The Devil's Light (44 page)

Their guard gestured for Brooke and Anit to wait. Silent, they watched the man continue his veneration, his body as still as theirs.

The worshipper stood, tall and slender in a long white robe. As he turned, Brooke saw a bearded man barely older than he, with the thin face of an ascetic or a scholar. He greeted Fareed pleasantly, in Arabic, before the journalist stepped outside. Then he appraised his two visitors with a half smile that did not touch his probing eyes. In perfect English, he said, “I am Hussein Nouri.”

His erudition was no surprise—Nouri, Brooke had learned, held a doctorate in political science from the University of Paris. “Adam Chase,” Brooke replied. “This is my colleague Laura Reynolds.”

Nouri's smile vanished. “I know of you,” he told Brooke. “Four days ago, you called on Grand Ayatollah al-Mahdi, delphically warning of events to come.” Facing Anit, he said in a sardonic tone, “And you, I understand, are an archaeologist.”

Left unspoken was his perception of what else she might be. Nouri's voice was an instrument, Brooke realized, used to convey meaning beyond the words he chose. “As I said,” Brooke repeated, “we're colleagues.”

Nouri's eyes glinted. “So I am to understand. And now you want my help.”

“Yes. In our mutual interests.”

“Do we have such interests?” Nouri asked mildly. “In 1982, the Americans came to support the Christians and the Zionist invaders.”

“Yes,” Brooke said flatly. “And many died.”

Nouri crossed his arms. “You are brave to speak of American deaths in such a place. Let alone Jewish deaths.” He paused to study Anit before facing Brooke again. “I know nothing about the bombings of your marines or your embassy, or the unfortunate death of your chief spy in Beirut. But those were difficult times. One could say that by coming to a land not theirs, they volunteered to die.” His voice rose slightly, its cadence quickening. “Now it is thirty years later, and still you call us terrorists. Do
you think we don't belong here? Are you unaware that many thousands of Lebanese have since been killed by the Zionists, your allies? Does it not matter that a plurality of our citizens vote for us in free elections? Or that our only conflict with America occurs in our country, not in yours? And now you, Mr. Chase, come to us not in friendship, but to save the Jews who murder us in our homes.”

Brooke paused to choose his words. “I come on behalf of sanity,” he replied. “Al Qaeda would pervert Islam—”

“Do not insult us,” Nouri cut in harshly. “We were among the first to condemn the carnage of September 11. We do not commit mass murder against civilians in their own land. That is the work of al Qaeda—and of the Americans and Zionists in Palestine, Pakistan, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Lebanon, our homeland.” Again he eyed Anit. “What caused our latest war with the Jews? I ask you. They refused to trade our prisoners for theirs, requiring us to seize a few more hostages to sweeten our proposal. Instead of negotiating, the Zionists bombed our towns and cities and murdered thirteen hundred civilians. The handful of Jews who died here were invaders.”

At the corner of his vision, Brooke could see Anit, her face an expressionless mask. “We are Lebanese,” Nouri continued, “and we are Shia. We care for our people, and work to make our voices heard in this pantomime of democracy thrust on us by the French. We fight to defend our land, and liberate the borderlands the Zionists have stolen, because our nation's army is too weak.” He turned to indicate Musawi's tomb, finishing softly, “We honor our martyrs, but would gladly forgo martyrdom. We wish to live in peace.”

“If I'm right,” Brooke rejoined, “there will be no peace for anyone. The Shia least of all.”

Nouri's lips compressed. “Tell me what you want.”

“Osama Bin Laden claims that tomorrow al Qaeda will destroy one of our cities with a stolen Pakistani bomb.” Brooke inclined his head toward Anit. “We think Bin Laden lied from beyond the grave, and that the bomb is here.”

“Here?” Nouri repeated softly.

“In or near the Bekaa, perhaps in the Anti-Lebanon Mountains.” Brooke paused, then said bluntly, “We believe that they are using Hezbollah territory as a base. And that they plan to detonate the bomb over Tel Aviv, destroying the city.”

Nouri looked from Brooke to Anit. “What evidence do you have?”

“Enough. Rumors of a sensitive shipment through Iraq. The disappearance of a Syrian security officer who helped a truck pass through a checkpoint. Information that the Jefaar clan helped smuggle a mysterious package through the mountains. The presence of a Pakistani nuclear technician. The appearance in this valley of al Qaeda sympathizers from Ayn Al-Hilweh—”

“Yes,” Nouri interrupted. “One seems to have been asphyxiated by his own blood, then dumped in a field. It might have been better had someone questioned him first.”

For the first time, Anit chose to speak. “Circumstances prevented that,” she said coolly. “Now we need your help.”

Nouri gave her a brief, chill smile. “What if our help is not forthcoming?”

“Within the next two days, they will try to execute this plan. If they succeed, hundreds of thousands of Israelis will die—”

“And this is my concern?”

“Al Qaeda hopes it will be,” Anit said in the same flat tone. “They believe that Israel will retaliate against the enemies they can find. If so, this valley would become a wasteland fit only for cockroaches, where the few Shia still alive will envy their dead.”

“So,” Nouri responded with a terrible quiet, “you propose that we live to kill Zionists some other time, or they will kill us all before the week is out.”

“I propose nothing. But that's what I believe would happen.”

Nouri scrutinized her. “Given the Zionists' indiscriminate brutality—which you advance as our reason for helping them—perhaps it would be better if we find this bomb ourselves. I believe the Jews call that a ‘deterrent.'”

“No,” she said curtly. “They'd call it a provocation, and assume you'll give the bomb to Iran.” She paused, then continued in a tone as cold as his. “I promise you that the Mossad knows where you are—your leaders, your bases, your underground facilities, where you store your rockets. Did you think when you rolled up their agents you found them all? I assure you that's not so. This bomb will be deadly to anyone who possesses it.”

Impassive, Nouri stared at her. Only his eyes betrayed anger. “There's
no time for this,” Brooke told Nouri. “Your men took my camera, from which you can circulate photographs of the Palestinians from Ayn Al-Hilweh. Your network is broad and deep—you have observers who watch for strangers at roadblocks and in every town. Perhaps they've already seen these men, and thought them insignificant. Not so. Any recent sighting could suggest the area where al Qaeda has the bomb.”

Nouri's smile was grim. “So this is the extent of your assistance? Then what do we need you for, and why should two enemy spies live another hour? Unless extracting information about your sources in Lebanon takes a little longer.”

Anit showed nothing; perhaps she had stopped caring. But Brooke felt the fear in the pit of his stomach. Evenly, he said, “We expect to receive more useful information—our network extends far beyond the Bekaa. In the meanwhile, we can serve to witness your good intentions. By comparison, our deaths would be at most a transient pleasure.” Brooke paused, then chose to lie. “So would anything else you do to us. Our superiors value us too greatly.”

For a long moment, Nouri studied him. At length, he said, “Do not attempt to leave this valley. If we wish to speak with you further, we will contact Fareed. Now go.”

They left in silence, Anit staring straight ahead.

B
rooke and Anit sat in the shade on Fareed's porch, drinking coffee as they looked out at the valley, green and vivid in the bright sun of midmorning. Fareed left them alone; in his mind, Adam Chase had become a dangerous man, Anit perhaps worse. Sentries from Hezbollah watched them from the driveway. Brooke felt time running swiftly.

Anit was pale and silent, as though she had withdrawn an inch beneath the skin. Hezbollah had killed Meir; this morning she had revealed herself to them, destroying years of subterfuge in an hour. All that might come of this was her own death. At length, Brooke said, “I know how difficult this is.”

She did not look at him. “We need to stop al Qaeda. Then nothing else will matter.”

“Suppose Hezbollah takes the bomb. The Mossad must have a plan.”

Anit sipped her coffee, then said in a low voice, “They do. But neither your satellites nor ours can track Hezbollah's search.”

“So this ‘plan' requires you to be with Hezbollah.”

Anit watched the sentries. “There's a GPS on my phone,” she answered. “I can call in a strike force—four choppers, thirty or so commandos. They'd land in half an hour.”

“Too little,” Brooke said bluntly. “And too late. Hezbollah will expect all that.”

Anit shrugged. “They gave my phone back.”

“Sure. They want the Mossad to know you're still alive. Unless and until they track down the bomb, that serves their purpose. Then, if they
like, they can kill us.” A sudden thought surfaced. “That may be why they'll take us with them. They'll kill us in a ‘firefight,' then blame it on al Qaeda. I'm not sure what to hope for.”

Anit faced him. “The survival of Tel Aviv.”

And yours, Brooke thought, looking into her face. Once he had imagined a life with her; now he simply prayed for her to live. That their intersection might be fatal to her was too painful, and too obvious, for words.

A phone rang in the house. Fareed appeared on the porch, looking rattled and unshaven. “Nouri wishes to see you,” he said.

In his cave, Al Zaroor prayed, his head bowed toward Mecca.
May it please Allah, let us move soon. There are too many uncertainties, our enemies too well armed. They are closing in, unseen, as I await word from the Renewer.

At length, he stood. The others watched him—the Palestinians, the Iraqis, the Pakistani with haunted eyes. He could no longer conceal the fear that gnawed at him.

His phone buzzed. As the others watched, he removed it from his pocket.

He heard the click of a recording, then the voice he revered above all others, reciting a verse of his own composition:

The devil's light flashes golden in the black sky of doom.
Clothed in a shroud of ashes
Our foe vanishes into the past.

Shutting off the phone, Al Zaroor slumped, eyes briefly closing. A shudder of emotion ran through him. It was Bin Laden's last gift, a poem written for this occasion, a statement of belief in Al Zaroor which had outlived him.

Composing himself, he called Salem Rajah. “It is tonight,” he said.

“Allahu akbar,”
the pilot said. “Tell my aunt I love her.”

Al Zaroor put the phone away. Then he approached the men who waited, addressing the Pakistani. “It is time to prepare our cargo.”

Jawindi bowed his head, as though in awe and fear. Facing the others, Al Zaroor said, “Inside that crate is a nuclear weapon. Tonight, with your help and Allah's blessing, it will destroy the city of Tel Aviv.”

All but Asif turned toward the crate, shrinking back a little. Softly, Al Zaroor told him, “It is only dangerous to Jews.”

They turned to him again. “The Renewer has spoken,” he declaimed. “He has promised our enemies that the clash of civilizations would go on until the Hours. On this day, September 10, the Hours will begin.”

Forced to abandon their vehicles, Brooke and Anit rode into the foothills, Fareed at the wheel. The dirt road he followed wound along a ledge, affording views of orchards and fields. Atop a hill dotted with junipers a shepherd, barely more than a boy, herded a flock of sheep. Brooke experienced a moment of disbelief: This bucolic land concealed a terrible weapon, and these hills might themselves become scarred and barren.

At length, they reached a wooded area through which ran a mountain stream. Beneath a grove of trees two men sat at a wooden table eating trout cooked over an open grill. One of them was Hussein Nouri.

Fareed parked in a bare patch of earth. When Brooke and Anit approached the men, Fareed stayed by his car.

Nouri stood. With a courtly air, he gestured toward a hard-looking man dressed in fatigues, with a bulbous nose and a grizzled but neatly trimmed beard. “This is Nahum Khazei,” he said in an ironic tone, “Hezbollah's principal military commander in the Bekaa. According to Fareed, you wished to meet him.”

Silent, Anit inclined her head. On the table, Brooke saw a map of the valley. Then he heard Fareed's car starting.

“Fareed is no longer necessary,” Nouri said pleasantly. “Now you're in our care. Please, sit.”

Uneasy, Brooke and Anit complied. Khazei looked at her, an expression of disdain briefly crossing his shrewd peasant's face. Then he touched the map with a stubby finger. “Five days ago, your Palestinians stopped to eat in Shawtarwah. At dusk they drove south, toward Rashaya. Sometime after that, they vanished into the night. All we found was their car.”

Brooke studied the map. “That makes sense. Rashaya is near the mountains, and much closer to Tel Aviv.” He looked up at Khazei. “Where would al Qaeda hide the bomb and a handful of men? Also a truck.”

Khazei squinted. “Thirty years ago, we trained in these mountains. The men and the bomb could be easy to conceal—there are groves of trees, and many natural caves. But a truck? There are not many caves
so large.” After a moment, his finger moved. “There's an old aqueduct nearby, dry in summer. They might get a truck in there.”

Anit looked not at Khazei, but at the map. “What about an airstrip?”