Enemy of Mine: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

  I whipped my head to her. Samir’s mouth fell open.

  She continued. “He has the same rage you do. He looks just like you when he gets worked up. He didn’t invade Lebanon; so don’t take it out on us.”

  Samir looked from her to me. I said nothing, but my expression told him it was true. He sagged back into his chair. When he spoke, he was back to being the Samir I knew.

  “I am sorry. Sorry for the both of us.”

  I exhaled and sat down as well.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “The rage is mostly gone now.” I smiled. “Jennifer was just trying to scare you.”

  He scraped something off of his knee and said, “Maybe I can help anyway. I have sources. I can ask around.”

  “No, no. This is like what we used to investigate. I’m not going to ask you about the price of bread in Tripoli. Don’t worry about it. It was good just seeing you. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Wait. I’m telling you I have sources. Just like I used to have. Let me help.”

  I paused and looked at Jennifer; she shrugged, saying, What’s the harm?

  “Okay. My government has heard about an assassination attempt here in Lebanon. The sticky point is that we can’t figure out the target. Some analysts say it’s Lebanese, and some say it’s American. With the new United States envoy to the Middle East doing his first tour, coupled with the peace process in Qatar, people are getting antsy. I just figured I’d see if you could help neck it down. See what you’ve heard.”

  Surprised by the question, he said nothing for a moment, sizing me up as if for the first time, seeing things that should remain in the shadows.

  “Because it would help in your archeological business?” he said. “Help you find sites? You and Jennifer?”

  I held his eye for a moment, then said, “Because I was asked to check while I was here. Nothing more. A favor for friends in the government. Can you get that to the fusion cell?”

  “No. My sources aren’t military ones.”

  “Druze?”

  He said nothing, simply looking at me, and it clicked. He’d gone completely over.

  “Tell me you’re not with Hezbollah. You can’t possibly be with those murdering thugs.”

  He grew indignant. “I am Druze, and will always be, but Hezbollah is a power. We have connected with them. They aren’t the murderers you say they are. They are the majority in our government now. I’m not with them, but I don’t fight them.”

  “How on earth can you—a Druze—say that? They want an Islamic state, for God’s sake. They started the damn 2006 war! They’ve got a fucking theme park celebrating the destruction of your country. And you blame Israel…”

  I stomped to the door, Jennifer right behind me. I opened it, turned around, and said, “They are your road to ruin, and you don’t even see it.”

  “Pike, wait. No matter what you think of them, they can help. After the Hariri assassination they’ve become very sensitive to killings in Lebanon. They get blamed for them all. If what you say is true, they’ll want to stop it just as much as you do. And me. They have connections like nobody else in this country. They’ll be able to find out if it’s true or not. I promise they won’t want an American getting killed here. They want to consolidate political power, and that would only hurt them.”

  “I can’t believe I just heard that come out of your mouth. They kill Hariri, the man putting your country back together, and now I should use their help because they got caught and don’t want to get blamed again. Do you hear yourself?”

  “They didn’t kill Hariri. You can believe that. No way. That’s just what the Zionists want the world to believe. Either way, you have the same interests here.”

  I didn’t like the stench of it, but he was right. Feed this to Hezbollah, and they’d get to the bottom of it. Unlike us, they’d just cut off some heads. The end-state was fine by me. The only question was whether they weren’t behind it in the first place. Odds were what he said was true. Hezbollah didn’t do a lot of kidnapping and killings of foreigners anymore, since they’d gotten hammered for the suspicions of killing Hariri—and since they’d assumed a majority in the government.

  I decided I was willing to risk it…with some caveats.

  “If you go to them, you’d better make damn sure you don’t mention me or Jennifer. Nothing about us, understand? You might trust those torturing Islamic fascists, but I sure as shit don’t.”

  I gave him our cell number and walked out to the car, Jennifer in tow. To my back, Samir said, “I’ll call tomorrow.”

  When I didn’t respond, he said, “Pike. I’m still Samir. I wouldn’t join a group of terrorists. Hezbollah doesn’t run around killing anymore. The civil war is long over. They don’t hire assassins.”

  13

  Infidel felt comfortable following the Druze. He had stuck to main thoroughfares and was now walking on foot down the Corniche, the long stretch of western coastline along Avenue de Paris. Full of fishermen and tourists, it was easy for the assassin to blend in. The only reason anyone came to the Corniche was to walk, so no destination was expected. He could follow all day long without arousing suspicion. Not that it mattered. The Druze seemed relaxed in the environment and showed no signs of attempting to sort out any surveillance efforts.

  Yesterday, the assassin had met his contacts in Hezbollah at the same coffee shop they always used, in the heart of the Dahiyeh, surrounded by thugs. He was not a timid man, but he greatly feared being killed by mistake inside the stronghold. After all, he looked exactly like someone a paranoid foot soldier for Hezbollah would think was a U.S. spy. Someone to torture purely for the pleasure of it. He was thankful for the iron hold Hezbollah’s hierarchy had over their men. It was cultlike in its efficiency.

  The meeting was strained, with a vibe that was different from previous encounters. He’d been paid and congratulated for his successful killing of the investigator, then told about a rumor of an attack in Lebanon, possibly against U.S. interests. A walk-in, a Druze no less, had brought information from an unknown source.

  Ja’far and Majid had both professed innocence, but had heard of a meeting between Palestinian freedom fighters that they wanted to check out. The meeting was supposed to be a simple strategy session, but Hezbollah now wondered if it was something more. They wanted him to provide the Druze with equipment to record the meeting. Which was definitely strange.

  Why waste effort on a recording? Why not just hammer them? Hezbollah certainly had the ability—and the will—if this meeting had a snowball’s chance in hell of stopping their political agenda. Killing Palestinians wouldn’t affect Hezbollah at all, unlike killing an investigator of the Tribunal—and they’d paid him for that easily.

  He was sure there was something more going on, and he thought he knew what it was.

  They’ve set something in motion and are afraid of losing control.

  The meeting was in the port city of Sidon, a little less than an hour south of Beirut, but outside of Hezbollah-land. If he was right, it meant they were using Sunnis for the job—whatever it was—but the Sunni groups had nowhere near the discipline of Hezbollah. All rage and jihadist fervor.

  And that’s why I’m being asked to help. They wanted him to provide the means to ensure that the Palestinian radicals weren’t just taking the money and about to screw up Hezbollah’s plans.

  The one thing that confused him was the Druze connection. Why make up the story about an unknown source and a possible assassination attempt? Why not just say they’d heard about something strange going on and have him provide the equipment, like every other transaction they had done? The story held a ring of truth, and an unknown source providing information to Hezbollah scared him.

  Doing some digging, he’d learned that the Druze had been an operator in a very elite section of the Lebanese Armed Forces. A counterterrorist expert who’d cut his teeth on the operational side, then proven just as valuable on the analytic side, creating an intelligence fusion cell that had grown
to be a thorn in Hezbollah’s side. Actually, a thorn in everyone’s side, from the Sunnis to the Israelis. Very, very effective—and nonpartisan. Why the soldier was now working with Hezbollah was a mystery. It raised the hair on his neck. His paymasters may not care, but he wanted to know what he was getting into.

  The Druze finally left Avenue de Paris, cutting down to the Riviera Hotel, then hanging a left, going into the tunnel underneath the highway to the hotel’s beach club, a popular tourist attraction on the coast, with multiple bars, pools, and beachfront property.

  He wandered around for a moment as if looking for something, then settled onto a stool at a bar, with a view of the entrance to the resort. He ordered a drink and seemed to be just killing time.

  Infidel took a seat behind him, on a chair underneath an umbrella, his back to the ocean. He settled down to wait, but it didn’t take long before he saw activity.

  A Caucasian came through the entrance and scanned the area. The assassin recognized him immediately, not believing what he was seeing. His stomach clenched in unfamiliar fear.

  What the fuck is he doing here?

  I entered the Riviera Beach Club thirty-five minutes before the meeting I’d set with Samir. I wanted some time to check out the area, find any vantage points or entrances I’d missed to locate any surveillance that might be following him. I’d given Samir a specific route, then dropped Jennifer off at the tunnel on the Corniche, a chokepoint that was ideal to see if someone was on his tail. Her location would give a good five minutes before he came within view. If she called me, I’d simply disappear.

  I glanced around the area, then did a double take. Samir was sitting at the bar.

  I stalked over to him, fuming.

  “What the fuck are you doing here? I come in first. You follow. Did you forget that?”

  He held his hands up. “Whoa. Calm down. I was in the area early and didn’t feel like sitting on a park bench downtown. You’re paranoid. Nobody’s following me. This isn’t the civil war.”

  I sat down on the barstool next to him. “You’d better hope not, or we’re both getting our heads cut off.” I then looked into his eyes. “Unless you’re protected and serving me up.”

  “Pike, trust me, I’m the one on the inside. This is my country, and I would never put you in jeopardy. I did what you asked and got some information. You were right. You want to hear it, or walk away?”

  I grimaced, wanting to punch him, but said, “Give it to me.”

  “There’s a meeting planned in Sidon. It’s between a couple of Sunni Palestinian groups and supposedly about the financing of Palestinian efforts with no specific targets. The same stuff that goes on all the time. My contacts have heard that they’re going to talk about a general planning of attacks inside Israel. They’re now worried that they’re discussing an attack against the envoy from America, here in Beirut. They want to stop it, if that’s the case.”

  “Okay. Great. Go stop it.”

  “Come on, Pike. How many gunfights have you heard since you’ve been here? You think we can just run in and shoot everyone like it’s the Old West? They can’t simply ‘stop’ it, like you say. It’s just a meeting between men, and we still have some semblance of law here.”

  “Okay, fine. What can you help me with? Where’s the meeting?”

  “I don’t have the address yet, but it’s coming. I do know it’s not in the camps. The meeting is being held in neutral territory in the city proper. Apparently, the two groups don’t trust each other, and, as you know, any territory in the camps is owned by some militia. Even given that, more than likely none of my contacts will be able to get close. It’s a Sunni area, and you’d be surprised at how quickly they can sniff out another sect.”

  “Including Druze, I suppose.”

  “Uhh…well…yeah. That’s where I’m going.”

  “Why can I get in and you cannot?”

  “I don’t know you can, but you have a greater chance than me or my contacts do. We smell, look, and act Lebanese, but we don’t belong in Sidon. The city is not like Beirut. It’s much, much more conservative, but if they want to meet in neutral territory, it probably means in an area full of people like you to prevent any overt attack. You don’t belong in Sidon either, but you have a reason for it, as a tourist. You have a good shot at getting what we want.”

  I considered what he said, knowing it would be very, very dangerous. He saw me thinking and thought my resolve was faltering.

  “We can’t get into the site, but we’ll be there on the outside. Providing security.”

  That didn’t give me any confidence.

  “Who? A bunch of lunatics who would just as soon cut off my head?”

  He smiled. “No, no. My men. Druze. They have no other allegiance than to me. They will do what I say.”

  “Are they any good?”

  “Just as good as me. I trained them. And you trained me.”

  I threw down the toothpick I was playing with.

  “Well, that doesn’t give me any assurance. Today, you fucking ignored all of that training.”

  He held his arms out and smiled. “Today there was no threat.”

  14

  Twenty-four hours later I was walking north along a tight little street in the port town of Sidon, about forty minutes south of Beirut. I carried an ancient laptop in a shoulder bag like an itinerant poet looking for the perfect setting to get in touch with my feelings.

  The meeting was scheduled in thirty minutes, at eight P.M., and I was scoping the area before setting up in the chosen meet site, a large khan set next to the ocean. I reached the coast road and could see an ancient stone castle out in the water, at the end of a causeway, an old relic from the Crusades. Pretending to take in the view, I analyzed the daily rhythms of life. Nothing stood out. I knew that Jennifer, along with Samir’s little posse, was establishing surveillance positions around the café and would warn me if something looked dirty. I didn’t trust Samir’s crew, but I sure as shit trusted Jennifer.

  I walked across the coast road, seeing my destination, a large café with both inside and outside seating. From Samir’s sources, the meeting would take place at the northeast corner, at the farthest table inside. I would set up early at the next table, happily typing away on my laptop, the hippie backpacker engrossed in the simple life of Sidon, sucking down espresso.

  The laptop was actually nothing more than a camera housed in the shell of a computer. It had video capability both on the front and back of the screen, which meant I could set up facing the table or with my back to the meeting.

  Samir had gotten the camera from his contacts and shown me how to use it, proud of his ability to get such equipment and eager to prove his contacts wanted to help. I’d stressed to him that after this was all said and done, I was the one walking away with the intel. He could take the computer/camera back to Hezbollah, but not before I had a complete copy of what was on it. Giving Hezbollah the chance to do the dirty work was fine, but if they failed to take action, I wanted the Taskforce to be able to protect American lives. He’d said Hezbollah would have no issue with that—like they were a bunch of schoolmarms simply out to help the illiteracy rate instead of a pack of bloodthirsty, backstabbing murderers.

  All in all, the camera itself was pretty simple. A couple of keystrokes to boot up the software, then a couple more to start the recording. The hardest part was aiming the lens, since I wouldn’t have the luxury of seeing what I was taping at crunch time. After about an hour of practice, I was pretty good at it. The worst thing about the system wasn’t the skill required. It was the weight. The damn laptop felt like I was hiking around with an anchor on my shoulder. Hezbollah might be a powerhouse here, but they were still third-world when it came to covert equipment.

  I set up in the café, taking note of the patrons around me. Some of them, without a doubt, were security for the meeting. It didn’t require any special skill to pick them out. Twentysomething tough guys at every corner, holding drinks they didn’t touch
and glaring around. No training whatsoever.

  I, on the other hand, looked like a sissy-boy. Fake glasses in place, Birkenstocks, and a hippy shirt with long sleeves. They sized me up and ignored me in the same glance.

  The café itself contrasted starkly with the cinder-block houses and businesses jammed together just across the coast road. It was elegant and clearly old, with vaulted ceilings, wood moldings, and pillars scattered throughout the room. It reminded me of a Disney set for Aladdin. It wasn’t particularly crowded, but had enough people to keep the waiter busy. One man, at the opposite corner, caught my eye. Seated by himself, he was doing nothing overtly suspicious, and I wondered why I had keyed on him. Frail and skinny, he looked more like a pussy than I did, but I had learned to trust my instincts, and for some reason, he had pinged.

  I surreptitiously watched him for thirty seconds, then went back to the room. He had done nothing but sip his coffee, showing no interest to anything going on. Certainly not at my end of the café.

  Getting paranoid.

  I had decided to put the meeting table to my back and use the camera on the screen side of the computer. Samir’s intel said the meeting would last no more than five minutes, and it would make me look less conspicuous. The position also afforded me the ability to watch the entrance without turning around every few minutes. I’d let them get seated, then hit record, leaving the computer running while I went to the men’s room.

  Five minutes before hit-time I got movement around me. More men came inside, taking the tables to the left and right. Hard-looking guys, who spent all their time peering out from the table instead of focusing in and talking to one another.

  The hit-time came, and a couple of older men entered and took a seat at the target table. They ordered something to drink and waited. My pulse started to pick up.

  Here we go.

  So far, I appeared to be good, with nobody paying me a second glance. Two minutes after hit-time, a large Arabic man came through the entrance, oozing outward machismo. The only thing stopping the effect was the set of coke-bottle glasses he wore. They made him look ridiculous, like a demented Mr. Magoo. He swaggered in and settled his eyes on the target table.