Assault

by Don Pendleton

  "Let me know if you find some," Brognola grumbled. "I'll order a six-pack."

  "My treat."

  The big Fed resumed his interrupted narrative. "If holy war's not bad enough, the Lebanese have had to deal with multiple invasions in the past ten years, with everyone from Israel to the Syrians and PLO grabbing a slice of the pie. Whole towns have been wiped off the map, and Beirut looks like a travel brochure for Nagasaki on D-plus-one. The government, if you can call it that, is facing double-digit unemployment — well over thirty percent at last count — and the country's economic credibility is shot to hell. We're talking anarchy, with momentary spasms of repression thrown in for variety. It's perfect, when you think about it."

  "For Iran," Bolan said.

  "Hell, yes."

  "Let's hear some more about the Bekaa, shall we?" Jack Grimaldi's voice was terse.

  "My pleasure. Basics first?"

  Brognola glanced at Kurtzman, and the Bear made magic with a keyboard mounted on the table just in front of him. The lights were dimmed but not extinguished, while a screen against the wall descended from the ceiling on Brognola's left. Another keystroke put a detailed map of Lebanon on-screen.

  "Geographically the Bekaa Valley occupies the northeastern corner of Lebanon, north of Baalbek and east of Al-Hirmil. The climate is idyllic — lush gardens, balmy breezes, the works. Before the latest round of civil war, the region was primarily a getaway for wealthy Lebanese. They liked the weather and the scenery, the isolation. It was like Palm Springs for Arabs."

  "But?"

  "Precisely. Everything that made the Bekaa Valley popular with tourists also made it ripe for cultivation. In this case, the growers started with hashish and worked their way up to opium poppies. The top hoods from Beirut and Damascus discovered the Bekaa around 1975, and they didn't take long to dig in. The valley is perfect for growing, refining and shipping narcotics. Most of the local peasants are Shiite Muslims, and they were recruited for grunt work, one way or another."

  Bolan knew what that meant. First would come the offer of employment in the fields or a refinery. The salary would be a pittance, but for those who hadn't worked in years, a crust of bread was better than an empty plate. If there was serious resistance, an example might be chosen by the growers, sacrificed in public as an object lesson to the rest. It might take two or three such lessons, but the people would inevitably fall in line. And with each passing year, abiding hatred of the rich and powerful would grow in every peasant's heart until he hungered for revenge.

  "Come 1982," Brognola continued, "when Israel made her push across the border, blitzing Tyre and Sidon on the way to occupy Beirut, our dearly departed pal Khomeini saw a chance to make some hay in Lebanon. He packed off several hundred of his revolutionary guards to Baalbek, and they settled in an old, dilapidated downtown building called 'Hosseinieh.»

  On cue the map of Lebanon was whisked away, supplanted by a color snapshot of a squat, four-story blockhouse. Graffiti, scrawled in Arabic and Farsi, covered the outside walls as high as a tall man could reach. Red crescent banners were draped from the second-floor balconies, and a forest of shiny new antennae sprouted from the roof. Otherwise the building might have been another derelict awaiting demolition.

  "The ayatollah's missionaries started searching high and low for dispossessed and disaffected Shiites, signing up as many as they could to join Khomeini's revolution. It didn't take much coaxing, and the holdouts had their price. We've logged reports of Shiite women in the Bekaa region being paid to wear the chador in public, covering their faces to give the general impression of a strong, united Shiite front. It's bull, but the truth is bad enough."

  "And the recruits?" Grimaldi prompted.

  "Losers going nowhere, for the most part," the big Fed responded. "Suddenly they had a holy cause to fight for. Khomeini told them they were invincible soldiers of God, stoking up the anti-Semitism while he played on their inbred hatred of Westerners and the wealthy in general. The actual training took place, still does, at a former Lebanese army outpost — the Sheik Abdullah barracks — overlooking Baalbek."

  As Brognola spoke, the screen was changing to display an aerial reconnaissance photograph of a desert military installation. Bolan could pick out the barracks and mess hall, the slit trench latrines, tiny figures in khaki and keffiyehs swarming over an obstacle course, others lying prone on the firing range.

  "The training covers four months on the average. I'm told that ideology takes precedence over logistics, but recruits get the full course on firearms and explosives, sabotage, hijacking and kidnapping. There's even a special graduate course for suicide troops. Yesterday's nobodies come out as professional terrorists, fanatically committed to their faith, sworn to die for the Islamic revolution."

  "I thought they were invincible," Grimaldi cracked.

  "A contradiction. So what else is new? The Iranian government keeps things rolling with a local welfare program, using petro-bucks to provide basic social services for Shiite villagers. Even so, health care is minimal, and there's no running water to speak of, no sanitary services of any kind. Outbreaks of typhoid and dysentery are routine in the Bekaa Valley, and bubonic plague's making a comeback."

  Leo Turrin cleared his throat and said, "It must cost a bundle for this Shiite summer camp."

  "Surprisingly the outlay has been minimal. Since 1984 or so the terrorists and missionaries have been self-supporting, pushing hash and heroin along with revolution. Mostly they've been dealing with the Corsicans, around Marseilles, and buyers from the old-line Mafia in Sicily. Of course, we know a lot of stuff gets back to the United States, but the DEA and Interpol have always concentrated on the middlemen. We bust a French supplier, and our Bekaa buddies sell to the Italians for a while. We turn the heat up on the pizza connection, and Iran's finest look for outlets in Morocco, Greece — you name it."

  "And we're back to Anthony Silvestri," Bolan said.

  "You guessed it. It's the first time we've connected any Iranians with a sale on U.S. soil. No middleman this time. It's a development we're anxious to discourage, if you get my drift."

  "Why would they run the risk of a direct approach?" Grimaldi asked. "It sounds like things were cooking fine before they made the change. Now they've got two dead players and a serious potential for embarrassment. What's in it for Iran?"

  "We can't be sure at this point. Don Patrice Grisanti has been interviewed, concerning the demise of his lamented nephew — and of course he's ignorant of Tony's business dealings."

  "Naturally."

  "I don't like guesswork," Brognola continued, "but I'm working on a hunch, if anybody's interested."

  "Let's hear it," Bolan said.

  "Okay. Suppose Iran's mouthpiece in the Bekaa Valley wants to mix a little revolution with their business enterprise. They've tried to infiltrate the States before, and we suspect they've scored a minor hit or two. It worked for the SAVAK, why not the revolutionary guard? Whatever, they've been hungry for a major score outside the Middle East. By dealing one-on-one with Don Grisanti's people, even offering a discount if they have to, there's a chance that they could bring the war right to our doorstep."

  "You're talking an exchange of bargain-basement drugs for a strategic helping hand?"

  "Why not?"

  "Would Don Grisanti play?"

  "He might," Brognola said, "if he was insulated well enough. And then again, it may have been Silvestri's baby. I'm conversant with the literature on 'patriotic' mobsters, but we all know how that goes. In 48, the customs boys were looking at a Jewish faction of the Cleveland outfit. Seems the kosher crowd were shipping guns to Israel at the same time they were selling fighter planes and bombers to the Arabs. It's a wacky world, my friends."

  "It couldn't help the Families to show up holding hands with terrorists," Grimaldi said.

  "Silvestri didn't plan on making headlines," Brognola replied. "It should have been a routine sit-down. Would have been, except for Striker. And I'm not suggesting tha
t Grisanti plans to send his buttons out to blow up synagogues. If I'm on track with this, I picture something in the way of a logistics trade-off — weapons and explosives, documents and hideouts, anything the shooters need to make their day. It lets them travel light, and contacts with the Syndicate would smooth the way, before and after any play they had in mind."

  "You can't keep shit like that a secret," Leo said.

  "The Iranian leadership wouldn't care. They brag about retaliation and intimidation of their enemies. You'd think that crap would've ended with Khomeini's death. If they have to sacrifice some mercenary allies in the process, what've they lost? Exposure of a Syndicate connection just might be the propaganda coup they're looking for. It emphasizes 'decadent American corruption, and it leaves the G-men chasing gangsters while the Iranians burrow in and start the whole routine from scratch, with their connections in Marseilles, Sardinia or Casablanca."

  "Hal," Grimaldi said, "if that's the action, who's to say they haven't got another team inside already?"

  "It's a possibility we're checking out," Brognola answered, "but I'm still inclined to think the sit-down with Silvestri was a ground breaker. Iran's not going to flood the country with shooters before they find out if the big boys will play. My guess is they're biding their time and waiting to see what comes next. They'll be looking for contacts. I'd like to provide one."

  Four pairs of eyes turned toward Bolan, each with its own message of anxiety, concern, anticipation. The Executioner met each in turn, keeping his own face impassive.

  "I'm listening," he said.

  The aerial photo dissolved into a street scene, snapped outside an anonymous sidewalk cafe. The Bear's electric pointer found a table in the center foreground, lighting first on one man then another, as Brognola made his introductions.

  "On the left," Brognola said, "we have Ahmad Halaby. He's a PLO defector who regards the new, improved Arafat as the worst kind of Jew-loving traitor. Halaby's people make the Black September crowd look like a troop of Boy Scouts. No job's too small or too dirty for a dedicated 'liberation warrior. He's also got a practical side — his men take on contracts for profit. We've linked them to quasi-political murders in Libya, Italy, France and West Germany. The DEA suspects Halaby of supplying muscle for an international drug pipeline run by his friend in the picture."

  "A lovable guy," Grimaldi said.

  "A prince. On the right, meet Bashir Moheden. There are maybe half a dozen warlords in the Bekaa Valley, and you're looking at the top dog. Moheden was among the first to set up cash crops in the Bekaa, and he also led the shift from hash to opium. He's got connections with the ranking syndicates in Turkey, Sicily, Morocco and the south of France. There was a spot of trouble with the Corsicans a few years back, but that's all taken care of now. His family are all Druze Muslims, but Moheden is the first generation to worship the holy profit margin."

  The scene changed again, presenting a grainy news photo of four bearded men in black turbans and caftans. Kurtzman's electric pointer circled the second dour face from the left.

  "Mir Reza Bakhtiar," Brognola said. "The Islamic Revolution's spiritual leader in the Bekaa Valley. Since the spring of 1984, he's been in charge of supervising missionary work and training programs for the revolutionary guard in Lebanon. He's also been continuously in touch with Moheden and our old friend Ahmad Halaby, coordinating traffic in narcotics. Bakhtiar sells Shiite crops to Moheden's wholesaler, and rumor has it that Moheden toes the party line in public, just to keep things copacetic."

  "Rumors from where?" Bolan asked.

  "The Bekaa population isn't all one happy Shiite family," Brognola told him. "In addition to the Druze contingent, you've got Christian rebels in the area, plus troops from Syria patrolling in the name of peace. Throw in some bandits looking out for number one, and you begin to get the picture. We've got sources in the region that we share with the CIA."

  "Who moves the cargo?"

  "There you're looking at another threesome."

  Aaron touched his keyboard, and the screen was filled with faces, clipped from separate photographs and mounted side by side, like suspects in a lineup.

  "On your left," Brognola said, "is one Hussein Razmara, pulling duty on behalf of Bakhtiar in Nicosia. On the record, he's a Shiite holy man, concerned with saving souls. Scratch the surface and you're looking at another ayatollah wanna-be, committed to exporting revolution even when it's packaged by the kilo. The cherub in the middle is a Lebanese supplier, Rashid Sarkis, also working out of Nicosia. He's Moheden's man, some kind of childhood friend or something. Sarkis is a Shiite convert, but our analysts regard it as a marriage of convenience, firming up the link with his suppliers in the Bekaa. Last time Sarkis prayed, it was for God to strike a jury blind and make them set him free on smuggling charges."

  "Did it work?" Grimaldi asked.

  "With help — and cash donations — from his earthly friends."

  "I love religion."

  "On your right, the local broker, one Spyros Makarios, a native Cypriot. His father joined the EOKA push against the British back in 1955. A military court condemned him two years later for the bombing of an outpost at Kirinia. The widow couldn't hold her tribe together. Spyros grew up on the streets and taught himself the necessary skills. He's basically a smuggler — three convictions, two with prison time — but he's suspected in a string of homicides that date back over ten or fifteen years. He's hard on competition, as they say."

  "He deals with foreign buyers?" Bolan asked.

  "He used to, pre-Silvestri. Now I have a hunch he's playing wait-and-see. Their new approach has blown up in their faces. I picture all concerned as being worried, miffed and plain old everyday pissed off. They may shift back to basics while they lick their wounds and try to find out what went wrong. If so, Makarios will be the man to see for product booking out of Nicosia."

  "Who's your contact on the street?"

  "A native by the name of Nikos Kiprianou. He's a youngster, but he's done successful work for people in the Company and DEA. I'm told that he can fix an introduction to Makarios."

  "Direct approach?"

  "Seems best to me. They have to know Silvestri's dead, but they can read it different ways. He may have been a ringer overstepping his authority, or outside forces may have tried to jump his claim. Whatever, if I read the players right, they should be hungry for a new connection, even if it comes off looking like a consolation prize."

  The soldier smiled, despite himself. "No need for flattery."

  "If you decide to take it on, I'd say that you could almost flip a coin. Go in as one of Don Grisanti's people, or approach them as a scout from someone new."

  "It's risky if you use Grisanti," Leo said. "Makarios may have some kind of hot line to the Family. You could get burned before you have a chance to do your thing."

  "Agreed." Brognola's face was stern. "Of course, if Spyros is in touch with Mr. G., he might report the contact with another customer. Grisanti might put two and two together on Silvestri and induce Makarios to whack you as a favor."

  "It's a gamble," Bolan said, his choice already made before he spoke. "Let's play it as a new approach. I'll go in independent of the Family."

  "Fine." The worry lines were forming on Brognola's forehead. "I'll arrange a meet with Kiprianou, let him make the introduction. After that you'll have to play it pretty much by ear."

  "That sounds familiar."

  "Right. Don't underestimate these characters, okay? You've got fanatics on your hands, along with pros who would eliminate their mothers to preserve the paying status quo. Among them they can field a fair-sized army, and they know the territory."

  He recognized a friend's concern and pointedly ignored Brognola's pessimistic tone. "You mentioned opposition in the valley?"

  "That's affirmative. The Company has opened channels with a group of Christian rebels in the Bekaa, covering their bets against the day they may be authorized to move against the Shiites. I don't have the details, but w
e'll pin them down before you fly. Which brings me back to Jack."

  Grimaldi raised an open palm to silence the big Fed. "I'm way ahead of you," he said. "No self-respecting narco dealer would go east without his faithful sidekick."

  "Sorry, nothing so direct," Brognola told him. "Still, if things work out in Nicosia, I anticipate the need for an insertion into Lebanon. Can do?"

  Jack's face had settled for a look that Bolan read as two parts insult, one part irritation. "I suppose I might squeak by," he groused. "Are the Israelis in on this?"

  "They will be when the time comes. Listen, bringing in a private plane on Cyprus would make you stand out like a neon sign."

  "Yeah, okay. I read you. Anyway, don't say I didn't try."

  "I've never pegged you for a shortage of initiative."

  "I'll need some earnest money," Bolan said.

  "It's in the works. We're borrowing a bit from the DEA and matching what they give us from the Farm's slush fund."

  Bolan smiled. The slush fund had been built up over time through strategic withdrawals from Mafia war chests, the money invested by Kurtzman for maximum yield. Stony Man wasn't by any means a self-supporting operation yet, but the return from those investments banked a cool two hundred thousand dollars every quarter, just like clockwork. It amused the Executioner to think of using gangland money to oppose the Mob. Poetic justice.

  "We're set, then?"

  "More or less," Brognola said. "I'D schedule detailed geographic briefings, let you read our dossiers on all the principals — the usual. Let's call it two, three days, to iron out all the details."

  "Fine."

  He was amazed to note the total lack of apprehension. Later, maybe, after he was airborne. In the meantime Bolan had an opportunity to stand down from a state of constant readiness and spend some time with friends. Whatever happened after that would take care of itself.

  There would be time enough for worry when he reached the killing ground.

  Chapter Six

  Bashir Moheden sat on a lounge chair on the wide veranda of his fortress-villa, sipping wine and waiting for the others to arrive. It was unusual, to say the least, this second meeting in a ten-day period. The cartel normally convened no more than once a quarter during normal operation, but the news from New York City wasn't normal.