The Solomon Effect (21 page)

Washington, D.C.: Wednesday 28 October
6:05
P.M.
local time

As far as Gerald T. Boyd was concerned, remote viewing belonged
in the same category as sun signs and chakras and all the other New Age nonsense embraced by the credulous fools of the world. He knew about the Army’s decades-long flirtation with the phenomenon, and had always found it a source of profound professional embarrassment. So it was with a sense of anger mingled with disgust that he settled at the desk of his room at the Willard that evening and spread the report on Ensign Guinness’s “viewing” session across the leather blotter.

It’s some kind of a fraud,
he thought. No one could “see” images with only their minds. Someone had obviously leaked the location of the
Yalena
and its illicit cargo. The problem was, who? Baklanov? Rodriguez?

Impossible.

As he flipped through the pages, anger bled slowly into disquiet and, ultimately, into doubt. Pushing up from the
desk, he paced the room, his mind testing and rejecting one hypothetical explanation after the other. He poured himself a glass of Jack Daniel’s and drank it down in one long pull. Then he splashed another two inches into the bottom of his glass and went to flip open his laptop.

The convictions of a lifetime are not easily overturned. But as he worked his way through the publicly available literature and then on to the material that was still classified, he found himself eventually confronted with more evidence than he could deny. In the end, he was inclined to agree with the general who’d once said that if you didn’t believe in remote viewing, you hadn’t done your homework.

Whether October Guinness’s ability was a gift from God or the devil, it was not Boyd’s place to judge. He knew only one thing: the woman was dangerous, and she needed to be located and eliminated.

Quickly.

Bremen, Germany: Thursday 29 October
12:10
A.M.
local time

They went for a walk along the Weser River, where a wide paved path ran between the embankment and a looming stone wall that protected the red brick buildings above from floods.

“So who is Azzam Badr al’ Din?” October asked, huddling deep in her jacket. A cold wind was blowing in off the North Sea, fluttering her hair around her face and bringing a rosy glow to her cheeks.

“A Druze gunrunner,” said Jax.

She glanced over at him. “A what?”

“A Druze. It’s a kind of offshoot of Islam, with a heavy influence from Gnosticism and neo-Platonism thrown in.
Most of the Druze live in Lebanon and Syria, although there are about a hundred thousand of them within the borders of pre-1967 Israel, with maybe another twenty thousand in the Occupied Territories and Jordan. Sometimes they side with other Muslims, but they’ve been known to form alliances with the Maronite Christians and the Israelis, too.”

“So who does Badr al’Din sell his guns to?”

“Basically, anyone who can afford them. As far as Azzam is concerned, if you’ve got a Swiss bank account, then you’re in business. He doesn’t care where your money comes from, just as long as it converts.”

“And how exactly do you and Andrei know this guy?”

“I’m not sure about Andrei. But I first ran into Azzam in the Horn of Africa. He was selling guns to my people, and to Andrei’s people, and cheating both of us.”

She walked along in silence for a moment, her hands thrust into her pockets. “You think he’s the one who hit the
Yalena
and set the U-boat to explode?”

Jax shook his head. “Azzam Badr al’Din is a liar and a cheat, but I’ve never known him to have blood directly on his hands. Don’t get me wrong—I’m sure he’s caused the deaths of tens of thousands of people, indirectly. But what we saw on the
Yalena
…That isn’t his style.”

“So what is his part in all this?”

“I don’t know.” Jax reached for his phone. “But I intend to find out.”

She watched him. “You know Badr al’Din’s phone number, too?”

Jax paused at the edge of the stone embankment leading down to the river. “No. I’m calling Matt. It’s not going to be easy, setting up a meeting with this guy.”

She tilted back her head, her breath showing white in the cold as she stared up at the pointed spires of the cathedral,
thrusting tall above the roofs of the ancient buildings lining the quay. “Let me guess; we’re going to Lebanon.”

He grinned. “If I remember correctly, you wanted to go to Lebanon when we left Russia.”

She sighed. “At least I get to sleep in a bed tonight.”

Jax glanced at his watch. “If you hurry.”

Matt called back about an hour later.

“I got a fix on your Azzam Badr al’Din,” said Matt. “He’s in the Chouf region of Lebanon. You’re booked on the six
A.M.
Lufthansa flight from Bremen to Beirut.”

Jax glanced over at Tobie, who had fallen asleep, still dressed, on top of the covers. “How do I contact him?”

“We’re working on that. We should have something by the time you land in Beirut.”

“How many people know we’re going to Lebanon?”

“The usual channels. But don’t worry. I told the station people at the embassy there to give you a wide berth.”

“I was thinking more about the file photo my friend in Berlin was carrying.”

“Ah.” Matt blew out his breath in a long sigh. “We’re still trying to get a fix on that. Whoever’s accessing your file is good, Jax. We can’t trace them.”

“What is it you’re saying? That they’ve done it again?”

“About half an hour ago. Your file, and October’s, too.”

Beirut, Lebanon: Thursday 29 October 1:15
P.M.
local time

By one o’clock that afternoon, Jax and Tobie were in Beirut,
standing in front of a seedy falafel stand known as Chez Mahmoud. A fierce Mediterranean sun flooded the narrow street with golden waves of dusty heat as a steady stream of sleek Mercedes, honking Fiats, and diesel-belching trucks thundered past.

“He’s late,” said Tobie, glancing at her watch. They had been told to wait here, in South Beirut. Azzam Badr al’Din would contact them.

Jax gave a soft laugh. “Of course he’s late. This is Beirut, not Berlin.”

Tobie’s gaze drifted to the bullet-pocked walls of the buildings around them. Once, Beirut had been called the Paris of the Middle East, back in the days when Lebanon had been held up as a shining example of how people of different religions could coexist peacefully for centuries. Then came the creation of Israel in 1948, and hundreds of thousands of Christian and Sunni Muslim Palestinians poured across the border to escape
the fighting. The delicate balance teetered. Collapsed. By the 1970s, Lebanon had descended into a brutal civil war that killed tens of thousands; repeated Israeli invasions and bombing raids killed tens of thousands more. Now, in the wealthier areas along the Corniche, rebuilding efforts were once again underway. But here, in the poorer sections, debris and bomb-shattered buildings were everywhere.

“What is it?” she asked, as she watched Jax’s eyes narrow.

“The tan Range Rover. See it?”

She saw it. Swooping in close to the curb, the driver hit the brakes. The SUV skidded to a halt; two men toting Skorpion machine pistols spilled out of the car.

“Shit,” she whispered, taking an involuntary step back.

One of the men was big and brawny, maybe mid-thirties, his complexion olive, his hair dark and wavy. His companion was both younger and fairer, no more than a boy, with green eyes and a wide smile. He held the muzzle of his machine pistol against Jax’s cheek and said in rapid Arabic, “Get in the car, please.”

They got in the car. The brawny, olive-skinned guy took the seat next to the driver, while his younger companion squeezed into the back with Jax and Tobie.

Jax, she had discovered, spoke fluent Arabic. He said, “No blindfold?”

The boy beside them laughed. “You’ve been watching too many Hollywood movies. Everyone in Beirut knows where Dr. Badr al’Din lives.”

Tobie whispered to Jax, “Doctor?”

“He has a Ph.D. in psychology. From Berkeley.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

They took off in a swirl of dust. It occurred to her, looking back, that no one on that crowded street seemed at all shocked or disturbed by what had just happened. The guy in the falafel stand hadn’t even looked up.

They headed south, past the sports stadium, past a squalid ghetto of tiny shacks built of concrete blocks hideously crowded together. As she stared at the grim, crooked alleyways lined with wretched half built, half destroyed houses crisscrossed by sagging lines of tattered wash that drooped in the dusty heat, she realized what she was looking at. A refugee camp.

“That’s Sabra and Shatila,” said the boy, following her gaze.

For some reason she couldn’t explain, she felt a brush of cold air against her cheek, like the whisper of an unseen, unhappy ghost that was there, then gone.

She was glad when they broke free of the city, passing through olive groves and scattered villages of whitewashed houses with flat roofs and shutters rolled down against the heat of the day. The sea was a swath of vivid sparkling blue on their right. Then the road they followed swung toward the mountains, and thick stands of sweet-smelling cedars rose up beside them until the sea only appeared in surprising glimpses when they rounded a bend or crested a ridge. The driver punched a CD into the stereo, and the wail of a popular Lebanese singer filled the car.

Gradually, the road narrowed, deteriorated. Chickens scratched at the rocky soil beneath scented orange groves; goats lifted their heads to watch as the dusty Range Rover roared past. They were stopped at one checkpoint, then another. Looking ahead, Tobie saw a fortresslike compound rising above them.

With its high stone walls and massive corner guard towers, the compound reminded her of the castle of some medieval robber baron. Only, instead of being surrounded by a moat, this fortress rose from amidst rolling fields of some leafy green crop she couldn’t identify, and the guards in the towers had heavy 50 caliber machine guns. She had no doubt that
the men standing on the roof of the tall sandstone house in the center of the complex had Stinger missiles.

Waved through by the guards at the gate, the Range Rover swept into a courtyard softened by hanging vines of bougainvillea and sweetly scented jasmine. Two men in fatigues reached out to yank open the car doors.

Stiff from the long, cramped ride, Tobie clambered out.

“
Marhabah.
Welcome to my home.”

She turned to see a man somewhere in his late thirties or early forties descending the shallow stone steps from the house’s broad veranda. He was slim and fit, with an open tanned face and a rapidly receding hairline. He was also, she realized, quite short—probably no more than five-four or–five.

“Jax, my dear old friend,” said Azzam Badr al’Din, engulfing Jax in a fond embrace. “It’s been too long.”

“If I remember correctly, the last time we met, you said if you ever saw me again you’d shoot my balls off.”

Azzam took a step back. “I said that?”

“You did.”

Assam laughed and threw a questioning glance toward Tobie.

Jax said, “This is Ensign Guinness.”

Azzam’s eyebrows rose at the “Ensign,” but he shook her hand in warm welcome and said, “I hope you don’t believe everything he’s told you about me.”

“How much of it should I believe?”

Azzam laughed again. “No more than half.” He spread one arm wide in an expansive gesture toward the house. “This way, please.”

“Let me do the talking,” Jax whispered to Tobie as they followed the arms dealer around the house, to a broad, stone-flagged veranda shaded by a grapevine-draped pergola.

For once, she wasn’t inclined to argue. This guy was seriously intimidating.

Azzam said, “Please, sit. You’ll have tea?”

A slim brown boy of maybe twelve appeared from the house bearing a tray with tea and flatbread and a yoghurt-and-cucumber dip. The drinking of either mint tea or a vile, thick Turkish coffee was an inescapable part of any social or business interaction in the Middle East. At least it wasn’t vodka, Tobie thought as they seated themselves on a set of rattan chairs with floral cushions.

“So,” said Azzam when the tea had been served and the boy withdrew. “What is so important that you’d risk having your balls shot off by coming here?”

Jax tore off a piece of flatbread and dipped it in the yoghurt sauce. “A Nazi U-boat.”

Azzam gave one of his sharp laughs. “What do I know of Nazi submarines?”

“Just one sub. An XI-B Type that went down off the coast of Denmark near the end of the war. A Russian by the name of Jasha Baklanov talked to you about selling part of its cargo.”

Azzam took a slow sip of his tea and said nothing.

Jax said, “I know he came to you.”

Azzam held his cup with both hands. He was still faintly smiling, but his eyes were hard and bright. “What is your interest in Jasha?”

“Jasha is dead. His entire crew was massacred five days ago and the U-boat destroyed.”

“Surely you don’t think I’m responsible?”

“No. The way I see it, Jasha was planning to double-cross the men who hired him and sell the sub’s cargo through you. That’s why they killed him.”

“So, what is it you think I can tell you?”

“I want to know who hired him.”

Azzam leaned back in his chair. “That, I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“There are certain kinds of information men like Jasha keep to themselves. You know that.”

“So tell me about the cargo.”

Azzam’s smile widened into something less than pleasant. “You of all people should know I don’t give anything away, Jax.”

“Not even for old times’ sake?”

“Especially not for old times’ sake.”

Jax tore off another piece of bread and chewed it slowly. “Jasha was planning to sell the U-boat to a Turkish shipbreaker by the name of Kemal Erkan. Erkan is dead, too.”

“If you mean to imply that I myself might somehow be in danger, I suggest you take a look around. Everyone from the Israelis to the Phalangists and Hezbollah have been trying to get me for years. I’m not an easy man to kill, Jax.”

At this rate, thought Tobie, they were going to be here all week. She set aside her teacup with an impatient clatter. “How about a trade?” she said. “You give us what we want, and we give you something you want.”

Both men turned to stare at her: a female interrupting a time-honored demonstration of macho strut. She was aware of Jax giving her a warning frown. She ignored him.

Badr al’Din shifted in his seat. She was an unknown quantity, and he wasn’t sure where she was going with this. He said, “What are you offering?”

“The information we need really isn’t important to you, is it? The only reason you’re not telling Jax what we want to know is because you need to feel like you’re getting the best of him.”

Azzam let out a surprised bark of laughter. “Now that’s a novel approach.” He leaned forward. “I tell you what, Ensign. I’ll give you what I know, as a gift. But at some time in the future, you”—he pointed to Tobie—“will owe me a favor.”

There was no accompanying leer to suggest any kind of sexual innuendo. She said, “It’s a deal.”

The Druze sat back, his elbows propped on the wide arms of his chair, his hands folded before him. “All right. What do you want to know?”

It was Jax who answered. “We want to know exactly what Jasha told you.”

A hot breeze ruffled the vine leaves overhead and brought them the scent of garlic sizzling in olive oil. Azzam chose his words carefully. “He said he had an item for sale—an item that would be of great interest to an enemy of Israel.”

“He didn’t say what it was?”

Azzam shook his head. “He wanted me to arrange a direct meeting with a potential buyer.”

“With you earning your usual finder’s fee?”

“Of course.”

“And did you find a buyer?”

“I arranged a meeting, but the buyer wasn’t interested.”

“Who was it?”

“That, I can’t give you. But I can ask this individual if he’s willing to talk to you. If he is, he’ll contact you.”

The Druze pushed to his feet. The interview was over. “My men will drive you back to Beirut. Get a room at Hotel Offredi, near the stadium.”

“And?” said Tobie.

“And wait.”