The Devil's Light (42 page)

Anit stared at him. “There's an alternative,” she said more evenly. “Without involving us, our governments can leak their suspicions to Iran. Hezbollah will search for the bomb; our satellites will watch them from the sky. Then we can step in.”

“With what? You can't start bombing a nuclear weapon. Nor can you send enough commandos to snatch it. Hezbollah would slaughter them. And there's also the time all this would take.” Sliding off the hood, Brooke stood in front of her. “Right now you've got two risks—that al Qaeda drops the bomb in days or hours, or that Hezbollah steals it. The alternative is going to Hezbollah ourselves.”

Anit folded her arms. “Is this where I tell them, ‘Keep me if you like, but please don't keep the bomb'?”

“This shouldn't involve you,” Brooke answered. “Instead our governments will warn Hezbollah that taking the bomb carries too high a price.”

“Such as?”

“Why spell it out? Hezbollah knows we're using drones to kill the leaders of al Qaeda. And the Iranians know, as my agency does, that Israel has three nuclear submarines parked off their coast.” Brooke paused, then asked with quiet force, “Why didn't Hezbollah seek revenge when the Mossad blew Imad Moughniyeh into pieces in Damascus? It isn't like Nasrallah doesn't know who did it.”

Anit smiled faintly. “Maybe it was the Syrians—one hears they didn't like him. After all, they car-bombed Rafik Hariri.”

“With help from Hezbollah,” Brooke cut in. “Be serious, Anit.”

She shoved her hands in her pockets. “What do you want from me?”

“For the moment, two things. First, that you survive this. Second, the names of Hezbollah's political and military leaders in the valley.”

Anit regarded him. “So this Shia friend of yours—the man who knows everyone—could help you approach them.”

“With the approval of our governments. I've asked mine not to think too long.”

“Then we both have people to talk with, don't we.” Her voice flattened. “I should go back to the dig. I've got an identity to reassume, for whatever that's still worth.”

Anit opened the door of her jeep. Pausing, she looked back over her shoulder. “Please try to stay alive, Brooke. I worry about leaving you alone.”

Brooke took Grey's elephant from his pocket and held it out in his palm. “I'm never alone,” he answered. “I have this lucky charm from a friend.”

Anit eyed it quizzically. “Did it keep your friend alive?”

“Barely.”

For a last moment, she looked at him. Then she got into the jeep and drove away.

Al Zaroor sat at the mouth of the cave, gazing out at the valley.

The Palestinian Hamzi had not called. Perhaps he was still waiting for his chance. More likely, he was dead, or a prisoner of Hezbollah. In the first case, this agent from the CIA would now be certain of his instincts;
in the second, Hezbollah might find this cave. Even men as remorseless as the Palestinian sometimes faltered in the face of torture—they knew too well what to expect. Sometimes they even told the truth.

Behind him, Al Zaroor heard the others, talking quietly among themselves.

Where was his mistake? he wondered. His thoughts kept fixing on the two dead Syrians; crossing Syria had always been the weak link in his plan. But he had little choice, he told himself, and less time to wonder.

Glancing around, Al Zaroor used a ghost phone to call a man in Belgium. The man answered on a phone reserved for such a call. In a light, nervous voice, he said, “What is it, Uncle?”

“Your aunt is very sick. Can you visit before Sunday?”

“That is sooner than I was planning. Already it is Friday.”

“Yes. But she may not last until then.”

The man was silent. He understood that there was a problem, but could not ask what it was. He knew only that the hour of his death was coming sooner. “Perhaps Saturday evening,” he said at last.

“God will reward you for it,” Al Zaroor answered softly.

In midmorning, Brooke drove into the hills alone. As he did, he saw vultures circling over a field, and knew they had found the Palestinian. A reminder that his own fate was enveloping him.

Fareed waited in his shaded garden. “What happened to your neck?” he asked.

“A shaving accident,” Brooke answered in his blandest tone. “Embarrassing.”

Waving Brooke to a chair, Fareed regarded him amiably. In Brooke's previous time as Adam Chase, Fareed had been an entertaining friend and, on occasion, an informal access agent—it was less that he always knew some secret than that he often knew who did. He had lived in the valley all his life, and his extended family of a thousand people was spread over four generations. From an early age, Fareed had learned to navigate sectarian tensions with skill; as a journalist, unlike some men of his culture, he knew when to get to the point. After a moment, he said, “I don't see you for two years, and now you're desperate for my company. Should I be flattered?”

“Complimented. I have urgent business, and only you can help me.”

“Business with whom?”

“The men who run this valley.”

Fareed's face darkened. “These are not the kind of men who have offices, or announce their role to others—even to me. Do you have names?”

“I'm working on that.”

Fareed raised his eyebrows. “Strange work for a business consultant. What interest do these men hold for you?”

“We have mutual interests. Should my home office authorize a visit, they will find themselves grateful.”

Fareed appraised him. Neither man had mentioned Hezbollah, nor had Brooke stepped outside his cover. But Fareed no longer doubted, if he ever had, who Brooke worked for. “Whomever you may want to see,” he said at length, “I know them well.”

This was as Brooke suspected. “And you would recommend me?”

Fareed took a long sip of coffee. “My old friend Adam Chase?” he answered sardonically. “What harm in introducing him to a few old schoolmates.” He waved a hand. “But go, please. There will be other times to catch up. It seems you're in a rush.”

Moments later, Brooke was driving back toward Baalbek when his cell phone buzzed. “I've been to the powers that be,” Brustein told him.

The White House, this could only mean, as well as the Israelis. “What did they decide?” Brooke asked.

“It's delicate,” Brustein answered. “We've sent someone to see you.”

T
hree hours later, Brooke arrived at a medieval monastery in the hills north of Beirut. Given the speed at which he had driven and his disregard for safety, he was certain no one had followed him.

Stepping into the crisp mountain air, Brooke gazed out at the Mediterranean, struck once more by the contrasts of this compelling but dangerous country. Through the windows of a shadowy chapel, he heard male voices chanting in a haunting Latinate cadence. Below were groves of cedars and quadrants of rich farmland. There was no sense of Islam here; this was a place for Christians. The Bekaa seemed distant, every hour precious. Brooke wondered what message from Langley must be delivered only in person, and by whom.

He went inside. In a small room lit by candles lay the tomb of a local saint, Charbel Makhlouf, revered by Maronites as a source of miracles. A half century after his death, the devout had opened his tomb and found his body uncorrupted, cementing his reputation. As Brooke approached the tomb, a familiar voice remarked, “They say this man performs wonders from the grave. Do you think he could find the bomb?”

Turning, Brooke saw Carter Grey sitting on a stone bench, back held stiffly. “Not in the Bekaa,” Brooke answered.

“Then there's no point in keeping him company. Let's go outside.”

Grey stood, then walked with halting steps into an open courtyard. He rested his elbows on a low stone wall, easing the pressure on his spine, and pretended to admire the blue of the Mediterranean through the cedars. Brooke joined him, saying, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I'm all that Langley could spare. Everyone else is preparing for Sunday's annihilation of Washington.”

The answer was, Brooke understood, accurate but incomplete. “So they're still on that,” he said.

Grey gave his familiar grunt. “How could they not be? The president has decided not to evacuate—it would spread mass panic and elevate al Qaeda to new heights. So everyone is moving heaven and earth to track the bomb.”

“Have you told them it's in the Bekaa Valley?”

“We've told them what you think. The White House can't afford to believe it. That leaves Brustein and me.”

Brooke felt himself tense. “What about enlisting Hezbollah?”

“The Mossad doesn't like it—they're obsessed with Hezbollah, and think you'll compromise their agent. It also bothers them that you used to sleep with her—”

“Too bad. I only wish I'd had more foresight.”

Softly, Grey asked, “How are you doing with that?”

“Can I stop caring for her? No. But that's not what matters now. Are the Israelis that confident al Qaeda can't detonate this bomb over Tel Aviv?”

“I'm not sure. Let's say they're considering their military options.”

“They have none. Their only option, if it is one, is to track Hezbollah and me while we're looking. If we find the bomb, then they can try to send in a strike force.”

In profile, Grey's seamed face was haggard. “In which case, you'll be as expendable as Hezbollah. Bombs, rockets, and bullets don't discriminate.”

“Not to mention that I'd have to wear a tracking device, or use a cell phone to communicate where I am.” Brooke kept gazing at the water. “Hezbollah may decide to kill me before the Israelis get their chance, just to keep me from functioning as a human GPS.”

Grey turned to him. “Speaking for the agency, the thought you'll wind up dead troubles us a bit. Alex Coll is less sentimental. His concerns are legal and political—”

“Let me guess,” Brooke cut in. “A congressional hearing to investigate why I handed the Iranians a bomb. Laws are invoked; headlines blossom; Rush Limbaugh hyperventilates. Heads roll, including Coll's. Far more important to me, the Outfit gets the shaft. Does that about cover it?”

Grey took out a cigarette but did not light it. “For you to approach a designated terrorist organization violates all sorts of laws. That it's Hezbollah makes it worse. It isn't just that they murdered Buckley, blew up our embassy, and slaughtered our marines. People like Coll believe that Hezbollah is a bigger long-term threat to Israel and American interests than al Qaeda ever will be—”

“If al Qaeda destroys Tel Aviv,” Brooke snapped, “they'll be pondering the future of a nuclear desert.”

“They know that. But they're stymied trying to figure out the angles. If all we have is forty-eight hours, they can't change the law, or insulate themselves by approaching Hezbollah through intermediaries like the Germans.”

Brooke felt anger overtaking him. “Who's making the call on this, for Godsakes?”

Grey regarded him with a bleak half smile. “The president of the United States and the prime minister of Israel. Or no one.”

Brooke stared at Grey. “That's what you've come to tell me, isn't it? No one has decided that I can't talk to Hezbollah. And no one will tell me that I can.”

Grey lit the cigarette, taking a deep drag. At length, he said, “If you go off the books and deal with Hezbollah, you assume the risk. If anything goes wrong—anything at all—it's not just your career. You could be prosecuted for violating American law. Assuming, as you say, that Hezbollah or al Qaeda doesn't kill you.”

Though Brooke had expected this, to hear it stated baldly jarred him. “What would you do, Carter?”

Grey's eyes narrowed. Brooke could not tell whether this reflected his question or the pain that, at odd moments, shot through Grey's body like a current. “What it comes down to, in the end, is whom you answer to—other people or your own sense of what's right. I learned that early on. There were times when my personal compass led me off the books. I knew the risks, and chose to live with them.” Facing Brooke, he softly added, “That's why Noah sent me. He knew that you'd ask me, and he knew what I'd say. Part of me wishes that we both aren't who we are.”

At once, Brooke understood—it had been easier for Carter to take chances for himself than sanction the chances Brooke might take. “But we are,” Brooke said simply.

Slowly, Grey nodded. “Still got that elephant?” he asked.

“Of course. It saved my life in Baalbek.”

“With the help of an Israeli woman who wields a wicked pen. She must be quite remarkable.”

“She always was. But now she's very different.”

“She's a deep-cover agent, Brooke. You know what that does. At some point the person they once were slips beyond anyone's reach—including their own.” He paused again. “I guess that hasn't happened yet. Instead of following you that night, she could have driven away. The Israelis know that, too.”

Feeling the divide in his soul, Brooke could say nothing. “Keep the elephant,” Grey advised. “With luck, Ms. Mossad won't give you the names you need. Then you might survive this.”

Brooke placed a hand on Grey's shoulder. “Thanks for coming,” he told his friend. “It matters that the message came from you.”

Restless, Anit prowled the site at Anjar while the others sought shelter from midafternoon sun. She felt time slipping away in the arc of its decline. Before this, these ruins had made her feel the expanse of history, the slow passage of years and decades. Now she imagined Tel Aviv in ashes.

She ached to call her parents, or her friends. But they were Anit Rahal's friends, and she was Laura Reynolds. The only person she could talk to was someone who might die. Laura could not care for him too much.