The Devil's Light (36 page)

The driver shifted his weight. “Machine parts, like the rest.”

“It looks more like a coffin. Or a box for concealing men.”

To Al Zaroor's surprise, Hussein laughed. “I hope not. If he's dead, he's rotten. If he's alive, by now we can smell his shit.” He turned to a soldier. “Try to lift that, for the love of Allah.”

With one of his men, the officer climbed in, seizing each end of the crate. They started to pick it up, feeling its weight. Then the officer peered through the crate at the steel casing. He got out again, this time facing Azid. “What is this?”

Paling beneath his olive skin, Azid summoned the stare he had first given Al Zaroor. “As I said, it's a matter of state security. We have friends who await this.”

Hezbollah, he might as well have said. The officer regarded him, as though gauging the consequences of offending a man who outranked him, a member of the military's most fearsome branch. Facing his soldiers, he ordered, “Load up the truck again.”

Arms folded, Azid watched them do this. Al Zaroor looked from Azid to Hussein, surprised and appreciative. The two men had proven themselves as actors.

When the soldiers were done, Hussein closed the truck, then climbed back into the cab with Azid and Al Zaroor. The officer waved them through. Shaken, they headed toward the Anti-Lebanon Mountains.

A
t a little before two, Brooke arrived by taxi in the coastal town of Sidon, the site of Ayn Al-Hilweh.

Brooke wore a polo shirt and blue jeans. Before leaving, he had put Carter Grey's elephant in his back pocket; now he wandered through the streets close to the waterfront, choosing a route designed to expose anyone who followed him. But this assured him of little; teams of trackers with cell phones were harder to spot than a single man. Nor, in this case, did his methods matter much. The danger lay less in what he did before three o'clock than that he was meeting an unknown person at a specific place and time, a setup for being kidnapped or killed.

At two-thirty, half an hour early, Brooke abruptly flagged a cab and asked to be dropped near the Sea Castle.

Brooke had been there before: If someone meant him harm, he had chosen well. Built by Crusaders in the thirteenth century, the sandstone ruins faced the sea, connected to land only by a narrow stone causeway roughly fifty yards in length. To Brooke's advantage, no one could follow without being seen. But the only means of escape was to dive into the Mediterranean. Even if his enemies were not equipped with boats, he could not swim fast enough for that to matter.

Approaching the castle, Brooke glanced around him. The roadway along the waterfront was lightly trafficked in both directions, enabling an assassin to shoot him from a car; the cafés had outside tables where a lookout could watch for him; three men were idling near the entrance to
the castle. Without breaking stride, Brooke gave himself permission to turn around. But this was not what he had returned for.

He reached the entrance. Without seeming to, he noted the faces of the three men, the seasoned, watchful look of bodyguards or killers. What confirmed his instincts was that none looked at him as he passed.

Walking at a measured pace, he started down the causeway. Halfway to the castle he stopped, hands on hips, turning sideways to gaze at the water. In the periphery of his vision, he saw that the men remained at their posts. Then he headed toward the castle again.

Though in the seven centuries since its abandonment, parts had toppled into the sea, much remained—turrets, a parapet, walls with small windows through which defenders could peer, a wing with three intact stories of shadowy rooms that offered relief from the harshness of sun, a stone pier in front of the structures from which sentries could watch for enemy ships. At the end of the causeway, Brooke climbed sandstone steps to the top of a wall, a vantage point from which he could scan much of the ruins. A few Westerners meandered into and out of the castle; he saw no one who seemed threatening. But in this place he would never spot a professional in time. Then he saw a man sitting at the end of the stone pier, gazing out to sea.

Brooke took the steps down to the pier and started toward the lone man. Briefly turning, he saw two other men emerge from inside the castle. Though Brooke's footsteps were audible, the man he was approaching did not interrupt his contemplation of the ocean. Only when Brooke sat beside him did Ibrahim Farad say, “You're very brave, or very stupid. Not that they're mutually exclusive.”

“True. But I'm neither. The odds were that the call came from one of your people, not Fatah al-Islam. They may not know I'm in Lebanon.”

Still Farad did not turn. “No? A matter of time, then. It seems you were right.”

Brooke studied his impassive profile. “The car bomb was meant for you?”

“We believe so, yes.” Farad gave a heavy shrug of his shoulders. “Perhaps they resented your visit.”

Brooke felt defensive; Farad's remark raised the specter of Khalid Hassan. Evenly, he said, “I wasn't followed.”

“As you like.”

“And yet we're meeting.”

Farad turned, eyes boring into Brooke's. “Like you, I believe they have a mission outside Ayn Al-Hilweh. They don't want you, me, or anyone to sniff that out. That's why they tried to slip a car bomb past the army.” His voice softened. “Ironic, isn't it. I don't wish to die like Khalid Hassan. And yet, like Khalid, I find myself dealing with you.”

“Are we dealing?”

Farad did not answer. “Fatah al-Islam,” he said slowly, “cares nothing about a homeland for my people. Their ambitions transcend our petty concerns. Oppression hasn't broken them; it's made them insane.”

Best to let Farad talk, Brooke concluded. “What do they offer al Qaeda?”

Farad looked at him keenly. “Foot soldiers, unafraid of death, with access to sophisticated Internet and cell phone equipment. They may not be allowed to hold jobs outside the camp, but they can leave at will. That means they could be anywhere in Lebanon.”

“I need names. Or faces.”

Farad smiled faintly. “Ahmad Duri, Ismail Qurai, Yusuf Harani. Perhaps they've all gone fishing. But no one has seen them in a week.”

“Can you describe them?”

Reaching into the pocket of his pants, Farad produced a BlackBerry. In rapid succession, he displayed three photographs of men clearly caught without their knowledge—one with soft eyes, barely more than a boy; another with a fleshy, sullen face; a thirtyish man with scruffy beard and slits for eyes. “Duri, Qurai, Harani,” Farad repeated. “For all I know, these were the men who tried to kill you.” Seeing Brooke's expression, he added, “You thought I didn't know this? A few days after you left Lebanon, sensing that death awaited him, Khalid Hassan spoke to me—not of everything, but some things. Once you came to see me, I knew you must be Khalid's grim reaper.”

Brooke was silent. At length, he said simply, “I liked Khalid. I mourned his death.”

Farad gave him a cold smile. “Do men like you mourn anyone?”

“You'd be surprised. I have these odd moments of sentiment.”

Farad studied his face and chose to say nothing.

Evenly, Brooke said, “I'd like to borrow your BlackBerry.”

From the same pocket, Farad produced a FlipDrive. “Consider these pictures a remembrance of Khalid. Perhaps one of them strangled him with that piano wire.”

Brooke took the drive, putting it in his pocket with Grey's elephant. “I appreciate your help.”

“Your ‘gratitude' is nothing to me,” Farad answered. “You're an operative, without influence. But perhaps you will mention our help should it aid you in protecting a few hundred thousand Jews from a nuclear holocaust.”

The hopelessness and disdain beneath Farad's words was palpable. Abruptly, he stood. “Which one of us should leave first, I wonder.”

Silent, Brooke shrugged.

Farad's smile was grim. “I thought as much. After all, it was only Khalid who died.”

Without more, he turned and headed for the steps up to the causeway, his two bodyguards at his side. Standing, Brooke watched him go. Both men knew that if someone had followed one of them, or the other, the first man to leave might draw their attention. If someone had to die, Brooke preferred that it not be he.

Gazing out to sea, he let ten minutes pass. Then he began climbing the same steps.

Near the top, a terrible sound made him flinch, then duck. He knew it was a car bomb before the shiver of fear finished running through him.

Steadying himself, Brooke stood. Perhaps a hundred feet from the entrance of the causeway the shell of an unidentifiable car spat flames through shattered windows. Wedged into its side was a van, partially obscured by thick black smoke. No one inside either vehicle, Brooke felt certain, could have lived.

He began moving down the causeway, ignoring the traffic jam on the road ahead, the cries of pedestrians running from the blast. By the time he reached the road, two policemen on motorcycles had arrived at the wreckage. Brooke moved swiftly in the other direction, pulse pounding in his throat, half-expecting to be shot. Instead he spotted a cab parked in front of the hotel across the street. Weaving swiftly among the cars stalled in the lanes headed toward the blast, he waited for a break in the opposite lanes, then slid inside the cab.

“What happened?” the cabbie asked in English.

“No idea,” Brooke answered in an uninterested tone. “Can you take me to Beirut?”

As they headed north, away from the wreckage, Brooke heard the sound of sirens. His stomach felt hollow.

Get a grip,
he told himself.

After a couple of minutes, he took out his BlackBerry. There was a message from Carter Grey—the Counterterrorism Center had picked up a telephone transmission in Syria. An intelligence officer, supposedly on leave, might have helped a truck through a checkpoint. Now the Syrians were looking for him.

Of course, Brooke thought. That was how al Qaeda would get the bomb through Syria. Sitting back, he hoped against hope that the dead he had left behind did not include Ibrahim Farad. He reached the Albergo without knowing.

Taking the elevator to his room, he locked the door and put the FlipDrive in his computer. As Farad had promised, the three Palestinians appeared. Brooke sent the photographs to Langley, then Jameel. In Jameel's message, he requested that Lebanese security check these images against the tapes from Ayn Al-Hilweh. Two more faces consumed his thoughts—Khalid Hassan's, then Ibrahim Farad's.

Close to six, Jameel called him. “We got the photographs,” he said, then briefly paused. “There was a car bombing today in Sidon. A leader of the PLO was killed.”

Brooke touched his eyes. “Ibrahim Farad,” he said softly. “I was there.”

There was silence, Jameel absorbing this. “We need to talk, Adam.”

“Where?”

“Someone will contact you.” Jameel paused again. “My wife and I had planned an evening out. Maybe she'll bring her sister—you will like her.” His tone softened. “We go only to the best places, and only with minders. This is not a celebratory occasion, I know. But we have matters to discuss in person.”

Hanging up, Brooke heard another voice, Ibrahim Farad's.

After all, it was only Khalid who died.

A
t dusk, Al Zaroor and the bomb reached a road near the foothills of the Anti-Lebanon Mountains.

Tersely, he ordered Hussein to cut off the headlights and leave the road. For perhaps a mile they drove slowly along the edge of the hills in failing light, until the only illumination came from an almost full moon. Spotting two large boulders, Al Zaroor told the trucker to stop. Edgy, Azid said, “I must get back soon.”

“We're almost done,” Al Zaroor assured him.

Hurriedly, they got out, clambered into the rear of the truck, and moved aside the crates of machine parts. Al Zaroor felt his apprehension deepen—in a few hours, should the Syrians not hunt him down, he would be clear of this accursed country. Straining, he and his companions laid the coffin-shaped container beside the truck.

He took out his new cell phone and pressed a number. When someone answered, relief coursed through him. He ended the call without speaking.

“One more task,” he told the others.

Together, the three men began bearing the crate away from the truck, Azid in front, Hussein holding up the middle, and Al Zaroor in the rear. The air was still hot; sweat dampened Al Zaroor's skin. He could hear Hussein panting with effort. Under his breath, the man murmured, “After this, I can't wait to see my family.”

“A little farther,” Al Zaroor urged.

In minutes, should the plan hold, his new allies would materialize
from the darkness. As their clan had done for centuries, they would guide him into the mountains, harsh and bleak and rocky, on paths hacked by men as hard as the terrain, as disdainful of Hezbollah as they were of governments or borders. As Hussein and Azid labored in front of him, he visualized the next few moments.

Al Zaroor readied himself. “This is far enough.”

In the shadows of the foothills, the three men lowered the crate to earth, Hussein grunting with effort. Azid faced Al Zaroor.

“You've done a great service,” Al Zaroor told him.

The Syrian nodded. Stiffly, they embraced, and then, with more reluctance, Al Zaroor let the sweaty trucker clasp his shoulders. Wordless, the two men started toward the truck—Hussein to return to his family, Azid to take a separate car, arranged by Al Zaroor, after Hussein dropped him in a nearby town. For the sake of security, they had all agreed, it was essential that they separate.

Treading softly behind them, Al Zaroor took out his gun.

Azid first, he had decided. He squeezed the trigger. The security man stiffened; the shot jerked him upright, and then he toppled to his knees. As though puzzled, Hussein stared down, then saw his new enemy facing him across the fallen officer.