False Flag

by F. W. Rustmann Jr.

  “Yes, sir, the move went well. We were not followed. No one saw us . . .”

  “Shut up and listen.” Qassem looked over at Nasrallah, who nodded. He continued, “Someone tried to rescue the American spy shortly after you moved her to the new location. We found the lock on the front door shot out. The apartment where we held the hostage was breached in the same manner. The entry occurred sometime between when you moved the CIA spy and when the char force arrived to clean the apartment the next morning.”

  Abu Salah’s eyes grew wide. He started to speak but Qassem cut him off. “Your tradecraft was sloppy. We trusted you, but somehow the Americans learned of the location and attempted a rescue. It was your responsibility to ensure this never happened. Do you accept the responsibility, Abu Salah?”

  Abu Salah nodded. “Yes, sir. I accept responsibility. It was my fault. I just don’t know how . . .”

  Nasrallah said, “Of course you don’t. But it does not stop there. There is more.”

  The trembling in Abu Salah’s knees increased to the point where he feared he would fall, and he felt a mounting urge to urinate. “More?”

  “Much more,” said Nasrallah. He glanced over at Qassem and waved for him to continue.

  “You were brought into our plans to ambush the U.S. ambassador’s motorcade, were you not?”

  Abu Salah nodded. His head dropped to his chest and he shut his eyes.

  Qassem said, “Look at me.” Abu Salah looked up and Qassem locked onto his eyes. After a long moment he continued, “We were notified this morning by our Syrian friends that the Americans filed an official protest against the Syrian government. They discovered our plans to ambush the motorcade near Aanjar. How do you think they learned about this?”

  Head on his chest, Abu Salah shook his head in disbelief. He began to shudder. He could not speak.

  “Do you know what I think?” said Qassem. “I think the same source who told the Americans about the location of the hostage told them about our ambush plans. And I think that source obtained the information directly from you, Abu Salah.”

  Abu Salah’s head spun. He was certain he had told no one. Perhaps CIA surveillance had picked up the location. That was a distinct possibility. He had taken great care to avoid surveillance, but you never know.

  The ambush was another matter. He searched his memory. He had learned about the plans through a phone call with Abu Umar, Hezbollah’s chief of operations. The call occurred just a few days ago. They had not spoken about it since, and he had not mentioned it to anyone. He was going to attend a planning session tomorrow evening.

  He was explaining this to Nasrallah and Qassem when it dawned on him. He stopped mid-sentence and stood there, mouth open and eyes wide.

  “What is it?” asked Nasrallah.

  He shook his large head. “It’s . . . the only time I ever discussed the ambush was during that brief telephone conversation with Abu Umar. It was in the late afternoon and we had just delivered the hostage to the new location. I was walking from the house to my car when Abu Umar called. I was very excited about being asked to join the ambush team. During the conversation, I looked up and there was Walid, my driver. He looked surprised. He had overheard my end of the conversation. I immediately lowered my voice and turned away, but . . .”

  Nasrallah and Qassem exchanged glances. “What did Walid overhear? What did you say?” asked Nasrallah.

  “I . . . I cannot recall exactly. We talked about the ambush location and the U.S. ambassador and his motorcade. I do not know exactly what I said but that is what I discussed with Abu Umar. Walid heard whatever I said. I am certain of it. I am so sorry. So very sorry . . .”

  Qassem leaned over and whispered into Nasrallah’s ear. Nasrallah nodded. The others sat there in silence, deferring totally to the Hezbollah leaders. The Iranian glared menacingly at Abu Salah.

  Nasrallah removed his steel-rimmed glasses, cleaned them with the sleeve of his robe, and set them back on his rather large nose. He looked up at Abu Salah and said thoughtfully, “Then you have a problem, Abu Salah. And I suggest you take care of it swiftly. I also suggest you get the hostage to a new location as fast as you can. If your driver is the Americans’ source, and I believe you when you say he probably is, everything we have done with the hostage up until now has been compromised. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  Abu Salah bowed deeply, “I do, sir. I understand completely.”

  “Then get out of here and take care of it. You have no time to waste.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Abu Salah turned and hurried through the double doors of the conference room and down the four flights of stairs to the street. When he hit the fresh air, he stood for a moment, took a huge breath, and let the air out slowly. He scanned the street and noticed his car parked halfway down the block. The car was running and he could just make out Walid sitting behind the wheel enjoying the air conditioning.

  He had to think.

  Abu Salah reached into the pocket of his dishdasha robe and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, sat down on the steps, and exhaled a long breath of smoke. Better.

  He knew what he had to do. The question was how to do it. He had grown quite fond of Walid over the years, but he had no compunctions about what he was about to do to him. Walid was a traitor, pure and simple. And for the Americans no less. It was inconceivable, but true.

  He sat there on the steps, smoking and thinking and watching the car. When he finished the cigarette, he flipped it into the street, stood up, and walked slowly away from the building.

  By the time he got to the car he knew exactly what he was going to do. Abu Salah pulled open the door and slid into the back seat behind Walid, startling him.

  “Oh, it’s you. I’m sorry, boss. I was dozing,” said Walid.

  Abu Salah concentrated on acting natural. He felt like taking Walid’s slender neck in his large hands and strangling him right then and there. Instead, he said, “I’m glad you are well rested. I have another mission to accomplish before the day ends. Go north up to the Jounieh-Beirut Highway and head toward Jounieh. When we get to Jounieh, wake me and I’ll give you further directions.”

  Walid looked back at Abu Salah through the rearview mirror. “Sure, boss. How long will we be in Jounieh?”

  Abu Salah felt like slapping him down with a curt response, but instead he said, “Not long. Maybe an hour or so. Then you will be free to go home.”

  “Okay, thanks, boss.”

  They drove in silence for the next hour and a half. Abu Salah feigned sleep in the back seat but his mind was racing. Occasionally, he would open his eyes a crack and focus on the back of Walid’s well-coiffed head. He continued to refine his plan until he knew exactly what he would do, step by step, when they got to their destination.

  “Excuse me, boss. We’re entering Jounieh.”

  Abu Salah sat up and looked out the window as they drove through the bustling coastal resort town. To his left, the setting sun shined across the sparkling waters of the Mediterranean Sea. The coastline was lined with marinas, their moorings filled with clean, white yachts, rough fishing boats, and barges. To his right, a mountain range stretched across Lebanon through the Bekka Valley and far into neighboring Syria and beyond.

  “Turn left onto Seaside Drive at the next intersection. Continue up the coast toward Kfar Yassine. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  “Will do, boss,” said Walid.

  When they hit Seaside Drive, Walid said, “There is some beautiful country out here. I have an aunt who works at the Casino Du Libon. It’s just a few miles up the road.”

  His employer grunted in response, a signal that Walid took to mean, “Shut up and keep driving.”

  Abu Salah scooted up in his seat for a better view of the road. “See that sign up there for the scenic overlook?” he said, “Pull off the road right there.”

  The car’s tires crunched on the gravel as Walid pulled onto the side of the road. Abu Salah looked around the area to m
ake sure no one else was around and said, “Go all the way to the end up there, beyond the fence, and pull up to the edge facing the water.”

  Walid did as he was told. He parked near the cliff’s edge and pulled on the emergency brake to ensure the car would not roll.

  “This is really beautiful, boss. They picked a great spot for a rendezvous. Who are you meeting here?”

  “You ask too many questions, Walid. Now it’s my turn to ask you some questions.” He pressed the barrel of a snub-nosed .38 caliber revolver against the back of Walid’s head. “Do not make any sudden moves, or this .38 might go off and splatter your brains all over the windshield. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  “No sir, I . . .”

  “I will tell you when to talk. Tell me when you started working for the Americans.”

  Walid was in shock. “I . . . I . . . what are you talking about? I do not know any Americans. I never met an American in my life. I . . .”

  “Don’t lie to me, Walid. You told the Americans where we were keeping the CIA spy, and you told them about our plans to ambush the U.S. ambassador’s motorcade. Didn’t you? Didn’t you?” He punctuated each question with a jab to the head with the barrel of the revolver.

  Walid’s mind spun, seeking to understand all of this. Then it came to him. “Wait. Wait, Abu Salah. Let me explain. I did not tell the Americans. I told our friends. I was helping the Iranians keep track of their hostage.”

  Abu Salah was confused. He smacked Walid on the side of his head with the pistol and said, “Don’t lie to me. That is outrageous. Do you really expect me to believe a story like that?”

  Blood seeped out of the scalp wound, matting the long black hair on the side of Walid’s head and staining the shoulder of his white robe. He pleaded, “You must believe me. I was helping the Ayatollah. It is his hostage, not ours. The CIA spy belongs to Iran, not Hezbollah. They just wanted me to keep them informed. That is okay, right? You would do the same . . .”

  “Enough!” screamed Abu Salah. “You are lying, lying, lying . . .” He punctuated each word by smashing his revolver into the side of Walid’s handsome head. He heard the skull crack and blood spurted across the car. Walid slumped forward, unconscious. Or dead. His arms fell limply to the floor.

  Abu Salah sat back in his seat. His breath came in gasps. His right hand and arm were covered in blood. He wiped the blood off his arm and onto the car seat and used a handkerchief to clean his revolver and hand. He looked around again to make sure there were no witnesses. Satisfied there were none, he stepped out of the car and shut the door behind him.

  He stood by the side of the car for another few moments, catching his breath and inspecting his clothing. Seeing no blood on his dishdasha robe or anywhere else on his body, he opened the front door, took the car out of park, released the handbrake and pushed the car toward the edge of the precipice.

  He pushed harder and harder, his shoes slipping on the gravel. The car slowly gained momentum and rolled over the side, plunging down toward the rocks eighty meters below. He watched as it crashed and rolled and crashed again, finally bursting into flames.

  Satisfied, he pocketed his pistol, stepped back away from the cliff and began walking casually toward the Casino Du Libon about a half-mile up the road. From there he would take a taxi back to Beirut. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He needed to quickly find a new safe house for the hostage, and that wouldn’t be an easy task.

  But as he walked up the road, he could not get one thought out of his mind: How in the world did Walid come up with such a ridiculous story?

  Strange, very strange . . .

  CHAPTER 54

  Santos and MacMurphy sat side by side at the window of the observation post. They had turned off the lights and closed the door. Through their night-vision binoculars, they continued to observe the bungalow. They started their surveillance over an hour ago, but so far there had been no activity. Everything was quiet. The lights in the bungalow were on, but they could not see the front of the building.

  Santos lowered his binoculars and rubbed his eyes. “What do you think?”

  “Too early to tell. Someone’s definitely in there, but I wish we could see the front of the house.”

  “Yeah,” said Santos, “maybe we should get a closer look.”

  “I’m beginning to think the same thing. No car out front, lights on . . . someone’s in there with our gal.”

  “If our gal’s still in there.”

  “Christ, don’t even think about it. She’s got to be there.”

  “There’s one way to find out. This looks like a perfect time to get out there.”

  “No, not yet. Still too early. Let’s take turns watching and resting. I’m all for going tonight, but not until the lights go out and everyone in the neighborhood is asleep.”

  “You’re right. I guess I’m a little too anxious to kill those bastards.”

  “Hang on a few more hours and you’ll get your chance. I’ll take the first shift. Go get some rest.”

  All too soon, Santos felt someone shaking him awake.

  “It’s almost two o’clock in the morning, Culler. Time to get ready,” said MacMurphy.

  Santos rubbed his eyes and sat up. “Why didn’t you wake me for my shift?”

  MacMurphy laughed, “You looked so peaceful lying there. Like a little boy in a sumo wrestler’s body.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I love to sleep. The only time you sleep is when you pass out drunk.”

  “I haven’t done that in a while.”

  “Congratulations.” He changed the subject. “Any change?”

  “No movement. But the lights inside the bungalow went out about an hour ago.”

  “Okay, I’ll go wake Maggie . . .”

  When Santos returned with Maggie, they donned their gear, secured their weapons, checked their communications equipment one last time and prepared to leave. MacMurphy looked over at Maggie and said, “Keep an eye on us. If you see anything suspicious, just turn the lights on in the bedroom and open the curtains. We’ll look up here periodically.”

  “Okay,” said Maggie. “Keep my boys safe.” She gave each of them a big, motherly hug. As they left the apartment she called out in a hushed voice, “Bring her back safely to me. Good luck!”

  Santos led the way down the stairs to the first level and then out the back door of the building. Once outside they flipped down their night-vision goggles and adjusted their POF rifles for night shooting. They sighted their rifles down range and watched the green lasers, invisible to anyone not wearing night-vision gear, dance across the field in front of them. The special operations guys called the lasers “the green line of death.” Just set the end of the green line on the target and pull the trigger. Target destroyed.

  MacMurphy whispered into his mic, “You circle around to the right. I’ll go to the left.”

  “Okay,” said Santos.

  They moved out in low crouches and headed toward opposite sides of the bungalow. The night was clear and dark with a quarter moon. This, combined with their dark robes and hats, helped conceal them. But they still had ample light to fully illuminate their night-vision gear.

  They reached the back of the cottage and crouched down even further. After a few moments of quiet listening, MacMurphy whispered, “See anything?”

  “Dark back here. But there’s a light up front.”

  “Let’s go around.”

  “Roger that.”

  They moved cautiously down each side of the building. When they reached the side windows near the front of the bungalow, they stopped.

  MacMurphy said, “Lights on this side. TV on. That’s it. You?”

  “Same. Can’t see movement. Let’s turn the corner.”

  “Wait!” said MacMurphy. His lapel mic was so close to his mouth he could have swallowed it. “Movement.”

  MacMurphy leaned back against the building, trying to make himself as small as possible. He heard the door open then close and the screen door s
lam shut. He sat still and listened. Someone had come outside.

  He heard the scuffing of a chair on the porch and then the clicking of a lighter.

  Must be the smoker, he thought.

  He dropped down into the prone position and peered around the corner. A dim porch light flashed into his night vision, blinding him for a moment. When his sight adjusted, he saw the smoker leaning back in a chair under the light, smoking a cigarette.

  He pulled back and whispered into his mic. “Smoker outside. Stay back while I take him out. As soon as I shoot, come around front where I can see you.”

  “Roger that.”

  MacMurphy looked around the area one more time, took a deep breath, and pulled himself past the corner. The man was sitting there, peacefully blowing a trail of smoke up at the sky.

  He trained the green line on the smoker’s ear and fired. Two silent 5.56 mm rounds caught the smoker in the left ear and the top of the head, blowing him off his chair and down in a heap. The plastic chair skittered across the porch.

  MacMurphy jumped up and moved swiftly to the front of the bungalow. He dropped down once again on the lawn with his sights on the door. Santos came out from his spot on the other side of the building and did the same. The green lasers from both rifles flickered on the bungalow door.

  They waited and listened. Nothing. After a few moments, Santos said, “My turn. Cover me.”

  “Go for it.”

  Santos ran up to the door in a low crouch. He stepped over the smoker’s body on the porch and stood beside the door with his back to the building, listening.

  Still nothing.

  He moved quietly to a window on the left side of the door and peeked past the curtain. Seeing nothing, he moved to the other side of the door and did the same. Still nothing.

  His earpiece crackled, “Got anything?” He looked in the direction of MacMurphy and shook his head.

  Santos’s earpiece came alive again. “Okay, I’m coming up.”

  MacMurphy ran up to the building and positioned himself on the other side of the door. He looked over at Santos and nodded for him to go ahead. Santos opened the screen door and let it rest against his back while he tried the main door. The knob turned. He pushed the door open and slipped quietly into the room. MacMurphy caught the screen door before it slammed shut and followed Santos into the room, gently closing both doors behind him.