The Devil's Light (23 page)

Terri gazed at the winding pathway ahead. “I've seen the photographs. Murdered women with their skirts pulled up. Rows of young men shot in the back. Babies tossed in garbage cans. Boys with their throats slashed and genitals cut off. Hands sticking from mounds of dirt bulldozed over the dead. It made me sick.”

Terri's quiet indignation reminded Brooke of Anit. “Sharon got by with it,” he said. “He succeeded in confining Palestinians to the most squalid refugee camps imaginable, tinderboxes of hatred and despair. Sabra and Shatilah is one; Ayn Al-Hilweh is another. I was working with friends in Lebanese security to clean it up. The work, as you know, was interrupted by Lorber's misjudgment.

“As a consequence, Ayn Al-Hilweh still harbors al Qaeda fighters
who might help an operative like Al Zaroor.” Pausing, Brooke led her to a bench, seeking further shade against the rising heat of midmorning. “That's one of the unintended results from the Lebanese civil war. Another is that the war expanded the vacuum of governmental authority, especially in the Bekaa Valley on Lebanon's border with Syria. The Bekaa became the place where every terrorist and foreign agent who wanted to drive the Israelis out of Lebanon set up shop.”

“Especially the Iranians,” Terri put in. “Once Khomeini came to power, Iranian agents entered the Bekaa, organizing Lebanese Shia into a military force that became Hezbollah, Israel's mortal enemy. Yitzhak Rabin—a man with more foresight than Sharon—said the invasion of Lebanon had let the Shiites out of the bottle, and that replacing the PLO with Hezbollah was the worst thing Israel could have done.” She smiled without humor. “Not only did the Bekaa Valley offer Hezbollah financing in the form of drug and antiquities smuggling, but it was full of young men whose model of martyrdom goes back thirteen hundred years to the murder of Hussein in the seventh century. Hezbollah simply brought the concept up-to-date by inventing the suicide bomber.” Sitting back, she began ticking off the results on her fingers. “The first bomber hit the Israeli military headquarters at Tyre, killing over a hundred people. The second bomber hit the Marine Corps barracks in Beirut. The third killed hundreds of civilians in our embassy.

“From the start, Hezbollah celebrated these guys as heroes. Their children paid no school fees, and the teachers treated them as living symbols of sacrifice. Particularly touching, Hezbollah gave these kids presents on Father's Day.” She stood, restless. “No wonder their martyrs' school for aspiring suicide bombers is such a success. There's even a massive shrine outside Baalbek dedicated to Abbas al-Musawi, Hezbollah's first leader, complete with the burned-out car left when an Israeli rocket incinerated him, his wife, and his four-year-old son. Tasteful.”

“And effective,” Brooke responded. “Hezbollah's the reason our embassy in Beirut is a barbed-wire fortress, and that Lorber never leaves it. Frank's seen the tape of what Hezbollah did to one of his predecessors, William Buckley, before they were kind enough to kill him—”

“There was a
tape
?”

“Sent by Hezbollah to the agency, to impress us with their seriousness.” Brooke paused. “Buckley was a friend of Carter's. It's one reason
that Carter—and a lot of others in the Outfit—hate Hezbollah as much as the Israelis do.”

Terri looked at him somberly. “Have
you
seen the tape?”

Nodding, Brooke pushed away unwelcome images. “Before I was stationed there. But history marches on. Hezbollah's become a state within a state, a political party with a military wing stronger than the Lebanese army. There'll come a time when we're going to have to deal with them. Distasteful or not.”

“That's certainly not our policy.”

Brooke shrugged. “Not now. But once again, the Israelis provided us with a salutary lesson: another invasion in 1996, this time to wipe out Hezbollah. The result was a mass exodus of Shia from the south and the indiscriminate killing of civilians by the IDF, whether by accident or design. The worst was when the IDF shelled Qana, where the UN was sheltering Shia refugees.” Brooke paused a moment. “As a student in Beirut, I interviewed the UN commander there. What he described was a scene from hell: men, women, and children in pieces, arms and legs, heads without bodies, bodies without heads. Two years later, this very tough man's eyes were filled with tears.

“You know the result. Hezbollah survived. Lebanese of all religions were united in their hatred of Israel. The Shia refugees crowded into a section of south Beirut, making it a Hezbollah stronghold. Their militia cemented its hold on the Bekaa and the south. And four years later, Hezbollah launched the guerrilla war that drove the IDF out of Lebanon altogether, making it the dominant force in Israel's northern neighbor.”

For a moment, Terri observed a squirrel looking for nuts. “Israel learned nothing,” she argued, “but Hezbollah learned too little. After Israel withdrew, Hezbollah kept on running raids and kidnappings across the Israeli border.”

Brooke thought of Anit's service in the army. “It's what the Iranians were paying them for and what they ship arms through Syria to facilitate. Hezbollah's founding raison d'être was enmity toward Israel, and extending Iran's power in the Middle East.”

“No doubt,” Terri retorted. “But they pushed it too far. Hezbollah should have gone after constitutional reform. Instead they car-bombed Hariri, the Sunni prime minister. When the UN implicated Hezbollah in Hariri's murder, they had it absolutely right.”

“Lebanon's a murky place,” Brooke cautioned. “Some of my sources think the Syrians killed Hariri, with help from their friends in Lebanese intelligence—”

“
And
Hezbollah,” Terri amended. “My point is that they kept on overstepping—kidnapping Israeli soldiers; murdering Hariri; launching rockets into Israel. What happened in 2006 was a massive IDF reprisal. Strikes on roads and bridges; saturation bombings of Nasrallah's headquarters and the home of the Shia grand ayatollah; hundreds of attacks on targets in Beirut and the Bekaa; destruction of part of the country's electrical grids and fifteen thousand homes; thousands of civilians dead. And what did Israel get for that? The intensified loathing of the Lebanese and the condemnation of the world. And the greatest irony of all—increased prestige and power for Hezbollah and Iran, the heroic resisters of Israeli power. Israel helped Hezbollah profit from its own miscalculation.”

“Which brings us to my thesis,” Brooke replied. “Imagine you're Amer Al Zaroor, or whoever has the bomb. What is it that this man knows about Lebanon?”

Terri rested her elbows on her knees, chin propped on steepled fingers. “Everything we've talked about. The Lebanese government is weak, its intelligence services compromised. The border with Syria is porous. Lebanon is a power base for al Qaeda's Shia enemies. But al Qaeda still has agents among the Palestinians at Ayn Al-Hilweh, whose hatred of Israel goes back to its founding. And Lebanon is the closest state to Israel.”

“All true,” Brooke said. “But there's more.”

Terri looked at her watch. “I'm late for a meeting. But you've got my interest, okay? Come to my place for dinner tonight. If you tell me what happened to you in Lebanon, we can talk about the rest.”

“I'll bring the wine,” Brooke told her.

T
erri Young lived in a comfortable apartment on Capitol Hill, suitable to her cover as an environmental lobbyist. Sitting with a glass of sauvignon blanc, Brooke took in his surroundings—a comfortable couch and chairs, two striking prints of ballet dancers, a shelf of books about the Middle East mixed with fiction by writers such as Lorrie Moore, Zoe Heller, and Hillary Mantel, and, amusingly, a football signed by players from the Indianapolis Colts.

Then he turned his attention to Terri herself, sitting cross-legged at the other end of the couch—fresh-faced and pretty, with a keen sense of humor and a sharp, retentive mind. To be alone with any woman inevitably raised for Brooke the question of attraction, with all its mysteries and paradoxes. He had been drawn to Anit before they had said a word; chemistry at a distance, an immediate reaction to how she looked and spoke. What Terri inspired in him was more gentle and benign—a genuine liking largely free of desire. Perhaps it was the incest taboo, the respect and courtesy due a talented woman with whom he worked. If so, in some ways that was too bad. Often men and women in the agency, weary of lying about a job they could not explain, married other agents, bonded by the secret world they shared. Idly, Brooke wondered if it were possible to genetically engineer children for a life of duplicity.

“You were going to tell me about Lebanon,” Terri reminded him.

Brooke felt the tug of resistance. “It's the proverbial long story. Maybe I should start with the beginning, and stop with the beginning of the end.”

Terri's half smile came with a probing look that searched his face for clues. “It
is
your story, after all. But I'm curious about what happened with Lorber.”

Brooke took a sip of wine, and began to explain the life he had led in Lebanon.

He had been Adam Chase then, a junior member in a politically connected consulting firm that counseled American firms doing business abroad. Like Brooke, Chase's expertise was in the Middle East, and he spoke fluent Arabic. This new identity—what the agency called nonofficial cover—allowed Brooke freedom of movement, the chance to apply a sophisticated knowledge of Lebanon at ground level, and access to widening circles of Lebanese. All Brooke had to do was become someone else.

Adam Chase was charming, with an approachability and ease of manner that drew men and women alike. He entertained businessmen and officials, learning about the Byzantine politics of Lebanon on behalf of fictitious clients. Though headquarters did not like this much, he slept with Lebanese women—for information, for cover, and sometimes for companionship. He got to know customs officers, the owners of nightclubs and restaurants, and financiers of all religions—supporters of Hezbollah, or the Hariri family, or the retired general who led the Maronites, or the subtle and clever survivor whose family had overseen the Druze for centuries. He passed out whisky on holidays, for those who drank alcohol, or gifts for wives or children. Sometimes he paid for information; after all, his powerful clients needed it.

Brooke told no one whom he worked for. No doubt Bashir Jameel, the Maronite intelligence officer with whom Adam Chase had cultivated a relationship of cautious trust, understood what—if not who—Adam was. But to the extent possible, Brooke avoided the American embassy.

He had good reason. In 1983, a suicide bomber directed by Imad Moughniyeh of Hezbollah had driven a pickup truck into the lobby of the former embassy. The center of the seven-story building had lifted hundreds of feet into the air, then collapsed in a cloud of dust, rubble, paper, and body parts. Sixty-three people had died, including six from the agency. One was an intelligence officer from the Near East Division
who had stopped in for a visit; his hand was later found floating in the Mediterranean, wedding ring still on his finger. The grim coda to this tragedy was the torture and death of William Buckley, taped for the agency as Hezbollah's gift.

But danger was not why Brooke shunned the embassy—it was what the State Department had done to avert danger. The new location was a virtual prison: Sequestered on a hill in the outskirts of Beirut, it was an enormous compound protected by armed guards, razor wire, iron fences, fortified bunkers, machine-gun positions, and rocket screens. The embassy itself had foot-thick steel walls and every security device available. Beyond that was what Brooke thought of as “mini-America”—elaborate recreational facilities, an outdoor basketball court, and housing one might find in a suburban complex. At the entrance was a reminder of why the inhabitants were confined there—a marble memorial engraved with the names of those who had died, with the inscription “They came in peace.”

Now they came as prisoners. The prevailing rule was that officials rarely left the compound, and only in reinforced cars with armed guards. The ambassador rated a twelve-car convoy, led by an armored SUV containing a shooter who manned a .50-caliber machine gun. No movements were spontaneous; no one left without permission. If Moughniyeh's purpose had been to confine American officials to a few square miles, he had succeeded brilliantly. The embassy was no place for spies.

Yet that was how most field agents functioned. Under “official cover” as members of the State Department, they worked two jobs, one of which was clandestine. Thus their work oscillated between the boring and routine and the surreptitious and sometimes dangerous. But the straitjacket of official cover in Beirut sharply limited the opportunities for stealth. What remained, in Brooke's estimate, was the dregs of fieldwork—trying to recruit foreign nationals at diplomatic receptions. And Brooke saw no good in being spotted at the embassy too much, whether by outsiders or by those who worked there. His mission, and perhaps his life, depended on it.

Then there was the station chief himself, Frank Lorber. That this supposed master of espionage did not know that his wife was sleeping around—including with Adam Chase, if she could have managed it—was the least of it. Lorber affected the sleek manner of a diplomat:
well-trimmed silver hair, tailored pinstripe suits, wing tips polished to a sheen. But Brooke sized him up as a bean counter, a man who took small chances for petty gains, mortally afraid that one of his agents might provoke an embarrassing incident by actually doing his job. Carter Grey's assessment was succinct: “At least in Beirut that asshole is off the streets.”

Lorber liked Brooke no better. Unavoidably, Lorber knew who Adam Chase was; the station chief was Brooke's nominal boss. But Brooke told Lorber almost nothing about what he was doing, or where he went. In Lorber's mind, Brooke was a cowboy, Grey's reckless clone. He could not wait for Adam Chase to leave Beirut.