At last they reached the river, in silver moonlight as black as a ribbon of spilled ink. Al Zaroor stood on the bank. A light appeared on the water, its movement toward them accompanied by the chopping of an outboard motor.
Al Zaroor remained still. As its motor cut off, the boat hit the edge of land. The outline of a man ascended the sloping riverbank. When he became visible, he wore the uniform of a Syrian intelligence officer, his gun aimed at Al Zaroor’s head. His face was young and hard and wary.
“I’ve come to arrest you,” he said.
Heart still racing, Al Zaroor nodded.
In twilight, Brooke took a taxi to southern Beirut, the domain of Hezbollah, to meet Grand Ayatollah al-Mahdi.
The Shia section was even poorer than that dominated by the Sunni, its Middle Eastern character so absolute that Brooke could not square it with the upscale Western luxuries of Achrafieh and Gemmayze. Since Israel’s bombing campaigns against the rural south of Lebanon, a Hezbollah redoubt, Shia farmers had crowded into what they called “the belt of misery,” raising its population to almost a million people. There were no road maps or street signs; makeshift buildings defied all laws of architecture or safety; a tangle of cables ran from structure to structure, providing makeshift power. In the endless web of alleyways, the smoke of smoldering garbage mingled with the aroma of roasted chicken and skewers of lamb kebobs, and carts of fruits and vegetables clogged arteries already crowded by motorcycles, cars, covered women, men in shabby clothing, and Hezbollah militia struggling to avert gridlock. The Lebanese government held no sway here, nor did the Sunnis. But what most distinguished this from Sunni Beirut was not the posters of Hezbollah martyrs, but the blocks of bombed-out buildings destroyed by the Israelis in 2006, rubble amid reconstruction projects financed by Iran. More than a thousand people had died here. Among the survivors were Grand Ayatollah al-Mahdi and Hassan Nasrallah, the leader of Hezbollah, whose homes were leveled by targeted air strikes. But with respect to possible assassins from Ayn Al-Hilweh, Brooke was probably safer here than in Achrafieh.
On a crowded corner that looked no different from any other, a man in a sport coat signaled Brooke’s cab to stop. Up close, the man was fortyish, with a graying beard and a firm handshake. Casually, he said, “So you’re visiting from America,” and led Brooke through the knot of pedestrians to a Volkswagen minibus.
Once the door closed behind Brooke and his escort, Salim, the driver negotiated a series of twists and turns designed to confuse Brooke as to where they were. He gave up on following this—he had entered al-Mahdi’s world. Even while chatting with Salim, the most amiable of men, Brooke reviewed what he knew about the spiritual leader of the Shia.
Even for Lebanon, the portrait was complex and contradictory. Beyond doubt al-Mahdi was—with Sistani of Iraq and Khameini of Iran—one of the three most revered clerics in the Shia world, and the greatest figure among them: a theologian who had written extensively on Islam’s dialogue with other religions, an authority on Islamic law, a poet of considerable skill, and the founder and patron of charities funded in part by a pristine restaurant where Brooke had once taken Michelle Adjani. He was also believed by the CIA to have given religious sanction, thirty years before, to the suicide bombings of the Marine Corps barracks, the American embassy, and the Israeli military headquarters at Tyre. For this, many believed, while head of the CIA, William Casey had tried to have al-Mahdi killed. Despite this, al-Mahdi had severely condemned the al Qaeda attacks on 9/11. But to the State Department, al-Mahdi remained what he had been for three decades—a murderous cleric with whom American officials were barred from meeting.
None of this troubled Brooke at all. His concerns were practical—whether, by meeting al-Mahdi, he was exposing himself to Hezbollah, exceeding his orders and jeopardizing his life. But time had forced his hand. Seven days remained until September 11, and the risks of failure dwarfed any risk to Brooke.
At length, the bus reached an iron gate at the end of the alleyway, behind which trees partially concealed a one-story building that, transplanted to a modest American suburb, might have housed the local accountant, insurance agent, or divorce lawyer. “Not precisely the Vatican,” Brooke remarked to Salim.
“It’s true, alas. But no one bombs the pope.”
Inside the building, Brooke passed through a metal detector, giving up his watch and, with greater reluctance, his cell phone. Then he was led to a large interior room with parquet floors, sumptuous carpets, and two severe black chairs. Facing them was Grand Ayatollah al-Mahdi.
A man in his midseventies, al-Mahdi was dressed in a white tunic, a yellow-gold robe, and the black turban reserved for descendants of the Prophet Mohammed. He had a long, steel-gray beard, and his eyes were grave and penetrating. But what struck Brooke was his utter stillness and serenity, an aura of peace so profound that he seemed to repose in his own illumination. Brooke looked for a trick of lighting, and found none.
Salim introduced Brooke in Arabic as a visitor from the United States, familiar with the commercial and political circles of its capital, who had come under the auspices of Hassan Adallah to seek the grand ayatollah’s observations on issues of mutual concern. Throughout this nonsense, al-Mahdi regarded him with a look so calm yet piercing that, from someone less beatific, Brooke might have perceived a threat. As with Hassan Adallah, Brooke had no doubt that this man knew exactly what he was—a member of the agency that, al-Mahdi believed, had tried to kill him. When Salim had finished, al-Mahdi continued appraising him for a silent moment, then waved him to a chair with a slight but graceful gesture of his hand. As Brooke sat, a smile played on al-Mahdi’s lips.
“Aside from Jimmy Carter,” the grand ayatollah remarked in a deep but mild voice, “you’re that rarest of visitors, an American. It seems that I’m on a list of ‘terrorists’ with whom officials of your government are forbidden to speak. How fortunate for me that you do not work for them.”
Repressing his own smile, Brooke nodded gravely. “And for me, Your Holiness. I would regret missing the chance to hear your thoughts.”
“And to what purpose, I wonder.” Although still quiet, al-Mahdi’s tone gained intensity and force. “I have said that Saddam Hussein was evil. I do not support the tactics of the Taliban. I condemn al Qaeda and its works as contrary to Islam. I seek no clash of civilizations. Yet again and again your military—in Iraq, Afghanistan, and now Pakistan—creates misery and chaos, just as the Zionists did here. Your leaders embrace ‘democracy,’ then send aid to kings and dictators across the Islamic world. And after all that, your government deems us unfit for one moment of conversation.”
“I didn’t compose the terrorist list,” Brooke answered simply. “But it’s based on more than differences in viewpoint.”
On the surface, al-Mahdi ignored Brooke’s tacit reference to the murder of Americans. But his eyes bored into Brooke’s, underscoring the passion of his words. “There is also the matter of Israel. As a man of faith, I cannot believe that God gave Palestine to Jews alone. But your country enables the Zionists to treat Palestinians as your ancestors treated the Indians, expelling them from their native land and dividing them on the West Bank as though creating reservations. Nor did God grant Jews the right to invade this land and kill or maim its people—it is America, not the Almighty, that supports them.” Al-Mahdi’s voice softened. “So what principles does your country live by? And who, I might ask, are the terrorists?”
However elegantly, they were edging closer to raw truths. “I can only speak for myself,” Brooke answered. “But one definition of a terrorist is someone who straps a bomb to himself and kills innocent people. The first such actions took place here.”
Briefly, al-Mahdi’s stare turned cold. “I trust you are not condemning Islam as a religion of violence. We did not kill the Jews in World War Two, or bomb the Japanese in Hiroshima and Nagasaki.” He paused, modulating his voice. “But you are speaking of Hezbollah, of course, and perhaps of me. There are many ways in which its lead
ers and I disagree, though I do not wish to tell you what they are—or were. But what Lebanese do in defense of Lebanon adds a layer of moral complexity, at least with respect to Israel and those who aid it. You must agree, Mr. Chase, that if the Soviets had tried to occupy America, your people would have claimed the right to kill them in their offices and encampments. That, regrettably, is the most effective way of persuading an occupier to leave.”
This was, Brooke sensed, as close to a defense of Hezbollah’s beginnings as the grand ayatollah would advance. For himself, he thought it prudent to pass over the car-bombing of Rafik Hariri, or the deaths of Israeli civilians caused by Hezbollah rockets. “You and I may not always agree,” Brooke said. “But be assured that I’ll convey what you’ve said to my friends in Washington.”
Silent, the ayatollah regarded him with an expectant look. “In turn, is there anything else you wish me to know?”
“There is, Your Holiness. A great evil may be coming here, with terrible consequences to America and Israel, but also to Lebanon and, especially, the Shia.” Brooke leaned forward, speaking to al-Mahdi in a clear, emphatic voice. “I believe outsiders mean to provoke a deadly war between Israel and Hezbollah and Iran. I know that you and Hezbollah are separate. But, as Shia, they look to you.”
“What guidance would you have me give?”
“To watch for strangers, and to listen. If these men succeed, hundreds of thousands will die. And that could be the least of it.”
Al-Mahdi’s expression became impenetrable. “That sounds much like Bin Laden’s threat against America.”
“So it does.”
Nodding, al-Mahdi seemed to withdraw his attention, a signal that the audience was done. As he left, Brooke glanced back over his shoulder. The grand ayatollah was again utterly still, his eyes closed, as if returning to a place of peace or, perhaps, absorbing the troubles of the world.
SIX
In a cab provided by the grand ayatollah, Brooke returned to the Christian section by an equally circuitous route. Out of caution, he had the driver drop him in Gemmayze.
The night was warm and pleasant, the cobblestone streets crowded with young people and couples hardy enough to be careless of their hours on a weeknight. Passing by a nightclub that pulsed with festive Lebanese music, Brooke briefly regretted the loss of a carefree life. But his mind kept working on different levels—wondering if he had told al-Mahdi too much or too little, searching for some way to secure information on Fatah al-Islam. The phone buzzed in his coat pocket.
Several thoughts struck him at once: that few people had his number; that the call might be critical; that he had parted with the phone during his time with al-Mahdi; that the caller might wish to divert his attention or stop his movements, setting him up to be shot or snatched off the streets. Maintaining the same pace, he put the phone to his ear.
“How was the grand ayatollah?” Jameel asked.
Of course, Brooke thought—Jameel had ties to Hassan Adallah. “Looking out for me, Bashir? Then I hope you’re on your cell phone.”
At the reference to his obvious fear that his phone was bugged, Jameel answered drily, “A new one.” He paused, then said, “There was an arrest at the entrance to Ayn Al-Hilweh. The driver had a bomb in his car.”
Involuntarily, Brooke stopped moving. “Fatah al-Islam?”
“We think so, yes. The man was from the refugee camp in Tripoli.”
Brooke began walking again. “Who was he after?”
“He’s not talking. But Fatah al-Islam has one overt enemy within the camp.”
The PLO, Brooke thought at once. He wondered how this would affect Ibrahim Farad’s assessment of his own safety. “You’ve got security cameras at the entrances to Ayn Al-Hilweh,” he said. “I assume you’re reviewing all the tapes from the past two weeks. Not just to see who entered, but who left.”
“Of course.”
With that, Brooke got off, moving at the same pace toward the Albergo.
Close to midnight, Al Zaroor, Tariq, and the Syrian carried the bomb in its casket to the powerboat. After giving Tariq his hurried thanks, Al Zaroor and the stranger, Yusif Azid, crossed the Tigris into Syria.
A van waited there. Sweating, Al Zaroor and Azid loaded the bomb into the van, then covered it by turning the powerboat hull upward. Before dawn, they had transferred their cargo to a diesel-belching truck driven by a Syrian smuggler, and Al Zaroor had dressed in a uniform identical to that which Azid already wore. But Azid was who he appeared to be, an officer in military intelligence. He was also a Sunni fundamentalist, secretly worshipful of Osama Bin Laden, and had done al Qaeda crucial favors in the past. But he could manage this very large favor only by taking a few days’ vacation time, then behaving as though he were still on duty. Or so he said—Al Zaroor could not quite trust him.
Not that he had a choice. In the abstract, the plan was the best he could design for Syria. The chubby and phlegmatic trucker, Hussein, thought he was smuggling antiquities to Lebanon for the usual shadowy purposes, most likely to finance Hezbollah. By early morning, they had entered the normal stream of commerce—the main highway through the north of Syria. The bomb was concealed among crates of machine parts covered by falsified Syrian documentation. The three oddly assorted companions occupied the cab, exchanging awkward conversation beneath the spasmodic wheeze of feeble air-conditioning. As in Iraq, the drive was long and flat and hot; as in Iraq, they faced the risk of checkpoints. But the Syrians, unlike the Iraqis, were purposeful and suspicious. This made Azid necessary.
For miles, they moved in a line of vehicles—trucks, vans, beat-up cars, a few luxury vehicles. Shortly before eleven, traffic slowed abruptly. Though Al Zaroor did not yet see a checkpoint, there could be no other reason.
He glanced sideways at Azid. If the Syrian planned to betray the mission, a mass of soldiers might be waiting at the checkpoint. Azid would be promoted; Syria would have the bomb; Al Zaroor would be tortured and executed or left to rot in a stinking Syrian prison. Unless he used the gun in his holster to put a bullet through his temple.
He had a long time to weigh his choices. The massive truck in front of them inched forward as the unseen checkpoint cleared one vehicle at a time, even as the traffic in the other direction passed unimpeded. It felt too much like the checkpoint in Iraq. Al Zaroor breathed deeply, willing his tension to subside.
At last the truck, creeping ahead, exposed the ends of a mobile barrier that otherwise remained invisible. Al Zaroor watched a uniformed official speak to the driver, then casually scan his papers. That no one searched its cargo made Al Zaroor more, not less, apprehensive—it suggested that the Syrians were looking for a particular truck. Azid’s face showed nothing. Al Zaroor would not betray his nervousness by asking if this procedure was routine.
When the truck cleared the checkpoint, Al Zaroor saw that it was manned by only two policemen. The official walked up to their van, motioning for Hussein to roll down his window. Then he saw Azid and froze.
With a thin smile, Azid held up his identification. In this ambiguous moment, Al Zaroor touched his gun.
“Move on,” the official said, and the truck rolled through the checkpoint.
Brooke got up early and ordered breakfast in his room. He felt trapped and useless, craving some activity that would get him out. But pointless movement carried only risk. So he stayed there, sending a report to Langley that omitted any mention of al-Mahdi. Then he saw the email from Terri Young.
She had little new—the checkpoints in Iraq had yielded nothing, nor was there any report from Syria. Her most concrete news was that Washington was emptying out, with Republicans blaming Democrats for a catastrophe that had yet to occur. When Brooke’s cell phone buzzed, it came as a relief.
The man spoke with the accent of a Palestinian. “At three o’clock this afternoon, Mr. Chase, you will visit the Crusader Sea Castle in Sidon. Perhaps you can learn from the past.”
The caller clicked off, leaving Brooke to wonder whether this
message came from Farad or Fatah al-Islam. But he would not scare off Farad by calling back.
It was a little past eleven. Time enough to wander the streets of Sidon, then meet whomever waited.
The day grew hotter, the cab so suffocating that Al Zaroor, sitting between Azid and the trucker, could smell the noxious mix of sweat with aftershave that no doubt served as Hussein’s substitute for bathing. To kill time, the trucker produced photographs of his wife and two sons. Perusing them out of politeness, Al Zaroor saw a doe-eyed woman, pretty from what little her cover revealed, and two handsome boys in soccer uniforms. Life held many mysteries, Al Zaroor reflected—the latest being how such a dull-looking beast could spawn such sons. Murmuring compliments, he passed the snapshots to an equally bored Azid.
“My boys are keen athletes,” Hussein informed his companions. “Also readers—especially the Koran. Sharia has raised them well.”
Still apprehensive, Al Zaroor watched the traffic ahead, moving steadily across the scrub and khaki terrain. “Have you a family of your own?” Hussein inquired.
Al Zaroor thought of Salwa, the one woman he might have loved. But that was very long ago; like his parents and sister, no doubt she thought him dead. Perhaps his parents were dead, too, and Salwa thickened by bearing some other man’s children. “No,” Al Zaroor responded. “That was not God’s wish.”
Clearly not, Azid’s silent look said. Al Zaroor felt his fleeting sadness become resentment of both men. Perhaps it was only that they assisted jihad on vacation from the comfort of their lives. He willed his mind to leave his body, envisioning the path ahead.
As planned, they turned sharply south, passing Aleppo and the ruins of ancient cities, rendered more haunting because no one knew why the cities had died. They continued without pause, sharing soggy pita pockets provided by Hussein. At length, they reached the outskirts of Hama, a pretty place along the Orontes River, its banks lined with trees and gardens—another place Al Zaroor had no time for. To his irritation, Hussein stopped at a stand outside the city.
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