by Harold
The brigadier allowed himself a sly grin. “You mean Mossad.”
An eloquent roll of the shoulders was all the response needed. “Anyway, consider this a warning order. Your brigade and other elements of the division will be tasked with supporting our cross-border teams, especially those working with Druze militia.”
Nadel leaned back in his chair. “Druze. Well, they’re no friends of the Iranians, but my God, Yakov. Their areas are up around Beirut. How are we going to . . .”
Livni raised a pudgy hand toward the wall map. “Yes, most of their traditional areas extend south and east from Beirut. But there are also some Druze enclaves closer to our border.” He used a blunt index finger to circle an area in southern Lebanon.
Nadel looked at the map and recognized the name. “Hasbaya.”
“Yes, that’s a promising area. It’s about fifteen kilometers south of Mount Hermon and a similar amount from the Syrian border. We want to insert training teams into the area before Hezbollah gets a better foothold.”
“Well, that’s going to be a tall order. I mean, that close to the Syrians, there must already be some well-established Hezbollah supply routes and even some bases.”
Livni nodded decisively. “There are. Which is why we cannot allow the situation to remain uncontested. My boys are already making contact with civic and militia leaders, building goodwill with the local population. But we’re stretched too thinly, as . . . as.” He cleared his throat and looked away. When he turned back, he was composed again. “As we learned too often of late.”
Scanning the map more closely, Nadel emitted a soft whistle. “That’s almost twenty kilometers inside Lebanon. What sort of support are we expected to provide?”
“As we noted before, mainly logistics. Supplies, route security, and a powerful presence round the clock. Your reaction force should be fully briefed on the terrain and tactical situation. I am informed that intelligence will be updated frequently, but that’s a matter for the full briefing in a few days.”
Nadel arched his eyebrows. “Well, all right. But if Hezbollah wants to oppose the operation—and undoubtedly it will—things could get messy. I mean, it wouldn’t take much to escalate into another 2006 situation.”
“Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. But the decision has been made. The mood in the government seems to be that we’ll have another fight sooner or later, and we want our Druze friends to be as prepared as possible. While keeping a low profile.”
“Yakov, you mentioned supplies. That means either trucks or helicopters, and both can easily be intercepted. We’re bound to have casualties, and . . .”
“Well, maybe not so many this time.”
Nadel shook his head. “What do you mean?”
Livni lowered his voice. “Yes, there will be IDF personnel, including Israeli Druze. But there will also be, ah, third-party nationals doing much of the actual work.”
“Who would that be?”
The colonel leaned toward the general. “Americans.”
* * * *
TEHRAN
Of the capital’s twenty-two municipal districts, Esmaili considered one as good as another. But Dr. Gholamhossein Momen favored the Amirabad area, west of Azizi’s hostel, and that is where the meeting occurred. The fact that the district contained a nuclear research facility might have caused concern, but Esmaili reckoned that the doctor subscribed to what Americans called the “forest for the trees” method of hiding oneself.
Azizi escorted Esmaili to the scientist’s office and left for a moment. During the short interval, the Hezbollah operative took in the ambience. It reflected his memory of Dr. Momen from their association several years before. Austere, functional, businesslike, without adornment.
From his awful days on the revolutionary firing squad, through the eight-year agony of the Iraq war to the more satisfying, less constrained campaign in Lebanon, Ahmad Esmaili had become an adept judge of men. That is, of character. Very few had earned his full respect and fewer caused him genuine fear. Gholamhossein Momen was the only one who filled both descriptions.
Esmaili forced himself upright in the straight-backed metal chair. With his hands folded, he tried to exude an air of confidence, or at least calm indifference, for whomever might be watching. He knew that Momen’s acolytes never tired in their surveillance even of allies. Perhaps especially of allies. The doctor was too valuable to the national interest to take anyone for granted. And for that reason, few of the security operatives remained indefinitely. Esmaili recalled that they were transferred out, like himself, or otherwise disposed of, often for the smallest of reasons. Or for no reasons but a doctrinal concern about any individual gaining too much knowledge or influence.
The door to the inner office opened and Azizi beckoned.
With an effort of will, Esmaili forced himself from the chair and strode through the portal into his future.
The office, if it was such, contained a desk and a few chairs. Besides Azizi, Esmaili saw three robed men, speaking quietly while facing away from the door. At length the shortest figure turned, his hands within the large sleeves of his robe.
Esmaili felt a shudder in his shoulders and worms in his belly. Belatedly, he realized that his tremor was visible.
Dr. Gholamhossein Momen extended his hands from his white robe. They were long, bony, manicured hands. “Peace and mercy and the blessings of Allah be upon you, my son.”
Esmaili returned the greeting, bowing his head deferentially. To himself, he conceded ephemeral gratitude for a chance to escape the doctor’s eyes.
Momen was cursed with dreadful vision. Most of his life he had worn thick glasses that gave an eerie magnification to his brown eyes. They were his dominant feature, seemingly widened unnaturally behind the lenses as if seeking to observe everything around him in minute detail. Which was exactly the case.
The years had not been kind to the scientist. Always short and stout, even his traditional robes failed to conceal his growing obesity. His face behind those spectacles was fleshy and wan, in contrast to his short, dark beard.
Momen stepped around the desk, moving to greet Esmaili in a gliding motion that almost seemed serpentine. It took an effort of willpower for Esmaili to hold his ground, not merely for fear of insulting his host, but for the sign of weakness that retreat would impart. He devoutly did not wish to appear weak in the presence of Dr. Momen.
They grasped hands, and Esmaili felt the clammy sensation of the doctor’s skin. Then, with a start, he realized that the perspiration might as easily be his own. He forced himself to look into the magnified eyes and mutter a dignified response. “I am honored that you have called upon me, Doctor.”
Momen released the grip and waved to a chair. “And I thank you for coming so quickly, brother.” He glanced at Azizi, who seemed approximately relaxed in the doctor’s presence. “Our friend assures me of the quality of your work in Lebanon.” A tight, grim smile. “Not that I ever doubted it.”
Momen returned to the swivel chair on the other side of the desk, motioning one of the other men to leave. It was tacit indication of the trust placed in Esmaili. Otherwise, Dr. Momen was seldom out of sight of at least two armed guards.
Ordinarily there would be coffee or tea, perhaps with wafers, and some preliminary small talk. But Momen had neither time nor use for polite conversation. He fixed his myopic gaze upon the visitor and said, “I have need of your services again. Arrangements have already been made with your superiors. Once you return to Lebanon, you will operate under Mohammad Azizi, who reports directly to me.
Esmaili had forgotten the doctor’s penchant for speaking of people as if they were not present. Evidently Azizi was accustomed to the habit; at least he made no objection.
It occurred to the Hezbollah operative that he had not been asked to volunteer for anything. He was receiving an assignment that permitted no refusal. Harking back several years, Esmaili recalled what befell the only two men who had ever tried to decline the honor of an assignment fr
om Dr. Momen.
“Certainly, Doctor.” Esmaili managed to keep an even tone.
Momen leaned back in his swivel chair, hands inside his sleeves again. He reclined enough to look at the light in the ceiling, apparently entranced with it. Speaking in an oily, sibilating voice, he seemed lost in free association.
“I have brought you a long distance for this short meeting because you need to understand the gravity of my . . . our . . . plans. The operation has many layers, each independent of the others. No one but I and a few others know the entire plan, for obvious reasons. A degree of technical expertise is required, and specialists will be assigned to each cell as the schedule moves forward.”
Momen finally turned his attention back to Esmaili. “My son, your cell will be responsible for delivering one of the technical teams to its destination. You have not been told, but your recent activities were planned months ago in order to gain a position of advantage for that purpose.” The ghosting smile returned for a few heartbeats. “Again, secrecy is maintained for obvious reasons.”
Another deferential nod. Then Momen was on his feet again. “You have done well. I am confident that you will continue doing so.” He turned dismissively but then, as if an afterthought, he added, “I will dispatch a beloved colleague to assist you before long.”
Esmaili expressed gratitude for the sentiment, then followed Azizi out of the room. In the exterior hallway Azizi looked at his new partner. “Well? What do you think?”
Esmaili thought: I think I am glad to be away from that man. He said, “About what?”
“About the operation, of course.”
A noncommittal shrug. “I do not know enough to form a judgment, brother.” Then he remembered to add, “It is in God’s hands.”
Azizi seemed satisfied with the platitude. He said, “I have more meetings this afternoon. You return to Damascus tomorrow and on to Lebanon. I shall rejoin you in a few days.” He raised a cautionary finger. “You must never speak to anyone about this meeting unless I clear it.” He gave an ironic grin. “For obvious reasons.”
“Certainly, my brother.”
Esmaili shunned a taxi for the return to his room. It was only a ninety-minute walk, and he wanted to clear his head. Well before he arrived, he had the basics of the plan in his mind. Momen is a physicist. That means I am part of a compartmentalized operation to deliver multiple nuclear or biological weapons against Israel.
He also knew that the odds of surviving the mission were less than those of an infidel entering Paradise.
* * * *
8
SSI OFFICES
Omar Mohammed convened the meeting of the Lebanon training team that would develop a training program for the Druze militiamen. He began, “Mr. Baram has obtained some information on the state of training of our clients, but since there are several locales we do not know exactly the needs of each. Therefore, we should have two contingencies: a very basic syllabus and a more advanced one for those militia who possess some basic knowledge.”
Mohammed rose from his chair and flipped the cover off an easel. As an experienced briefer he knew that revealing subject headings always invited the audience to read ahead of the presentation, which interfered with comprehension. The first page had a list of topics: Organization, Communications, Weapons, Tactics, Combat Trauma.
“These are the areas that Mr. Baram told us to look at. As you can see, the groups we’ll be training are willing to learn many of the basics from us, even though many of them undoubtedly have combat experience. I consider that an encouraging sign. It means that most of them seem to have an open mind.” He shrugged. “Considering what they are facing, perhaps that is as important as anything else. Actually, I suspect that in the end we may learn as much as they do.”
Chris Nissen, the former NCO who would lead one of the teams, raised a point. “Doctor, it seems to me that a lot of the Druze will have some combat experience. They’re likely to think they don’t need any weapons instruction.”
The suave Iranian native shrugged eloquently. “In that case they would not have hired us. True, we’re actually working for the Israelis who need a cutout for political deniability, but the IDF is sending us where we seem to be needed the most. I believe, therefore, that most of the Lebanese will be receptive.”
Mohammed took a marker and underlined each topic. “I have tentatively assigned each of you two areas of expertise: a primary and a secondary. For instance, Mr. Malten and Mr. Brezyinski are rated medics so they will mostly teach combat trauma with weapons as a secondary subject. Similarly, Mr. Wallender specializes in communications and doubles as a tactics instructor. Your briefing packets contain your specific assignments.”
Frank Leopole walked to the easel and stood beside Mohammed. “Actually, weapons and tactics will be our bread and butter, pretty much like it is on most of our training contracts. That’s why most of you were selected for this job. We’ll break into five-man teams and discuss some of the specifics before we meet again this afternoon and hash out any questions about doctrine. The main things to keep in mind: keep it simple and keep it consistent.”
While Leopole circulated among the team discussions, Mohammed sat in on the weapons group for starters. Consulting his notes, he began, “Many experienced fighters in the Middle East have expended thousands of rounds without hitting anybody. At least not that they can tell. Mainly it’s cultural. The more radical Islamists do not even bother to zero their rifles. They just point toward the enemy and pull the trigger, trusting God to guide their bullets, inshallah. I am told that such attitudes are rare among the Druze who, after all, are not Muslims.”
Pitney wriggled in his chair, apparently concerned about something. Mohammed noted the movement. “Yes, Robert.”
“Well, sir, I think we should emphasize the fundamentals: grip, cheek weld, breathing, sight picture, trigger control, and follow-through. Especially trigger control.”
Mohammed regarded the champion shooter. Obviously he was speaking as a national-class authority on the subject. “You seem to be saying that the trigger is more important than the others.”
“Well, Doctor, they’re all important. I mean, I wouldn’t gloss over any of them. But the trigger’s the man-machine interface, you know? When I was in high school we would’ve said it’s where the rubber meets the road. In my experience, if you get a shooter to concentrate on a good surprise break every time, he’ll learn a lot faster than otherwise. And he’ll be more accurate as well.”
Bosco fancied himself as a marksman and had some theories of his own. “You know, I’ve always wondered about follow-through. I mean, how can the shooter affect the shot when the bullet goes three thousand feet per second?” He spread his hands. “That’s different from an early flinch, of course.”
Mohammed looked to Pitney for a response.
“Sir, once I computed the dwell time in the barrel for a 5.56 round. I forget exactly but it’s a few ten-thousandths of a second. So Bosco’s right, once the primer goes, the shooter can’t influence the course of the bullet. But if the shooter follows through on every round, pretty soon he begins to notice where the sights were, and that means he can begin calling his shots. After that, he can start correcting himself.”
Mohammed appreciated Pitney’s throwing a bone to Bosco. The ex-Ranger was a good shooter and a better rappel instructor, but Pitney could have turned the exchange to his own advantage. Instead, he remained professionally neutral. He’s trying to fit in, Mohammed noted. Good for him.
“Now, I might add something. There’s a saying: ‘One round, two sight pictures.’ What does that mean?” Since he knew that Pitney could write an encyclopedia on the subject, he looked elsewhere. “Anybody?”
Phil Green beat out Bosco. “It means you immediately get a second sight picture after the round goes.”
“Correct. Whether you need it or not.”
Chris Nissen asked, “What about full auto? I mean with rifles, not belt-fed guns.”
Mohamm
ed looked at Pitney who had his own thoughts on the subject but thought better of addressing a purely military subject. The snipers, Barrkman and Furr, gave each other disapproving looks while mouthing the words: Waste of ammo. Finally Green spoke up again. Though primarily a SWAT cop, he had done a tour as an artilleryman. “Doesn’t that depend on how much time and ammo is available? From what we’ve heard about this job, it sounds as if we’re not going to have much chance to teach more than the basics.”
“That is probably the case,” Mohammed replied. “But Sergeant Nissen’s question is well taken. Undoubtedly most of our clients are accustomed to firing their AKs on full automatic. We can either show them the folly of that technique or try to teach them how to do it right.”
Nissen said, “Sounds like a distinction between the beginners and the more experienced people. In other words, a syllabus decision. Now if it was just up to me, I’d say semiauto only at anything outside room distance.”