The farmer introduced himself as Hisham and insisted that they clean up first and then make their phone calls.
Hisham helped Jameel to clean Bradley’s wounds, treating them with the first-aid kit and bandaging them properly, but not before first making Jonathan drink over a large dose of the local fiery brandy, and later giving him a clean shirt to put on.
By then, Bradley was feeling better, but weakened and battling not to lose consciousness.
Next, they attended to Jameel’s head wound. There was an old gardening jacket lying on a chair, which the old man insisted Jameel wear.
“Fiyyé esta’mel telefoonak? Can I now use your telephone?” Jameel requested the farmer.
Very often the landlines were malfunctioning or the public phone wires were cut off during the sectarian conflicts.
Luckily, the farmer managed to get the ringtone and handed it over to Jameel, leaving the room saying he’d prepare some “qahwa” – Arabic coffee.
Jameel extended the phone to Bradley, the latter took it and dialed his Control, but it was switched off. Then, he dialed the personal number of the Station Chief. It was picked up on the sixth ring.
“It’s me here, Sir…”
“Jonathan, are you alright…?” the station chief sounded very anxious. “Our people are on the standby… they are in the valley, have scouted your last position. Can you give tell me your present location. Is it safe there…?”
“So far OK Sir. We are inside a farm house in the neighborhood of the Wadi Neita village of the Kasarnaba town in the Beqa’a valley. The farm owner has been cooperative…,” Jonathan faltered for short of breath.
“Bradley, are you alright?”
“I have taken a bullet in my shoulder and shrapnel in the neck. Jameel… he too is hurt… I can’t seem to concentrate for long…”
“Alright, Jonathan. Try to hold on. We will get you out of there quickly. Give the phone to the local contact. Jameel, is he?”
“Right, Sir.” He extended the phone to Jameel. “Speak to the Station Chief.”
“Jameel here, Sir.”
“Are you hurt badly?”
“No, Sir. Just a nick across my forehead.”
“Well then, listen, Jameel. Do you know where exactly this farm house is located?”
“The farmer tells me it is Wadi Ain el Louis, a little down the rural road to the central Beqa’a valley.”
The station chief was nearly stunned. That place was the haven of the Hezbollah
extremists. Jonathan Bradley was amidst the hornets’ nest. Alone and without local help, he was a candidate for kidnapping and certain torture and murder by the fringe Islamic elements.
“OK. Our people will know where that is. Jameel, think carefully and reply. Do you think that farmer can be trusted?”
“I think so…,” Jameel hesitated, “but I can’t be certain. We proposed to pay him in dollars too, and he appeared to like that idea. He has been helpful so far.”
“OK. Pay him well. What about the other members of his family?”
“Only the farmer is with us.
I do not know how many others are present in this house…”
“Jameel, here’s what you could do. I assume both of you have lost your cellphones. Try to get the farmer sell or lend you his phone. He will have a vehicle… everyone in Lebanon has one type or another.
“Next ask him to drive you two to the nearest clinic or hospital, preferably the Beqa’a Hospital, while it’s still dark. There will not be many people around, but you don’t need to go inside for treatment. By then, our men will have arrived and you two will be taken care of.”
“Will do, Sir.”
“Ask… umm… Peter to call me after you have made the deal with the farmer. Take care, both of you.”
The farm owner had returned with a tray of three cups of steaming black coffee.
Almost an hour had gone by since they arrived at the farm house. Jonathan’s watch showed close to 12.00 AM.
Jameel had related to him what the station chief had proposed.
While at ease and drinking the coffee, Jameel brought up the issue of the cellphone and their request for their drop to the hospital.
“Ma ‘andi mobaile. I don’t have a cellphone.”
He added that he did not like cellphones because he kept on misplacing or losing them. His two sons used them all the time.
Jameel glanced at Jonathan, knowing that he was listening and keeping up with the colloquial Arabic, the farmer was speaking.
“Andekum al-sayaara? Have you a car?”
“Na’am. Yes. “ ‘Andi el-Mercedes, sayyaara fatiiga. I have an old Mercedes.”
“Tayyeb. Fine.”
Jameel turned to Jonathan. “Check your wallet and see how many US dollars you have.”
Jonathan was trying to access his wallet
in his trousers pocket when he felt the slight tremors in his fingers and the whole of the right hand. He instantly feared the worse, realizing that his shoulder wound was beginning to react. He would need proper medical attention soon.
He, however, got his wallet out and was counting, “I have mostly lira, the Lebanese pound. And, ah yes… about $700 dollars. ”
“Give me the $700 and I will add a few hundred liras which I have on me.”
Bradley passed on the money and Jameel added his portion and handed it over to the old farmer. He took it hesitatingly, looking somewhat embarrassed as he uttered his thanks, “Shookran”
“Tekram. You’re welcome,” answered Jameel.
“Haza Yakoon. Hope I helped.”
“Jazīlan. Alhamdulillah. Very much. Allah be praised.”
Jameel waved at Bradley, who sat quietly, trying to follow their conversation.
The Lebanese informant was requesting the old farmer to do them a last favor by driving them to the nearest el-mustashfaa Beqa’a.
Bradley heard the words, alam (pain) and iltihaab (inflammation) mentioned, probably referring to his wounds, which needed proper medication.
The old man got up to his feet, glanced at the ancestral clock on the wall and said, “Sa’ti ithna’asr wa nus, el hinn”. It’s 12.30 AM now.”
He said he’d drive them to the hospital, but must first change his night clothes. He left them sitting in the living room, only to return soon with a glass of water and two tablets and said to Bradley. “Khod, dawa lal alam. Take, medicine for pain.”
“Shookran,” Jonathan gratefully accepted the pills.
Hisham went inside one of the corridor rooms, and they could hear voices speaking inside; one of them a female’s.
Jameel checked the landline for the ringtone and gave it to Bradley. The latter dialed the number and the station chief responded on the first ring.
“Sir, we are leaving now for the hospital in a black Mercedes... The farmer agreed to drive us up there… but he does not have a cellphone.”
He paused to listen to a question from Richard Darwin, then reply, “No. Only the farmer… and the two of us. I see him returning... ”
“Jonathan, you sound bad. Leave now. Don’t go inside the clinic when you get there. Stay away from view somewhere inside the compound. Our people will almost be there. Tell Jameel to make himself visible when he sees an SUV coming… the Regn. Plate No. is Liban* M401142. Take a moment to remember it… the vehicle’s color is brown,” and after a small pause, “There will be two men, both local, and the driver will say the code: Cedars of Lebanon in Arabic. They will take care of you. Good luck, Jonathan. See ya’ soon,” his boss ended on a brighter note.
Hisham returned dressed up and gestured to them to follow him out of the living room.
The old black color Mercedes was in the shed at the side of the farm house. They got into the car and the farmer turned it around towards the rural road.
Apparently, Hisham knew where the Beqa’a Hospital was.
He drove along for about fifteen minutes and then took the side road coming to a one-storey structure.
Jameel asked the farmer to stop outside the compound. Hisham man understood and obliged; he would not want to be there if the doctor or medical attendants raised questions.
‘Deer balakum. Ma'a Salama. Take care. Goodbye.
“Fi Amanillah. In God’s care.” Jameel reciprocated.
Hisham turned around his old black Mercedes and drove away back to his farm house.
Jonathan Bradley felt weak and stressed. He was now running a high fever, and could barely keep his eyes open.
As he entered the hospital compound, he suddenly pitched forward by the gate. Jameel ran to steady him and lowered Bradley to a sitting position on the ground. Moments later, Jonathan’s ears picked up the roar of an engine.
Jameel turned and half-ran to the main road. He saw the headlights of an approaching vehicle and stood where he could be seen.
He saw the SUV come to halt on the side of the road and the passenger call out the code in Arabic, “Cedrus Libani.”
Jameel matched the code in reply, and spoke a few more words with him.
At once, both the newcomers got out of the vehicle and Jameel led them to the rumpled figure of Jonathan.
The three men lifted him off the ground, carried and laid him on the backseat of the SUV.
Jameel got into the space next to Bradley and they immediately set off in the same direction they had come.
Jon was in a state of semi-consciousness, but his trained mind strived to keep his senses alert. He had not failed to notice the yellow-black cloth banner atop the SUV.
It was a distressful realization that these were the flag colors of the dreaded Hezbollah, whose sworn enemies were the Israelis and the Americans. Was he now in the captivity of a Shi'a Islamist militant group?
CHAPTER TEN
NYC – Manhattan - 2006
Saturday – 9.35 AM
Eugene Lewek was born in Detroit, Chicago, in the year 1939, of a middle class working family, where his father worked as a Supervisor at the FORD River Rouge plant.
Later, his family moved on to the New York City, where he received his education. He skipped the third year of college to join the army in 1960, and to serve in the Vietnam war for three years, before his superiors saw it fit to transfer Eugene to the Special Operation Force unit.
After weeks of intelligence training, and undertaking missions in the real fields of operation, Eugene was soon to become a tempered CIA field agent for reconnaissance, raids, counterdrug operations, and counterinsurgency missions in Vietnam, until the fall of Saigon in 1975.
His later postings included Cyprus in Greece, Panama (during the ouster of the Dictator Manuel Antonio Noriega and the Blue Spoon operation) in 1989, and in San Salvador until 1992. Finally, he spent his last two years before retirement in 1994, in the war-torn Beirut-Lebanon on missions of counterterrorism, and hostage rescue.
It was here in Beirut, during Bradley’s first year of the CIA posting, and the last year of Eugene’s intelligence service, that Bradley met him and willingly placed himself under his mentorship.
Eugene Lewek had never married, though he almost came to marrying his Vietnamese girlfriend, Kim-Ly, who, sadly vanished during the last days of the war. His best efforts after the war failed to trace her whereabouts.
The thin sanitized dossier which the CIA office had later released, contained some of the above information on the career of Eugene; the bulk of his true record, Jon knew, would forever remain classified.
Just as Jonathan slowed the Ford towards the driveway leading to the Eugene’s house, he saw the NYPD patrolman getting out of the squad vehicle. The latter turned to look at Bradley’s car coming up the driveway.
Jonathan stopped behind the squad car and showed him his FBI badge. Behind them, there were sounds of siren of more police cars approaching.
Bradley then used the camera mode on his cellphone to photograph the house and the surrounding landscape. He had been to his mentor’s house several times before and they had also met elsewhere downtown.
A matronly figure standing by the front glass-door entrance of Eugene’s residence, was waving desperately at them, and crying out, “In here, please. He’s in the garage. I found him dead.”
Both the uniform policeman and Jon ran up and turned towards the direction of the garage, but the rolling shutter was firmly down. It would only open upwards on an electric chain driven by remote control.
They realized they would have to wait until the Crime Squad technicians arrived.
“I am Helena Mendez, his housekeeper,” the Hispanic looking short woman, in her mid-fifties, had come around and she recognized Jon. She was very distraught with the shock of her employer’s sudden death and her eyes were red from crying.
“Señor Bradley,” she said tearfully, “Someone’s murdered Señor Eugenio,” continuing in a hysterical chatter. “Come, I’ll show you. His body is tied to the chair in the garage… who could have done such a wicked thing…? I can’t believe that poor Eugenio is dead. He was always so lively… and kind…” she stopped, shaking her head in disbelief as she led them to the living room.
Before entering the place, Bradley again photographed the interiors and observed that nothing appeared to have been disturbed in there.
Along the extreme corner of the living room was a small door directly connecting the garage to the interior of the house. It was slightly ajar.
Bradley knew that the housekeeper would have opened that door and left it in that state, but he wanted to make sure.
He took a picture and stepped forward to peep into the opening. There were three stairs that led down to the garage space. Eugene’s blue Pontiac was missing. He could not see anything more from the awkward angle of his position. So as not to violate the crime scene, he stepped back thinking he’d have to wait for the forensic men to arrive first.
“Helena, what time did you come to the house this morning?”
“Señor Bradley, I come here every morning around 8.30 AM, except on Sundays, and prepare breakfast for the Señor, who was normally up by 9 AM. Some days he’d awaken by 11.00 AM if he had been up late night.
“Today, I arrived a little before 8.30 AM. I remember because I heard the living room clock chime the half-hour as I unlocked the front door and stepped in.”
“Do you know who else has the key to the house?”
The woman looked bewildered. “Señor lived alone. Except for some visitors who came and left. I don’t think anyone spent the night with him. I’d know, Señor.”
“Since when have you been his housekeeper, Helena?”
“A little over two years.”
And, you work here for the whole day?”
“No, Señor, I finish cooking his two meals for the day, do some cleaning and other housekeeping work, and leave by 12.30 PM unless Señor Eugenio wanted me to stay longer, that is, whenever he had some guests for lunch.”
“Did that happen often?”
“What… guests? No… maybe once or twice a month.”
“Sir, the Crime Squad has just arrived.” informed the patrolman who was standing by the entrance door.
Jonathan nodded to him in acknowledgement, as he led the housekeeper to one side of the living room.
“I want you to try to remember who were his guests and the people who visited him, whenever you were present in the house…. ”
Jonathan paused to address the police officer, “If the case Detective has come, he’d want to question her. I will join them later, before she is taken to the police station for giving her statement.”
The forensic team was moving into the garage.
He saw the need to call his FBI boss.
“Mr. Turner…,“ he had dialed the number and had just begun to speak when Steve interrupted him, “Jonathan where are you calling from you? A homi
cide has been reported in the Greenwich Village neighborhood, on the West 12th St. He’s a retired CIA operative, I understand.”
“I heard it on the police radio. I am at his residence right now. The NYPD Crime Squad has just arrived.”
“I have asked Allan Banks to head there. William will continue to supervise at the terror cell crime scene. If needed, I will phone Langley, though they must have heard about the homicide through their own sources.
“Let the NYPD carry out the crime scene operations. We’ll have access to their reports.”
He paused only to go on again, “I have to be at the press meet later this afternoon at the first crime site. Jonathan, you remain at the Village crime scene and see what you can learn first-hand.
For Monday, I am scheduling a meeting in our FBI office at 4.30 PM for an update of both the investigations. Make sure you’re there. ”
“Steve, the victim was a personal friend and a mentor to me. I would want to see this case through.”
“Bradley, you’ve your hands full. Moreover, the CIA would want to come on the scene, though may not officially for the present. After all, as I understand he was one of their important operatives.”
This is certainly going to be a three-way-tussle, the NYPD being the dissenting party, thought Jonathan.
“By the way, Bradley I am sorry about the loss of your mentor. You take care, will you?”
The garage measured 4.6 m × 1.8 m. adequate for a large family car. It had a vertical sliding window on its sidewall, which opened towards the exteriors. However, the technicians had switched on the fluorescent lamp, and the garage was sufficiently lit.
Jonathan stood on the stairs of the garage and watched the crime scene squad photograph, video and diagram the whole area and take latent fingerprints before they moved on to the location of the dead body. This would clear the access to the victim for the Medical Examiner, who would be arriving any time soon.
At this moment, a thought crept into Jonathan’s mind concerning the rumor that Eugene could have been a Mossad mole, Sayan.
He let pass the thought as at that moment he was allowed to enter into the garage.
CROSSFIRE: Ex-CIA JON BRADLEY Thriller Series (TERROR BLOODLINE Book 1) Page 7