Vulcan's Fire

9

Ahmad Esmaili returned to the secure orchard area that sheltered his unit from overhead observation. He found Fida conducting weapon familiarization drills for the new men, some of whom appeared not quite through puberty.

“Do they really get so much younger, or are we so much older?”

The Lebanese fighter was both experienced and cynical. “Both, of course. As long as the world keeps turning, it supplies us with a new crop of volunteers every year. I accepted two of these boys because they had no place to go. Their families are dead or displaced, so I believe we are engaging in charitable work as well as military recruiting.”

Esmaili emitted a noncommittal grunt. He looked at the youngsters who were learning to field strip an AK-47. Eventually they would be able to disassemble and reassemble a Kalashnikov blindfolded. Whether they could shoot one straight and fast was another matter.

Fida scratched his beard and examined his superior’s face. Nothing registered, which was entirely normal. “Was your trip worthwhile?”

Leaving Tawfiq to supervise the newcomers, Esmaili took Fida several meters to one side. “I will tell you as much as I can. My trip was made for the purpose of spending about two minutes with a highly placed man in Tehran. We are to be honored with a significant assignment, but that will be determined later. Meanwhile, I will receive information and directions from Mohammad Azizi and we will conform to his directions until further notice.” He paused.

“Yes?”

“There is something more. The… source… said he is dispatching ‘a beloved colleague’ to oversee our part of the operation. I do not know if the new colleague will replace Azizi or work beside him, but I want you to know that we are going to be under greater scrutiny than ever before.”

Tawfiq scratched his beard again. It was showing faint traces of impending gray. “Well, that could mean anything, could it not? That is, a sign of trust and confidence or…”

“Or a lack of trust and confidence.”

“What do you think, brother?”

Esmaili dropped into a crouching position, idly rearranging pebbles between his feet. Tawfiq joined him, back to the shade tree class under way. “No. I have thought of little else since leaving Tehran. Based on what the… source… told me, it seems to be considered an honor. Besides, I do not believe that we would be given a crucial mission if we were mistrusted.”

Tawfiq grimaced. “There is a possible explanation, you know. We might be considered expendable and your… source… wants to ensure our compliance.”

The Iranian made no comment. None was necessary. At length his subordinate whispered, “You think so, too.”

Esmaili leaned back and sat on the ground, hands grasped between his knees. “I only know that the mission will involve a high degree of technical expertise, something beyond our capabilities. Therefore, we will almost certainly be assigned security for the operation.”

Tawfiq knew better than to speculate on when or where, let alone to ask his commander for more details. He rolled his slender shoulders, “inshallah.”

A curt nod. “God’s will.”

Frank Leopole had experience of women in a dozen nations. As he said, “There are two kinds: mothers and others.” He was decidedly an Other kind of guy. Never married and presently minus a commitment, he was comfortable in doing without for an indefinite period. However, the sabra who escorted him into the office prompted him to reconsider his impending celibacy. Raven hair, huge brown eyes, and a face of chiseled marble atop a slender carriage caused the former Marine a momentary distraction.

It was obvious that the commanding officer had first choice of the base secretarial staff.

Major General Moshek Brafman greeted his guest by rising from his desk. He was a stout third-generation Israeli who looked more Middle Eastern than Polish. However, he caught the American’s glance at the mobile decor and smiled approvingly. “Isn’t she a beauty?” Brafman emitted a sigh. “My wife was a head turner in her day, but Gabriella…” He shook his head. “Hoof!” Despite his accent, the sentiment was clear.

“She must be a distraction, General.”

“Yes, she is. She certainly is.” A male bonding smile and a gesture toward a sofa. “Would you like some refreshment?”

“Ah, no, sir. Thank you.” He took a seat, remaining erect and attentive.

Brafman plunked down beside Leopole and frankly studied the SSI operator. “Colonel, from what I am told, you are a direct individual and a man of action. Therefore, I shall do you the honor of being blunt. Though this is an international operation, and ordinarily it would involve certain… diplomatic niceties. While I hope that our relations will remain cordial, all of us need to keep certain realities in mind.”

The general paused a moment, ordering his thoughts. “As a professional, you must know that few plans remain unchanged. That especially applies to your upcoming work, for a variety of reasons that must be clear by now.”

Leopole nodded. “Yes, sir. Mr. Baram and a few others gave several briefings before we left.”

Brafman smiled slightly. “Well, he is not one to gild the lily, so to speak. Sometimes it’s a wonder that he advanced so well in government work.”

“You know him, then?”

The general squirmed slightly and gave a sideways glance. “We are acquainted, Colonel.” His tone changed from jovial to matter-of-fact. “As I was saying, although you will be training our Druze friends to defend their villages, it’s still an Israeli operation — which we of course will deny to one and all.”

Leopole did not know how to respond to such candor from a foreign general so he merely nodded.

“Your people, Colonel, absolutely must keep as low a profile as possible. Naturally, if you are attacked, you may defend yourselves.” Brafman set his thick hands on his knees and launched himself off the couch. He began pacing. “Frankly, it was foolish of our politicians to expect that third-party people could remain uninvolved. The area you will be working is of particular interest to Hezbollah, and once your presence is known, the pressure may increase rather than decrease. You understand?”

Leopole stood. “Certainly, sir. Mr. Baram said in his briefings that we might take casualties.”

A decisive nod. “Good!”

After three or four heartbeats, Brafman held up a hand. “I did not mean that the way it came out, Colonel. Naturally…”

“Yes, sir. You approve Mordecai’s honesty.”

“Well, let us say that I know of Mr. Baram’s honesty.” The ironic grin was back.

“Certainly, General.”

Brafman was pacing again. “Now, as I was going to say… although your team will operate directly with the militias, it will always be under IDF supervision. You will meet some of our own Druze officers before you proceed to Beirut. Some of them have worked with their Lebanese cousins before, some have not. But I want to emphasize this, Colonel: whatever you may think of a given situation, your actions will be guided by Israeli interests, not American.”

Leopole shrugged. “General Brafman, I never expected anything else.”

“So. How many training teams will you deploy?”

“Two or three, depending on local requirements. We can double up where needed.”

Brafman absorbed that information, nodding solemnly. At length he said, “You must realize that some of the areas are remote, quite remote. Your men will be beyond our ability to help in anything less than several hours. More likely a day or more. Even helicopter reinforcements are no guarantee. Therefore, it is advisable to establish relations with other villages and other militias in each area. That is where our own Druze officers can help the most.”

Leopole accepted the information stoically. “Yes, sir. It’s pretty much what we were told in Arlington.” He stepped to a wall map covering Israel, Lebanon, and much of Syria and Jordan. Tapping the paper he said, “General, besides reinforcements and supplies, I see our big concern as communications. We have cellular capability and may even be able to talk to headquarters in Arlington. But as I understand it, we’re relying on your people for contact with you.”

The Israeli nodded. “That is correct. Our liaison officers are well equipped. The militias… not so much.”

Leopole turned away from the map to face his host. “You know, if I were a Hezbollah planner, I’d start working on a way to interrupt your comm. Then I’d drop the hammer before anybody here realized something was going down.”

A taut smile. “Colonel Leopole, I admire men who think as I do. That is why our liaison and training teams have communications specialists with frequency-agile radios, encryption, and burst transmission capability.” He raised an eyebrow. “And not all of it is made in the U.S. A.”

“As long as it works, General. As long as it works.”

Brafman then turned to the map. He ran a finger along the northeastern border. “Here we are fifteen kilometers from the border, well within range of Katyushas.” He turned to his guest. “In 2006, some of us spent time in the bomb shelters, I can tell you. But you will be working opposite the area of the division in this area. Solomon Nadel, one of the brigade commanders, is tasked with supporting your mission, and he works with the special operations branch, which conducts our efforts in Lebanon.” He looked at Leopole. “I can read your mind. Do not worry about too many layers of command authority. This is a streamlined operation, and as I just noted, your IDF liaisons will have direct contact with brigade, special ops, and with me.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Then we understand one another.” He sat down at his desk and pressed the intercom. “Gabriella, would you bring us some refreshments?”

Mohammad Azizi brought the word.

“Dr. Momen’s colleague will arrive in two or three days. I am to escort him across the Syrian border.”

Ahmad Esmaili set down his topographic map. “Who is he?”

Azizi slid into a chair. He felt more at ease with his fellow Iranian since returning from Tehran. “Imam Sadegh Elham. He is an old friend of Dr. Momen. They have much in common, especially The Faith… and science.”

“Science. There are priests and scholars who insist that Islam should not become dependent upon science or technology. Such men cite the corruption of the West.”

The liaison officer waved dismissively. “Well, Imam Elham is not among them.”

“What do you know of him?”

“A devout servant of God. More a leader than a scholar, I believe.”

“No, no. I mean his background. His influence.” His political connections.

“Well, I know that he has ministered to various Hezbollah units in recent years, often with prestigious assignments. His name has been connected with our rocket forces.”

Esmaili perked up. “Rocket forces? What is the need of an imam there?”

Azizi permitted himself an ironic smile. “My brother, God’s minions are needed everywhere the faithful are found.”

The commander squinted in concentration, staring at the floor. “Rockets. That could explain what Dr. Momen meant when he referred to ‘technical experts.’” He raised his gaze. “Since the blessed doctor is involved in nuclear research…”

Azizi shook his head. “No, no. I do not think so.” His voice was harsh, insistent. Clearly he did not like the sum of two and two. “Besides, there would have to be testing to match a nuclear warhead to any rocket.”

“We do not know all that occurs in Iran… or Korea. Or elsewhere. Who is to say what has been tested and what has not?”

Esmaili referred to his map again. Spreading it on the table, he laid out the geography. “From this area there are not many worthwhile targets within range. Haifa is well beyond the 122mm Katyusha rockets but barely within range of Fajr 3s based just inside of the border, not to mention Fajr 5s. But from this area, Haifa is too far.”

“What about the Zelzal rocket? One hears much of it.”

Esmaili fidgeted, feeling mildly angry that he had little current knowledge of rockets and missiles, though he knew Zelzal was the latter. Many jihadists tended to use the terms interchangeably. Moreover, most of what he did know dated from his brief tenure with Dr. Momen.

But there was something else, more unsettling. It occurred to him: Azizi does not know the plan.

“Depending upon the model, Zelzal has a range of one hundred fifty to perhaps four hundred kilometers. I believe it carries a six-hundred-kilogram warhead.” He thought for a moment, trying to dredge up the figures from his memory. “The Shahab 3 and 4 possess much greater range — from twelve hundred to two thousand kilometers. They are based on the North Korean No-dong, and probably carry a thousand-kilogram warhead.”

“Then they would be better used here than closer to the border.” Azizi flicked the map. “They can easily reach any point in Israel.”

Esmaili rubbed his chin, then brushed his mustache. “Yes, but it makes no military sense. As soon as the Jews discover long-range missiles in this area they would destroy them.”

“But how would they know? Surely the Shahab batteries would set up quickly, fire their rockets, and be gone.”

The cell leader regarded his colleague. “The Americans must have satellites overhead almost constantly. They give any such information to the Zionists.” He paused to allow that sentiment to set in. “No, the longest range weapons would only be fired from Iran itself, where retaliation would be most difficult.”

“Very well, then,” Azizi replied. “The Fajr series is too short-ranged and Shahab too sophisticated for use here. Therefore, let us assume a Zelzal with two-hundred-kilometer range. From here, that could strike Haifa, Netanya, and Nablus. But if we were to move thirty kilometers southwest, to Qiryat Shemona, a Zelzal could reach Tel Aviv.”

Esmaili saw the logic: Zelzals could be deployed on trucks and dedicated launch vehicles — a definite advantage given Israeli air superiority. Still, something did not track quite right. “Brother, even assuming you are correct, consider the outcome. We would have to fire many missiles to achieve worthwhile damage, and even with mobile launchers they could be found and destroyed. That indicates a few missiles carrying massive warheads. Therefore…”

“Therefore,” Azizi interjected, “either Imam Elham and Dr. Momen are planning nuclear rockets or something else entirely.”

10

The SSI team was assembled at a secure compound that afforded a few days of preparation before proceeding to Lebanon. Frank Leopole allowed the men to settle in, get better acquainted, and enjoy the pool or exercise room. Then it was down to business.

At the initial briefing Leopole related the administrative details. “I met with General Brafman of Israeli Northern Command, and he laid out the situation. You already know we’re working with Druze militia in southern Lebanon, and we’ll have IDF Druze members as liaison officers and translators. Largely we’ll be semi-independent, sometimes in fairly remote areas, but I am assured that we’ll have secure, reliable comm via the IDF people.” He stopped for a moment, then added, “If it works, that’s great. If not, I have some backup that should permit us to talk directly to HQ in Arlington. It’ll be on an as-needed basis, but Admiral Derringer said the board sprung for the extra gear just to cover the bases.”

The operations officer mentally ticked off the topics he intended to cover. “Now then, as for our Druze contacts, you should know a couple of things. They’re Israeli military personnel but obviously they have an interest in the welfare of their cousins in Lebanon. I have no reason to think that any of them are other than what they seem, but I’m not taking anything for granted. I want our relationship to be polite and professional, but there’s no need to tell them everything we know. General Brafman was pretty plainspoken with me: we’re under Israeli command and we’ll act in accordance with their best interests, not ours. While I appreciate his candor, I think we could become expendable if things go south. But don’t worry too much: as usual, SSI has a Plan Alpha and a Bravo to extract us.”

Chris Nissen, though relatively new to the firm, was not timid. “Care to share that with us, sir?”

Phil Green added, “Yeah, I might sleep a little better.”

Leopole did not want to reveal that neither plan was finalized: too many political and bureaucratic hoops still remained. So he said, “One is by land, the other by air. That’s all I can say for now.”

Seated in the back, Robert Pitney congratulated himself for his foresight. While he had no reason to doubt his new employer’s concern for his welfare, he had a list of names, addresses, and phone numbers based on his in-laws’ business contacts. None were located in the likely operating area, but he knew that if he made enough calls, somebody would come for him — either from devotion, greed, or both.

Breezy always asked the obvious questions. “Colonel, how do we get to our AO? I take it that we’re supposed to keep a low profile.”

“Lower than a snake’s navel, son.” Leopole allowed the laughter to abate, then added, “We’ll address that when we meet with our IDF folks in a day or so.

“Now,” Leopole continued. “Before you left, you had the standard in-country brief about local culture and customs. I’m going to add something else.” He placed his hands on his hips and inclined his torso slightly forward, as if imparting physical emphasis to his words. “I am reliably informed that Lebanon produces some of the finest-looking women in the Middle East. Maybe the finest.”

He lanced Jason Boscombe with a D.I. stare, and was rewarded when that worthy slid lower in his chair. Both personally and professionally Leopole believed the mantra “Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted.” His efforts had shown that celebrities of Lebanese descent included entertainers Yasmine Bleeth, Salma Hayek, Shakira, and supermodel Yamila Diaz. Bosco, however, being a leg man, was disappointed to find divided opinion on Paula Abdul’s heritage but otherwise he was suitably impressed.

Leopole knew that Bosco and Breezy had enjoyed themselves immensely during some downtime in Haifa before the previous operation, which climaxed in a sea chase across the Mediterranean. While none of the local or visiting fillies had complained — in fact, a few were downright complimentary — the duo’s antics had brought unwelcome attention.

“Now hear this,” Leopole intoned. “What you do on your own time with consenting females is not, repeat not, your own business. In these circumstances it reflects on this firm and upon our contracting parties, so I expect you to bear that in mind at all times.” He paused for effect. “If you meet some hottie who invites you to go skinny-dipping with her boobacious friends, I want to know about it.”

Breezy turned to Bosco. “Boobacious? Did Lieutenant Colonel Leopole just say ‘boobacious’?”

“Fershure, dude. I heard him five by five.”

Omar Razlavi stalked the dreamscape of Ahmad Esmaili. Ferretlike in his speed and agility, the Iranian teenager had become noted for his ability to snake in and out of barbed wire, finding and marking Iraqi mines. Nobody seemed to know exactly where Omar came from or the circumstances that placed him in the front lines in 1981. But the boy’s innate ability to find mines buried beneath dirt or sand, in the dark, grew to near legendary status. As a Sarjukhe in the Twenty-third Special Forces Brigade, he refused every promotion above corporal. He insisted that God had made him for mine clearing, and that was what he would do.

Armed with his faith, a green headband, and a sack full of white flags, Razlavi probed the enemy ground with a hard plastic knife. Thousands of Saddam’s mines — many of foreign manufacture— were avoided by the Ayatollah’s soldiers during the long war. In an endeavor where survival often was measured in hours, Omar Razlavi thrived for seven years. And then some.

The next morning, Esmaili awoke with the beginning of a plan. He went in search of Fida and found him after breakfast. “I want to talk with you.”

Fida recognized the statement as more a command than a desire. They walked a safe distance from the aspiring jihadists and sat on a stone wall.

“I had a dream last night. Usually I do not remember my dreams, but this was different. It dealt with reality.”

Fida squirmed on the uncomfortable rocks. “Yes?”

“During the Iraq war, I knew a young mine hunter. Omar Razlavi.”

“Yes, yes. I remember the name.”

“I became acquainted with him late in the war, and served with him during operations with Hamas in Palestine. I learned then that Omar was an orphan. Thousands like him were taken into the army and fed into the war. We had no choice: we were fighting for our survival and full mobilization was required. But those boys, those young boys…” His voice trailed off.

Finally Esmaili spoke again. “Most of them went willingly. They were filled with revolutionary spirit and the excitement of serving the nation. And God,” he hastened to add. “They had never known anything else.

“Sometime late in the war, when it was clear that there could be no winner, I began to wonder. How did a teenaged boy like Omar find his calling? He was by far the best at what he did; I never heard of anyone who came close to matching him. It was as if he was born to hunt mines. But what else might he have accomplished? Was mine clearing the only thing he was meant to do? What if…”

The what-if remained moot. But Fida grew wary; his well-honed sense of survival began twitching at the back of his cranium. He would not betray any doubt to his superiors, who were notably unsentimental about living heroes, but neither would he bare his professional neck, let alone the personal variety.

“What if? Do you mean, what if he had another calling?”

Esmaili nodded quietly. Then he turned to his colleague. “Something other than war.”

Fida shifted his AK; he was seldom without it. “He was born into a time of war, brother. As you say, he served the revolution and he served God in the best way he could.” When that comment drew no response, Fida prompted, “What became of him?”

“A few years after the truce, some of our commandos began passing their knowledge to Palestinian fighters. That was his end.”

Fida grasped the essential facts. The traditional religious rivalry was set aside as Iranian Shiites worked with Hamas Sunnis against the common Zionist enemy. He could guess the rest.

One dark night, along the Gaza Strip, Ahmed Esmaili had seen the fatal explosion from well behind the mine hunter’s position. It was not difficult to interpret the events: an Israeli sentry glimpsed movement through his thermal imager and flipped a switch. The command-detonated mine erupted six meters from the Iranian instructor, sending him directly to the right hand of God.

“You saw Razlavi in your dream?”

Esmaili nodded. “It gave me an idea.” He licked his lips. “Obviously we have an important operation coming fairly soon. I think there is a way to create a diversion that will not deprive us of many men.”

Fida was interested. “Brother, in God’s holy ledger the loss of one man may benefit hundreds of others.”

“So you approve of a sacrifice?”

“Certainly, if it yields a profitable return.”

Esmaili accepted the assessment. No doubt their scientific sponsor would approve it as well.

“By the way,” Fida added, “when do you expect Dr. Momen’s colleague to join us?”

“I have not been told exactly, due to security concerns. But Azizi said he should return with the man in a few days.”

“If God wills it.”

Esmaili continued playing the righteous game. “Surely He does, brother. Surely He does.”

Two-star generals seldom brief former lieutenant colonels, but Moshek Brafman wanted his American colleague to enter Lebanon as well prepared as possible. He had arranged for Leopole to meet Yakov Livni, who knew the lay of the land, both geographical and political.

“Tell me about Rafix Kara,” Leopole said.

Livni shook his head as if recalling a favorite uncle. He stared at the floor, then raised his gaze to the American. “He is probably all that you have heard and more. Flamboyant, charismatic, and maddening to work with. At one time or another he’s fought almost everybody in Lebanon, but when he’s on your side there’s no better ally. The fact that he is still among the living I can only attribute to divine intervention.” He shrugged. “God has use for such people.”

The SSI operative nodded slightly. “Yeah. I heard that he has a talent for walking away from ambushes and assassinations.”

Livni raised his eyes and his hands in a dramatic gesture toward the ceiling. “Oh, the stories I could tell…”

“So you’ve worked with him?”

The Israeli turned serious. “Yes. Yes, I have worked with him.” He decided not to relate that he had also worked against the Druze warlord when Israeli interests diverged from Kara’s.

Leopole stretched his muscular arms behind his head. “Well, the main thing I need to know is if I can trust the guy. That’s job one.”

Livni nodded gravely. “As I said, Colonel, Rafix has been at odds with most of the major factions in the country at one time or another. The one thing I can count on is that he’s totally opposed to the Syrians and Iranians. And the other thing I can count on is his courage. Many people may question his loyalty at a given moment, but never his courage.”

“Okay, so he’s a brave sumbitch who might shove a blade between my ribs. How does that make him worth working with?”

The Israeli operative waved a placating hand. “No, no. Do not misunderstand me. Rafix has a sense of honor to go with his courage. I have never known him to betray anyone. But as conditions change, so does his allegiance.” He paused for emphasis. “Colonel Leopole, the key to understanding Rafix Kara is very simple. He is Druze to the core. As long as your mission benefits his people, he will be a loyal ally. But remember this.” Livni wagged a pudgy finger. “If he ever has reason to doubt your commitment to his cause, he probably will shove that blade between your ribs.”

11

Rick Barrkman and Robbie Furr seemed an unlikely pair. The former was athletically built and fond of working out; the latter was not. In fact, Furr claimed that he had been eating at his favorite Mexican restaurant since before he was born, and he could pack away a large platter of tacos and enchiladas with little effort. Nevertheless, after working together for years, each knew the other’s strengths and vices. They had long since passed the point where they were professionally wedded: frequently they could communicate by something approaching mental telepathy. They even shot the same zero to eight hundred yards.

Now they needed to see how their rifles had fared the rigors of international air travel.

Barrkman uncased the Robar SR90, a customized Remington 700 with orthopedic stock and Leupold ten-power scope. Owing to their different physiques, the cheek piece and length of pull were optimized for Barrkman, though Furr could crawl the stock well enough to compensate. His own rifle was an SR60, a near duplicate of Barrkman’s minus the orthopedic furniture.

Furr laid down on his mat, set up the spotting scope, and focused on the hundred-yard target taped to a riddled piece of plywood. He glanced around. “I guess I’ve seen worse ranges but I don’t remember just where.”

Prone behind the rifle, Barrkman thumbed three rounds into the Remington’s magazine. Keeping his right index finger along the stock, he checked the Leupold’s elevation knob and was satisfied with the setting. “Frank says we should be grateful for this place. Nothing else is available.”

“Well, okay. Consider me grateful.” Seated beside his partner, Furr focused the Kowa scope and said, “Spotter on.”

Barrkman snuggled up to the twelve-pound SR90 and adjusted the butt’s elevation with his left hand. Then he looked through the scope. “Sniper on. Upper left.”

The spotter’s attention went to the top row of four black aiming dots. He heard the shooter inhale, then exhale. Three seconds later the 2.5-pound trigger broke cleanly and the shot went. Barrkman cycled the bolt, lifting the knob with the heel of his right hand, rotating the palm, then pushing the bolt back into battery. It appeared one fluid motion. “Center.”

“Six o’clock, low,” Furr replied.

Barrkman ignored the call and fired again. “Center.”

“On top of the other.”

At the third shot, the marksman said, “Center.”

Furr looked over at him. “Center. The cold bore shots are still a quarter to a half minute low.”

“Well, it’s consistent.” He grinned. “Besides, the guy downrange never knows the difference.”

The pair changed positions to verify each shooter’s zero. When Furr was finished, his friend shook his head. “Dude! Three rounds, two holes. What happened?”

Furr pointed downrange. “Right to left mirage. I caught it just as I broke the last shot. Didn’t you see it?”

“Nah, it must’ve been a pretty good gust of wind.” He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Or…”

“No way, man. Dead nuts center call.”

Obligatory bantering concluded, the sniper team repeated the zeroing process with the SR60. Six more rounds of Black Hills.308 snapped downrange at 2,650 feet per second. The result was two ragged groups with one called flyer.

Barrkman asked, “How many rounds through your barrel now?”

Furr entered the latest data in his log. “That’s 2,489.”

“Getting a little high. You gonna rebarrel anytime soon?”

“Not as long as it prints like today,” Furr replied. “Unless you want to spring for a new Schneider tube.”

“In your dreams, amigo.”

“Hey, where’s the snout?”

Barrkman turned around and tapped the third gun case. He withdrew a Robar QR-2, actually a Ruger 77 adapted to accept ten-round M14 magazines with a detachable six-power scope and flip-up iron sights. The combination of sniper and scout rifle yielded the unlikely nickname “snout.”

Furr accepted the precision carbine, handed to him with the bolt open. Nevertheless, he inserted a pinkie finger to be certain. Then he assumed a sitting position, cradling the Ruger’s comfortable weight. He dry-fired three times, running the bolt rapidly each time. “It’s beyond me why the military keeps buying honking big rifles that weigh sixteen or eighteen pounds when this does about eighty percent of the work at ten pounds.”

Barrkman beamed a knowing smile. “Because that’s what the gun club wants, man. That’s the trouble with police and the military: they buy what they think they want instead of what the shooters need. Like the M40A3 the Marines got a couple years ago. The damn thing weighs about nineteen pounds: how’d you like to hump that piece of iron in Afghanistan where it’s uphill in both directions?”

“Yeah, I know. I trained some recon dudes a while back. They said the Quantico benchrest shooters injected themselves into the process. They like heavy rifles because they only carry them from the jeep to the firing line.”

“So why’d the sniper school go along with it?”

Furr shrugged. “Go along to get along, I guess.”

“Well, let’s shoot snout before we draw a crowd. If there’s time left over I want to do some position shooting.”

“Six-pack of beer on the best offhand group?”

Barrkman responded, “Sure. Are you buying Maccabee or Goldstar?”

“No way. You’re buying me Heineken. They import it here, you know.”

“Now how’n hell did you know that?”

Rob Furr enjoyed the gotcha. “Somebody once said, ‘Time spent on Google is seldom wasted.’”

Barrkman tossed his partner a box of Black Hills. “You gonna talk or shoot?”

Inserting a magazine, Furr quipped, “I’m gonna shoot, then I’m gonna drink your beer.”

“Well, all I can say is you’d better enjoy it while you can. Where we’re going there’s probably not much liquor.”

“Hey, Lebanon’s national beer is Almaza. It’s considered an excellent pilsener. Most people drink it with salt.”

“Google?”

“Pitney,” Furr replied.

“Say what?”

“Robert Pitney, the new guy. His wife’s family used to do business in Lebanon so I asked him about the culture and food and stuff.”

Barrkman nodded quietly. “He doesn’t seem the drinking kind.”

“Well, neither do you. But he’s not. In fact, he’s Muslim.”

“Muslim? You gotta be…”

“Hey, you gonna talk or shoot?”

Hazim was a dutiful student in most aspects of his Hezbollah training, but none more so than his desire to become a sniper. He heeded Tawfiq’s advice about not removing the scope too often, but he lavished considerable care on the action and the optics.

Esmaili nurtured the youngster’s ambition, providing encouragement with some practical assistance. Returning from a supply run, the Iranian diverted to the practice range before delivering his goods to the warehouse. As expected, he found Hazim playing with his daytime scope. Esmaili dropped a canister beside the young Lebanese.

Hazim looked up, surprised. “Teacher! I did not see you.” He leapt to his feet, almost stepping on the metal can.

“Stealthiness is a virtue for most warriors, but especially snipers.” Esmaili almost smiled. “I admire your diligence, boy. Accept this gift.”

Hazim forgot himself and bowed reverentially, as if to an imam. Then he knelt to examine the container. It was dark green with yellow stencils in the Jewish alphabet. Opening the tin, he withdrew a rectangular cardboard container. Though ignorant of Hebrew, he was adept at numbers. “7.62 NATO” held significance for him.

“Ammunition for the rifle!”

“Two hundred fifty rounds. Use it sparingly. I do not know when I may have more.”

As Hazim all but genuflected, Esmaili returned to his vehicle. Tawfiq was waiting with a knowing smile. “You are spoiling that boy, you know.”

The commander returned the grin. “Yes, I know.” He glanced over his shoulder, observing the Lebanese fighter declaring God’s bounty to his friends. “He will be useful one day. Or night — depending on how long the batteries last.”

Esmaili stopped to ponder whether his manipulation of the youngster was much removed from the late ayatollah’s exploitation of children in the Iraq war. Without reaching a conclusion, he asked, “How is he progressing?”

Tawfiq almost chuckled. That was significant, as he was a man who seldom laughed — or had reason to. “Actually he shows some promise. He has read the sniping manual repeatedly and I believe he could recite long passages. I have worked with him on the mil scale, and since it is based on meters there is not much room for confusion.”

“How is his marksmanship?”

“Well, not remarkable but he shows ability inside three hundred meters. He can hit a half silhouette about half the time, depending on wind. Beyond that, he might be useful for harassing fire…”

Tawfiq cocked his head at his colleague’s sudden silence. “Yes?”

“I was just thinking. Do you remember our second trip to Iraq, supporting the resistance fighters?”

“Yes, yes. Two years ago, more or less.”

“There were reports of an Iraqi sniper called Juba. He was said to use a Tabuk, the Iraqi version of the Yugoslavian rifle.”

“I thought he was a fiction. A ghost to scare the crusaders.”

Esmaili shook his head. “I believe he was genuine — for a while. If he was killed or went away it mattered little. Other successful snipers could continue shooting in his name, and spread the fear.” He gave a grim, tight smile. “We may have our own Juba growing right here.”

Tawfiq was unaccustomed to guile beyond the tactical variety. The psychological aspect was new to him but he recognized the potential benefit. And the risk. “He may not last long.”

“True.” He paused for an ephemeral moment of self-examination. Then he asked, “What word is there about the next supply shipment?”

Colonel Yakov Livni was a man with many irons in the same fire. The fire was the impending clash in southern Lebanon, and few but his immediate colleagues knew how badly he had been burned. The loss of his nephew was seldom far behind his brown eyes, and alternately he rebuked himself for previous errors while striving to avoid making others.

Fahed Ayash was part of that plan.

Livni made the introductions, a quick turnaround since he himself had only met Leopole at their original briefing with Brafman. By way of explanation, Livni said, “Mr. Leopole, Major Ayash will be your primary liaison with the Druze militias. He has worked with some of them before, and he has as much experience as anyone I know in that area.” Livni nodded to Ayash as if to say, “You’re on.”

Ayash spoke passable English, telling Leopole, “In Beirut you will meet a man named Rafix Kara. He is very important to our… ah, the mission.” The Druze officer grinned self-consciously. “His influence alone could be enough to produce success, let alone his contacts and his support.”

“Yes, Mr. Baram mentioned him during the planning sessions in Arlington. I trust that Mr. Kara knows we’re coming.”

Ayash nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. In fact, we have arranged for you to meet him, as you say, one to one. That is how he prefers to operate, on an individual basis. He believes it is the best way to measure a man, especially someone he does not…”

“Trust?”

“Oh, no, Colonel. I was going to say, ‘someone he does not know.’” The IDF man smiled, as much in satisfaction at his quick recovery as at the American’s justified skepticism.

Leopole stood up and stretched. His lower back was cramped again; he wondered if it were occupational tension or the aging process. Maybe both, he told himself. “Major Ayash, I’ll level with you. I’ve now dealt with six or seven people and I still haven’t even set foot in Lebanon. Just how are we supposed to maintain security with all the people who’ve been involved in our meetings?”

The Druze seemed taken aback. He blinked twice, moved his lips, and then found the words. “We are all working together in the IDF: Jews, Druze, Army, special operations. I do not know your, ah, grasp of my people’s culture but we Druze are all of the same blood. Family, you know? Nobody would do anything to risk hurt to others.”

The SSI operator noted Ayash’s heightened color, which could only be embarrassment or anger. It was obvious which was the more likely. Waving a placating hand, Leopole replied, “Oh, no, Major. Please do not think that I question anybody’s loyalty. But I’ve been involved in ops that… er, operations… that were compromised because of a careless comment made without harmful intent. That’s all I meant.”

Ayash squinted at Leopole, as if assessing the American’s honesty. Evidently satisfied, he concluded, “Mr. Leopole, we are all of the same boat, as you say. If anything goes wrong, I will be sinking with you.”

“Fair enough, Major. Fair enough.”

12

Mohammad Azizi delivered Dr. Momen’s colleague, on schedule.

Imam Sadegh Elham appeared to be in his mid-forties. In contrast to the corpulent Momen, Elham’s was a thin, spare frame with few of the scientist’s unctuous mannerisms.

However, Esmaili noticed that the cleric’s eyes had the same look. While Imam Elham did not wear spectacles, his gaze — penetrating and perceptive — reminded the Hezbollah operative of Momen’s. Ahmad Esmaili felt a tiny chill. Both of them are probably mad.

“Peace be upon you,” Esmaili greeted the cleric. Elham replied in kind, apparently with genuine sentiment. Then he presented papers identifying him as spiritual advisor to the Hezbollah cell. That his bona fides were genuine there could be no doubt. His warrant was handwritten by Dr. Momen and countersigned by his deputy.

After the ritual greetings, Ahmad Esmaili showed the imam to his quarters, allowed him to settle in, and departed. Esmaili realized that he was glad to be out of the man’s presence.

Azizi saw Esmaili standing alone and joined him. “Our guest is satisfied with the present situation. You have prepared well, and Dr. Momen should be pleased.”

The Hezbollah leader managed a straight face. “Praise be to God that we have performed our mission… so far.” He regarded Momen’s acolyte. “You will be in frequent contact with the doctor?”

“Yes, yes.” Azizi nodded eagerly. “My duty requires me to return to Tehran at various intervals. But do not worry, brother. You will be well mentioned in my reports for your work… so far.”

Esmaili waved a hand. “Oh, please do not trouble yourself. Doing the work is reward enough.” This time the sentiment did require some facial control. He wondered if Azizi were gullible enough to believe the statement or merely indifferent, knowing something of what was to come.

If Azizi were skeptical, he concealed it beneath an earnest demeanor. “Soon there will be plenty of work for your men to prove their devotion to the jihad.” He actually smiled. “That should please them, should it not?”

“Most assuredly. I only pray that we are up to the task — whatever it may involve.” How long are we going to continue exchanging banalities?

Azizi recognized that Esmaili was fishing for more details. But that did not bother him. Were it otherwise, he might have had reason for suspicion. “My friend, you know almost as much as I do at present. For now it is enough that Dr. Momen has entrusted an important mission to our hands, and favored us with his most valued advisor. We will learn more details when we need to know them.”

“Then my fighters can be satisfied. I should check their progress this afternoon. Please excuse me.”

Azizi nodded deferentially. “Of course, brother, of course. I shall see you at the evening prayer. The imam will conduct it himself.”

“I shall be honored to pray behind him.”

As he walked away, Ahmad Esmaili was careful to keep his head up and his shoulders back. He did not wish Mohammad Azizi to realize how the Hezbollah chieftain really felt: like the loneliest man in Lebanon.

Chris Nissen convened the planning session with the entire SSI team. “Colonel Leopole is meeting with our main Druze contact in Beirut but he left a list of topics for us to cover.” He set down his notes and jumped on one of his favorite subjects.

“What’s the best way to take down a roomful of bad guys?”

“A Mark 82 through the roof,” Breezy quipped. When his wisecrack drew no laughter, he went on the defensive. “Well, a five-hundred-pounder takes down a bunch of bee-gees.”

“It’s not a theoretical question,” Nissen insisted. “If we’re going to work with the Druze in securing their villages, we have to be ready to show them some interior tactics.”

Bosco sought to cover his partner’s gaffe. “We have the canned routine from the company’s training manual. Use flash-bangs if possible, frags if necessary, and put at least a short stack of operators through the door or another entry. Then run the walls and hose anybody with a weapon.”

Nissen nodded in agreement. “But what if there’s known or possible noncombatants?”

“That’s why we start with flash-bangs. Then secure everybody there and let the intel guys sort them out.” He shrugged. “It’s worked for us before.”

Nissen returned to the main subject. “Well, let’s realize that our clients will not have the latest gear that some of us brought. We need to stay focused on teaching them to use their own weapons as efficiently as possible.”

Josh Wallender broke his usual silence. “Chris, what do we know about the Druze and their gear?”

“Not a lot right now. Mostly AKs. I don’t think they have many sidearms. That means when we get to interior tactics we’ll show them how to use what they’ve got. The more specialized weapons, like precision rifles, we’ll address as they arise.”

Phil Green, the ex-SWAT cop, had a lot of experience putting cuffs on uncooperative suspects. “I don’t think we can be too dogmatic about this, Sergeant. I mean, there’s too many variables, and good-guy bad-guy recognition is a biggie, especially when everybody looks alike. Besides, what if there’s more suspects than operators? There’s going to be a lot of noise and confusion, especially with women and kids screaming and crying. We’ll have some guys slinging their own weapons while putting flex cuffs on everybody, and that reduces the number of shooters for emergencies.” He shook his head. “I’d avoid an inside fight if at all possible.”

Privately, Nissen agreed, but Leopole had wanted various scenarios discussed before meeting the militiamen in Lebanon. “Okay, you’re right. It’s likely to be dark and noisy and confusing. Lots of chances for distraction and surprises. But I’m talking a last-ditch situation. No way to solve the problem without entering the room.

“Just for consideration: a bud of mine did an exchange tour with the SAS. He said at Prince’s Gate in 1980 one of the terrorists at the Iranian embassy was hiding among the civilians. They pointed him out so two SAS dudes scooped him up and pinned his arms against the wall. One of the other guys double-tapped him with his MP-5 and that was that. All twenty-six hostages were released and five of six terrorists were KIA. A real slick op.”

“Not quite in line with our usual ROE, is it?” Bosco asked with wink.

“No, Mr. Boscombe. It is not.”

Bob Ashcroft, who had trained as a police crisis negotiator, had another angle. “The only situation I can think of for entering a room would be a hostage situation. I mean, if the BGs have shot a couple of hostages and tossed the bodies out the door, then all bets are off. Otherwise, I’d maintain a perimeter and wait ‘em out.”

Nissen realized that the subject was far more varied than the training teams would have time to address with their clients, so he sought to simplify matters. “All right, then. Let’s consider this: you have two or three men ready to enter a room full of hostiles. What’s their best choice of weapons and tactics?”

Breezy turned serious for a moment. “I really like my suppressed MP-5 with a light. And I’d wear goggles and ear protection.”

“Why ear protection if you’ve got a suppressed weapon?”

The operator unzipped a gotcha grin. “Because, Sergeant Nissen, the bad guys prob’ly don’t have suppressed weapons.”

“Okay, point well taken.” He looked around. “Anybody else?”

Robert Pitney squirmed on his seat. After a moment, he spoke up. “It might sound odd, but I’d take a big-caliber race gun with a laser sight. And a light.”

As a former Green Beret NCO, Chris Nissen had little experience with the civilian shooting world. But he was intrigued. “Okay, it does sound odd. But suppose I’m willing to be convinced.”

Pitney was aware that everyone in the room was looking at him. He stood up. “I like a pistol for interior tactics for all the obvious reasons. And a double-column .40 or .45 gives me twelve to fifteen rounds, which should be plenty. If not, I carry my first reload at the front of my tactical belt. I can swap magazines in less than two seconds.

“I brought a compensated Springfield XD with me. It’s loud, but like Mr. Brezyinski just said, we’ll have ear protection. The integral compensator keeps the muzzle steady, and at typical distances you can do ‘hammers’ with both rounds inside two inches.

“The red dot or laser sight is a big advantage in dim light and against multiple opponents. At room-clearing distances — inside twenty-five feet — you can engage several targets very quickly.”

Nissen was impressed. “Okay, that makes sense to me. But you’re not going to carry a specialized weapon like that for everyday use.”

“No, sir, I’m not. It’s a special tool for special circumstances.”

“What if the BGs have body armor that your ammo won’t handle?”

Pitney shrugged. “Inside a room with a bunch of hostiles, I wouldn’t rely on torso shots anyway. I’d shoot for the eyes.”

The retired noncom frowned. “That’s a very high standard of marksmanship, Mr. Pitney. Especially when people are shooting at you.”

“Yes it is, Sergeant Nissen. It certainly is.”

Marshall Wilmot was overweight to the point of being fat. His goal was to remain shy of obese, and recently he would not have claimed victory in that campaign, for it was more than a battle. Privately, he envied the hell out of Michael Derringer, who in his mid-sixties tipped the scales barely twenty pounds more than his Annapolis weight.

On the other hand, Wilmont retained most of his hair and needed glasses only for newsprint.

Wilmont stopped at the top of the stairs, regaining his breath. At that moment Matt Finch dashed past, taking the steps two at a time. “Hey, Marsh,” the personnel officer chirped. “Still avoiding the elevator? Good for you. Keep it up, man!” On that cheerful note, the slender forty-something was gone.

SSI’s chief operating officer watched him disappear. Damn marathoners. They’re fanatics.

At length Wilmot reached the second-floor landing and opened the door. Aside from his physical bulk, he felt as if he carried an equally onerous burden — a load to be shared with Mike Derringer.

Wilmot nodded to Peggy Singer, who broadcast a contralto “Good morning,” ending on an upscale that bespoke cheerfulness. It also alerted her boss in the inner office that a visitor was inbound.

Derringer swiveled his high-backed chair, turning away from his computer console. “Good morning, Marsh.” He stopped to scrutinize his partner more closely. “You look like yesterday’s chow, if I may say so.”

Wilmot plopped his bulk into the visitor’s chair. “You may, and you did.” He emitted a short wheeze and realized that he had left his handkerchief at home again. His marriage remained on the downhill slope, and tending hubby’s laundry had never been a priority for Jocelyn Brashears Wilmot. He contented himself with extracting a partial tissue from his coat pocket and dabbed his mouth.

Derringer wondered if Sandy Carmichael or Frank Ferraro in the operations division maintained their emergency responder certification.

Finally Wilmot regained his breath and his voice. “Mike, I saw Brian Cottle last Friday night. He was at the club with some of his Foggy Bottom friends.”

“Is he still running scared over State’s embarrassment after our African outing?”

Wilmot nodded. “But he’s only frightened, not terrified like he was a couple of months ago. I arrived late for happy hour and Brian was working on his third drink. So I eased him over to an empty table and bought him another round.”

Derringer approved. “You sly dog, you.”

“Actually, I don’t know how much slipped out and how much he actually wanted me to know. But he pretty much laid it out. State and CIA are still red-faced over the way the Israelis snookered them, and sending us chasing all over Africa and the Med and the Atlantic after that yellow cake. So I laid it on a little thick, you know? I said, ‘Jeez, Brian, we did exactly what you guys wanted us to do and now we’re the bastard cousin at the wedding.’”

“I hope he absorbed a boatload of guilt.”

Wilmot shrugged his burly shoulders. “Well, he didn’t argue. He just sort of acknowledged that maybe we’d got a raw deal, being denied other contracts because our team did the work that we’d been hired to do.” Wilmot paused, trying to recall the conversation. “The fact that the yellow cake sank with that ship our guys took was all to the good. I mean, State understands that the cake never reached Iran. But once they realized that Mossad had been calling the shots through third parties and cutouts, there was some, ah, unwelcome scrutiny on the hill.”

Derringer leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. “Yes, I know. So what’s the point of Mr. Cottle’s unhappy hour?”

“Well, since I had him alone I pushed the man-to-man thing, you know? I said, ‘Look, Brian. We’re forced to do business with the damned Israelis, the same people who used us and got a couple of our guys killed. So when the hell are you,’ and I emphasized you, ‘going to let us out of detention?’”

“Good lad. So what’d he say?”

“Well, then he did get defensive. His voice went up a couple of octaves and basically he said, ‘Shit, Marsh. I’m the one who approved SSI for the current Israeli job. If it’d gone to somebody else, the foreign contracts desk probably would’ve turned you down. Then you’d really be stuck.’”

“Is that true?”

Wilmont coughed again. While regaining his composure, he nodded. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, he’s the deputy undersecretary for international security so he can direct traffic pretty much where he wants. I think that his boss rubber-stamps most of Brian’s recommendations unless it’s high visibility.”

Derringer laughed. “Like Radar on MASH. ‘Here, Colonel. Sign this.’”

“Well, maybe not quite like that. But I felt better after pumping Brian. He’s a decent guy down deep — just has trouble showing it sometimes.”

“So, does that mean that we might be considered for some U.S. Government contracts anytime soon?”

Wilmont squirmed his weight against the seat. “I’ll know more on Wednesday. But I think things are easing up because when I left, Brian promised to stand me to a three-martooni lunch.”

Derringer chuckled aloud. “Well, he might welch on a business deal, but a promise made when drunk is sacred.”

“You got it, Mike.”

13

In a rare moment to himself, Ahmad Esmaili sat with his back against a tree and allowed his mind to wander. He could not remember the last time he had indulged in nonprofessional musings.

As the leader of a notably successful Hezbollah unit, Esmaili had grown accustomed to a degree of latitude in accomplishing his missions. But now, apparently entrusted with a more important operation than ever before, he was tacitly reduced to second in command to a zealous cleric possessing little military experience.

“Commissar” was the word that Esmaili attached to Imam Elham. Essentially a political appointee, the priest nonetheless wielded full authority over the fighters — and their commander. It would not be wise to question his orders, which meant that operational worries would have to be couched in diplomatic terms.

Esmaili was astute enough to know that he lacked diplomacy. He achieved results by force of personality and the threat of draconian enforcement for the few jihadists who resisted him. In recent years he had only been forced to execute two men: proof of the French concept Pour encourager les autres.

The Hezbollah chief reflected that almost immediately Imam Sadegh Elham began assuming de facto leadership of the unit. After barely asking permission, the priest convened a meeting and announced his intention of establishing a more devout routine. He began by uttering a smooth assurance of his belief that the Hezbollah fighters represented the fruit of Islam’s warriors. Then he said that at dawn tomorrow he would begin the Fad salat, the five daily prayers conducted by a group praying behind an imam.

Esmaili had accepted the news in stony silence, trading the briefest of glances with Tawfiq and Fida. Azizi, the liaison between Momen and the men who would execute his mysterious plan, seemed satisfied with the situation. A trifle uncharitably, Esmaili thought, He can afford to be satisfied. He probably does not have to perform our mission. Esmaili weighed the situation and cataloged the operative factors. Because Hezbollah was dominated by Iranians such as himself, the movement was largely Shia. Therefore, Imam Elham possessed unquestioned power as a Shiite cleric.

Azizi had said, “Brother, you know that an imam must be obeyed because he speaks for God.”

“Yes, of course,” Esmaili had replied. “That is why Dr. Momen sent him. Aside from his position in the scientific organization, Imam Elham’s religious authority cannot be questioned.” Esmaili conceded that the double dose of power was bulletproof. And that knowledge chilled him to the marrow. Esmaili held not the ghost of a doubt that Momen and Elham were perfectly content sending their jihadists to destruction if there seemed some advantage.

“That is the wonder of it,” Azizi insisted. “We achieve Paradise merely for the worthiness of the effort, not for the results.”

Esmaili had concluded the discussion in the only way possible. Inclining his head, he had intoned, “Allah be praised.”

Watching the westering sunlight slanting onto Southern Lebanon’s cedared hills, Ahmad Esmaili contemplated his likely future and indulged in a silent heresy.

Major Fahed Ayash deposited Frank Leopole at Rafix Kara’s office building in the fashionable Verdun area of West Beirut. “I was going to introduce you in person,” the Druze officer explained, “but I must meet with a, ah, supplier, before he leaves. I return in an hour, no more.”

Leopole had no option but to make the best of his circumstances. He looked around, feeling ballistically naked in one of the region’s riskiest cities, and longed for his Sig. Better inside than an obvious Gringo on the street, he concluded. He went upstairs, admitted by the lone secretary.

The office defined the man.

Leopole took in the ambience, which an interior decorator might call Post-Modem Ballistic. The place was strewn with weapons: rifles, pistols, a few shotguns, and two machine guns. Leopole recognized one as a Soviet RPD, which he considered the finest LMG ever made. It rested on its bipod with hundred-round drum in place. The other was partly obscured behind some ammo boxes but Leopole thought the stock resembled an even older antique: a Lewis Gun.

Kara’s desktop was clean, with two exceptions. One was the .455 Webley revolver of the same vintage as the Lewis. The other was a two-tiered organizer with roasted peanuts in the In basket and figs in the Out basket. A wastebasket and well-used chair completed the administrative suite.

Leopole was drawn to a Steyr SSG in the corner, complete with Kahles ten-power scope and ten-round magazine. He had owned one of the Austrian sniper rifles long ago but sold it when his logbook of rounds fired revealed that he had not shot it in four years. He seldom kept a gun that he did not fire at least semiannually. On the other hand, his partner, retired Master Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Foyte, had more firearms than he knew and simply bought a new safe now and then.

Leaning over, hands behind him in deference to gun culture etiquette, Leopole was interested to note four hash marks painted on the stock. Then the door opened behind him.

“Ah, Colonel Leopole.”

The SSI operator turned to see a short, compact man with a Lebanese nose, thinning gray hair, and a brisk, cheerful manner that belied his well-cut business suit. Rafix Kara strode across the carpet, extending an arm. Leopole stood erect and grasped the proffered hand. The men shook briskly, both squeezing hard before releasing as if on mutual consent.

Kara nodded toward the Steyr. “I see you admire fine rifles,” he said in French-accented English. “But one should expect that of a United States Marine!”

Every Marine a rifleman, Leopole thought. It was a catchy sentiment, if no longer true.

“Well, sir, I wish I’d kept the one I used to own. It was the most accurate production rifle I ever had. My hand loads would hold under three inches at five hundred yards.”

The Druze leader wrinkled his brow. “Then why part with such a fine weapon?

Leopole shrugged. “I didn’t shoot it very often and was short of space in my safe.”

Kara’s eyes registered surprise. “A safe? Surely one such as yourself needn’t hide fine weapons in a safe. That is for bankers and merchants!” He swept a hand around the room. “This is my gun safe, Colonel!” He laughed in appreciation of his own joke.

Leopole looked around again. Two walls and much of the floor did in fact resemble a walk-in gun vault. It occurred to Frank Leopole that Rafix Kara had acquired a veritable alphabet of weapons: AKs, FALs, a couple of AUGs, the RPD and SSG, even a couple of RPG launchers. He returned the Lebanese leader’s broad smile. “How do you stay proficient with so many weapons, sir?”

“Oh, I do not. I merely have this… collection… to ensure a ready supply. I have guns in various calibers, you see? The Soviet round for AKs and RPDs; 7.62 NATO for FALs, sniper rifles, and MAGs; 5.56 for Galils, AUGs, and some M16s though they do not function well.” He cocked a mirthful eye at his guest. “As you no doubt already know!”

“Uh, yessir. But what about these?” He pointed to the RPG launchers.

“Oh, those are no problem. Rocket projectiles are easy to get, Colonel. Last I heard, less than two hundred dollars here in Beirut.” He unzipped a knowing grin. “Unless you want a volume discount. But the launchers will cost you three hundred each.”

Despite his cautionary instincts, Leopole found himself liking the merchant. “You’re what we call a one-stop shopping center, Mr. Kara.”

The Druze laughed loudly, more for emphasis than empathy. “One-stop shopping center! That is good, Colonel. Quite good.” He shook his head in appreciation. “Some of my associates will enjoy that description.” Gaining enthusiasm, he swept his hand around the room again. “This is just my personal stock, as you might say. Now, if you really want to bargain with me, we can discuss body armor, night vision, even light armored vehicles.”

“Well, sir, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Kara returned to his desk and opened the nearby closet. He extracted soft body armor and a Browning Hipower. Donning both, he said, “Let us go out, Colonel. We can talk business while having some lunch.”

On the street with his bodyguard, Kara indicated his preference for an open-air stall selling pastirma. He stepped to the counter and ordered two servings of the air-dried beef, insisting, “Please permit me. This is my favorite, Colonel.”

Gunfire chattered two blocks away, stray rounds slapping the concrete wall above their heads. Leopole dived for cover, reaching for the pistol that was not there.

Kara knelt beside him, dripping aplomb. “Not to worry, Colonel Leopole. This sort of thing happens often in my city.” He shrugged philosophically. “Probably a celebration of some sort. Many Lebanese have an unfortunate tendency to fire into the air when happy or excited.”

Glancing left and right, the former Marine levered himself off the sidewalk. “Damn! I knew I should’ve ignored the State Department order about personal weapons.”

The Druze leader turned to his bodyguard and passed a brief exchange. The burly security man raised his left leg and produced a.22 Beretta from an ankle holster. Kara handed over the backup piece, butt first. “This is Kamal’s personal weapon but you may keep it until you remedy your, ah, unfortunate state of undress.”

Imam Elham professed to know little of military affairs but a great deal about religious doctrine. As near as Ahmad Esmaili could tell, the cleric did not exaggerate on either point.

However, Esmaili drew the line when theology interfered with operations.

After the dawn prayer, Salat-ul-Fajr, the Hezbollah leader reckoned that the rest of the morning belonged to him. But Elham had not dismissed the assembly. Instead, he launched into a philosophical discourse — the closest oration to a sermon that Esmaili had heard in several months.

Today’s lesson centered upon the distinction between defensive and offensive jihad.

Elham began, “Defensive jihad is always justified since by its nature it preserves Islam from the aggressions of the unbelievers. Theoretically, defensive jihad is justified by bringing infidels into The Faith, as The Prophet Himself did. However, since the last caliphate in Turkey in 1924, there is no supreme leader of The Faith to sponsor offensive jihad.” The discourse continued along those lines for several minutes.

Esmaili was unaccustomed to philosophical debate, being far more familiar with violent confrontation. But his tactician’s mind defaulted to the analytical mode that had kept him alive in the region’s worst conflicts. “Imam, please excuse me if I fail to understand something. It appears that we believers are placed in a dilemma. If The Faith is to expand to all the corners of the earth, it must be done by offensive jihad. But lacking a caliphate authority, that jihad cannot be implemented. So how is The Faith to achieve its rightful place in the world?”

Elham squirmed on his cushion, looking as if a needle had found its way into his posterior. He peered at the questioner with an ill-concealed mixture of curiosity and resentment. At length he found his tongue.

“We must find the middle path, neither violating The Word nor giving the unbelievers too much latitude. For instance, the Koran prohibits torture, mutilation, and burning prisoners alive. Muslims must not pillage homes or the property of noncombatants. Enemy crops, trees, and livestock are immune except as food for the army of Believers. Neither kill a woman, child, or aged man. But those who would strangle Islam must be scourged and destroyed. That is the way to convert the world to The Faith.”

Esmaili nodded as if absorbing the priest’s wisdom. Not by conviction but by coercion, he thought. Well, if that was the method, so be it. Ahmad Esmaili would play his role, just as he had since the Iraq war. But he fully intended to witness the end of the current mission just as he had the miserable conclusion to that sorry affair in 1988.

Afterward, while Tawfiq oversaw the morning’s training, Elham drew Esmaili aside. For once the imam seemed almost relaxed. He even laid a hand on the leader’s arm. “We are going to survey certain areas in preparation for the mission. I will have qualified men here within a few days.”

“Yes, Imam.” Esmaili hoped that he could elicit additional details. “How may we assist you?”

“We shall require security for the surveyors, who will operate in some fairly remote areas in this region. I estimate that only one or two days will be required for each site. There will, however, be several locations.”

“Very well. I will assign qualified men as soon as we know how many teams are needed.”

“Brother, your commitment is noted. And gratefully received.” Elham almost smiled: a ghosting, ephemeral curvature at the ends of the mouth.

When Elham departed — he seemed to glide across the ground, barely raising his sandaled feet beneath his robe — Esmaili went in search of Fida. Since meeting him, the man had proven competent within certain limits, and was reliable thus far. Esmaili decided to feel him out.

“I have just spoken with Imam Elham. He instructs me — us — to provide security for some surveying crews.”

Fida perked up. “Surveying? Well, that might explain it.”

“Explain what, brother?”

Fida looked around, ensuring privacy. “My cell has received information, or rumors, that the rocket force may use this area.”

“Yes, I have heard the same thing.” Recalling his speculation with Azizi, Esmaili was pleased with their powers of deduction. He knew that Fida was unlikely to ask about sources.

“Well, then. It seems that possible launch sites are to be examined and surveyed. That would make perfect sense, because…”

“Exact firing positions and level ground would be necessary.”

Fida nodded. “Just so.”

Esmaili’s risk assessment mode was activated in the left lobe of his brain. At first he had envisioned a suicide mission of some kind. Now it appeared that the upcoming operation was likely to draw Israeli air strikes. He had survived far worse. Among other things, Saddam’s artillery had been purchased on a massive scale. And that did not include the poison gas.

For the first time in days, Ahmad Esmaili felt the onset of something like relaxation.

Colonel Yakov Livni entered Major General Moshek Brafman’s office without knocking. He did not even indulge himself the pleasure of having Gabriella announce him.

The special operations commander stood inside the door and pointedly cleared his throat. Brafman looked up, saw what he saw, and politely dismissed his chief of staff. The colonel got the hint and closed the door as he left.

“What is it, Yakov?”

Livni plodded the few steps to the desk and sat down. “Realtime intelligence. It looks as if Hezbollah knows about the SSI mission.”

Brafman took off his reading glasses and plopped them onto the desktop. “Tell me.” When he got no immediate reply, the brigade commander leaned forward. “Signals intelligence, obviously. So tell me, Yakov!”

Livni leaned back, folding his hands over his bulging stomach. “I can neither confirm nor deny. But you grasp the essentials, as usual.”

“Actually, I am patiently waiting for Colonel Livni to tell me— General Brafman — what they know. Details, Yakov! I have people at risk up there.”

“As do we all.” Livni rubbed his stubbly face and licked his lips. He wanted to ask for some wine but knew the general to be sadly deficient in appreciating such things.

“All right, General. Our sources”—he arched his eyebrows— “are more than halfway convinced. They have Hezbollah reports that Druze militia units in southeastern Lebanon are going on increased alert, and seem to know or at least suspect that third-party nationals will be involved. I don’t know how else to interpret that information.”

Brafman stood up and began to pace. “How many times have we been down this road? I keep telling the army staff that sometimes we need unfiltered information, the raw data. At some point we have to be able to form our own opinions about intelligence from above.” He looked at his colleague, as if inviting agreement. Receiving none, he asked, “Is Sol Nadel cut into the loop? I would think that the brigade commander supporting the operation should be told.”

Livni spread his hands, as if to say they were tied. When Brafman glared at him, the spec-ops officer finally relented. “There may be a leak in Kara’s organization. That’s speculation. But right now it’s as good an explanation as anything.”

Brafman did some mental mastication. “Well then, are you going to tell Kara?”

Another set of arched eyebrows.

Brafman felt a shiver between his shoulder blades. “Are you trying to say that it might be Kara?” He was on his feet again. “I don’t believe it!”

“Actually, neither do I. Apart from the fact that I’ve worked with him for years, he’s far too dedicated to his cause. His people. In that regard, he’s a lot like us.”

Brafman spun on a booted heel. “The hell he is! He’s as likely to fight us as help us.” The general snorted. “You of all people should know that!”

“General, sit down. Take off some of the strain.” Livni forced himself into an even more relaxed posture. “Look, I’m not taking anything for granted. After all, Major Ayash is in Beirut with the American Leopole right now. I’m certainly not going to put them in danger by withholding information. I’m just advising you of the situation.” He pushed himself out of the chair. “I’ll keep you advised. General.”

Brafman smiled at last. “Good day, Colonel. And kiss Rachel for me.”

A broad male-bonding wink. “I’d rather kiss Gabriella — for me!”

14

It was a measure of Rafix Kara’s charm that he could manipulate strong men who knew they were being manipulated. The day after their initial meeting he began the charm blitz by presenting Frank Leopole with two ultimately pragmatic gifts. “Accept these,” the merchant began, “and wear them in good health.”

Leopole opened the box, finding a Second Chance Kevlar vest and a Sig Sauer P229 with three loaded magazines plus a belt holster.

The American mercenary looked up, wide-eyed. “Mr. Kara, I certainly didn’t expect any gifts. I mean, it’s up to me to provide my own…”

Kara waved both hands vigorously. “No, no, my friend. Since that unfortunate demonstration by my people yesterday, it is up to me to provide for my guest.” He smiled broadly, obviously pleased with his coup. “Besides, I confess a certain selfishness. How can we conclude our business if you need either of these items — let alone both of them — and do not have them?”

In his Marine Corps career, Leopole had served mostly with mission oriented professionals who tolerated the inescapable Charlie Sierra factor common to all militaries. Kara broached no trivialities, lest any of them divert him from the welfare of his cause. And his cause was far more than a corps: it was a people.

The Druze warlord — no other single word described him— would not have made a model Marine. He was studiously flamboyant, though the Corps certainly had its share of such types, including the mercurial Smedley Butler with two Medals of Honor and the iconic Chesty Puller with five Navy Crosses. But in their brief time together, Leopole recognized Kara as a natural leader, the sort of commander who worked simultaneously behind the lines and at the front of his organization. Beneath the charming, almost boisterous exterior, the American discerned the steel core that Colonel Livni had described.

Considering Kara’s charmed life and checkered affiliations, it occurred to Leopole that the Druze matched the Corps’ self-proclaimed title: No better friend, no worse enemy.

As Leopole tried on the vest, he wondered what he would do with it. “I don’t know if they’ll let me on the plane with these things, so maybe I should leave them with you.”

“Oh, I have plenty of both. After all, this is Lebanon.” He shrugged philosophically. “Why don’t you keep them until you leave? That way I can return Kamal’s Beretta.”

Leopole returned the grin. “Yes, sir. I appreciate the loan.” He laid the backup gun on the desk, slide locked back and magazine removed.

Kara sat down and opened the folder marked “IDF-SSI.” He produced narrow-lensed reading glasses and scanned his notes. Satisfied, he removed the spectacles and regarded Leopole again. “You are doing well here, Colonel. I appreciate it when a plan proceeds as drafted, mainly because I know how rare that is. But after today we should have a firm grip on things. Major Ayash seems satisfied with our progress. He should be back shortly.”

Leopole sat down opposite Kara. “Well, he and Colonel Livni obviously have a lot of experience working together.”

Kara laughed aloud, leaning back with his hands clasped behind his head. “Yakov! What else did he tell you about me?” Before Leopole could respond, Kara rebounded, hands on the desk. “Do not bother answering. It’s only a rhetorical question, you know?” The smile was back — a semipermanent feature on the Druze’s face. “Yakov and I have worked together for years, and we have fought as well. He probably did tell you that.”

“Well, he…”

“Of course. That’s the way of the world here. Shifting alliances, new priorities. Changing loyalties is one of the permanent factors in the Middle East. But Yakov and I…well, we serve different causes but whenever those causes overlap, we work together. Neither of us has ever betrayed the other.” He jabbed the desktop with an emphatic finger.

“Yes, sir. That’s what he told me.”

“Now you and I, Frank. I will call you Frank from now on. You and I, Frank, we start fresh.” He thumbed his chest. “I am Rafix now for you. No baggage, you might say. We take each other to face value, and because we both are honorable men, we work hand in hand.” He grinned self-consciously. “Or better, hand in glove?”

“Affirmative, sir. Hand in glove.” Leopole did not care to pursue a masculine hand-in-hand image.

“Now,” Kara continued. “Our village and regional militias you already know about. You and Major Ayash will work with them in the way we all agreed. The Israeli government pays your employer, who pays you I trust.” He did not wait for a perfunctory response. “But things are active down there, Frank, and they will get more active. I admit I do not know just what Hezbollah has in mind, but it wants more control of more land. Yakov and I are in contact about that but his masters will not want to admit that, you know?”

Leopole nodded. “Oh, yes. That’s why the IDF Druze members are assigned to us: for liaison and for deniability.”

“Yes, yes. Just so.” Kara laughed aloud. “Deniability! It is big part of what you do, yes? You are there but you are not there even when everybody knows you are there. You are — what is your word? — indivisible?”

“Ah, that’s ‘invisible,’ Rafix.”

The warlord thoroughly masticated the etymological distinction. “In-visible. Ah, I see. Not visible!” He chortled again. “Hey, Frank, I see invisible! Makes me like Superman, yes?”

Leopole wondered about Kara’s sudden giddiness. Maybe the arms merchant had imbibed something between breakfast and lunch. “Well, sir, ah, Rafix, that would mean you have X-ray vision.”

“Then what is ‘indivisible’?”

“It means undivided. That is, unable to divide. Remaining whole.” Leopole decided not to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Heaven only knew what an ebullient Rafix Kara would make of that.

Kara turned serious again. As if reading the American’s mind, he declared, “Like your country, Frank.” He shook his head side to side. “Not like mine. Poor-poor Lebanon. She is never united.”

Leopole sought a chance to end the moribund discussion, or at least change its direction. “Well, Rafix, maybe when our mission is over, that part of your country will be more unified than before.”

For a man of action and violence, Ahmad Esmaili unexpectedly found himself gaining admiration for the philosophical, scholarly cleric who had taken control of the Hezbollah cell. Never mind that the imam’s devout routine was unwavering: prayers every morning, noon, afternoon, evening, and night. The full ritual usually was observed, and Esmaili noted that even some of the most zealous fighters went along with the routine more for appearances than from conviction.

But Imam Elham — or, equally likely, Dr. Momen — had demonstrated exceptional foresight and attention to detail. Esmaili admitted to himself that the planning stages for the forthcoming operation were handled with military competence. For it was, ultimately, a military mission.

Following the afternoon Salat-ul-Asr, Elham beckoned to the Hezbollah leader. Esmaili resented the gesture, conducted more as an order than an invitation, but frequently he learned something new in such sessions.

Elham said, “Come, let us walk.” It was, Esmaili realized, often a time for confiding an operational detail that had been withheld. Elham seemed to mete out such items as if they were cash to be spent sparingly. So it was today.

“In order to assure security for our mission, it will be necessary to secure some additional areas. The holy warriors under Dr. Momen’s guidance will require some area for movement. You understand?”

“Certainly, Imam. But how much area? We have to know for planning purposes.”

The cleric turned briefly away, profiling his hatchet face. At length he said, “Certain locations around Hasbaya.”

“Hasbaya? That is a Druze area. I have operated there. Several villages are well defended with organized militias.”

Elham’s face remained expressionless, almost serene. “We know the strength of the Druze. In fact, I will confide to you that our operatives are watching those areas now, and conducting surveillance of their headquarters in Beirut and elsewhere.”

Esmaili was astute enough to appreciate what such surveillance involved. “You mean Rafix Kara? The merchant who supplies so much money to the Druze and the warlord who keeps them armed?”

“We are well informed on all such men, my brother. But you need not concern yourself with those measures. Focus instead on the task at hand.” He turned to begin walking, knowing that his colleague would follow. “You will have some assistance. We have been preparing for this mission for many months now, and reinforcements will be available.”

Esmaili absorbed that information and the implications. “May I ask how many men? And their state of training or experience?” He did not enjoy having to cadge operational information from the imam, but had learned that if he did not ask, frequently he was not told until later.

“The details are still being finalized in Tehran and Damascus. We will have the information in ample time, though.”

Damascus¹. So it is a larger operation than I thought.

As if reading Esmaili’s thoughts, Elham continued. “I can tell you, my brother, that the technical material for our mission must come through Syria. That information is for your ears only.”

“Certainly, Imam.”

“I mention that detail because it may be necessary for you to dispatch some guards to conduct the shipment here. We cannot always rely upon our Syrian brothers for the public support that we might wish.” He curled a lip, sneering at the niceties of diplomacy. “But they have often been most helpful in the past, and as long as our people are involved in the shipments, I am told that there should be little trouble.”

Esmaili was enough of a strategist to grasp the essentials. “The goal, then, is deniability of direct Syrian support.”

Elham almost smiled. “More precisely, the goal is political deniability. Our government, the Syrians, and the United Nations will conduct a masquerade. In such cases, each side knows that the others are being disingenuous but it is to the advantage of all to proceed with the charade. If no one objects, the result is the same as if nothing happened at all.” A genuine smile unfolded itself. “Such people much prefer to avoid unpleasant facts than to deal with them.”

“Then I suppose we should be grateful that there are such creatures.”

“God is great, brother. God is great.”

Leopole had inherited Kamal Azzam, Kara’s chief bodyguard, who was charged with getting the American and Major Ayash to the airport for their return to Israel. Before they joined Ayash, Leopole wanted another perspective on Rafix Kara. He had no option other than Kamal.

“Kamal, I am worried about Mr. Kara. Is he all right?”

Azzam was nothing if not loyal. “Yes, of course he is all right. What do you mean, Mr. Leopole?”

“Well, when I left him he was much more, uh, animated than before.” Leopole recognized that Azzam’s English had its limits. “I mean, he seemed free-spirited, almost playful.”

The security man nodded in comprehension. “Oh, yes yes. That is medicine. Mr. Kara takes pills for pain.” He touched his head with both hands. “Has been okay mostly but sometimes old wounds hurt him still.”

The SSI operative filed that intelligence for reference. He wondered if Yakov Livni knew that the IDF’s senior Druze contact might be subject to morphine highs now and then.

Leopole heard the ballistic crack; a high-pitched snap instantly followed by a supersonic object striking concrete. Several more followed.

Frank Leopole was too experienced a gunfighter to remain upright on a city street, looking for the source of the shooting. He dived behind a fruit cart outside a stylish shop, drawing his loaner Sig as he did so.

He peeked from behind the cart, trying to sort out the situation. More gunfire. People racing in every direction, some screaming, a few sobbing. Two or three had assumed awkward positions on the sidewalk. Typical confusion. He remembered to breathe, sucking in oxygen to fuel his system.

The cart provided decent concealment but precious little cover. A rifle round could easily penetrate it, and probably most pistol ammo from across the street. Call it twenty-five meters.

Then Leopole remembered: there had been no time to check the Sig’s sights. He had no idea where it shot. Worse than that, he did not even know if it functioned. While it was extremely unlikely that Rafix Kara would own an inoperable weapon, one just didn’t know until one tried.

Leopole saw a hanging sign across the street, advertising women’s clothes. The Arabic script offered no decent aimpoint but the O in “Boutique” was a decent substitute for a zeroing bull’s-eye. He raised the P229, gripping with both hands, and stroked the trigger. The 9mm round impacted the sign, moving it visibly, but at that distance it was impossible to tell where.

He felt fifty percent better.

Kamal.

Leopole looked behind him, seeking Kara’s bodyguard. No sign of him. That was bad news indeed; the Druze was obviously a serious young man. Leopole was skilled at sizing up men, and Kamal had impressed him as dedicated to the point of obsession.

Where is he?

Twenty meters to his left front, Leopole glimpsed two men, one with an AK and the other with an FAL. They were walking briskly, diagonally across the street in his direction. He noted that they covered one another, the FAL man reloading while his partner scanned left and right. They’ve done this before.

The American looked again for his escort. The two shooters probably were hostile, but in West Beirut you never knew. They might be responding to an unseen threat. Leopole leaned back on his haunches and saw two forms on the sidewalk. One was a woman who was still moving; the other was Kamal Azzam, who was not.

That settled it. When the shooters got fifteen meters away, Leopole centered his borrowed Sig’s sights on the right-hand man with the AK. The American’s mind was rational; almost calm. His heart was not. He thought: Squeeze between the beats. Not enough time. He pressed the double-action trigger once, twice, three times.

Then he breathed and shifted targets.

The AK gunner had flinched visibly and turned partly away. In that interval Leopole had a new sight picture and was taking up the slack when more gunfire sounded to his left. Somebody’s shooting at the FAL guy. The remaining hostile spun on a heel, fired two rounds semiauto, and collapsed. More shots followed him to the ground.

Leopole shifted his scan to the right again and saw the AK shooter backpedaling to the far curb, firing short, ill-directed bursts. He must have a vest. It was longish distance for a head shot, but Leopole tried. He fired once, saw no hit, and realized that he still did not know where to hold. People were running in the background. Rule Four: be sure of your target and backstop. He reached for the magazine pouch on his left side and managed a tactical reload. Then he thought: Kamal.

Staying low, Leopole dashed to the Druze. From ten meters away he realized the young man was dead. Live people don’t look like that. Kamal had worn soft body armor that offered no protection against rifle ammunition.

A Lebanese in a uniform knelt beside the wounded woman, an AK-74 lying beside her. Leopole wondered if the gendarme — or whatever he was — had shot the second offender. Belatedly, the SSI man remembered to holster his pistol. It was not the time or place for a stranger to be seen packing.

A high-pitched European-style siren warbled up the block. Its two-tone, high-low bleat announced that Red Crescent had been summoned. With professional detachment, Leopole admired the response time. He knew of American emergency responders who refused to enter a crime area until the street was blue with police.

Abruptly, he remembered a National Guardsman who had responded to the Watts riots in ‘65. Leopole was not old enough to remember those days, when “African-Americans” were “Negroes.” But he knew that black radicals had torched buildings, then shot at the fire trucks, killing a fireman and two cops. The firemen had withdrawn, quipping, “Burn, baby, burn.”

Fahed Ayash was by his side. “Colonel, are you hurt?”

Leopole stirred himself from his reverie. He looked at the liaison officer. “Yeah, I’m okay. But…” He gestured at the body.

“Yes, I know.” The Israeli Druze grasped the American by the arm and led him toward a cab. “We must get away from here.”

Leopole resumed his scan of the threat sector. He was focused again. “What about Rafix? He’s got to be told about Kamal.”

A faint smile, condescending in execution if not intent. “Colonel Leopole, he will know very soon, if not already. But we must go.”

“What’s the hurry, Fahed?”

Ayash shoved his charge into a Citroen taxi. “Colonel, they were after us.”

15

Yakov Livni already had a report from Fahed Ayash but the IDF colonel wanted a personal account from the American operator. Livni got straight to the point. “Tell me about it.”

Frank Leopole was brief. “I finished my meeting with Kara and was going to meet Ayash at a taxi stand with Kara’s bodyguard.” For reasons he did not fully understand, Leopole was reluctant to speak Kamal Azzam’s name. “I heard gunshots, took cover, and returned fire at two shooters in the street. When I looked around, the bodyguard was dead with some other people.” He shrugged it off. “Ayash showed up and got me to the airport. So here I am.”

Before the Israeli could respond, Leopole interjected, “How’d they know about me, Colonel?”

Livni removed his glasses and rubbed his forehead. “I think that Major Ayash addressed that point.”

Leopole leaned forward. “Yes, he addressed it. Hell, it’s all we talked about on the plane. He had some theories but nothing solid. I think he knows more than he’s telling me, Colonel Livni, and that makes me nervous. We have a saying, ‘Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a rocking chair factory.’ That’s how nervous I am. Not just for me, but for my people. You understand?”

Despite the edge in Leopole’s voice, Livni grinned in appreciation at the colorful humor. “Yes, Frank, of course I do. And you’re right. Major Ayash does know a little more than he told you, but that’s not his fault. He’s under orders to reveal only what is operationally necessary. Do not blame him.” He thumped his chest. “If you must, blame me.”

“It’s not about blame, Colonel. It’s about trust.”

Livni leaned back, more relaxed than before. “I can tell you that we recognized some Hezbollah operatives in Kara’s area. It wasn’t hard to add up two and two. They were undoubtedly watching his office, maybe even trailing him to see where he went, who he met. We knew that at the time but we judged the threat minimal.” He grinned. “After all, you were armed.”

“Well, I didn’t even have time to test the pistol. I think I hit one of those guys but if the Lebanese soldiers hadn’t shown up—”

Livni interrupted. “Tell me. Did he ply you with women, wine, or both?”

Leopole was startled. “None, Colonel. It was a straight-up business meeting. We confirmed the operating areas and the militias we’ll be training.”

Livni shook his head. “Well, if Rafix Kara didn’t ply you with something, it’s the first time I ever heard of. One of our previous consultants was two days late returning because he was so badly hungover in a bawdy house. When he could speak coherently, he said he only remembered the first night, and it was absolutely the best of his life.”

The American gave an ironic smile. “Maybe I should’ve played hard to get.”

“He never tried to bribe you or coerce you at all?”

“He just gave me the pistol and a Kevlar vest.”

Livni’s face split wide open in a beaming smile. “I knew it! You see, I know how that pirate works. He’s shrewd, Frank. He recognized that he didn’t have to bribe you to get his way because you are one of those straight arrows. So, to cement the bonds, he gave you something you valued more than mere wine or women.” The Israeli leaned close. “But I’ve seen some of his feminine stable, and a few of them would give Gabrielle a good run.” He winked conspiratorially.

“That good, huh?”

The Israeli slowly shook his head. “Oooh, the women I’ve seen…” Abruptly he caught himself. “But to return to business. You are justifiably concerned about what Hezbollah knows or suspects about your upcoming operation. We do not know if they have identified you but we can assume they know you’re American. Since you’re not part of the diplomatic circle, they will deduce that you have a military connection. That’s cause for concern, but it does not link you with your SSI team.”

Leopole mulled over that thought. Finding no flaw in it, he agreed. “All right. Unless they have a lot more info than seems likely, there’s not much chance they’ve connected me with the militia training plan.” A thought belatedly pushed its way forward. “But maybe they do know about the plan.”

Livni bit his lip. The American wondered if it were a giveaway or an unconscious habit. “We don’t have any evidence that they are aware of the operation, Frank. But even if we did, there’s not much we could do other than increase monitoring of, ah, some sensitive sources.”

“Okay then. I’ll brief my guys to proceed as planned, but maintain a heightened awareness.”

“Yes, that’s fine. Now, Major Ayash said you mentioned that Kara was in unusually high spirits when you left him. He’s not usually erratic. You suspect he’s medicated?”

“That’s what… the bodyguard… said. Kara has occasional pain from some wounds or injuries. I figured you’d know about that.”

Livni nodded. “Yes, he’s probably been shot and blown up more than anyone I know. And believe me, that’s saying something. It stands to reason that he would require pain medicine, but I’ve never seen it.” He paused for a moment. “Do you think the morphine, or whatever it is, might affect his judgment?”

“Damned if I know, Colonel. I hardly met the man.”

“Well, if it’s any comfort, he’s acting normally since you left.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

Livni decided to explain. “We learned that Kara discovered a possible security breach in his organization. He waited too long to correct it.”

“So what happened?”

“He corrected it.”

Mohammad Azizi was back, and this time he brought something besides encouragement and platitudes. He invited the imam and Esmaili to a private conference well away from the other Hezbollah fighters.

“I have been in contact with our operatives in Beirut and Damascus,” Azizi began. Esmaili concluded that since he did not allude to the all-powerful Dr. Momen, the statement indicated either rare honesty or secrecy to protect sources. In either case, Esmaili acknowledged that he could only accept the courier’s assessments at face value.

“We have been watching several offices in Beirut, both governmental and private ventures. The one that raised the most interest was the doings of Rafix Kara, a patron of the Druze cause throughout Lebanon. He has been meeting with foreigners including a westerner who almost certainly is American, and a man believed to be an Israeli Druze officer.”

Imam Elham absorbed that information. “Are the two working together?”

Azizi nodded. “It appears so. They were on the street outside one of Kara’s buildings when two of our men saw an opportunity. Unfortunately, the westerner defended himself and some Lebanese police intervened. We learned that one of Kara’s guard dogs was killed, as were some others. But that is of no concern.”

“What of our men?” Elham’s question surprised Esmaili. He did not expect the cleric to worry about lesser mortals.

“One was killed, the other wounded but escaped.”

“Then that man is the source of your information?”

“Yes, Imam.”

Elham was satisfied with the response. / should have known, Esmaili told himself.

“I have heard of this man Kara,” Elham continued. “He would be a river to his people. Perhaps he seeks additional help from the Zionists and their bought dogs.”

“Yes, perhaps. We had a man inside his office for a short time. He was well paid but produced little useful information. He has not reported lately.”

Esmaili sought to maintain his standing in the group. “If Kara is supporting Druze causes, is it not logical to assume that he will be interested in whatever happens around Hasbaya?”

Azizi rubbed his close-cropped beard. “Yes, it is. But so far there has been no indication. Our agents report most of what happens in the Druze settlements in this area.”

Elham stood, indicating that the meeting was over. “It does not matter. Events will take the course that God selects. We only serve Him and follow His path.”

Azizi also rose. “His will, Imam.”

“His will,” intoned Ahmad Esmaili.

“When we left Arlington, I told you that I would keep you informed at every step,” Frank Leopole began. “Well, this will be your final briefing before we go to Lebanon.” Leopole was the type of commanding officer who walked the walk. When it came to looking out for the troops, almost everyone in the room had served under men who merely talked the talk.

“Major Ayash and I met with Mr. Kara in Beirut and confirmed that our clients will be prepared for us. The Druze are eager to receive updated training, and I am confident that we’ll find the militias receptive students. But as always, there are cultural concerns, and we’re going to rely heavily upon our IDF liaison officers.”

Leopole walked to an easel supporting a large-scale map of Lebanon with border areas of Israel and Syria. “We will fly into Beirut with our Israeli colleagues and spend a couple of days getting oriented. Then we’ll proceed to the area around Hasbaya, about forty miles south-southeast. That’s where the Israelis and the militias are concerned about growing Hezbollah activity. As you will recall from Mr. Baram’s briefings, the Izzies… er, Israelis… took some heavy casualties operating against Hezbollah. So keep that in mind, gentlemen. If IDF spec-ops teams are having a tough time, we can expect the same.”

In the second row, Leopole saw Breezy lean over to Bosco and mutter something behind a cupped hand. The hoarse whisper was faintly audible. “Ah, Mr. Brezyinski, would you care to give us the benefit of your wisdom?”

Breezy straightened up, looking much like a seventh-grader caught passing notes in class. “Oh, nosir. I mean, no thank you.”

Leopole caught the titters in the audience. He was less miffed about whatever the ex-paratrooper may have said than interrupting the briefing. He placed his hands behind his back and paced forward, looking over the heads of those in the front row. “Oh, come now, Mr. Brezyinski. You’re far too reticent. I’m sure that you would not interrupt the important facts I’m trying so poorly to communicate to everyone unless it were worthy of universal distribution.” He gave a Clint Eastwood stare, complete with narrowed eyes and tic of facial muscles.

Bosco leaned back, hands comfortably clasped on his lap, trying hard not to smile.

Seeking succor and finding none, Breezy plunged ahead. “Well, if you put it like that, Colonel…” He almost said, Sure thing, dude. “I was just commenting to my esteemed Ranger colleague here that since the Israeli spec-ops guys got hammered, we’re going in because we’re expendable.”

Frank Leopole blinked once. Then twice. He thought: That’s exactly why we’re going.

Then he said, “Mr. B, you surprise me. Of course we’re expendable. And we’re very well paid for it. But since you’re a bright, upstanding young man who already knew that when he signed up for this job, you merely state the obvious.”

Breezy slumped in his chair. “Uh, yessir. I sort of thought the point could stand to be made again. Sir.”

“And what does your esteemed Ranger colleague make of his own expendability?” Leopole switched his reptilian gaze to Jason Boscombe.

Bosco rose to the challenge. “Hoo-ah on the ‘very well paid,’ sir!”

Now the group’s laughter was open and genuine. Even Frank Leopole, former lieutenant colonel of Marines, joined in. “Very well. As long as we have that settled, we shall return to the briefing.”

The operations officer returned to the map. “As you can see, our op area lies about ten to fifteen miles north of the Israeli border. We will receive covert logistic support from the IDF brigade in that region, but it’s unrealistic to think we can get away with it indefinitely. There’s just too much Hezbollah activity and supporters in the region. That means we’ll stash a goodly supply of food and ammo on the initial runs in case air and ground transport is denied us. We could probably get by for a while on our own, but I do not want to impose upon our clients. Reportedly some outlying villages have had problems in the past.”

Chris Nissen, who would lead one of the training teams, had a question. “Colonel, I understand the benefit of taking our own gear with us, especially radios. But if we get an Alamo situation in one of these villes, will there be enough Russian guns and ammo for us?”

“Good question, Sergeant. And the answer is yes. Mr. Kara is, ah, very well connected and well supplied. In fact, we may detail a couple of men to stay in Beirut and coordinate with him. That’s one of the things Major Ayash and I discussed with him. So rest easy. If we use up our own stash, there will be AKs and LMGs and probably RPGs aplenty. Even mortars.”

“Any chance of fighter or gunship support?”

“That’s possible, more likely helos than fast movers. I’ll know more before we leave.”

Josh Wallender raised a hand. “Colonel, I’d like to know more about the covert nature of this mission. It seems that since we’re doing weapons and tactics training, there’s going to be a lot of shooting. That’s gonna get the Hezzies’ attention for sure.”

Leopole nodded. “Undoubtedly it will. But remember, we’re going to Lebanon. Things are different there. People shoot AKs in the air just to let off steam or to celebrate birthdays or weddings. So we’ll blend in more than if we were operating elsewhere.

“Which reminds me. I know most of you brought your favorite cammies or BDUs or whatever. When we get to Beirut, Mr. Kara will provide us with several sets of local clothes, which can be anything from blue jeans to burkas.” He shot Breezy a quick grin. “And Brezyinski, I’d love to see you in a burka that’s a lovely shade of blue.

“But a lot of shooters in Lebanon wear paramilitary clothes, sometimes a mixture of camo patterns. We’ll try to blend in as much as possible, depending on what the locals are wearing.” He looked around. “Anything else?”

Silence met the question so Leopole said, “Get your gear ready, gentlemen. We’ll gear up in twenty-four hours.”