The Devil's Light (43 page)

Where was he? she wondered. Perhaps they would call him back to Washington. Viewed with detachment, that would be best for them both.

Still, she admitted, their stolen hour had been precious. An hour, too little and far too late. Now there was only the bomb.

Her cell phone rang. She snatched it from her pocket—perhaps it was Brooke, or her contact in Tel Aviv.

“Dr. Reynolds?”

Habib's voice, though familiar, surprised her. “I'm glad to hear from you.”

Though he was surely alone, Habib spoke in a lowered voice. “If the whispers are true, the shipment I mentioned has arrived.”

“When?”

“Perhaps three days ago. It came at night, one hears, with a stranger. But only the men who guided him know for sure.”

“Do you know what it is, or where?”

“No. All this is very secret; I don't even know who among us helped this man. But such security is unique.”

“What does that suggest to you?”

Habib began speaking quickly. “That this shipment is very special, and the man who brought it very powerful, or very rich. That is all I know.”

“Thank you,” Anit said. “May your family prosper.”

The phone clicked off. But Anit knew that Habib, her only source within the Jefaar clan, would alter the calculus in Tel Aviv.

Looking around her, she called her contact.

In early evening, Brooke met Anit outside the ruins. The crew was working again; a young red-haired woman, no doubt the intern Anit had mentioned, watched as they embraced. Anit held him for a moment longer than playacting required.

He smiled into her face. “Miss me?”

Her eyes remained grave. “I was hoping never to see you again.”

Brooke watched her. “What's happened?”

“I've heard from someone within the Jefaar clan. Two days ago a mysterious shipment arrived. My agent has no names, contents, or location. But he says that kind of secrecy has no precedent.” She moved closer to him, pretending to straighten his collar. “If this is the bomb, they're on schedule for September 11.”

“So what will Israel do?”

“‘Israel,'” she amended, “is a lot of anxious people in a closed room, trying to guess for the prime minister whether it's more likely that al Qaeda will succeed or that Iran will get this bomb.” She shook her head. “If we knew exactly where it was coming from, or how, al Qaeda would have no chance at all. But we don't.”

“Is anyone quoting odds?”

“No. But they know very well the consequences of Tel Aviv's destruction.” She paused, then asked, “What does Langley say?”

Weighing his answer, Brooke was silent.

She looked at him sharply. “They've cut you loose, haven't they?”

“I'd like those names, Anit. Israel's out of time.”

She turned from him, as though in sudden anguish. Brooke rested his hands on her shoulders. “I'll keep you out of this, I promise.”

“That's not the point.” Her voice was thin. “I have no permission to do this.”

“I know. That's not how they work.”

She stood straighter. “When can you see your friend?”

“Tonight.”

For a long time, Anit said nothing. Then she spoke two names.

T
o Al Zaroor, the atmosphere in the cave was claustrophobic. The two remaining Palestinians, Walid and Asif, were silent, as if muted by the likelihood that Hamzi had been killed or captured. In contrast, the three al Qaeda from Iraq—Said, Chihab, and Abur—were voluble, using words to kill the time that passed too slowly. The Pakistani, Jawindi, sat near the coffin like a mother hen, his watchfulness unsettling to the others. No matter how carefully Al Zaroor had planned, his design rested on how each man would perform and whether, in the alchemy of varied natures, they would inspire or diminish their fellow operatives. But the man on whom all depended was not yet with them.

Restless, Al Zaroor walked to the mouth of the cave. In the dying sun, he traced their plan in his mind, gaze focused on a field barren of crops. Ten minutes at most, he told himself. If only they could move tonight: Every instinct told him that, despite the bucolic scene below, unseen enemies were closing in. Perhaps this American—or Hezbollah, or the Jews. Someone.

Al Zaroor hated this passivity, a paralysis not of will, but of means. He felt like a foolish woman waiting for a lover to rescue her before an angry father discovered their affair. He willed his man to call.

The American stalking him had killed one man, and perhaps another. No matter that his country cowered, Adam Chase had not been fooled. From the photograph, Al Zaroor had conjured the inner landscape of his enemy—an intuitive and determined man unafraid to die, filled with loathing for al Qaeda. How much did he know, Al Zaroor wondered, and
how would he try to thwart al Qaeda's dream? The capstone of this vision, the iconic date, must be sacrificed to its achievement.

The phone vibrated in his pocket. Anxious, Al Zaroor answered. “Nephew?”

“Tomorrow evening, Uncle.”

Tightly, Al Zaroor said, “No sooner?”

“Impossible. But assure my aunt that I will shower her with kisses.”

He sounded calm, Al Zaroor thought, for a man who was choosing the hour of his death. No doubt it was his commitment to jihad.

“Allah will reward you,” Al Zaroor replied.

They had met only once, at a safe house in Brussels. Outside, a bleak, sleeting rain seemed to permeate the streets, deepening the gloom of winter. But Salem Rajah's dark eyes held a molten glow.

Rajah was in his early thirties, with dark curly hair and the nerves and sinews of an athlete. He had been a fighter pilot in the Royal Saudi Air Force; sitting across from Al Zaroor in a worn chair, he projected the alertness of a man trained to fly at sickening speeds. Now he wished to fly only for al Qaeda. When Al Zaroor explained his plan to destroy the Zionist state, Rajah remained impassive.

“Where do I acquire the plane?” he asked.

No emotion, Al Zaroor thought approvingly; rather, a practical inquiry on an essential point. His tone was quiet and authoritative, suiting his sense of Salem Rajah. “In Belgium,” he answered. “When the time comes, we'll provide you with the money and a Lebanese passport. On the night of the mission, we will meet you at the field we have chosen, timing our movements to coincide with your arrival. In less than ten minutes you'll land, acquire the weapon, and take off for Tel Aviv.”

Rajah's thin smile carried the hint of amusement. “Just like that, attracting no attention.”

“If all goes well. You will file a normal flight plan showing a route from Beirut to Baalbek.” Leaning forward, Al Zaroor looked intently at the pilot, reading his expression as he spoke. “You'll take off from a private airstrip, flying at a low altitude. In the last few minutes you'll turn off the radio and land in a darkened field. Can you do that without lights?”

“Yes, by means of GPS. I would need lights only at the very last instant.” Rajah frowned in thought. “How much does this bomb weigh?”

“About two hundred pounds.”

Rajah raised his eyebrows. “Light,” he remarked. “That expands our choice of aircraft. Considering the Zionist air defenses, that's important.”

Al Zaroor had expected this. “They're the best in the world, I'm told.”

“In most ways, yes. The Jews are prepared for an attacker coming at the highest speeds, from less than a hundred miles. The commander of the air force and his deputies have authority to order an intruder shot down.” Rajah paused a moment, reviewing his knowledge. “The heart of their air defenses is a sophisticated radar system that picks up virtually anything in the sky, even gliders. In order to respond more quickly, the Jews divide their airspace into zones. Within each zone they have at least two pilots who can take off in sixty seconds, as well as antiaircraft missiles they can fire off even quicker. Once they see you, you're dead.”

Rather than daunted, the pilot sounded as though he were coolly assessing a challenge. “So how do you beat them?” Al Zaroor asked.

Rajah smiled at this. “By not doing what they expect. At the height of the Cold War, when Soviet air defenses were second to none, a demented Finnish teenager flew a private plane from Helsinki to Moscow and landed in Red Square. The Russians weren't prepared for an aircraft flying at low altitude. If he'd had a bomb, that kid could have reduced the Kremlin to rubble.”

“That was thirty years ago,” Al Zaroor rejoined. “The Zionist air defenses are much better.”

“Better, yes. But good enough?” Again Rajah's lips curled. “Like the Russians', the Zionists' defenses aren't designed to pick up small, slow-moving objects whose flight pattern is obscured by ground cover, glare, or weather. Five years ago Hezbollah put up an Iranian drone, flew it for ten minutes over the Galilee, then returned it to southern Lebanon intact. Even the Jews admitted it was like trying to catch a mosquito with a net.”

Gazing up at him, Al Zaroor asked mildly, “So what aircraft would you use to destroy the Zionist homeland?”

“A Cessna 185,” the pilot answered promptly. “A single-engine propeller plane.”

“What about payload?”

“The payload on this Cessna is roughly eleven hundred pounds. I'd
need a hundred pounds of fuel. Add two men—four hundred pounds at most—and a two-hundred-pound bomb. That leaves four hundred pounds to spare. We'll get to Tel Aviv.”

“In how long?”

“That depends on the flight plan. I'd fly thirty feet above the ground, so that it's hard for the radar to pick me up, and I'd choose a path where I can use hills or trees for cover.” Rajah stopped, making a mental calculation. “From the Bekaa, that could take me half an hour.”

“What about Zionist spotters on the ground?”

Rajah shrugged. “At night, they won't know what we are. We could be Jews in a private plane, or the drones the Zionists use to spy on Hezbollah.” He paused. “The greatest danger is from an AWAC—a plane stuffed with radar that can pick up objects below it. But they'd have to know that we were coming.”

Satisfied, Al Zaroor said, “I'll make sure the Jews know nothing.”

Rajah sat down again. For the first time, his tone of voice suggested a trace of awe. “Tell me about the properties of this bomb,” he requested. “That will affect our final moments.”

Slowly, Al Zaroor nodded. “The bomb will have a nuclear core, surrounded by explosives that are triggered by a very precise electrical system. When the trigger goes off, it ignites the explosives, causing the nuclear event. Once the bomb starts falling, the trigger detonates it at one thousand feet.”

Rajah frowned. “A weapon that detonates on impact would allow me to stay lower. Less chance of detection; less chance of getting shot down before I can drop the bomb.”

“I understand. But much of the energy of a groundburst is spent digging a useless hole. An airburst maximizes the damage to the target area.” Al Zaroor paused for emphasis. “That is why I chose this weapon. Tel Aviv, and everything around it, will cease to exist.”

Rajah bent forward, considering the problem. “All right,” he said. “Let's assume we fly in undetected. When we reach Tel Aviv, we suddenly go straight up. In about forty-five seconds we'll reach one thousand feet. Even when they see us, it will be too late. The bomb will detonate before they can react.”

Al Zaroor stared at him fixedly. “In a single flash of light, Rajah, you will have destroyed the Zionist state. Perhaps its death throes will take a
year, perhaps two. Then maps will be rewritten, the word ‘Israel' removed. Only your sacrifice will live.”

Rajah fell quiet. The reality of his death had entered the room. Softly he said,
“Inshallah.”

As night fell, Al Zaroor called an operative in France. He wondered if the Renewer still lived to give his blessing.

“Yes?” the man answered.

“I am eager,” Al Zaroor said.

Three words. The man who heard them, not knowing what they meant, would post a notice on an Internet dating service.

Man seeks Jewish bride.

B
efore dawn, Fareed drove Brooke and Anit to the mausoleum of Abbas al-Musawi, the first leader of Hezbollah. The three were silent. The night before, Fareed had asked if Brooke's inquiry related to the missing bomb; Brooke's reply, though noncommittal, had left its shadow in his friend's dark eyes. Anit's insistence on joining them was an unwelcome surprise. She would not say if she was acting on her own; Brooke knew only that she was in grave danger. Consumed by her thoughts, she did not look at him.

The mausoleum was an elaborate shrine of domes and spires, its outline dark against the first thin light. Getting out, Anit stood before the charred shell of a car, itself a shrine. Many years before, an Apache missile fired from an Israeli helicopter had incinerated Musawi, his wife, and his four-year-old son while they drove through the valley. His successor, Hassan Nasrallah, traveled in a caravan of eight land rovers, disembarking under an enormous cloth so that Israel's spy satellites could not detect which vehicle he used. Watching Anit, Brooke tried to imagine her thoughts.

“Let's go,” he murmured. Without responding, Anit turned and began walking toward the mausoleum. It was as though she occupied her own space.

Two armed guards awaited them, Hezbollah soldiers. They confiscated Brooke's camera and cell phone, then Anit's and Fareed's phones, and opened the great steel doors so that the three could enter.

Above them a field of tiny spotlights seemed to flicker like candles in the shadows. The mausoleum itself was stone and marble, its ceilings
an intricate mosaic of cut glass. Brooke stood beside a display case that held the artifacts of death—Musawi's glasses, his wife's prayer book, their son's charred shoes. At the center of the marble floor was a glass lacework structure through which Brooke could glimpse the tomb of the Shia martyr. Spread before it was a sumptuous carpet on which a lone man prostrated himself in prayer.