The Devil's Light (24 page)

Brooke had no intention of doing so voluntarily. By the spring of 2009, after twelve months in the field, he had begun to penetrate the complex layers that existed within the Palestinian refugee camps of Sabra and Shatilah and Ayn Al-Hilweh.

He had started by befriending the UN aid workers who helped sustain the camps. A sympathetic man, Adam Chase had his “consulting firm” ship books and toys for Palestinian children, as well as medical supplies that were difficult to find. This brought him to the attention of the leaders of the two camps, members of the PLO infrastructure. Neither man was a fool; they had enemies both inside and outside the camps and had developed the jaded watchfulness of survivors. Their initial chariness, Brooke knew well, had become the certainty that this American with a mastery of Arabic was more than he seemed.

But they and Brooke had a common interest. Brooke wanted to flush out al Qaeda; both men feared that their camps might harbor al Qaeda cells, bringing Israeli bombs and rockets down on the innocents whose survival was their concern. Nor did the mass of refugees, miserable as their conditions were, embrace the apocalypse promised by Bin Laden. They lived in the hope of securing a homeland or, sadly, of returning to the “home” most had never seen: Israel.

In this, Brooke supposed, they were much like the Zionists who had supplanted them. For this reason, among others, he found their plight affecting. The sharp-eyed leaders of the PLO seemed to perceive this; for whatever reason, both began to give him information about the factions within their camps. The leader at Ayn Al-Hilweh, Khalid Hassan, also seemed to warm to Adam Chase as a person. In time, Brooke learned that
Khalid's most fervent wish, other than for a homeland for his people, was that his bright and diligent oldest son attend medical school in America. The unfeeling part of Brooke, the spy who cultivated agents, saw the uses of parental love. Perhaps, Brooke intimated, he could help. And perhaps Khalid could help him.

So their minuet began. Brooke knew well that the more entwined they became, the more danger he was to Khalid. Men had died for less, he told himself, than the love of a son. But Brooke did not just want information to pass on to Bashir Jameel. For reasons coldly pragmatic and deeply humane, he wanted to keep Khalid safe.

The two men now had many contacts; to keep meeting at the camp would draw notice. Their meetings outside relied on tradecraft—watching for surveillance without seeming to, following no set pattern of movement or behavior. In response to Lorber's inquiries, Brooke said only that he was exploring connections between a handful of radicalized Palestinian refugees and al Qaeda. When Lorber prodded for more, Brooke replied, “Two years ago, four hundred people died at Ayn Al-Hilweh in fighting between the Lebanese army and a group with ties to al Qaeda, Fatah al-Islam. I don't think that was the end.”

He did not tell Lorber who his contacts were, or report his nascent suspicion: that within Fatah al-Islam a core of survivors was planning an operation—perhaps an attack on UN peacekeepers on the border with Israel, answering a call by Ayman Al Zawahiri. But on this day, in retrospect fateful, Lorber tried to exercise his authority. One of his agents, ostensibly a political officer, had been approached at a reception by a Palestinian businessman who claimed contacts within Ayn Al-Hilweh. But then Lorber's agent had been transferred to Afghanistan. Now Lorber wanted Brooke to handle this promising new source, a potential entrée into Fatah al-Islam.

At once Brooke's instincts were aroused. “What has he given you?”

Lorber took a list from his desk, handing it to Brooke. Scanning the names, Brooke said, “These mean nothing to me. For all you know, they're PLO, or maybe a kids' soccer team.”

Lorber frowned. “This man wants a meeting.”

“He can wait, Frank. I've got some checking to do.”

But Khalid Hassan had never heard of this businessman, Jibril Rantisi, or any of the names he had provided. “I don't know everyone in the
camp,” Khalid allowed. “Sadly, there are too many of us. But these names are not among those we believe are Fatah al-Islam.”

Nor did Bashir Jameel know much about Rantisi. “He's been in Beirut only a year,” Jameel reported over drinks. “Some sort of import-export business.” He smiled at this. “Such businesses are always legitimate, of course.”

“Of course. Where was Rantisi before?”

“Riyadh.”

Brooke raised his eyebrows. “Maybe this particular Palestinian is a Saudi.”

Jameel shrugged. “All I know is that my people say he sounds Palestinian.”

“When I speak Arabic,” Brooke said in that language, “I sound Lebanese.”

Jameel's eyes glinted. “I understand your concerns, Adam.” The name was spoken with a hint of irony.

Leaving, Brooke resolved not to meet with Jibril Rantisi.

“If he's a double,” he told Lorber, “I'm blown. And maybe my agent with me.”

Lorber eyed him from behind the desk. “I don't know how valuable your agent is. Or even who he is.”

Brooke felt edgy. “Sorry, Frank. I promised him that no one else would know.”

Which was not quite true. Carter Grey, for one, knew about Khalid—it was Carter who was shepherding the son's application to medical school. What Brooke had promised was to keep Khalid safe from Frank Lorber.

But whatever Lorber's defects, he excelled at bureaucratic infighting. In a week Brooke had received an order from Langley—the price of keeping Lorber in the dark about Khalid was for Brooke to deal with Jibril Rantisi.

With considerable foreboding, Brooke met Rantisi at a restaurant. The man was plump, pleasant, and seemingly nervous; though he claimed to loathe al Qaeda, his motives struck Brooke as elusive. But over brandy he passed a name Brooke knew—a man whom Khalid had suspected of being Fatah al-Islam. A dead man, regrettably, killed by an unknown gunman the week before.

Brooke took it as an omen. Lorber did not. “You admit that Rantisi was right about this man.”

“He was right about a corpse. Maybe we should just read the obituary pages.”

Lorber managed a thin smile. “You've spent too much time with Carter Grey.”

“Or not enough.”

The veiled insult stiffened Lorber in his chair. “You're trying to penetrate Fatah al-Islam, and you know more about them than anyone else. I want you to handle Rantisi. If you're using proper tradecraft, no one will know who your other agent is. And if Rantisi is a double, which I don't believe, you're already compromised.”

That was certainly true. “Ever read
Catch-22
?” Brooke inquired.

Lorber did not respond. “Just meet with Rantisi,” he snapped.

“As you like.” Brooke stood, unable to suppress a jibe that only Lorber could miss. “In the meanwhile, Frank, do give my love to your wife.”

Adam Chase's evening began not with Rantisi, but with his French-Lebanese lady of the moment, Michelle Adjani.

To anyone who saw them, Adam Chase was an affluent American with a beautiful, sloe-eyed girlfriend, as carefree as any man could be. They had drinks on the terrace of the Albergo in Achrafieh; savored Lebanese food at Al Balad in Gemmayze with a group of Michelle's friends—a three-hour spread of hummus, couscous, lamb, chicken, beef, and the most beautiful tomatoes Brooke had ever seen—finished off at a café featuring noisy Arab music that stirred some of the women to leave off smoking from hookahs to dance with a sensuality that drew wild applause. Only a keen observer—which Michelle and her friends were not—would have noticed how sparingly Adam Chase drank, or that his seemingly random gaze noted the faces of everyone around them. At a little before midnight, pleading the next morning's business, Brooke kissed Michelle and stepped out into the night.

Even at this hour, the cobblestone streets were filled with Lebanese of all kinds, including a few women with burkas and head scarves. His pace leisurely, Brooke chose a quiet street where anyone following him would be visible, or compelled to take a parallel street in the hope Brooke did
not change course. But surveillance was not his greatest worry. He did not like the setup for the meeting. He had never carried a concealed gun; in Beirut, he considered it pointless. Tonight he did.

Changing course, he entered the alley where Rantisi was to pick him up. The narrow street was too quiet—no cafés or restaurants, only shops that had already closed. Then Brooke saw the BMW sedan, parked perhaps ninety feet away. As planned, its lights blinked, a signal.

A signal to whom? Brooke wondered. Glancing over his shoulder, he began walking toward the BMW.

Behind him, Brooke heard a motor come to life. He turned quickly. Heading straight for him was a car in which he saw a driver and a passenger. Brooke began running.

Brakes squealed. Brooke's swift backward glance caught the passenger leaping out of the sedan, gun in hand, followed by two men who spilled out the rear doors. Brooke sprinted toward the BMW.

A few feet short, he pulled the gun, aiming at the shadowy head behind the wheel. “Open the door,” he yelled.

An instant later, the passenger door flew open. Brooke jumped in. The lead gunman kept running toward them.

“Back up,” Brooke snapped. “Or someone's going to die.”

Rantisi stared at him. Then, reflexively, he threw the car into reverse, hitting the accelerator. “Keep going,” Brooke ordered tautly.

Framed in the front windshield, the gunman stopped, the two others at his shoulder. Sweat beaded Rantisi's forehead.

They passed the mouth of another street, still careening in reverse. “Stop,” Brooke told him. “Take that street.”

Rantisi complied. Moments later, they were on the three-lane thoroughfare headed for Achrafieh. His voice shaky, Rantisi said, “Were they going to rob you?”

Brooke kept the gun on his lap. “Drop me near the Albergo,” he said quietly. “I don't like our security situation. I think you understand.”

Rantisi flashed him a look. Without speaking, he dropped Brooke where he asked.

Swiftly Brooke considered his next movements, and decided that it was time to wake up Lorber.

Hastily dressed, Lorber met Brooke at his office. “What happened?” he asked.

In clipped tones, Brooke told him. Stubbornly, Lorber said, “It sounds like Rantisi saved you.”

“He saved his own life. And his own cover, were I that stupid.” He lowered his voice. “They weren't going to kill me, Frank, or they would have. I was going to be the next William Buckley. God knows who's been tailing me since that first meeting, and what I might have missed.”

A flicker of doubt appeared in Lorber's eyes. “You can't be sure.”

“I am sure,” Brooke said in disgust. “I just hope my agent isn't a dead man.”

“What happened then?” Terri asked.

Pausing, Brooke drained his wineglass. “If you don't mind,” he answered, “I don't feel like discussing Khalid tonight.”

At the other end of the couch, Terri nodded her understanding. “What became of his son?”

Brooke gave her a smile that was no smile at all. “He's in medical school, at Columbia. The least I could do.”

H
elping Terri prepare dinner, Brooke sipped wine as he turned honey, soy, Chinese mustard, chopped garlic, and basil into a glaze for the salmon. But the drumbeat of cable news from Terri's television peeled the veneer of normality. A half-hour show labeled “Countdown to Terror” reported the state of the country two weeks before September 11, 2011: another dive in the stock market; a run on supplies in major cities; congestion at ports on the East Coast and in Long Beach caused by searches for the bomb; the preemptive arrests of suspected al Qaeda sympathizers in Chicago and Detroit; an increasing flow of migration from Los Angeles, Washington, and New York to less populated areas. A right-wing congresswoman from Minnesota was calling for a suspension of the right to counsel for those “suspected of association with groups opposed to American values.” More pressing, a joint committee of Congress had scheduled immediate hearings—some closed to the press and public—in order to grill the secretary of defense and the heads of the National Security Council, FBI, and CIA. There was no mention of Israel or Lebanon.

Terri sliced vegetables. “My parents called today,” she said, “asking me to spend the next month with them in Bloomington. The next year, if necessary.”

Brooke envisioned Terri's parents, two college professors, anxiously imagining their daughter's incineration. “What did you say?”

“What could I say? That as a committed environmental activist, I'm too concerned about nuclear groundwater contamination to leave my post?”

“So you've never told them what you do?”

“No. They'd think I was wasting my gifts. And I didn't want to make them lie to their friends.” Terri began slicing a red onion. “I told them I had confidence in our government. You can imagine how well that went over.”

Brooke thought of his mother. “Actually, I can. And if I'm right, our terrorist mastermind—whoever he is—anticipated the panic he's created. I keep wondering if he ever studied here.”

“About Al Zaroor, you're not the first one. On the assumption he's a Saudi, we have a list of fifty or so exchange students who are either deceased or impossible to locate. But no one knows if it's a dead end. The man seems to have evanesced.” She turned to him. “So finish the case for Lebanon.”

Brooke stirred his preparation. “All right. To the average American, Hezbollah and al Qaeda are the same—they despise Israel, they've got a brutal history that includes killing Americans, and they've cultivated ‘martyrdom' as a weapon of war. But they're actually very different animals.”

“To me,” Terri put in, “a fundamental difference is that Hezbollah represents a people—the Shias. As a result they have a territory within a country, Lebanon, where they're seeking more political power. They're also funded by Iran, which has ambitions of its own. Whereas al Qaeda has no territory and is beholden to no one.” She trickled olive oil over a Pyrex dish of sliced vegetables. “Even more important, al Qaeda is Sunni; Hezbollah, Shia. In Lebanon, Hezbollah has exploited the universal hatred of Israel by making an electoral alliance with the Maronite Christians, Israel's former ally, against the Sunnis led by the Hariri family.” She glanced over at Brooke. “How soon will the glaze be ready?”