main armament. There was even a 60mm mortar carried internally. Finally the veteran tanker replied, “Well, it’s no secret anymore. We lost six Chariots in Lebanon in 2006 but one hundred crewmen were killed or wounded. That’s four times what we would expect just based on tanks destroyed.” He shrugged philosophically. “ATGMs are becoming more effective.”

Nadel quickened the pace. “But come on. You don’t want to talk about tanks when there’s covert operations to support in Lebanon.”

The two officers adjourned to Nadel’s office and closed the door. The general tossed his shop rag and his beret onto a file cabinet, showing no concern when the headgear missed the basket and fell to the floor. “All right, Yakov. What do you have for me?”

Livni eased his left buttock onto the edge of the desk and unfolded a map. “Solly, this is confidential for now, but you can tell your chief of staff. Formal notice will arrive in a few days, and there will be a planning conference with brigade and division commanders as well as my people and… others.”

The brigadier allowed himself a sly grin. “You mean Mossad.”

An eloquent roll of the shoulders was all the response needed. “Anyway, consider this a warning order. Your brigade and other elements of the division will be tasked with supporting our cross-border teams, especially those working with Druze militia.”

Nadel leaned back in his chair. “Druze. Well, they’re no friends of the Iranians, but my God, Yakov. Their areas are up around Beirut. How are we going to…”

Livni raised a pudgy hand toward the wall map. “Yes, most of their traditional areas extend south and east from Beirut. But there are also some Druze enclaves closer to our border.” He used a blunt index finger to circle an area in southern Lebanon.

Nadel looked at the map and recognized the name. “Hasbaya.”

“Yes, that’s a promising area. It’s about fifteen kilometers south of Mount Hermon and a similar amount from the Syrian border. We want to insert training teams into the area before Hezbollah gets a better foothold.”

“Well, that’s going to be a tall order. I mean, that close to the Syrians, there must already be some well-established Hezbollah supply routes and even some bases.”

Livni nodded decisively. “There are. Which is why we cannot allow the situation to remain uncontested. My boys are already making contact with civic and militia leaders, building goodwill with the local population. But we’re stretched too thinly, as… as.” He cleared his throat and looked away. When he turned back, he was composed again. “As we learned too often of late.”

Scanning the map more closely, Nadel emitted a soft whistle. “That’s almost twenty kilometers inside Lebanon. What sort of support are we expected to provide?”

“As we noted before, mainly logistics. Supplies, route security, and a powerful presence round the clock. Your reaction force should be fully briefed on the terrain and tactical situation. I am informed that intelligence will be updated frequently, but that’s a matter for the full briefing in a few days.”

Nadel arched his eyebrows. “Well, all right. But if Hezbollah wants to oppose the operation — and undoubtedly it will — things could get messy. I mean, it wouldn’t take much to escalate into another 2006 situation.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. But the decision has been made. The mood in the government seems to be that we’ll have another fight sooner or later, and we want our Druze friends to be as prepared as possible. While keeping a low profile.”

“Yakov, you mentioned supplies. That means either trucks or helicopters, and both can easily be intercepted. We’re bound to have casualties, and…”

“Well, maybe not so many this time.”

Nadel shook his head. “What do you mean?”

Livni lowered his voice. “Yes, there will be IDF personnel, including Israeli Druze. But there will also be, ah, third-party nationals doing much of the actual work.”

“Who would that be?”

The colonel leaned toward the general. “Americans.”

Of the capital’s twenty-two municipal districts, Esmaili considered one as good as another. But Dr. Gholamhossein Momen favored the Amirabad area, west of Azizi’s hostel, and that is where the meeting occurred. The fact that the district contained a nuclear research facility might have caused concern, but Esmaili reckoned that the doctor subscribed to what Americans called the “forest for the trees” method of hiding oneself.

Azizi escorted Esmaili to the scientist’s office and left for a moment. During the short interval, the Hezbollah operative took in the ambience. It reflected his memory of Dr. Momen from their association several years before. Austere, functional, businesslike, without adornment.

From his awful days on the revolutionary firing squad, through the eight-year agony of the Iraq war to the more satisfying, less constrained campaign in Lebanon, Ahmad Esmaili had become an adept judge of men. That is, of character. Very few had earned his full respect and fewer caused him genuine fear. Gholamhossein Momen was the only one who filled both descriptions.

Esmaili forced himself upright in the straight-backed metal chair. With his hands folded, he tried to exude an air of confidence, or at least calm indifference, for whomever might be watching. He knew that Momen’s acolytes never tired in their surveillance even of allies. Perhaps especially of allies. The doctor was too valuable to the national interest to take anyone for granted. And for that reason, few of the security operatives remained indefinitely. Esmaili recalled that they were transferred out, like himself, or otherwise disposed of, often for the smallest of reasons. Or for no reasons but a doctrinal concern about any individual gaining too much knowledge or influence.

The door to the inner office opened and Azizi beckoned.

With an effort of will, Esmaili forced himself from the chair and strode through the portal into his future.

The office, if it was such, contained a desk and a few chairs. Besides Azizi, Esmaili saw three robed men, speaking quietly while facing away from the door. At length the shortest figure turned, his hands within the large sleeves of his robe.

Esmaili felt a shudder in his shoulders and worms in his belly. Belatedly, he realized that his tremor was visible.

Dr. Gholamhossein Momen extended his hands from his white robe. They were long, bony, manicured hands. “Peace and mercy and the blessings of Allah be upon you, my son.”

Esmaili returned the greeting, bowing his head deferentially. To himself, he conceded ephemeral gratitude for a chance to escape the doctor’s eyes.

Momen was cursed with dreadful vision. Most of his life he had worn thick glasses that gave an eerie magnification to his brown eyes. They were his dominant feature, seemingly widened unnaturally behind the lenses as if seeking to observe everything around him in minute detail. Which was exactly the case.

The years had not been kind to the scientist. Always short and stout, even his traditional robes failed to conceal his growing obesity. His face behind those spectacles was fleshy and wan, in contrast to his short, dark beard.

Momen stepped around the desk, moving to greet Esmaili in a gliding motion that almost seemed serpentine. It took an effort of willpower for Esmaili to hold his ground, not merely for fear of insulting his host, but for the sign of weakness that retreat would impart. He devoutly did not wish to appear weak in the presence of Dr. Momen.

They grasped hands, and Esmaili felt the clammy sensation of the doctor’s skin. Then, with a start, he realized that the perspiration might as easily be his own. He forced himself to look into the magnified eyes and mutter a dignified response. “I am honored that you have called upon me, Doctor.”

Momen released the grip and waved to a chair. “And I thank you for coming so quickly, brother.” He glanced at Azizi, who seemed approximately relaxed in the doctor’s presence. “Our friend assures me of the quality of your work in Lebanon.” A tight, grim smile. “Not that I ever doubted it.”

Momen returned to the swivel chair on the other side of the desk, motioning one of the other men to leave. It was tacit indication of the trust placed in Esmaili. Otherwise, Dr. Momen was seldom out of sight of at least two armed guards.

Ordinarily there would be coffee or tea, perhaps with wafers, and some preliminary small talk. But Momen had neither time nor use for polite conversation. He fixed his myopic gaze upon the visitor and said, “I have need of your services again. Arrangements have already been made with your superiors. Once you return to Lebanon, you will operate under Mohammad Azizi, who reports directly to me.

Esmaili had forgotten the doctor’s penchant for speaking of people as if they were not present. Evidently Azizi was accustomed to the habit; at least he made no objection.

It occurred to the Hezbollah operative that he had not been asked to volunteer for anything. He was receiving an assignment that permitted no refusal. Harking back several years, Esmaili recalled what befell the only two men who had ever tried to decline the honor of an assignment from Dr. Momen.

“Certainly, Doctor.” Esmaili managed to keep an even tone.

Momen leaned back in his swivel chair, hands inside his sleeves again. He reclined enough to look at the light in the ceiling, apparently entranced with it. Speaking in an oily, sibilating voice, he seemed lost in free association.

“I have brought you a long distance for this short meeting because you need to understand the gravity of my… our… plans. The operation has many layers, each independent of the others. No one but I and a few others know the entire plan, for obvious reasons. A degree of technical expertise is required, and specialists will be assigned to each cell as the schedule moves forward.”

Momen finally turned his attention back to Esmaili. “My son, your cell will be responsible for delivering one of the technical teams to its destination. You have not been told, but your recent activities were planned months ago in order to gain a position of advantage for that purpose.” The ghosting smile returned for a few heartbeats. “Again, secrecy is maintained for obvious reasons.”

Another deferential nod. Then Momen was on his feet again. “You have done well. I am confident that you will continue doing so.” He turned dismissively but then, as if an afterthought, he added, “I will dispatch a beloved colleague to assist you before long.”

Esmaili expressed gratitude for the sentiment, then followed Azizi out of the room. In the exterior hallway Azizi looked at his new partner. “Well? What do you think?”

Esmaili thought: I think I am glad to be away from that man. He said, “About what?”

“About the operation, of course.”

A noncommittal shrug. “I do not know enough to form a judgment, brother.” Then he remembered to add, “It is in God’s hands.”

Azizi seemed satisfied with the platitude. He said, “I have more meetings this afternoon. You return to Damascus tomorrow and on to Lebanon. I shall rejoin you in a few days.” He raised a cautionary finger. “You must never speak to anyone about this meeting unless I clear it.” He gave an ironic grin. “For obvious reasons.”

“Certainly, my brother.”

Esmaili shunned a taxi for the return to his room. It was only a ninety-minute walk, and he wanted to clear his head. Well before he arrived, he had the basics of the plan in his mind. Momen is a physicist. That means I am part of a compartmentalized operation to deliver multiple nuclear or biological weapons against Israel.

He also knew that the odds of surviving the mission were less than those of an infidel entering Paradise.

8

Omar Mohammed convened the meeting of the Lebanon training team that would develop a training program for the Druze militiamen. He began, “Mr. Baram has obtained some information on the state of training of our clients, but since there are several locales we do not know exactly the needs of each. Therefore, we should have two contingencies: a very basic syllabus and a more advanced one for those militia who possess some basic knowledge.”

Mohammed rose from his chair and flipped the cover off an easel. As an experienced briefer he knew that revealing subject headings always invited the audience to read ahead of the presentation, which interfered with comprehension. The first page had a list of topics: Organization, Communications, Weapons, Tactics, Combat Trauma.

“These are the areas that Mr. Baram told us to look at. As you can see, the groups we’ll be training are willing to learn many of the basics from us, even though many of them undoubtedly have combat experience. I consider that an encouraging sign. It means that most of them seem to have an open mind.” He shrugged. “Considering what they are facing, perhaps that is as important as anything else. Actually, I suspect that in the end we may learn as much as they do.”

Chris Nissen, the former NCO who would lead one of the teams, raised a point. “Doctor, it seems to me that a lot of the Druze will have some combat experience. They’re likely to think they don’t need any weapons instruction.”

The suave Iranian native shrugged eloquently. “In that case they would not have hired us. True, we’re actually working for the Israelis who need a cutout for political deniability, but the IDF is sending us where we seem to be needed the most. I believe, therefore, that most of the Lebanese will be receptive.”

Mohammed took a marker and underlined each topic. “I have tentatively assigned each of you two areas of expertise: a primary and a secondary. For instance, Mr. Malten and Mr. Brezyinski are rated medics so they will mostly teach combat trauma with weapons as a secondary subject. Similarly, Mr. Wallender specializes in communications and doubles as a tactics instructor. Your briefing packets contain your specific assignments.”

Frank Leopole walked to the easel and stood beside Mohammed. “Actually, weapons and tactics will be our bread and butter, pretty much like it is on most of our training contracts. That’s why most of you were selected for this job. We’ll break into five-man teams and discuss some of the specifics before we meet again this afternoon and hash out any questions about doctrine. The main things to keep in mind: keep it simple and keep it consistent.”

While Leopole circulated among the team discussions, Mohammed sat in on the weapons group for starters. Consulting his notes, he began, “Many experienced fighters in the Middle East have expended thousands of rounds without hitting anybody. At least not that they can tell. Mainly it’s cultural. The more radical Islamists do not even bother to zero their rifles. They just point toward the enemy and pull the trigger, trusting God to guide their bullets, inshallah. I am told that such attitudes are rare among the Druze who, after all, are not Muslims.”

Pitney wriggled in his chair, apparently concerned about something. Mohammed noted the movement. “Yes, Robert.”

“Well, sir, I think we should emphasize the fundamentals: grip, cheek weld, breathing, sight picture, trigger control, and follow-through. Especially trigger control.”

Mohammed regarded the champion shooter. Obviously he was speaking as a national-class authority on the subject. “You seem to be saying that the trigger is more important than the others.”

“Well, Doctor, they’re all important. I mean, I wouldn’t gloss over any of them. But the trigger’s the man-machine interface, you know? When I was in high school we would’ve said it’s where the rubber meets the road. In my experience, if you get a shooter to concentrate on a good surprise break every time, he’ll learn a lot faster than otherwise. And he’ll be more accurate as well.”

Bosco fancied himself as a marksman and had some theories of his own. “You know, I’ve always wondered about follow-through. I mean, how can the shooter affect the shot when the bullet goes three thousand feet per second?” He spread his hands. “That’s different from an early flinch, of course.”

Mohammed looked to Pitney for a response.

“Sir, once I computed the dwell time in the barrel for a 5.56 round. I forget exactly but it’s a few ten-thousandths of a second. So Bosco’s right, once the primer goes, the shooter can’t influence the course of the bullet. But if the shooter follows through on every round, pretty soon he begins to notice where the sights were, and that means he can begin calling his shots. After that, he can start correcting himself.”

Mohammed appreciated Pitney’s throwing a bone to Bosco. The ex-Ranger was a good shooter and a better rappel instructor, but Pitney could have turned the exchange to his own advantage. Instead, he remained professionally neutral. He’s trying to fit in, Mohammed noted. Good for him.

“Now, I might add something. There’s a saying: ‘One round, two sight pictures.’ What does that mean?” Since he knew that Pitney could write an encyclopedia on the subject, he looked elsewhere. “Anybody?”

Phil Green beat out Bosco. “It means you immediately get a second sight picture after the round goes.”

“Correct. Whether you need it or not.”

Chris Nissen asked, “What about full auto? I mean with rifles, not belt-fed guns.”

Mohammed looked at Pitney who had his own thoughts on the subject but thought better of addressing a purely military subject. The snipers, Barrkman and Furr, gave each other disapproving looks while mouthing the words: Waste of ammo. Finally Green spoke up again. Though primarily a SWAT cop, he had done a tour as an artilleryman. “Doesn’t that depend on how much time and ammo is available? From what we’ve heard about this job, it sounds as if we’re not going to have much chance to teach more than the basics.”

“That is probably the case,” Mohammed replied. “But Sergeant Nissen’s question is well taken. Undoubtedly most of our clients are accustomed to firing their AKs on full automatic. We can either show them the folly of that technique or try to teach them how to do it right.”

Nissen said, “Sounds like a distinction between the beginners and the more experienced people. In other words, a syllabus decision. Now if it was just up to me, I’d say semiauto only at anything outside room distance.”

Mohammed nodded in agreement. “Unless anyone has other thoughts on the subject, we will make that a doctrinal item. Full auto only at close quarters.”

Pitney had a thought. “Doctor, are we likely to have people with sub guns?”

“You mean submachine guns?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I don’t know. It hasn’t come up.”

The speed shooter bit his lip. “Sometimes it’s better to have a pistol than a buzz gun, especially in tight spaces. I’m just wondering if we should decide if we want to try teaching SMGs or handguns. I mean, there probably won’t be time for both.”

Now Bosco’s curiosity got the better of him. “You saying that a pistol’s better than an MP-5 up close and personal?”

Pitney blinked his green eyes. After two heartbeats he replied, “I know it’s better for me. And probably for most guys. Look, you don’t have as much risk of leading with your muzzle around corners, and retention is easier with a handgun. There’s no real advantage in the ammo, and in fact the pistols I’d carry are all bigger than nine-millimeter.”

Bosco squirmed in his seat. “Yeah, but with one trigger pull of an MP you can dump ten, twenty rounds into somebody.”

“What if there’s two or three of them? I’m not trying to pump myself up here, but I can show you on the range that a pistol is better than a buzz gun against multiple opponents up close.”

The erstwhile Ranger recognized an opportunity. Robert Pitney seemed to be challenging Jason Boscombe to a man against man contest. Bosco’s Heckler & Koch against Pitney’s Springfield XD.

“What sort of test would it be, dude?”

Pitney smiled. “Say, five targets at ten yards.”

“What kinda targets?”

“Oh, eight-inch steel plates. Starting with both guns at low ready.”

Bosco thought for a moment, then leaned back and laughed. “Hey, dude, I only look stupid. That’s the kind of games you play all the time. I’d end up buying you a case of beer or something.”

“No, no,” Pitney insisted. “I’m not trying to sandbag anybody. I’m just saying that I’ve run that test several times, and the pistol usually wins. It’s because the distance is too short for the sub gun’s sight radius to be a real advantage, and that HK trigger can’t be tweaked like most pistols. When we switch guns, after a few runs the guy shooting my pistol does better.”

“Better than you?”

Pitney tried suppressing a grin and failed. “Well, better than he did with the buzz gun.”

“That’s what I thought.” Bosco laughed.