by Harold
Pitney was aware that everyone in the room was looking at him. He stood up. “I like a pistol for interior tactics for all the obvious reasons. And a double-column .40 or .45 gives me twelve to fifteen rounds, which should be plenty. If not, I carry my first reload at the front of my tactical belt. I can swap magazines in less than two seconds.
“I brought a compensated Springfield XD with me. It’s loud, but like Mr. Brezyinski just said, we’ll have ear protection. The integral compensator keeps the muzzle steady, and at typical distances you can do ‘hammers’ with both rounds inside two inches.
“The red dot or laser sight is a big advantage in dim light and against multiple opponents. At room-clearing distances—inside twenty-five feet—you can engage several targets very quickly.”
Nissen was impressed. “Okay, that makes sense to me. But you’re not going to carry a specialized weapon like that for everyday use.”
“No, sir, I’m not. It’s a special tool for special circumstances.”
“What if the BGs have body armor that your ammo won’t handle?”
Pitney shrugged. “Inside a room with a bunch of hostiles, I wouldn’t rely on torso shots anyway. I’d shoot for the eyes.”
The retired noncom frowned. “That’s a very high standard of marksmanship, Mr. Pitney. Especially when people are shooting at you.”
“Yes it is, Sergeant Nissen. It certainly is.”
* * * *
SSI OFFICES
Marshall Wilmot was overweight to the point of being fat. His goal was to remain shy of obese, and recently he would not have claimed victory in that campaign, for it was more than a battle. Privately, he envied the hell out of Michael Derringer, who in his mid-sixties tipped the scales barely twenty pounds more than his Annapolis weight.
On the other hand, Wilmont retained most of his hair and needed glasses only for newsprint.
Wilmont stopped at the top of the stairs, regaining his breath. At that moment Matt Finch dashed past, taking the steps two at a time. “Hey, Marsh,” the personnel officer chirped. “Still avoiding the elevator? Good for you. Keep it up, man!” On that cheerful note, the slender forty-something was gone.
SSI’s chief operating officer watched him disappear. Damn marathoners. They’re fanatics.
At length Wilmot reached the second-floor landing and opened the door. Aside from his physical bulk, he felt as if he carried an equally onerous burden—a load to be shared with Mike Derringer.
Wilmot nodded to Peggy Singer, who broadcast a contralto “Good morning,” ending on an upscale that bespoke cheerfulness. It also alerted her boss in the inner office that a visitor was inbound.
Derringer swiveled his high-backed chair, turning away from his computer console. “Good morning, Marsh.” He stopped to scrutinize his partner more closely. “You look like yesterday’s chow, if I may say so.”
Wilmot plopped his bulk into the visitor’s chair. “You may, and you did.” He emitted a short wheeze and realized that he had left his handkerchief at home again. His marriage remained on the downhill slope, and tending hubby’s laundry had never been a priority for Jocelyn Brashears Wilmot. He contented himself with extracting a partial tissue from his coat pocket and dabbed his mouth.
Derringer wondered if Sandy Carmichael or Frank Ferraro in the operations division maintained their emergency responder certification.
Finally Wilmot regained his breath and his voice. “Mike, I saw Brian Cottle last Friday night. He was at the club with some of his Foggy Bottom friends.”
“Is he still running scared over State’s embarrassment after our African outing?”
Wilmot nodded. “But he’s only frightened, not terrified like he was a couple of months ago. I arrived late for happy hour and Brian was working on his third drink. So I eased him over to an empty table and bought him another round.”
Derringer approved. “You sly dog, you.”
“Actually, I don’t know how much slipped out and how much he actually wanted me to know. But he pretty much laid it out. State and CIA are still red-faced over the way the Israelis snookered them, and sending us chasing all over Africa and the Med and the Atlantic after that yellow cake. So I laid it on a little thick, you know? I said, ‘Jeez, Brian, we did exactly what you guys wanted us to do and now we’re the bastard cousin at the wedding.’”
“I hope he absorbed a boatload of guilt.”
Wilmot shrugged his burly shoulders. “Well, he didn’t argue. He just sort of acknowledged that maybe we’d got a raw deal, being denied other contracts because our team did the work that we’d been hired to do.” Wilmot paused, trying to recall the conversation. “The fact that the yellow cake sank with that ship our guys took was all to the good. I mean, State understands that the cake never reached Iran. But once they realized that Mossad had been calling the shots through third parties and cutouts, there was some, ah, unwelcome scrutiny on the hill.”
Derringer leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. “Yes, I know. So what’s the point of Mr. Cottle’s unhappy hour?”
“Well, since I had him alone I pushed the man-to-man thing, you know? I said, ‘Look, Brian. We’re forced to do business with the damned Israelis, the same people who used us and got a couple of our guys killed. So when the hell are you,’ and I emphasized you, ‘going to let us out of detention?’”
“Good lad. So what’d he say?”
“Well, then he did get defensive. His voice went up a couple of octaves and basically he said, ‘Shit, Marsh. I’m the one who approved SSI for the current Israeli job. If it’d gone to somebody else, the foreign contracts desk probably would’ve turned you down. Then you’d really be stuck.’”
“Is that true?”
Wilmont coughed again. While regaining his composure, he nodded. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, he’s the deputy undersecretary for international security so he can direct traffic pretty much where he wants. I think that his boss rubber-stamps most of Brian’s recommendations unless it’s high visibility.”
Derringer laughed. “Like Radar on MASH. ‘Here, Colonel. Sign this.’”
“Well, maybe not quite like that. But I felt better after pumping Brian. He’s a decent guy down deep—just has trouble showing it sometimes.”
“So, does that mean that we might be considered for some U.S. Government contracts anytime soon?”
Wilmont squirmed his weight against the seat. “I’ll know more on Wednesday. But I think things are easing up because when I left, Brian promised to stand me to a three-martooni lunch.”
Derringer chuckled aloud. “Well, he might welch on a business deal, but a promise made when drunk is sacred.”
“You got it, Mike.”
* * * *
13
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
In a rare moment to himself, Ahmad Esmaili sat with his back against a tree and allowed his mind to wander. He could not remember the last time he had indulged in nonprofessional musings.
As the leader of a notably successful Hezbollah unit, Esmaili had grown accustomed to a degree of latitude in accomplishing his missions. But now, apparently entrusted with a more important operation than ever before, he was tacitly reduced to second in command to a zealous cleric possessing little military experience.
“Commissar” was the word that Esmaili attached to Imam Elham. Essentially a political appointee, the priest nonetheless wielded full authority over the fighters—and their commander. It would not be wise to question his orders, which meant that operational worries would have to be couched in diplomatic terms.
Esmaili was astute enough to know that he lacked diplomacy. He achieved results by force of personality and the threat of draconian enforcement for the few jihadists who resisted him. In recent years he had only been forced to execute two men: proof of the French concept Pour encourager les autres.
The Hezbollah chief reflected that almost immediately Imam Sadegh Elham began assuming de facto leadership of the unit. After barely asking permission, the priest c
onvened a meeting and announced his intention of establishing a more devout routine. He began by uttering a smooth assurance of his belief that the Hezbollah fighters represented the fruit of Islam’s warriors. Then he said that at dawn tomorrow he would begin the Fad salat, the five daily prayers conducted by a group praying behind an imam.
Esmaili had accepted the news in stony silence, trading the briefest of glances with Tawfiq and Fida. Azizi, the liaison between Momen and the men who would execute his mysterious plan, seemed satisfied with the situation. A trifle uncharitably, Esmaili thought, He can afford to be satisfied. He probably does not have to perform our mission. Esmaili weighed the situation and cataloged the operative factors. Because Hezbollah was dominated by Iranians such as himself, the movement was largely Shia. Therefore, Imam Elham possessed unquestioned power as a Shiite cleric.
Azizi had said, “Brother, you know that an imam must be obeyed because he speaks for God.”
“Yes, of course,” Esmaili had replied. “That is why Dr. Momen sent him. Aside from his position in the scientific organization, Imam Elham’s religious authority cannot be questioned.” Esmaili conceded that the double dose of power was bulletproof. And that knowledge chilled him to the marrow. Esmaili held not the ghost of a doubt that Momen and Elham were perfectly content sending their jihadists to destruction if there seemed some advantage.
“That is the wonder of it,” Azizi insisted. “We achieve Paradise merely for the worthiness of the effort, not for the results.”
Esmaili had concluded the discussion in the only way possible. Inclining his head, he had intoned, “Allah be praised.”
Watching the westering sunlight slanting onto Southern Lebanon’s cedared hills, Ahmad Esmaili contemplated his likely future and indulged in a silent heresy.
* * * *
BEIRUT
Major Fahed Ayash deposited Frank Leopole at Rafix Kara’s office building in the fashionable Verdun area of West Beirut. “I was going to introduce you in person,” the Druze officer explained, “but I must meet with a, ah, supplier, before he leaves. I return in an hour, no more.”
Leopole had no option but to make the best of his circumstances. He looked around, feeling ballistically naked in one of the region’s riskiest cities, and longed for his Sig. Better inside than an obvious Gringo on the street, he concluded. He went upstairs, admitted by the lone secretary.
The office defined the man.
Leopole took in the ambience, which an interior decorator might call Post-Modem Ballistic. The place was strewn with weapons: rifles, pistols, a few shotguns, and two machine guns. Leopole recognized one as a Soviet RPD, which he considered the finest LMG ever made. It rested on its bipod with hundred-round drum in place. The other was partly obscured behind some ammo boxes but Leopole thought the stock resembled an even older antique: a Lewis Gun.
Kara’s desktop was clean, with two exceptions. One was the .455 Webley revolver of the same vintage as the Lewis. The other was a two-tiered organizer with roasted peanuts in the In basket and figs in the Out basket. A wastebasket and well-used chair completed the administrative suite.
Leopole was drawn to a Steyr SSG in the corner, complete with Kahles ten-power scope and ten-round magazine. He had owned one of the Austrian sniper rifles long ago but sold it when his logbook of rounds fired revealed that he had not shot it in four years. He seldom kept a gun that he did not fire at least semiannually. On the other hand, his partner, retired Master Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Foyte, had more firearms than he knew and simply bought a new safe now and then.
Leaning over, hands behind him in deference to gun culture etiquette, Leopole was interested to note four hash marks painted on the stock. Then the door opened behind him.
“Ah, Colonel Leopole.”
The SSI operator turned to see a short, compact man with a Lebanese nose, thinning gray hair, and a brisk, cheerful manner that belied his well-cut business suit. Rafix Kara strode across the carpet, extending an arm. Leopole stood erect and grasped the proffered hand. The men shook briskly, both squeezing hard before releasing as if on mutual consent.
Kara nodded toward the Steyr. “I see you admire fine rifles,” he said in French-accented English. “But one should expect that of a United States Marine!”
Every Marine a rifleman, Leopole thought. It was a catchy sentiment, if no longer true.
“Well, sir, I wish I’d kept the one I used to own. It was the most accurate production rifle I ever had. My hand loads would hold under three inches at five hundred yards.”
The Druze leader wrinkled his brow. “Then why part with such a fine weapon?
Leopole shrugged. “I didn’t shoot it very often and was short of space in my safe.”
Kara’s eyes registered surprise. “A safe? Surely one such as yourself needn’t hide fine weapons in a safe. That is for bankers and merchants!” He swept a hand around the room. “This is my gun safe, Colonel!” He laughed in appreciation of his own joke.
Leopole looked around again. Two walls and much of the floor did in fact resemble a walk-in gun vault. It occurred to Frank Leopole that Rafix Kara had acquired a veritable alphabet of weapons: AKs, FALs, a couple of AUGs, the RPD and SSG, even a couple of RPG launchers. He returned the Lebanese leader’s broad smile. “How do you stay proficient with so many weapons, sir?”
“Oh, I do not. I merely have this . . . collection ... to ensure a ready supply. I have guns in various calibers, you see? The Soviet round for AKs and RPDs; 7.62 NATO for FALs, sniper rifles, and MAGs; 5.56 for Galils, AUGs, and some M16s though they do not function well.” He cocked a mirthful eye at his guest. “As you no doubt already know!”
“Uh, yessir. But what about these?” He pointed to the RPG launchers.
“Oh, those are no problem. Rocket projectiles are easy to get, Colonel. Last I heard, less than two hundred dollars here in Beirut.” He unzipped a knowing grin. “Unless you want a volume discount. But the launchers will cost you three hundred each.”
Despite his cautionary instincts, Leopole found himself liking the merchant. “You’re what we call a one-stop shopping center, Mr. Kara.”
The Druze laughed loudly, more for emphasis than empathy. “One-stop shopping center! That is good, Colonel. Quite good.” He shook his head in appreciation. “Some of my associates will enjoy that description.” Gaining enthusiasm, he swept his hand around the room again. “This is just my personal stock, as you might say. Now, if you really want to bargain with me, we can discuss body armor, night vision, even light armored vehicles.”
“Well, sir, I’ll keep that in mind.”
Kara returned to his desk and opened the nearby closet. He extracted soft body armor and a Browning Hipower. Donning both, he said, “Let us go out, Colonel. We can talk business while having some lunch.”
On the street with his bodyguard, Kara indicated his preference for an open-air stall selling pastirma. He stepped to the counter and ordered two servings of the air-dried beef, insisting, “Please permit me. This is my favorite, Colonel.”
Gunfire chattered two blocks away, stray rounds slapping the concrete wall above their heads. Leopole dived for cover, reaching for the pistol that was not there.
Kara knelt beside him, dripping aplomb. “Not to worry, Colonel Leopole. This sort of thing happens often in my city.” He shrugged philosophically. “Probably a celebration of some sort. Many Lebanese have an unfortunate tendency to fire into the air when happy or excited.”
Glancing left and right, the former Marine levered himself off the sidewalk. “Damn! I knew I should’ve ignored the State Department order about personal weapons.”
The Druze leader turned to his bodyguard and passed a brief exchange. The burly security man raised his left leg and produced a .22 Beretta from an ankle holster. Kara handed over the backup piece, butt first. “This is Kamal’s personal weapon but you may keep it until you remedy your, ah, unfortunate state of undress.”
* * * *
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
Imam Elham professed to know little of military affairs but a great deal about religious doctrine. As near as Ahmad Esmaili could tell, the cleric did not exaggerate on either point.
However, Esmaili drew the line when theology interfered with operations.
After the dawn prayer, Salat-ul-Fajr, the Hezbollah leader reckoned that the rest of the morning belonged to him. But Elham had not dismissed the assembly. Instead, he launched into a philosophical discourse—the closest oration to a sermon that Esmaili had heard in several months.
Today’s lesson centered upon the distinction between defensive and offensive jihad.
Elham began, “Defensive jihad is always justified since by its nature it preserves Islam from the aggressions of the unbelievers. Theoretically, defensive jihad is justified by bringing infidels into The Faith, as The Prophet Himself did. However, since the last caliphate in Turkey in 1924, there is no supreme leader of The Faith to sponsor offensive jihad.” The discourse continued along those lines for several minutes.