The Devil's Light (41 page)

Anit turned away. In a monotone she said, “I'll report what you said about Hezbollah. Then they'll tell me what to do.”

Their conversation was done. After tonight, Brooke realized, he might never see her again.

Silent, they walked through the ruins toward the exit. A guard opened the metal door. Together, they headed down the dirt road, deserted at night, which wound to the outskirts of town.

Anit's jeep was parked by the road. “Can I give you a ride?” she asked.

“No. If anyone is watching me, best we split up here.”

Anit nodded. But instead of getting into the car, she stared down, hands shoved in her pockets. Gently, Brooke cupped her chin, raising her head so that she looked into his eyes. “One last time,” he said.

She did not answer, or turn away. When Brooke kissed her, she pressed her body into his. Then she pulled back abruptly, sudden tears glistening in her eyes.

“Who just kissed me?” Brooke asked softly.

“Anit Rahal.” Swiftly, she turned away and got into her car.

W
alking down the darkened road, Brooke was acutely aware of his solitude. The terrain surrounding him was open; the distance to the outskirts of Baalbek—perhaps one hundred yards—too great to cover swiftly. A sniper with a rifle and night vision goggles could shoot him; enemies in cars could snatch him off the road. The only factor in his favor was that Baalbek, by its nature, would not be crawling with operatives from al Qaeda. But for his fears for her, he should have accepted Anit's offer of a ride.

Brooke kept moving—looking to each side, listening for sounds behind him. Seventy-five yards left, he calculated.

The piping notes of Arabic music issued faintly from the town. Aware that his hearing was compromised, he stopped near a grove of trees, trying to listen more intently. Then he heard the footsteps on the gravel, and knew too late that this was a mistake.

Before he could react, he felt the wire around his throat, the pressure of a strong body against his back as the wire twisted tighter. He tried crying out and could not. So this is how I'll die, he thought—unable to breathe, starbursts in his eyes, wire slicing his skin. A weak gurgle issued from his larynx.

He felt the attacker flinch, then heard him gasp. Gagging, Brooke wrenched himself free and turned to face his assassin.

The Palestinian's eyes were wide. From behind him, a hand had jammed a pen into the man's windpipe; a slender arm wrenched his torso backward as the palm bracing the pen shoved it deeper still. Over the
Palestinian's shoulder, Brooke saw Anit, her eyes slits of effort and concentration as the pen punctured her victim's spine.

The man sank to his knees, unable to take a breath, all muscle control lost. Strangling in his own blood, he stared up into Brooke's face like a supplicant seeking absolution. As Brooke's vision cleared, an image flashed before him—a man jumping from a car to block an alley in Beirut. The same man pitched forward at his feet.

In a taut voice, Anit said, “Have you never seen a corpse before?”

Inhaling, he stared at her across the body. “Not one you've killed.”

“Neither have I.”

She was breathing hard now, a shiver running through her. “We need to get rid of him,” she snapped. “Drag him behind those trees.”

Brooke grabbed the dead man's feet. As she ran to the car, Anit's footsteps faded in the night.

Brooke lay the man in the grove, then hid behind a tree. Moments later, he saw Anit's jeep, headlights off. She stopped, leaping out to open the trunk. Hoisting the corpse's deadweight, Brooke stumbled to the car and threw the body inside. The man's skull thudded against the trunk.

Slamming it shut, Anit said, “Get in.”

He was barely in the passenger seat before she gunned the engine. Leaving the dirt road, they drove along the outskirts of the city, Brooke watching for anyone who followed. “I know this man,” he said. “He's Fatah al-Islam, from Ayn Al-Hilweh.”

“Then he died like a fool,” Anit said curtly. “Now we're sure they're here, and want you dead. He's enhanced your credibility.”

And strengthened Hezbollah's hand,
she must know. Brooke could feel the welt across his throat. Softly, he told her, “You saved my life.”

“I'm aware of that.” Anit paused, then said in a lower voice, “I was worried, so I decided to follow you. Are you always that careless?”

“No.”

“Then you should keep your mind on work.”

From her arid tone, he could not tell if she were serious or using black humor to stave off horror. They drove in silence into the darkness of the valley, passing apple orchards and broad swaths of hemp plants that provided hashish. Anit glanced into the rearview mirror, then abruptly stopped beside a field.

They got out, scrambled to the trunk, and hoisted the corpse by its
limbs. Brooke remembered Anit's description of her service on the border, disposing of the dead.

Twenty yards into the hemp, she said, “We can leave him for the vultures.”

They dropped the body, concealed by the waist-high plants, and scurried to the jeep. In seconds they were headed back toward Baalbek. “If all we have is three days' time,” Anit said, “this should be all right. No one in Lebanon cares about Palestinians when they're alive; few in the Bekaa will care about a dead one. Though Hezbollah may wonder how he got here.”

Still in darkness, they could see the reflected glare of Baalbek softening the night sky. Her tone remained cool but level. “Even if Hezbollah hasn't pegged me yet, al Qaeda surely has. I don't want them following me to the dig house.”

Once more, Brooke felt how gravely he, and al Qaeda, had endangered her. “So our ‘affair' is on again?”

“Just for tonight. Laura's been too lonely for too long.”

Reaching town, they parked near the Palmyra and got out, each looking from side to side. As they entered, Brooke took her hand.

There was no one in the lobby, one couple in the bar. Brooke saw the barman note them passing through.

They took the stairway to the second floor. The sitting area, too, was quiet, and lit only by moonglow through its windows. Approaching his room, Brooke turned to Anit, signaling her to follow. Then he unlocked the door, stepping inside.

Quickly, he looked into the bathroom. Anit slipped in behind him, opening the closet door. No one was there. When he switched on the lights, he heard her lock the door, then set the latch. “We should be all right,” he said. “Even if they have bodies to spare, al Qaeda won't try to kill us surrounded by Shia lookouts.”

Anit sat on the bed, slumped, staring at nothing. Though the room was warm, she hugged herself.

He sat beside her. Though she remained quiet, he felt Anit's shoulder against his. Turning, he touched her cheek with the curled fingers of his hand. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she answered in a toneless voice. “Yesterday, after ten years, I encountered a man I once loved deeply, discovered we're both
spies, and learned that he might blow my cover. Tonight a Palestinian tried to garrote him. So I killed the Palestinian—a first for me. Now my former lover wants to cut a deal with Hezbollah, which killed my fiancé, and which I'm spying on at terrible risk. And in a day or so, al Qaeda may obliterate Tel Aviv, erasing my family and friends and everyone who lives there, and ultimately destroying my country. Why shouldn't I be fine?” Suddenly her voice trembled. “Don't say a word, Brooke. Just hold me. I remember liking that.”

Silent, they lay on the bed, Brooke's arms encircling her slender body, her face against his shoulder. For a long time, they remained quite still. Brooke could feel her breathing.

After a time, she burrowed against his neck. Her lips grazed his skin. He turned to her, questioning, as she looked into his eyes. Then he understood what he saw in hers—there wasn't much time left, for anything.

When he kissed her throat, his lips could feel her pulse.

Slowly, he undressed her. Once again, he discovered Anit Rahal's body, lovely still, yet belonging to someone he no longer knew. But she remembered how to touch him. Just as he remembered what to do.

His mouth and hands went where they would. As he slipped inside her, he looked into her face. Her lips formed the shadow of a certain smile he last had seen long ago.

They used the moments given them, unrushed. In the darkness, she stifled her last cry. Then she moved with him, his partner again, until he shuddered against her.

Afterward, they lay beside each other, faces close. After a time she murmured, “Two hours ago, I killed a man. But it's only now that I've committed a firing offense.”

“Then maybe we should send them pictures.”

Anit did not smile. Softly, Brooke asked, “What will you do on the other side of this?”

“If I still have a country?” she asked.
And if I survive,
she did not need to add. “Stay here, if I can. Finish the work I came for.”

“And then what?” His tone was urgent. “I've known deep-cover agents who never came in from the cold. In the end, they give up everything.”

Anit looked away. “Do you think that's news to me?”

“No,” he said bluntly. “I think it's like a widow throwing herself on her husband's funeral pyre. Once you wanted children—”

“Maybe that's not given to me.” She paused, then finished in a weary tone. “I used to hope for peace. Now all I hope for is our survival. I mean, look at what we're doing here.”

“But why do we do it, Anit? Not just for an idea, or a country, but because people are entitled to the joys and sorrows of a life that's fully realized. The nihilism al Qaeda wants would wipe all that out. Why should we do it to ourselves?”

“Because that's what we're for.” Her voice became gentler. “For many reasons, I needed you tonight. But however we might feel, you and I can't be together for a day, or even an hour, after this is done.” To stave off his protest, she kissed him. “No arguments, please. To be with you, an American agent, I would have to give up my citizenship and my country. As long as Israel exists, that's impossible for me. Let's be grateful for the hour we were given.”

A part of Brooke felt leaden. “Now isn't the time to argue, I suppose.”

She gave him a wispy smile. “An understatement,” she said. “Right now we should sleep.”

After a time, she managed this. Once she stirred and cried out. Still awake, Brooke wondered about her dreams.

Her breathing deepened. Walking softly, he went to the bathroom, closed the door, and called Noah Brustein. “There's something you need to decide,” Brooke told him. “I know now that I'm right, and this won't keep.”

T
he morning of September 9 dawned warm and clear and bright.

In first light, Anit drove to the Temple of Venus, Brooke following in his land rover. He knew without asking that she was calling Tel Aviv. When he arrived, Anit was leaning against the jeep as she scanned the area. The site of the ruins, Brooke saw at once, provided a sweeping view of the terrain. It was as good a place as any to have this conversation. Their lovemaking seemed very long ago.

“And so?” she asked.

Brooke sat on the hood beside her. “On one level,” he said flatly, “this is simple. The essence of spying is outsourcing the problem. The problem here, we both believe, is that al Qaeda has concealed a nuclear bomb in some secluded area of the Bekaa. We'll never find it. Hezbollah can.

“You know that better than I. Before the last war, they began sealing off areas near the border. After the war was over, your soldiers discovered vast military complexes beneath the earth, some covering two square miles, equipped with air-conditioning, sleeping quarters, medical centers, communications systems, and caches of rockets and weapons. And no one saw them do it, because they worked at night—”

“What's your point?”

“The leaders of al Qaeda have no plan except to bring on the apocalypse. But Hezbollah is the most dedicated, disciplined, and farsighted terrorist group in the world. For them, violence is a means to achieving long-term goals—”

“Which makes them the most deadly enemies we have.”

“Not today, or tomorrow. No doubt Hezbollah, like their patrons in Iran, wants Israel to vanish from the earth. But the Shia have lived here for a thousand years. Lebanon is their home. A retaliatory nuclear strike from Israel would depopulate this land as surely as al Qaeda's bomb would destroy Tel Aviv.”

Anit turned from him. “These people killed Meir, then kept his body to trade for living terrorists. I came here to stop them from killing our civilians. And now you say I should go to Hezbollah for help.”

“What does Tel Aviv say?” He waited for her to face him. “Thirty years ago, Anit, an Israeli missile incinerated the first leader of Hezbollah, along with his wife and four-year-old boy. Fifteen years later, Israeli forces killed the teenage son of Hassan Nasrallah. Do you think Nasrallah would refuse to deal with Israel to save his people from destruction? I don't.”

Anit's jaw tightened. “Do
you
think Hezbollah would just give us a nuclear weapon? They'll keep it, or hand it over to Iran. In either case, it's an existential threat to Israel. They won't drop this bomb on New York.”

“They won't drop it at all,” Brooke retorted. “That's the definition of suicide.”

Anit put on her sunglasses. “Perhaps not. More likely, Iran would use this bomb to deter us from attacking their nuclear facilities while they develop bombs of their own. Then they'll have impunity to fund Hezbollah in Lebanon, and Hamas in the West Bank and Gaza, surrounding us with terrorists.”

Brooke shrugged. “They'll do that anyhow. But I suppose this is Israel's call. Maybe your air defenses really are that good.”