The Devil's Light (25 page)

“Five minutes.”

“I'm putting these in, then.” Kneeling, she slid the dish into her oven. “Both Hezbollah and the Maronites oppose giving the Palestinian refugees citizenship or voting rights because they're predominately Sunni—presumably they'd vote for their Lebanese brothers. Not to mention that Lebanon bars Palestinians from working in the professions, or owning or passing on property, or even attending Lebanese schools. All that intensifies the hatred of Shia among the Palestinians, especially those trapped in that open sewer Ayn Al-Hilweh.” She stopped, asking, “Have I followed the subtle workings of your mind?”

“Bin Laden's mind,” Brooke corrected. “Hezbollah represents everything al Qaeda hates: the Shia, Iran, tawdry deals with the Christians in Lebanon—all impediments to al Qaeda's mystical caliphate. When I was in Iraq at the height of the war, most of al Qaeda's victims weren't Americans, but Shia. Later, when I was in Beirut, Ayman Al Zawahiri declared that Lebanon should be a front line in al Qaeda's war against Israel—”

“Which is why you were so concerned about Fatah al-Islam.”

“Especially because these people can come and go from Ayn Al-Hilweh.” Brooke finished stirring the glaze. “The members of Fatah al-Islam may not be able to vote or hold jobs. But they were capable of trying to kill me in the middle of Beirut, and going anywhere in Lebanon they wanted to. Which our apocryphal Al Zaroor knows very well.”

Terri checked the vegetables. “Didn't Fatah al-Islam fire rockets at Israel from Hezbollah territory in southern Lebanon?”

“Yes, while I was there. Hezbollah was furious—the last thing they need is to lose control of their turf and have al Qaeda incite the Israelis into retaliation. They want to kill Israelis on their own schedule, and for their own reasons.” Brooke spooned the glaze onto two plump pieces of Atlantic salmon. “One of the ironies of my efforts in Beirut is that Hezbollah was pressing Lebanese security to shut down Fatah al-Islam. When Bashir Jameel and I were working against al Qaeda, we were also working for Hezbollah. Lebanon is a hall of mirrors.”

“Lebanon,” Terri noted drily, “is where jihadists go to meet, like conventioneers flock to Miami in winter. Our al Qaeda operative could have slipped in and out any time he wanted.”

Brooke put both pieces of salmon on the grill, closing the lid. “Four minutes,” he told Terri. “There's another aspect to that. The bomb al Qaeda stole has security codes and an altimeter. To use it as intended, they need a pilot willing to undertake a suicide mission. And unless they had someone train one of their own people, they need a Pakistani technician who knows the code, or how to bypass the code. We've been pretzeling ourselves hunting down guys like that in the U.S., or trying to keep them out. But it would be easy for al Qaeda to move them across the Lebanese border. Or into Beirut on a phony passport, like my alter ego Adam Chase.”

Bending to remove the vegetables, Terri looked up at him. “So you think al Qaeda would
fly
the bomb from Lebanon to Tel Aviv?”

“Yes.”

On cable news, a reporter announced the arrest of two Muslim Americans in Seattle.

“Let's serve dinner,” Terri said. “Then tell me how they smuggle the bomb.”

They sat at her kitchen table. With a somewhat dubious look, Terri sampled the salmon. “Well?” Brooke inquired.

“It's good, actually. I wasn't sure when you mixed garlic with honey. A residual prejudice from my Midwestern girlhood—Dad didn't cook.”

“Neither did my mother—she had a guy to do it for her. I learned from him.”

Terri laughed. Then she said, “I'm assuming your path to Lebanon starts in the Gulf.”

Brooke nodded. “I think the bomb went through Baluchistan, like the shipment of heroin I found. But instead of going to Dubai, our operative may have headed for southeastern Iraq. The country is a smuggler's haven: fragmented, corrupt, unstable, and riddled with al Qaeda cells.”

“We
do
have intelligence sources left there,” Terri pointed out.

“Some. But to the average Iraqi, we're another fading imperial power—we came in, screwed up their country, and now we're moving on to the next mess we helped create. If I'm al Qaeda, I figure on getting to Syria undiscovered.”

Terri took a second bite of salmon. “Syria's a police state,” she objected. “They'll seize the bomb, or they'll want to keep this kind of trouble off their doorstep. Either way, al Qaeda would be smart to avoid them.”

“I understand. But Hezbollah smuggles Iranian arms and rockets to Lebanon through Syria, and antiquities from Iraq—”

“Only because Syrian intelligence is complicit. This is different.”

“Suppose al Qaeda recruits an insider who knows how all that works, or has an agent who does. That's what they must have done in Pakistan.”

Terri considered this. “Pakistan is easier,” she replied. “But let's put Syria aside. Your ‘Al Zaroor' is clearly headed for the Bekaa Valley, which is controlled by Hezbollah. You're piling risk on risk.”

Brooke felt a rising urgency—if he could not persuade Terri, he might fail altogether. “Long before Hezbollah existed, the Jefaar smuggling clan
ran contraband through the Anti-Lebanon Mountains into and out of the Bekaa—hashish, guns, antiquities. Even now, Hezbollah doesn't control every inch of territory—”

“But assuming you can smuggle in the bomb, how do you get it to Israel?”

“By private jet from the Bekaa.”

“From an airstrip? Improbable.”

“From anywhere,” Brooke responded. “According to Carter, back in the seventies the Outfit helped foreign arms dealers supply the Maronite militia. They'd fly into the Bekaa at night, land in an open field, trade the guns for hash, and take off in fifteen minutes. Our operative would know that.”

“What about the Mossad? They've got an intelligence network in the Bekaa looking for Hezbollah rocket sites and underground military installations.”

“Less so now. When I was there, Lebanese intelligence—with information from Hezbollah—rolled up a network of informants working for the Mossad. Do you really think those Lebanese didn't give up their Israeli handlers? Mossad's been wounded, including in the valley. Our operative knows that, too.” Brooke put down his fork. “His problem in the Bekaa is Hezbollah. But their presence is also a temptation. Al Qaeda has already launched rockets at Israel from Hezbollah-controlled territory. What would happen if a plane from the Bekaa Valley demolishes Tel Aviv? Especially if Israel—as they undoubtedly would—knows where the plane took off?”

Terri stared at him. “You think they'd attack Iran with nuclear weapons.”

“And Hezbollah, destroying Shia power while setting the stage for Bin Laden's caliphate.”

Terri rested her chin on her palm. “Have you tried this on anyone else?”

“Carter. He didn't challenge my thesis; he simply directed me to get the bomb through Lebanon to Israel. I just did.”

Silent, Terri poured more wine for both of them. At length, she said, “I'll comb our shop for whatever our signals intelligence people might have, or anything strange in Syria or Iraq. But you want something more.”

Brooke hesitated. “Your support.”

“I'd assumed that. But for what?”

“I want to go back to Lebanon.”

Terri sat back, puffing her cheeks before she expelled a breath. “Some people will say this is personal to you. In a word, that you're obsessed.”

Though he was not surprised, Brooke felt stung. “Do you think I am?”

“Honestly? Perhaps. You haven't told me the end of your story—the death of your agent, or the incident that got you pulled out of Beirut.” She paused a moment. “But that doesn't mean you're wrong. If you want my help with Brustein, you've got it.”

O
n the night he was to enter Iraq, Al Zaroor paced the beach on Failaka.

Haj was late. One hour passed, then another, Al Zaroor fearing that his design had been shattered. He felt helpless, despising himself for that. At last, near 2:00
A.M.,
he heard the low thrum of a motor, and wondered if this were enemy or friend. He backed from the sand into the low grass, preparing to hide.

The prow of the motorboat slid to shore, its motor silent. A flashlight traced a circle in the darkness.

Al Zaroor moved forward, his steps feeling heavy in the sand. The form of a man stepped from the boat and, seeing Al Zaroor, came toward him.

“Allahu akbar.”

Haj's voice. Closing the distance, the two men embraced. As he pulled back, the fighter's face was grave. “There's trouble,” he said. “I couldn't risk calling you.”

“What trouble?”

Haj grimaced. “The dummy shipment was intercepted at a checkpoint, by the American fools who search for drugs. Perhaps they were groping in the dark. But your caution may have surfaced an informant.”

Al Zaroor felt the coldness coming over him. “Then you must kill him.”

“I would, if I knew who he was. But I can't say whether he belongs to the truckers or to us. Or even if he exists.” Haj's voice became apologetic.
“This may be an accident, nothing more. But I can no longer assure you of safety.”

Al Zaroor imagined Americans scouring Failaka with their Kuwaiti stooges. Steeling himself, he said, “Have you come here only to report your doubts?”

Haj stood taller. “We know our business, brother. We're working on an alternative.”

“How long?” Al Zaroor snapped.

Briefly, Haj bowed his head. “I ask your patience for two more days.”

Two precious days,
Al Zaroor thought. “So I wait with my package for whatever comes.”

In the half-light, Haj's face had a determined cast. “You will wait for
us,
” he answered. “If anyone dies before then, it will be the person who betrayed us.”

Al Zaroor closed his eyes, schooling himself to patience. His plan had provided for treachery and mischance; that was why he had embedded decoys. “It doesn't matter who else dies,” he said. “I did not come this far to fail.”

Haj looked him in the face. “Nor will we fail you.”

Driving home from dinner with Terri, Brooke watched the rearview mirror. He supposed he always would. But another level of his consciousness slipped further into the past—a winter afternoon in New York City; a warm night in Mexico. Way stations to the life he was leading now.

On a blustery Sunday in March, he had gone with Anit to the Film Forum. The offering was
Point of Order,
the venerable documentary about Joe McCarthy's witch hunt for “traitors” in the army. Anit emerged fascinated by the vulpine persona of Senator McCarthy, bullying and blustering his way through the ruin of his victims' lives until, too late, he was ensnared in his own excess. Emerging from the theater into a bitter, chafing wind, Anit said, “How could such a man wield so much power?”

“Paranoia. The Soviets had stolen the secrets to our atomic bomb. So every Communist sympathizer—real or imagined—became part of this ‘conspiracy.'” Brooke put his arm around her. “Frightened people aren't always discerning about who their enemies are. McCarthy was clever
enough to exploit that, and amoral enough not to care about who got hurt.”

As they walked, Anit burrowed into him, sheltering her face from the weather. They decided to stop at an espresso bar. Safely inside, she conceded, “I'm not built for winter, I guess.”

“Just as well. It's hard to imagine you as a Swede.” Brooke studied the snowflakes spattering the window. “Truth to tell, I suffer from seasonal affective disorder.”

Anit nodded in recognition. “SAD, I've discovered they call it—and no wonder. It's like becoming trapped in an endless Bergman film.”

“True enough. Though some people claim that winter helps them savor spring.”

Anit shrugged. “Do they also need pneumonia to enjoy its absence?”

Smiling, Brooke considered her. “There
is
a solution for us,” he proposed. “A place in Mexico, Cabo San Lucas. It only rains there eleven days a year. So far I've missed them all.”

She gave him an amused, affectionate look. “The charmed life of Brooke Kenyon Chandler. Do you ever run out of ‘places,' I wonder?”

“Not with you, I hope. Why don't we go there?”

“You can just do that,” she said flatly.

He felt slightly embarrassed. “As you say, I'm lucky.”

“I no longer mind,” she assured him. “But it bothers me not to pay my way.”

He took her hand. “Let me do this, Anit. You're what luck is for.”

She smiled at this. “What would we do, I wonder, with all that sun?”

“Use our imaginations. Maybe take some time to talk.”

She seemed to follow his unspoken thoughts. Softly, she asked, “About what?”

“Our lives,” Brooke answered simply.

She loved it. Swiftly, Brooke discovered that Anit Rahal was a nature sensualist—just as endless winter deflated her, sun and warmth and endless ocean exhilarated her. She seemed to shed her cares with the first layer of clothes. Grinning as she ran into the surf, she proclaimed, “I'm a child of the Mediterranean.”

Brooke grabbed her hand. “I think you're a child of the shtetl,” he joked, “haunted by ancestral memories of Russian winters.”

She gave him a sideways look. “Don't forget pogroms,” she said, and dove into the water.

She swam with savage energy, as though she were fleeing her enemies, or bent on winning a race. At that moment Brooke knew that he wanted her for the rest of his life. Right now they had a week.

Brooke had found a casita overlooking the Pacific. In its walled garden was a pool where they could swim without clothes. They ate breakfast and dinner on the porch above, shaded by a palapa made from palm leaves as they watched the first and last sunlight tint the water shades of yellow and aqua. They jogged along the shoreline in midmorning; walked the hills in later afternoon. In between they read and made love and slept naked in the warmth. Anit seemed to devour the days.