Vulcan's Fire

16

“Hey, lookit!”

In his aisle seat, Bosco craned his head to look past Brezyinski. “What?”

Next to the window, Breezy pointed aft. “We’re popping flares, man!” He turned back to his partner, eyes wide. Both men knew what flares meant.

A row behind them, Robert Pitney leaned forward. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“We’re in SAM country, dude.” Bosco raised from his seat just enough to glimpse the last decoy burn itself to oblivion in thousands of degrees Fahrenheit. Then he sat down again and buckled his lap belt.

The Israeli pilot of the charter DC-8 made a belated announcement. “Ah, this is the captain. I apologize for not warning you gentlemen of our countermeasures. Please be assured that we drop chaff or flares only as a precautionary measure. The decoys are not, I repeat not, being used against a specific threat. We will be on the ground shortly.”

Immediately the aged jetliner dropped its nose, inducing negative G. Breezy felt his butt try to leave his seat. “Whoa! Gnarly, dude!”

Bosco lanced his friend with a narrow-eyed stare. “We’re poppin’ flares, making a kamikaze approach to Beirut International, and all you can say is ‘gnarly?”

Pitney managed a grin in Breezy’s defense. “Well, it beats puking.”

The McDonnell Douglas jetliner made a high sink-rate landing on Runway 03 that jarred items in the overhead luggage compartments. But nobody complained.

Chris Nissen was seated with Frank Leopole. “Hey, baby. I don’t know much but I know that chaff and flare kits cost a bunch of shekels. The charter business must be makin’ a ton of money.”

Leopole shook his head. “I doubt it, Chris. This outfit does a lot of back-channel work and must go to some, ah, interesting places. More likely the Israeli government foots the bill.”

Across the aisle, Phil Green expressed his opinion. “Colonel, I don’t believe that for a hot minute. More likely the U.S. taxpayer foots the bill.”

“Well, that same gentleman is footing our bill, so I’m not going to lodge a complaint, Mr. Green.”

Green sat back. “Hoo-ah on footing the bill, sir.”

From Beirut Rafic Hariri International Airport it was an eight-kilometer drive to the city center, paralleling the coast. Riding in two buses provided by Rafix Kara, the SSI operators noted the Lebanese ambience through windows screened to prevent grenades from being tossed inside.

“Kinda interferes with the view,” Bosco observed. “Pretty country, though.”

Robert Pitney had seen the sights before. “This is one of the best views of the Med that you’ll get anywhere. Even with all the damage.” He smiled self-consciously. “Great bikini watching, too.”

Breezy turned around. “Now what would a married Muslim guy know about bikinis?”

Pitney flashed a self-conscious grin. “Hey, man, I’m married, not dead. Besides, some of these ladies are trolling for rich Americans. You guys could go back married men yourselves.”

Bosco made a face. “Not me, dude. I ain’t the marrying kind. But, uh, are there, like, any clothing optional beaches here?”

“Hey, how would I know? I’m the married Muslim guy.”

Breezy perked up. “Hey, I saw a magazine in Haifa. It had a feature on these new bikinis, man. They’re, like, minikinis so the gals are practically falling out of ‘em.”

“So this is Beirut.” Phil Green’s comment broke the salacious conversation in the rear of the bus. He looked around, absorbing the urban combat ambience of the battered, beautiful city.

“You know, a few years ago I trained with a guy who’d been a State Department rep here in the eighties. He said that some of the locals who worked in the embassy brought weapons and a change of clothes to work. During lunch they’d change into cammies or sweats, take their AK or FN and a satchel full of loaded mags and go shoot for an hour. Then they’d come back and return to work. Unless they got whacked, of course.”

Bob Ashcroft eyed his partner, obviously unconvinced. “Well, you got to admire somebody who takes his work that seriously.”

The buses arrived at a compound already prepared for the SSI men. Waiting to greet them was Rafix Kara himself.

Leopole stepped off the first bus and shook hands with the host. “Hello, sir. It’s good of you to meet us in person.”

In contrast to their previous meeting, Kara was serious, almost somber. “It is the least I can do, Colonel. Things have changed since we parted last week.”

Leopole noted the formality, which he ascribed to Kara’s wish to appear professional before the American team. Certainly he showed no sign of the giddy hospitality from the day Kamal was killed. “I call you Frank from now on… I am Rafix now for you.”

Growing more expansive, Kara addressed the SSI men. “Gentlemen! Welcome to Beirut.” He waved a hand at the walled enclosure. “This area is as secure as anyplace in the city. You will get to know the area while you are here. The U.S. embassy, American University, and American Hospital all are here in the northwest of the city. So you are among friends, yes?” He chuckled in an effort to provide a relaxed atmosphere.

Chris Nissen leaned over to Josh Wallender. “With the arty damage we saw and the small-arms holes in some of these buildings, it don’t look like such a friendly neighborhood to me, bro.”

Wallender cast a professional eye along the rooftops, looped with razor wire and patrolled by sentries. “Hoo-ah on the ‘hood, my man.”

Leopole assumed command of the situation. “We’ll be quartered in two of the buildings to disperse our assets. Follow Mr. Kara’s people, get settled in, and we’ll meet in the dining hall in an hour.”

Bosco and Breezy picked up their duffels and gun cases. Bosco asked, “Did you get what Frank said? ‘Disperse our assets.’”

Breezy slung an MP-5 case over his shoulder. “Sure, man. Just good soldiering, you know? Put your eggs in different baskets so they don’t all get smashed at once.”

“Yeah, I know, Breeze. I’m one of the good eggs so I can figure that out by myself.”

Sandra Carmichael poked her blond head inside Derringer’s door. “Admiral, did you copy Frank’s e-mail?”

“No, I’ve been working on budget requests the past hour or so. What’s the word?”

“They’re in Beirut, arrived this afternoon local time. It’s just a preliminary report but Rafix Kara has everybody installed at a compound in the city. Frank says it looks secure.”

Derringer took in that information, anticipating the next move. “Very well. I suppose his IDF liaison people are with him?”

“I don’t know, sir. But it stands to reason. That major went with him to confer with Kara last week. There are others who’ll work with our team once they get to the militias around Hasbaya.”

SSI’s founder laid his reading glasses on the desk and leaned back in his overstuffed chair. “Come in, Sandy. Sit a spell.” Then he added, “And close the door.”

Sandy sensed that her boss wanted to talk about something more than the current operation. In her years with SSI she had learned of Michael Derringer’s focus on his people more than a particular mission.

“You’re worried about Frank and the guys?”

“Oh, well… yeah.” He swiveled his chair ninety degrees. “You know me, Sandy. When there’s an operation under way, sometimes I have trouble staying focused on other things, even though that’s my job. After all, Marsh is supposed to keep an eye on our day-to-day business.”

Sandy placed her manicured hands on the desk. “Sir, are you thinking about the shootout Frank was involved in last week?”

Derringer stared at a framed lithograph on the far wall. It showed USS Constitution engaged with HMS Guerriere in 1812. Now that was a shootout. Twenty-four-pounders almost hull to hull.

He turned to his operations officer. “Excuse me?”

She cocked her head, almost the same way she did when she wanted to look extra cute. This time it was genuine curiosity. “Frank, Admiral. In Beirut last week.”

Derringer forced his consciousness forward two centuries. “Oh, yeah. Excuse me, Sandy. But yes. I was thinking of Frank.”

“What about him?”

“Well, it’s just the nature of our business, you know? I mean, we live a pretty normal life here in the office. But once in a while, people we know — our colleagues — go in harm’s way and sometimes they get harmed. For some reason, it just struck me that I’d never really envisioned Frank or most of our people actually doing what they do. Getting in gunfights, killing people to avoid being killed or maimed.” He looked at her. “You know what I mean?”

Lieutenant Colonel Carmichael squirmed slightly. She sensed the potential for an interservice rivalry, but she was well paid to speak her mind on professional matters. “Well, Admiral, yes I do. I mean, that’s pretty much what we do in the Army. I understand that the Navy has other roles and missions…”

Derringer flinched visibly. “Ouch. Or should I say touché.” He managed a grin. “But your point is well taken. I spent thirty years on active duty and never got shot at. Not once. For that matter, no submariners have been shot at in over sixty years and not many black-shoes. The only real combatants were aviators and SEALs.”

Carmichael accepted victory gracefully. Besides, she harbored genuine affection for her boss. He’s such a dear man, she told her daughters. But the Army-Navy thing was never far beneath her peaches and cream complexion.

“Well, I suppose that’s just the luck of the draw, Admiral. I mean, the Air Force doesn’t have much of a direct role in the war on terrorism, either. At least not the big-ticket items like air superiority fighters and stealth bombers and such.”

He waved a hand. “Ah, you’re just being magnanimous, Sandy. But you don’t have to coddle an old sea dog. We sailors grow pretty thick skins, you know, facing hurricane winds and staring into sun-bleached skies.”

The SSI operations officer thought for a moment. “Admiral, it seems to me that we’re doing a decent business because we do go to bad places. You must’ve seen that coming years ago when you started the firm.”

Derringer swiveled slightly in his chair, obviously more receptive to the turn in the conversation. “It wasn’t very hard to predict, Sandy. The way Bush Forty-one and Clinton and Congress rushed to downsize, the opportunity was there for anybody who could look downstream a few years. The military was bound to be caught short, and civilian contractors were well positioned to pick up the slack.” He fought down a self-congratulatory grin. “Now DoD can’t do without us.”

She nodded. “So we’re back to Square One. Our friends go to interesting places and get shot at.”

Derringer squinted at the attractive Alabaman. He recalled that she had killed two of three Muslim assassins sent to destroy SSI’s headquarters last year. “You’d go with them if you could, wouldn’t you?”

“In a New York minute, Admiral.”

“But what about your girls?”

“Well, Kippy’s starting college, and Patty could stay with Nyle and Carol.”

Derringer shook his head. “Nyle and Carol?”

“Oh, my brother’s family. Actually, I’ve discussed it with them and it would be okay for a while.” She smiled. “Besides, they’d love the chance to spoil her.”

“Sandy, listen up.” Derringer leaned forward on the desk, hands clasped before him. “There are some contracts I’d allow you to work in the field, but this job in Lebanon is not one of them. You receiving me, Colonel?”

She bit her lip. “Five by five, Admiral. Five by five.”

Mohammad Azizi found Esmaili working with the budding snipers. The man from Tehran crooked a finger at Esmaili, who left the shooters to continue under Essam Tawfiq.

Azizi led Esmaili off to a safe distance before speaking. “How are they progressing?”

“Three of the six are satisfactory, especially the boy, Hazim. But he is more motivated than the others.”

“What of the other three?”

Esmaili shrugged. “One might progress, given more time. As for the others, I see more enthusiasm than dedication.” He looked over his shoulder at the group. “I believe they volunteered for the prestige.”

“Then we may consider them to be expendable?”

Ahmad Esmaili’s professional antennae sensed the political atmosphere and sent a warning message to his personal receptors. Be careful. “Brother, we are all expendable in the jihad, are we not?”

Azizi regarded his colleague carefully, as if uncertain of the cell leader’s intent. Finally he replied, “Surely, we all do Allah’s will.” He almost smiled. “But some can serve God sooner than others, if you understand my meaning.”

Esmaili thought: Larijani and Yazdi just volunteered to die. “I understand, brother. When do you require them?”

“They must be in Beirut tomorrow night. There is a situation developing that will benefit us in the near future if certain measures can be taken soon.”

“I do not understand the urgency. After all, there are much more experienced men in Beirut than any of these… boys.”

Azizi glanced at the nascent snipers, then turned back to their leader. “The need is twofold, Esmaili. First is security. The target is already aware of the threat it faces, but that is localized. We can get your… boys… into the area without going through the usual channels. Secondly, the target area is well defended and capably manned. It is unlikely that the snipers will survive, but if they achieve even part of their mission, that is acceptable.”

Esmaili wanted to ask Acceptable to whom? But he dared not. Instead, he nodded. “I see. That way, we preserve the more promising fighters for the future.”

“Exactly so.”

With no alternative, Esmaili yielded to the situation. “I will have them ready for you this evening.”

Azizi raised a hand. “Oh, forgive me, brother, if I did not make myself plain. You see, I shall show the way, but they are going with you.”

17

The briefing was largely a lie but it had to be.

Azizi closed the door of the building that had served as headquarters for Esmaili’s unit, and had been usurped by Imam Elham. The cleric was absent at the moment, but Azizi had dropped some hints that the forthcoming operation carried not only his knowledge, but consent.

Esmaili’s sniper students sat on benches, appearing eager or pensive depending upon their state of training and motivation. All they knew was that a mission was pending, and that two would be accorded the honor of conducting it.

“Our unit has been selected for an operation in Beirut,” Esmaili began. “Brother Azizi informs me that two men will be needed, and time is short. I think it best if you hear the details directly from him.”

As he stepped aside, Esmaili glanced at Hazim. The boy seemed confident of himself, and not without reason. He was generally the best shooter in the class, always eager to earn approval. The others were interested in sniping; Hazim was devoted to it.

Azizi went straight to the point.

“There is an American mercenary team at a Druze compound in Northwest Beirut. Our operatives have been watching them since they arrived. We believe that the Zionist lackeys are about to move into this area to train the local militias, and we intend to prevent that from occurring.” He paused for effect. “After consulting with brother Esmaili, I have selected two of you to undertake the dangerous task of destroying some of the Great Satan’s minions.”

Hazim squirmed in anticipation. He appeared positively radiant. He is about to be disappointed, Esmaili thought, but he should be delighted.

Azizi intoned, “Ebrahim Larijani and Moshen Yazdi, stand up.”

The anointed pair immediately rose. Esmaili thought that Larijani appeared more enthused than Yazdi, but both presented an air of willing complicity.

“You will execute the plan that has been drafted. I will take you to your operating area, where Brother Esmaili will supervise the details.”

Esmaili looked directly at Hazim. The boy’s face was a mask. His superior realized that it reflected stunned disbelief. Esmaili thought: He cannot believe that they have been chosen over him.

Azizi was speaking again. “I am informing all of you about this plan for two reasons. First, so that you will realize the seriousness of your training. And secondly, so that those not selected for this mission can help the designated fighters prepare in the limited time.” He nodded and the two shooters sat down.

“You have much to do. I want you to confirm the scope settings on your rifles, select the best quality ammunition, and pack whatever else you may need. If all goes well, you may be back here in three days.

“Meanwhile, Imam Elham will provide a benediction before you leave to take your place in the jihad.” He glanced at Esmaili. “Be ready to leave by sunset, after Salat-ul-Asr.”

Esmaili ignored Hazim’s doelike eyes and followed Azizi from the building. While the others were congratulating Larijani and Yazdi on their great good fortune, the cell leader caught up with his superior.

“Azizi, I need a word with you.”

The liaison man slowed and, reluctantly, turned. “We can talk on the drive north.”

“Not without the others hearing us. Before I take those boys to this mission, I would know more of the intelligence behind it. Mainly, how is it known that the targets are Americans?”

With an obvious exertion of patience, Azizi replied, “There is no doubt, brother. It comes from direct observation. They are employed by a paramilitary contractor that works for the highest bidder. And in anticipation of your other questions, we believe their ultimate destination is a Druze area because their benefactor in Beirut is a well-known Druze operative. He seldom deals with other communities.”

Esmaili absorbed that information and drew the logical conclusion. “And since we are operating in a Druze area, the Americans are likely to work against us here.”

After a slow three-count, Azizi replied, “We are engaged in preventive measures, brother. Consider your mission in that light.”

Rafix Kara wanted to throw a welcome banquet for the SSI team, and while the Americans appreciated the sentiment, most were skeptical of Druze cuisine. Informed of the impending dinner, Frank Leopole laid down the law.

“We are dining in tomorrow night. You will not only eat what Mr. Kara feeds us, but you will enjoy it! These people have gone out of their way to welcome us, and by Chesty Puller’s ghost, we are going to show our appreciation.”

Breezy looked wide-eyed. “Chesty’s ghost? You mean he’s dead?” He searched the room with a say-it-ain’t-so urgency. “My God, why didn’t somebody tell me?” He turned to Bosco, laid his hands on his partner’s shoulder, and cradled his head. Breezy’s shoulders quivered in a fair impersonation of bone-deep grief, accompanied by soap-opera sobs. Bosco bought into the sudden drama fest by patting the former paratrooper’s back in a there-there motion.

Leopole had to turn away to hide his smile. He decided to ignore the histrionics and proceeded with the briefing. Turning to face the audience again, he continued. “You got a briefing on Druze culture in Arlington but it didn’t include food. However, I think we can expect lamb or chicken plus a vegetable dish, then some entertainment. If you can’t choke that down, well, there’s need for a couple of sentries on the roof tomorrow night. Somebody to back up one of our snipers.”

Breezy raised his head from Bosco’s shoulder. “Will Chesty’s ghost be up there? I’d feel better if he was walking point.”

Mark Brezyinski did not realize that he had just hung a high, slow one over the center of Frank Leopole’s plate. The former Marine swung and connected.

“Well, I don’t know, Mr. Brezyinski, but since you demonstrate such concern, I could excuse you from the night’s sampling of Lebanese cuisine.”

Bosco was cautiously interested. “Colonel, if we stand guard duty, what would we eat?”

“Oh, I can get you some burgers and fries from a McDonald’s in the neighborhood. Maybe some half-liter Cokes.”

The trap was well and truly baited.

Breezy perked up. “Gosh, Colonel, that’d be great.”

“All right, then. You go on duty at 1800. I’ll send somebody for your burgers around 1930 and you’ll be relieved at 2200. Of course, that means you’ll miss the floor show.”

“Floor show? You mean there’s entertainment?”

Leopole fished a paper from his pocket and feigned difficulty reading it. Holding the note at arm’s length, he said, “Jasmine and Bahiya. Apparently they’re sisters.”

Bosco asked, “What are they? Like, singers?”

The tight little smile was back on Leopole’s face. “Actually, they’re like belly dancers.”

The room erupted in hoots and howls. Bosco and Breezy received hearty thanks for volunteering to miss the Druze cuisine and the evening’s onerous conclusion.

18

“There is the target area,” Azizi said. “I leave it to you as to how you proceed.”

Esmaili studied the compound, first from the north, then from the other sides. Keeping a block away with his binoculars, he drew sketches and set his men making notes about the guards’ routine. As he expected, there was none. Unpredictability was a sure sign of professionalism.

The Iranian cast a look at the afternoon sky. The operation would be conducted after dark, affording his shooters a compromise between visibility and concealment. But the distances were fairly short — barely two hundred meters — and even Ebrahim Larijani and Moshen Yazdi should be able to get hits under those conditions. Esmaili wished for another night scope but the Dragunovs available to him had limited optics.

Esmaili was not overly concerned. The SVD rifle’s standard four-power scope featured a battery-powered reticle and an infrared filter. He had ensured that everyone in his sniper class had some experience with night firing, at least under full moon conditions. Tonight was a waning moon but the city’s ambient lighting would make up much of the difference.

As for the two shooters, Esmaili knew that they were not ready for combat, but perhaps they were ready for a couple of assassinations. He double-checked the figures on his crude range card and returned to the briefing point with Azizi.

“The tactical situation is favorable,” Esmaili began. His two students were attentively wary. All they knew so far was that they would have a glorious opportunity to strike the Great Satan. “We will fire from the north and the east sides of the target building, coordinating by radio. Each of you will have two of brother Azizi’s guards as your security element.” He looked directly at each youngster, pinning their gaze with a practiced mixture of sympathy and intensity.

“We will synchronize our watches before deploying, because it is important to have precise timing. The main attack will fall within seconds of your shots, so any guards on the roof or the walls need to be eliminated before they can provide warnings.”

Larijani spoke up. “What should we do after the main attack?”

Esmaili caught a sideways glance from Azizi. He does not expect either of these boys to be alive at that time. “Withdraw with your security element to this position and await orders.”

“Where will you be, Teacher?” Yazdi was the more nervous of the pair, and that was saying something.

“I shall be on another rooftop, communicating by radio. Do not worry, brothers. I am never far from you.”

Dinner was fair; the entertainment was memorable.

Leopole sat at the head table with Kara, his wife, and two sons. The boys were sixteen and nineteen, subdued for the offspring of a domestic warlord but astutely attentive. Leopole inferred that their education had been as practical as it was varied. They spoke excellent English— better than their father — and apparently were equally proficient at French.

As Leopole had predicted, the main courses were chicken and lamb. But Kara was insistent that everyone try a vegetarian dish. “This is sulbeta,” he began. “It is a mixture of buckwheat with peas, zucchini, onions, and tomatoes, then it’s spiced with salt, paprika, cinnamon, and pepper.” He leaned affectionately toward his wife. “Nobody makes better sulbeta than Asala.”

Mrs. Kara smiled appreciatively but said little. She sipped her wine, spoke occasionally to the boys, and otherwise held her own counsel.

Toward the end of dinner, Kara raised his glass. Leopole knew that Druze traditionally shunned alcohol, but apparently the Karas made exceptions for special events. Kara had drunk one glass of Chateau Kefraya throughout the meal, commenting that most wine comes from Baalbek in the Bekaa Valley. That esoterica was lost on the American, whose taste ran more toward single-malt scotch. He did not know that Druze families owned some of the vineyards, which tended to be located on tactically advantageous terrain.

“My friends,” Kara intoned. The conversation dropped off as attention shifted to the head table. “My friends, though we have already met, I take this time to bid you welcome. Not only to my country, but to the cause of my people. In a few days you will be working with many of the militia leaders you have met here tonight. I wish all of us success, good health, and if it comes to pass, good hunting!”

The SSI men returned the sentiment with a hearty response, and the Karas made their farewells for the evening. Leopole suspected that Asala knew little of the planned entertainment, as her husband dutifully escorted her to the exit well before the dancers appeared.

Apart from two bodyguards, both sons carried weapons without concern for them being seen. Salim, the older boy, had a Romanian AK-47 while Walid favored an MP-5. Whatever floats your boat, Leopole thought.

After a short interval, one of Kara’s men pressed the play button on a Sony Walkman. The music featured strings, percussion, and cymbals, bringing two barefoot dancers onto the floor. The audience erupted in a chorus of masculine shouts and enthusiastic applause. Even Robert Pitney sat up straight to get a better view.

Up on the roof, Bosco and Breezy heard the noise and recognized it for what it was. “How good could it be?” Bosco asked.

“Sounds pretty damn good,” his friend replied. They continued pacing in opposite directions, stepping around Rob Furr and his NVG-equipped rifle.

“How’s it goin’, dude?” Breezy envied Furr the cushy job of lying on a padded shooting mat, looking at a green-tinted world through his Litton scope.

“About going to sleep up here.” He gave an exaggerated yawn, wondering how Rick Barrkman was enjoying the floor show. Then he nodded toward the Druze guards. “I wonder how they like walking their shoes off all night long, waiting for something to happen.”

Brezyinski stifled a yawn himself. He wanted to sit down for a while but knew better. “Something always happens when you’re not ready for it.”

Azizi appeared out of the urban darkness. “The operation is proceeding. You may tell your snipers to open fire in two and one-half minutes.”

Esmaili had been tracking the sentries atop the target complex. Most were rovers, in keeping with the doctrine of unpredictability. But he had spotted two permanent stations through his second-generation-plus Russian device. They would be the most dangerous to his shooters, but because they lacked a good view down the chosen approach, they were low-priority targets.

Sacrifices must be made.

Since Azizi said that the main attack would come from the east, Esmaili had deployed his men to cover that approach as well as ninety degrees off axis to establish a cross fire. It was only necessary for Larijani and Yazdi to gain fire superiority long enough for the main blow to land, or merely to distract attention away from the street level.

Esmaili keyed his radio. “Two minutes. Acknowledge.”

“North ready.”

“East ready.” Their voices sounded firm.

The Iranian leader watched his digital display tick down the remaining seconds.

“Activity at the main gate!” Larijani was excited about an unexpected development. “A limousine is leaving… no, two vehicles. Turning south.”

Esmaili turned to Azizi. “This is the target? Not the building?”

The courier from Tehran shrugged eloquently. “Forgive me, brother. Secrecy was essential. But your men should proceed as planned.”

Biting down his anger, Esmaili spoke into his handset again.

“North and East, the plan remains. Repeat, the plan remains.” He glanced at his watch. “Begin… now!”

One of the Druze sentries glanced down and recognized Kara’s armored limousine. The Mercedes-Benz S600 had almost every option except self-contained oxygen against gas attacks. The trailing BMW was well equipped — it could run on flat tires a considerable distance — but boasted few amenities beyond minimal armor and a goodly supply of 7.62mm ammunition.

A gunshot split the night air, taking the Druze off his feet.

Across the intersection to the east, another round snapped out. It hit the brick facade of the building just below the concrete lip, forcing Bosco to take cover. Thirty meters away, Breezy turned toward his partner. Noting that Bosco was unharmed, Breezy reached his right hand to his left shoulder and pressed the transmit button on his tactical set. “Rounds fired, rounds fired! North and east corners.”

“Look! Down the street!” Another Druze pointed down the boulevard, noting a speeding Citroen. The gray hatchback was followed by a black Peugeot sedan.

Bosco stuck his head up, took in the situation, and made another call. “Hostiles inbound, Colonel! Two cars. Looks like they’re after the limo.”

Frank Leopole heard the calls and forced his attention away from Jasmine and Bahiya’s molded forms and lithe movements, visualizing the developing situation outside. He stood up, shouting over the music. “Gooks in the wire, people! Saddle up!”

Rob Furr had spotted the second muzzle flash. He put his crosshairs on the spot, confident that it was inside the two-hundred-yard zero on his scope, and remembered to breathe. Prone behind the bipoded SR-60, he made a minute elevation adjustment by flexing his toes on the surface of the roof. As he sweetened up the sight picture, another shot flared in his night scope. He heard the round whip overhead, apparently aimed at one of Kara’s men who ducked amid an exclamatory tirade in Arabic.

He began his squeeze. Hold it, right… there.

The.308 round left the custom barrel as the rifle recoiled straight back. Furr called the shot to himself. Center. He ran the bolt and recovered, finding his crosshairs steady.

Breathe.

He saw no sign of the shooter but another form was visible, leaning over something on the roof. Furr adjusted the sight picture, placed the crosshairs on the green humanoid form, and pressed the trigger.

Damn! A little left. He cycled the bolt again and saw a third form apparently dragging something out of sight.

Breathe.

Furr sucked in more of the night air, then shifted his scan left and right. Nothing else appeared in his scope. He realized that his pulse was elevated, but his breathing was under control. So were his emotions.

Breezy looked down from his perch, aware that Kara’s men were hosing full-auto rounds to the north and east. The noise would have been deafening under other conditions, but audio exclusion had kicked in. The lead Citroen was within fifty meters of Kara’s Mercedes. The Druze driver was attempting a two-point reverse but there was little room owing to other vehicles parked on the street. The bodyguards in the BMW had bailed out, racing to provide close support until the limo could evade.

A bright flash erupted to Breezy’s left, scaring him out of his wits. He turned to see a sentry lowering an RPG launcher, immediately beginning to reload. The projectile seared downward into the concrete canyon, impacting near the Citroen’s right rear bumper. Not a bad shot, Breezy thought, but there would be no time for a second.

Seconds from impact, the Citroen was taken under automatic fire by three guards on the street. One of them was Walid, the youngest son, gamely but ineffectually firing his 9mm submachine gun.

Glass erupted from the gray hatchback, but it barely swerved in response to the gunfire. Breezy watched in frozen fascination as the suicide vehicle smashed almost head-on into the Mercedes.

Seconds ticked off, each with a beginning, middle, and end.

One person tumbled from the limo, then another.

Then the Citroen exploded.

Most of the sentries expected the Peugeot to double up on Kara’s limousine or to collide with the BMW. It did neither. Abreast of the grilled entry, it veered abruptly right and crashed through the wrought-iron gate. From there it accelerated across the courtyard, drawing sporadic fire from the roof.

The French machine slewed to a stop at the entrance to the main building and disgorged four men. Each carried an AK and one or two satchels. They sprinted inside, fanning out left and right.

Frank Leopole, Phil Green, and Jack Jacobs were the first armed responders to arrive at the lobby. They saw Jeff Malten rolling on the floor, clasping his side as dark liquid seeped through his fingers. Jacobs glimpsed two men dashing down the halls on either side, saw the satchels, and knew what was coming. He dived on Malten, expecting an explosion.

In the lighted hallway Leopole had a clear shot at the man on the left. The former Marine raised his M-1A, placed the front sight between the shoulder blades, and pressed the trigger. Once, twice. Twenty meters away, the assailant stumbled, caught himself, staggered drunkenly, and collapsed against the wall.

Something rolled from the corpse’s right hand.

Leopole shouted “Grenade!” and hit the deck, covering his head with his hands.

The explosion was smaller than Leopole expected but the concussion left his ears ringing. He rolled over, looking for Green.

Leopole sat up, bringing his rifle to low ready. Fight your way to your feet. He saw more SSI men emerging from the dining area. Wallender appeared and Leopole asked, “Where’s Green? He was just here.”

The former Green Beret hefted his folding-stock AK and pointed to the corridor on the right. “Down here, Colonel.” He ran in that direction.

Before Leopole could get up, he heard semi and full-auto fire from the hall. The noise was painful, ringing off the walls and ceiling.

Moments later Green reappeared, exchanging magazines and smiling broadly. “There’s more, Colonel. Let’s find ‘em!”

Ahmad Esmaili turned to Mohammad Azizi. “That is all? A car bomb and four men to attack the compound?”

“If we killed Kara it is well worth the cost. The attack on the building is a bonus, especially if some Americans are killed. In any case, it will disrupt the Druze operations for a while. That is our larger goal for the greater cause.”

A chill descended upon Esmaili. He could only infer that the greater cause had something to do with the planned missile sites, and precious little to do with his own survival. He stored that thought in the ready-ammunition locker of his mental arsenal and backed out of the observation position.

“Where are you going?” Azizi asked.

“To collect my men or to retrieve their bodies.”

The situation was well beyond confusion; it bordered on chaos.

While the Druze fighters were drawn to the street where their leader’s limousine had exploded, the SSI team and a few of Kara’s men searched the main building. Sporadic gunfire erupted in both wings, which Leopole took as evidence of twitchy trigger fingers. “Re-con by fire,” he surmised to Wallender. The search expanded for the other two intruders.

In the dining hall, two Druze and Bob Ashcroft had remained with the dancing sisters. The doors had no lock, so Ashcroft and a Druze had pushed a long table across the entrance to prevent the doors from opening inward.

Moments later an explosion rocked the facility, knocking down one door and leaving the other askew. Almost immediately two gunmen leapt the ruined table, hosing searching bursts from their Kalashnikovs.

Ashcroft had been nearest the door when it imploded. Knocked from a kneeling position onto his back, he was temporarily stunned. Meanwhile, at dining-hall distance, two Druze and two Sunnis began shooting at each other.

The invaders had the advantage of shock from the explosion, shooting down one of Kara’s men before he could get a decent sight picture. One of the attackers then saw the prostrate American and swung on him.

In the far corner, Bahiya took a round through her left arm and spun away, shrieking in pain. In response, Jasmine leapt to her feet, panic-stricken.

The first assailant was seriously devout. Where others saw a fetching costume of gossamer and jewels, he saw whorish attire and responded religiously. He shouldered his rifle, pressed the trigger, and held it down.

Fueled by a massive adrenaline dump, Bob Ashcroft scooped up his Galil, thumbing the selector to full auto. Despite a poor cheek weld, he started at the assailant’s belt and rode the recoil almost to the chin. The man went down in a scarlet spray.

Abruptly it was quiet.

Ashcroft looked around and gawked at what he saw. The other Sunni and the remaining Druze held AKs with the bolts locked back. They’re both empty! The former cop thought that he had rounds remaining in his magazine and directed them where they were urgently needed. A nine-round burst put four 7.62s into the target’s right side. The Hezbollah fighter collapsed and began a clotted wailing.

Ashcroft raised unsteadily to his feet and watched wide-eyed as the Druze reversed his rifle, raised it over his head, and used the butt to cave in the Sunni’s cranium.

Bahiya’s contralto voice split the silence. In a high, penetrating keening, she wept over her sister’s body. The American approached her, placed a hand on her shoulder, then knelt beside her. She stopped wailing in preference to deep, throaty sobs. As the dancer leaned into him, Ashcroft touched Jasmine’s bare feet. “She saved my life and she didn’t even know it.”

19

“Tell me.” Leopole spoke to Major Ayash in a flat tone devoid of warmth.

The IDF Druze inhaled, held his breath, then blew it out. “Kara is alive. He’s suffering from concussion and some burns but he should survive.” Ayash shook his head in amazement. “That man has more lives than a litter of kittens.”

“The others?”

“Well, he pulled his wife out just before the explosion but she absorbed some of the blast. Her body probably saved his life. Nobody else got out of the vehicle.”

Leopole absorbed that information, nodding slowly. Finally he looked up. “Then his sons…”

“Salim was in the Mercedes. But Walid rode with the escort, as his father always insisted. He is unharmed.”

“Okay. I’m going to debrief my people and I need your help. Malten is our best medic but he took a round and can’t travel for a while. I’m detailing Jacobs to stay with him and provide liaison. Now we have to know, Major: can we stay here or do we need to move someplace else?”

Ayash raised a hand. “You may stay here, Colonel Leopole. Believe me, the Syrian Army would have trouble getting near this compound today.” He tossed his head. “There are measures in place that are not apparent, and some of them are — exceptional.”

“You’re saying there’s IDF forces nearby?”

The Druze liaison man did not try to hide his smile. “I am saying the measures are, ah, exceptional.”

“Okay, I’ll accept that at face value. But we still need to know: how did the Hezzies get on to this arrangement? There was some sort of security breach.”

Ayash touched Leopole’s arm and directed him away from the gathering crowd in the compound’s conference room. “Frank, you will understand how sensitive this subject is. But…” His voice trailed off and his gaze went to the far wall.

“But, you deserve to know. I spoke with Rafix on the way to the hospital. He was nearly delirious with shock and grief. But in putting together a few things he said, here is what I suspect:

“He was taking two prescriptions for pain, including morphine.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well, he was sobbing all the while but he indicated that the medicine clouded his judgment and he thinks he might have told the caterers more than they needed to know. If so, it would explain the timing of the attack — immediately after dinner, as he was leaving.”

The American almost reeled on his heels. “Oh, my God.” Leopole’s right hand went to his forehead. “He must be…”

Ayash gave a decisive thrust of his chin. “Yes. He is.”

“So what’s the current situation? We can’t have people walking around who know about the setup in here.”

Ayash’s face went rigid, as if carved in granite. “As of this evening, I do not believe that any of them will be walking about, Colonel.”

Leopole appreciated the sentiment but held doubts. “I can’t believe that anybody who passed the word would stick around very long.”

“It does not matter. We ask certain people certain questions, and make it clear that it is in their interest to cooperate with us. After that, it’s mainly a detective story.”

“Ending in a dark alley someplace,” Leopole prompted.

Ayash pointedly looked at his watch. “It’s time for the debrief, isn’t it?”

Ebrahim Larijani was shaken but able to function. He had not seen Moshen Yazdi’s body, and Esmaili was glad of that fact. The 168-grain hollow point had taken the boy just above the left eye. At least he felt nothing. Presumably in that microsecond Yazdi ascended to heaven to bask in the presence of God.

During the fifty-minute ride back to the Hasbaya area, Esmaili had time to reflect on the operation and his men’s performance. Both of the budding snipers had executed their orders, though it was uncertain how many Druze or Zionists they had shot. There had been little opportunity to discuss details with Azizi’s security men, and Esmaili was uncertain of their competence or reliability.

At least they had taken Yazdi’s body, sparing Esmaili’s cell the doleful duty of preparing it for burial. Far better to commit the earthly remains to the care of brother jihadists.

Remains. That’s all he was.

Esmaili had seen uglier corpses in his career, but not recently. Still, he marveled at the American’s precision in what must have been a two-hundred-meter snapshot in the dark. He put that bullet beside Yazdi’s scope, almost through the left eye. Esmaili cast a furtive glance at Larijani. These boys have no idea what they are facing.

“Admiral, it’s Colonel Leopole. Line two.”

Derringer jabbed the button on his phone. He had received the e-mail from Beirut half an hour before.

“Frank! You all right?”

“Yes, sir. Marten’s serious but I think he’ll be okay. A couple of other guys got flash-burns and fragments.” The former Marine’s voice was low-pitched, controlled. The satellite phone connection was excellent.

“What about Kara and his people?” Derringer knew there had been losses.

“Mr. Kara’s under guard in a hospital. He should be alright but as you can imagine he’s shook about his wife and son. Two others were killed in his limo and there were two KIAs in the compound. A couple of the wounded are serious.” He decided there was no point in mentioning Jasmine, nor Ashcroft’s efforts to comfort her bereaved sister.

Derringer tried to visualize the situation and realized that he could not. “Frank, listen. It’s pretty obvious that there was a security breach. What do you know about that?”

“Most of our intel is speculation, sir. But our IDF liaison says that Kara’s medication probably overrode his judgment and he might have told the caterers more than they needed to know.” His voice trailed off, then resumed. “It’s almost midnight here. We’re doubling the watch and waiting for more information in the morning.”

Derringer found himself leaning closer to the speaker phone, almost as if he wanted to whisper in Leopole’s ear. “Listen. If things are that bad, we can’t count on maintaining operational security in the villages. You guys will be even more exposed out there.”

Leopole realized that Mike Derringer was opening the door to canceling the mission. “Yes, I know, Admiral. I discussed that with the guys during our debrief. There’s some concern, of course, but they’re willing to stay so far.” He paused, recalling the tension in the room, the anger over the security breach, though so far none of the SSI operators knew of Kara’s lapse.

“But, Admiral, the guys’ collective dander is up. There’s a lot of sentiment for payback, especially once we get to the Hezbollah op areas. I know: that’s not a good mind-set, and I’m riding herd on them with Chris Nissen. We’re reminding everybody that we’re here as trainers, not shooters.”

Derringer thought of Fred Dalton Thompson’s line as Admiral Painter in The Hunt for Red October. “This business will get out of control.”

“All right, Frank. You know the situation, and I’ll back whatever you have to do.” He squirmed in his seat. “Now look. It’s almost closing time here but I’m calling an executive session of the board for tomorrow morning. We’ll discuss options and our legal obligations in case it’s desirable to reduce our training operation or even cancel the contract. You’ll be hearing from me with a preliminary report by tomorrow evening, your time.”

“Thanks, Admiral. I appreciate that, and so do the guys. But honestly, I think we can proceed with the contract as things stand now.”

“You watch your back, Frank. That’s an order.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

The line went dead but Michael Derringer was still looking at his phone twenty seconds later.

20

“Tell me what happened.”

Imam Sadegh Elham had never been accused of subtlety. Though Esmaili thought that Azizi would have provided a preliminary report, the cleric demanded an immediate debrief. In fact, he was waiting when the truck arrived at the Hezbollah cell’s headquarters.

Esmaili’s feet had barely touched the ground. He was sore and tired, more focused on addressing his sniper trainees than dealing with the priestly commissar from Tehran. “Imam, I can only say that the attack went as planned. I do not have direct information on the results but surely Brother Azizi can provide that for you.” He turned to go.

A bony hand extended from the white robe, clutching Esmaili’s arm. “I have heard from Azizi. I would hear from you. Brother.”

Esmaili shot a glance at Larijani. The boy was being hailed as a hero by his classmates, including Hazim, who apparently had recovered from his snit at not being chosen. They need a dose of reality.

The grip tightened on Esmaili’s arm. He looked down, then raised his gaze to Elham’s face. The imam saw the emotion there and released his grip. “Come, let us talk briefly.”

Accepting the situation, Esmaili ordered his thoughts. “The coordination with Azizi’s fighters was good. The timing went well, based on the information the Beirut organization provided. Our two snipers opened fire on schedule and Yazdi was killed. I do not know if they hit any of the Zionists.”

“No matter. They did well enough.” Thus did Sadegh Elham write the epitaph of Moshen Yazdi. Esmaili thought: It is always so with these priests. They are willing to send others to Paradise soon enough, but remain here on earth to die naturally.

“I did not expect Larijani to survive,” Esmaili replied. Somehow, he felt a growing urgency in putting a name if not a face on those who made the sacrifices. No, those who are sacrificed.

Elham ignored the sentiment. “Your report taken with Azizi’s pleases me, brother. The coordination between two units that had never worked together speaks well for everyone concerned.” He almost smiled. “Tehran will be pleased as well.”

Esmaili read between the lines. Dr. Momen will be pleased. It was all Esmaili could do to ask what relevance the recent operation had to whatever was forthcoming.

“May I provide anything else, Imam?”

Elham waved dismissively. “You may go.”

Derringer gaveled the meeting to order. It was a rarity, as SSI’s directors normally maintained boardroom decorum, but the news from Beirut had goaded most of the attendees into unaccustomed excitement.

As the chatter abated, Derringer remained standing. He wanted to exercise some command authority, though a couple of the people in the room had outranked him.

“I will summarize,” he began. “Last night an attack was made against the Kara compound in Beirut, presumably by Hezbollah operatives. Rafix Kara’s vehicle was rammed by a suicide car, resulting in the death of his wife, one son, and two other people. A second car smashed through the gate and unloaded four assassins armed with small arms and explosives. They were all killed but they killed some of Kara’s people and inflicted damage on the compound. One of our team members was seriously wounded.”

Derringer looked around the room. The short-notice meeting had barely drawn a quorum but that was sufficient. “The question before us is how this attack will affect our training team’s contract with the Israelis and the Druze militia. Our people were about ready to leave for the Hasbaya region but now they’re forted up, consulting with the IDF liaison officers.”

Marshall Wilmont spoke for many of those present. “Admiral, it seems this attack was aimed specifically at our team. I mean, as I understand it, there hasn’t been an attack on Kara’s facility in recent months. The timing just doesn’t look coincidental.”

“Yes, that’s right. I’m in touch with Mr. Baram of the Israeli embassy, and he’s trying to get more information for us. But I don’t think we can expect any hard intel right away. Meanwhile, I promised Frank that we’d discuss the situation and let him know of any decisions sometime today.” He looked around again. “Any thoughts? Corin?”

Corin Pilong was SSI’s contracting officer. She was so slightly built that she barely qualified as petite, though her intellect more than offset her Filipina physique. “Admiral, it’s as I expected when we talked last night. This was accepted as a high-risk assignment, to the extent that we acknowledged the chance of fatalities. In fact, we took out higher insurance premiums for that very reason.” She paused a moment to consult her notes, then continued in her silky voice. “There is nothing in the contract that allows us to withdraw for… well, really, for any reason.”

Derringer nodded. “Yes, that’s what we expected. After all, it reflects the circumstances that pertained when we agreed to work with the Israelis. Now, George Ferraro isn’t here — he’s in Spain with his wife — but I contacted him. As VP and chief financial officer he says that we cannot afford to violate the contract.” Derringer gave an ironic smile. “That’s not exactly news to anybody in this room, but I’d like the record to show that George’s input was received.”

Wilmont wriggled his ample bottom in his chair, a sure sign that he wanted to speak. Derringer took note. “Yes, Marsh.”

Addressing the board members, Wilmont revealed what Derringer already knew. “A few days ago I talked with Brian Cottle, who basically approved us for this job when others in State didn’t want to hear the letters SSI. He indicated that since things have changed in Lebanon, there’s more, shall I say, appreciation for what we do. He didn’t come right out and say that we’re off the hook for the Iranian yellow cake scam that the Israelis ran on Foggy Bottom and Langley, but that seems to be the way it’s going.”

Samuel Small, an erstwhile Air Force colonel, wrinkled his brow. “So how does that affect our Druze contract, Marsh?”

“Well, I mention it because if we’re getting out of detention with State, maybe we don’t have to rely on this contract for our corporate survival.”

Small drummed his fingers on the table. “So are you saying that maybe we should pull out and let the chips fall?”

Wilmont sensed that he was being made the heavy: someone who would violate a contract and hope for better offers. “No, damn it! That’s not what I’m saying!” He glanced around, realized that his voice had risen, and people were staring at him. “I just think that we’re obligated to consider whether the increased risk to our people is worth the penalty for withdrawing unilaterally.”

Derringer sought to retrieve the situation. “I concur with Marsh that we owe our loyalty to the men we send in harm’s way. But I talked with Frank late yesterday and he says they want to stick to the mission, at least for now.” He glanced at Sandra Carmichael. She was not a board member but she attended most meetings to provide information. “Sandy? Any thoughts?”

Carmichael raised a manicured hand to brush a blond curl. “From the operations side, Admiral, I don’t have much to add. Frank’s the one with his boots on the ground, and the guys trust him. If they want to continue with the job, it’s their call.”

“Very well.” Derringer caught a gesture from Thomas Varlowe, chairman of the advisory board. “Yes, General.”

The former three-star leaned forward, his chiseled features and gunmetal gray hair emphasizing his demeanor. “It seems that there’s a consensus that we will proceed with the contract. That is as it should be, but I want to emphasize the point. If this firm is to retain its credibility, and therefore its future, it must complete any contract that it accepts. Now, everyone here is understandably concerned with the safety of our people. But if I must state the obvious, I will. Our operators are well-paid professionals. Very well paid. They understand the risk and they accept it. The day we forget that fact is the day we close the door on ourselves.”

Michael Derringer declared, “This meeting is adjourned.” He felt a tug at his heart as Marshall Wilmont slumped in his chair.

“We’re staying,” Leopole declared.

The SSI operators gathered in the lounge area murmured their approval. In the second row, Bosco and Breezy tapped fists in a hoo-ah sentiment.

Rob Furr and Rick Barrkman clearly approved of the news. Though he envied his partner’s opportunity during the raid, Barrkman had kept his opinion under control. “You lucky SOB” was all he had said.

Furr shrugged it off. “Luck of the draw, man. Coulda been you as easy as me.”

In the back row, Robert Pitney bit his lip. He was disappointed in himself more than he let on. He had allowed himself to relax behind the guarded walls of the compound and lacked a weapon when general quarters sounded. He vowed that it would never happen again. Never.

Leopole elaborated upon what he learned from headquarters. “The board of directors met this morning and decided that our contract does not allow us to pull out of this assignment. There was, however, some sentiment for releasing anybody who wants to go.” He paused to allow that information to settle. When nobody spoke up, he continued.

“The fact that we apparently were targeted rather than Mr. Kara’s people has been noted by the board. But there’s no provision for extra hazard pay since we’re already drawing hazardous duty and overseas bonuses.” He shrugged. “Sorry, guys. The pot of gold is maxed out.”

Chris Nissen’s Barry White tones rose from the first row. “Colonel, I don’t know about the rest of the guys but I’d sure like to get off the bull’s-eye here. When do we go to our op area?”

Leopole shifted his feet and folded his arms. “Well, Staff Sergeant, you know the old saying: ‘Be careful what you want because you might get it.’ We’re probably headed for the Hasbaya area day after tomorrow. But remember that if the Hezzies could pick us out of the crowd here in Beirut, they won’t have much trouble IDing us in the villages where the militias operate. So keep that in mind.

“As we mentioned before, we’ll try to blend in as much as possible, especially regarding clothes. I do not recommend carrying anything but AKs or Galils because that’s what the locals are packing.” He shifted his gaze to the snipers. “You guys with the precision rifles should keep them out of sight as much as possible.”

Phil Green raised a hand. “Colonel, now that Mr. Kara’s laid up, who’s the Druze honcho?”

“Well, Mr. Kara never intended to operate with us in the field so nothing’s changed in that regard. Major Ayash remains the senior IDF liaison officer, and we’ll be working with him and his subordinates.”

Wallender asked the obvious question. “Colonel, how is Mr. Kara? I mean, is there any solid info on his condition?”

“Well, he wants to talk to me so I’m going to see him before we leave.” Leopole did not bother expressing the sentiment, but it was one visit he was not going to enjoy.

21

The ward was well guarded. Kara’s people appeared at least as professional as the police officers and possessed more daunting hardware. Frank Leopole had never seen an automatic weapon in a hospital before, but as Kara himself was fond of saying, “This is Beirut.”

Pausing outside Kara’s door, Ayash turned to Leopole. “He may still be sedated but he insisted on seeing you before you go. I have arranged for a doctor to interrupt us in about five minutes.”

The American nodded. Then Ayash rapped a tattoo on the door — three fast, two slow — and called something in French. “J’ai voyagé loin.” Leopole knew nothing about traveling far, but followed him inside.

Rafix Kara lay propped up in bed, an oxygen tube to his nose. Leopole noted that it was a double room with the other bed removed. A Druze occupied a chair in the far corner, and with a start Leopole realized that it was Walid, the surviving son, wearing a ballistic vest. He cradled his MP-5 across his knees, a suppressor screwed onto the barrel.

Makes sense, Leopole thought. Don’t want too much noise in a hospital!

Rafix Kara turned his head and focused on the visitors. The light of recognition illuminated his dark eyes. He raised his right hand, as his left had an IV inserted.

Ayash approached the bed and grasped the extended hand. Speaking slowly and clearly, he said, “Mr. Kara, Lieutenant Colonel Leopole is here to see you.”

“My friend Frank.” The voice was a croak, the words slightly slurred. Leopole stepped beside Ayash and laid a hand on Kara’s arm.

“I’m here, Mr. Kara. I’m so glad that you escaped… and I am so sorry for the loss of your family.”

With a start, Leopole realized that he may have insulted Walid but the young man gave no hint of resentment. Rather, he continued watching the door.

“Frank, listen.” Kara managed a grip on Leopole’s arm. It was surprisingly firm. “My family… it is the Druze people. You came to help them.” He inhaled deeply, sucking in oxygen. “You can do it, Frank. Do not think about me. Just do your job with…” He licked his lips. “With the militias.”

“Yes, sir. That’s what we’re going to do.”

Kara inhaled again. “Promise me.”

“Of course, Rafix. Of course I promise.” An awkward silence fell across the room. Leopole was conscious of every passing second. Finally Ayash took advantage of the lull.

“Mr. Kara, I think that we should go. There is still…”

“Good-bye my friend Frank.” Kara gave another squeeze. “I will not be seeing you again, but thank you for all you have done. And what you will do.”

“Rafix, I am going to come back and see you before long. I’ll give you a full report…”

“No. No, that won’t happen, Frank. I’ll be gone by then. I’ll be gone.” He looked up, directly into Leopole’s eyes. “I deserve to die.”

Frank Leopole, former lieutenant colonel of Marines, could not think of a response. He sought for the words and, finding none, conceded defeat. “Good-bye, sir.”

In the hallway Ayash suddenly stopped. He turned and said, “Rafix Kara is a great man. But like all great men, he is flawed. In his case, it was not hubris but physical weakness that affected his judgment. The wounds he suffered over the years finally caught up with him, and he needed more and more pain relief. The morphine clouded his mind, and he unknowingly gave his enemies the information they needed to try to kill him. He survived the initial attack, but in losing his wife and one son he lost his will to live. So you see, Frank, they did kill him after all.”

Esmaili had a problem.

Ebrahim Larijani had left for Beirut as a subdued, visibly frightened young man. He returned with the aura of a blooded veteran despite the fact that there was no indication he had spilled any blood at all. Nevertheless, his colleagues accorded him deferential treatment that had been notably lacking before. After all, his rank in the class pecking order had only been superior to the departed Yazdi, blessings be upon him.

The exception, Esmaili noted, was Hazim. Still the best shooter in the class, he had welcomed Larijani upon return from Beirut but otherwise maintained coolly cordial relations.

Esmaili decided on a cell meeting in the truest Marxist sense.

Gathering his shooters well away from Azizi and Elham, the Hezbollah leader set up his unexpected star pupil for a lesson in humility.

“I have decided that we should sit down to study the lessons of Brother Larijani’s experience in Beirut. Because he is the first of you to experience sniper combat, each of you can learn from his observations and take them with you when your turn arises.” He turned to Larijani. “Brother, please describe your mission for us.”

Larijani shifted his position. All the men were sitting on the ground, arrayed in a circle. Esmaili usually conducted such meetings in that manner to reinforce the perception of equality among the cell members. It also meant that every man could look at everyone else, with attendant psychological pressures for composure and veracity.

“Well, we deployed as Brother Azizi directed. I was on the north side of the Zionist compound and Yazdi on the east. We were both roughly two hundred meters from the target area. We arrived in daylight to see the details and study the enemy patrol patterns. Then as night settled, we took our positions and waited for the time.”

When no one asked a question, Esmaili prompted with one. “How did you feel at that moment?”

“Teacher, I was ready to fill my mission.”

“Yes, yes. But how did you feel? Were you nervous or calm? What was in your heart?”

Larijani looked down. Then he raised his gaze. “I was afraid that I might fail to do my part.” He swallowed. “I did not want to disappoint anyone.”

Esmaili was taken aback. He did not expect so honest a response. He modulated his voice. “Yes, go on.”

The novitiate seemed to relax a little. “When we got the order to fire, I was looking at a sentry on the far wall. I placed him in my sight and fired.”

Hazim finally spoke. “What was your firing position?”

“I was sitting with my Dragunov resting on the edge of the wall.”

“Did you hit your target?”

Larijani hesitated for two heartbeats. “I believe so.”

Esmaili interjected. “You do not know? What about your spotter?”

“Well, I did not have a trained spotter. Just the security men from Beirut.”

“How many times did you fire?”

The shooter thought for a long moment. “Four or five times.”

Esmaili’s voice held an edge. “A trained sniper should know if it was four or five. Which was it?”

“I… I think it was five. Yes, five.”

Nobody believed him.

Hazim asked the obvious question. “How many targets did you hit?”

Larijani bit his lip. “It was dark and I had no spotter.” He glanced away. “Maybe two or three.”

Esmaili was pulled in two directions. He could further humiliate the boy by stating that a trained marksman could call his shots even without a spotter to confirm the hits. The steadiness of the sight picture and the precision of the trigger release would tell a good shooter all he needed to know.

On the other hand, Larijani had been selected to die and for whatever reason — fate, coincidence, God — he had been spared. Whether he had dispatched two or three enemies, or more likely none, he had done his duty.

“Perhaps we will receive more information from our brothers in Beirut,” Esmaili purred. “But for the present, we can take the experience of Larijani and apply it to our own work when the time comes.”

Before rising, Esmaili locked eyes with Hazim. For anyone who cared to notice, the status quo ante had been restored.