Devil's Light, The

by North Patterson, Richard

  He looked around the room, to suggest a fear of listeners, then gestured at the bed. They sat beside each other, silent for a moment. Touching his hand, she murmured, “This isn’t how I imagined it.”

  His throat felt tight. “Did you imagine it?”

  “Many times.” She shook her head in wonder, then spoke in the same near whisper. “Then I saw you tonight, and it was all I could do to maintain cover. When did you start this work?”

  “After Ben died. But at least I didn’t vanish.”

  Her shoulders twitched. “I had my reasons.” She paused, then took his hand. “I think that’s all we should say now.”

  “There isn’t much time.”

  “I know. But there are people we must speak with, things I’m not free to discuss. Let’s agree that I’ll give you a tour of these ruins tomorrow, in early evening.” She smiled a little. “My doctoral studies included the Roman period.”

  “Impressive.” Leaning over, Brooke undid her scarf and ponytail, freeing her hair. “Sorry, but I needed to mess you up a little.”

  “At least you left my buttons alone.” Anit stood abruptly, then looked down at him. “I’m not going to sleep very well.”

  “Nor I. Though given what I’m here for, I wasn’t before.”

  Standing, Brooke walked her to the door. She opened it, scanned the hallway, then turned to him again. For a moment, all he wanted was to look at her. Then he rested curled fingers against her face, saying, “Good night, habibi”—Arabic for “my sweet.”

  For a last moment she looked into his eyes. “Good night, Adam,” she said, and left.

  THREE

  For the next twenty hours—precious by his reckoning—Brooke was frozen in place. He kept trying to track down Fareed, until his friend’s scratchy phone call from Amman informed him that he would return tomorrow. The rest of his time was spent worrying that the bomb was now in Lebanon, rechecking his room for surveillance devices, scanning emails, and wondering how Anit’s life had brought her to this place. He felt anew the force of seeing her again; he could only imagine the reverberations of their chance encounter within their agencies. Reporting it to Grey and Brustein, Brooke explained, “We had a relationship at NYU.”

  “Define ‘relationship,’ “Brustein prodded.

  “More than meeting for coffee. Though sometimes we had coffee in the morning—”

  Sharply, Grey interjected, “This is the woman you told me about.”

  “Yes. The question now is if and how we work together.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  Brooke gazed out his window at the ruins. “Last night, we played at becoming involved for show. Maybe we should play that out.”

  “What about the ‘human factor’?” Grey inquired. “Where does that come in?”

  “It can’t. We both know why we’re here—”

  “Her masters may object,” Brustein cut in. “Your cover is threadbare; hers may not be. You could end up getting both of you killed. Or worse.”

  Brooke knew this all too well. Quietly, he replied, “What are their priorities, Noah? If they think I’m right, and that time is short, I know what mine would be.”

  There was silence on the other end. “We’ll let you know,” Brustein said.

  An hour before he was to meet Anit, Brooke received his answer. “We’ve reached an understanding,” Grey advised him. “At least for today. But they’re not going to like where I know you’re headed.”

  “I think they’re out of choices,” Brooke rejoined.

  She stood at the entrance to the ruins, appearing as composed as the woman she pretended to be. Only the brief look she gave him, fond yet apprehensive, suggested the complexity of her feelings. They entered the site together, cognizant of the tourists in pairs or guided groups. After a moment, Brooke took her hand.

  “So you’ve heard,” she murmured.

  He looked around them. “Yes. We’re lovers again, in public, by order of our governments.”

  “Why not? We only get fired if it’s real.” Her voice softened. “So much has happened. To both of us, it seems.”

  They stopped, gazing at the remains of a city built two thousand years before—massive temples to Jupiter, Venus, Mercury, and Bacchus, a huge courtyard with an altar for sacrificing animals. Above the ruins, the haunting sound of the Muslim call to prayer echoed from the jagged ridges of the Anti-Lebanon Mountains.

  “This is amazing,” Anit said. “The greatest temple complex ever conceived.”

  “Why here in Baalbek?”

  “Political savvy and imperial arrogance. A line of emperors decided to build a monument to Rome’s power, while incorporating tributes to certain local gods.” She glanced at him. “Building all this took two and a half centuries, a hundred thousand slaves, and countless tons of sandstone and marble hauled from throughout the Middle East. As you’ll see, the Romans used a pure stone masonry technique, excluding mortar. Instead they strengthened the joints with iron clamps, coated with lead to avoid oxidation. They truly meant this place to last forever.”

  Brooke raised his eyebrows. “You actually know archaeology, don’t you?”

  “Of course. I may not be real, but my doctorate is.” Her voice lowered. “I also learned that nothing lasts forever. But I hope this isn’t Israel’s time to vanish.”

  Taking his hand, she led him from structure to structure, commenting on each for the benefit of whoever might overhear them. In the failing light, the pillars, colonnades, and archways cast shadows at their feet. At length, she guided him up the steps of the Temple of Bacchus, the best preserved of the structures. Sitting there they could watch the site, Brooke saw at once, noting anyone who approached them. It reminded him of whom Anit Rahal had become.

  “What happened to you, Anit?”

  She continued keeping watch. “Laura,” she corrected. “A lonely American archaeologist, having a fling with you. The least you can do is remember my name.”

  Brooke ignored this. “The last I heard you were getting married. Then nothing.”

  Still not facing him, she spoke in a monotone. “And then the war in Lebanon,” she answered. “Our political losses were great, but our casualties relatively light. A little over one hundred.” She paused, then finished. “One was Meir, a helicopter pilot in the reserves. I remember telling you that I would die for Israel. Instead my fiancé was killed by a Hezbollah rocket.”

  Brooke grasped her hand tighter. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’d imagined you living a happy life.”

  “So did we. When Meir was called up, he was thirty, a promising architect. I was quitting the army to start a family.” She faced him. “And when I imagined you, as I often did, you were working for the State Department.”

  Brooke shrugged. “September 11 changed things. For the past nine years I’ve been lying to everyone outside the agency. But you know how that goes.”

  Anit studied him. “Have you ever wished for an ordinary life?”

  “At times. But it’s so hard to go back to who I was. There are days I envy other people, yet feel detached from them. It’s like I lost my innocence so they can cling to theirs.” He heard a tinge of bitterness in his tone, and stopped himself. “So when Meir was killed, you were ready for the Mossad.”

  Her eyes became distant, as though recalling another life. “They’d kept extensive data on me—IQ tests, psychological profile, language skills, intelligence background, travel abroad. And, of course, my commitment to Israel—”

  “I remember it well. I used to think it had cost me a wife. Perhaps a life.”

  She gave him a level look. “After all these years, are you still angry?”

  “Angry? No. Right now I’m feeling a little sad for us both.”

  Turning, Anit gazed at the ruins. “Our lives may be an accident, not what we intended. But I try never to look back. What I knew after Meir died was that I had no spouse, no children, and could pass for an American.” She paused. “In defense of my colleagues, t
hey didn’t want someone with a death wish, or who was acting out of revenge. I was able to convince them I wanted to serve Israel.”

  “So you chose the hardest work there is.” Brooke’s tone became crisp. “I know a fair amount about the Mossad. No other agent knows your identity. You’re allowed to kill, and are trained to do it well. And, if need be, to carry out assassinations.”

  Turning away, Anit was silent. At length, she said coolly, “We took our oath of allegiance at Masada, where a cadre of Jews killed themselves rather than surrender to Rome. We’re sworn never to disclose the details of our work.

  “That means not just to you, but family or friends. If I’m involved with an Israeli man, no matter how well I deceive him, after three months I must report it. Better to have no relationships at all, unless it’s inside the Mossad.” Her voice gained intensity, as though, against her will, she was feeling a surge of repressed emotion. “The ideal agent is a loner who’s willing to give up her life and disappear at will. In fact, the best of us are arguably insane—fanatic patriots with a pathological gift for deceiving others. Not to mention becoming someone else.”

  “How long have you been Laura Reynolds?”

  “Four years now.” In profile, her lips formed a smile without humor. “I can tell you more about Laura’s childhood than my own—school friends, the clothes I wore, what Mom put in my lunchbox, favorite movies and TV programs, my date to the junior prom. I have a transcript at NYU, created by a gifted hacker; a credit history in New York; and a hard-earned doctorate from American University. As you well know, I need it all. It’s easy enough for an Israeli spy to get killed in the Bekaa Valley, and too many people willing to compete for the honor. Especially Hezbollah.”

  “Do they suspect you, I wonder?”

  “Before you showed up?” Anit answered pointedly. “I gather people keep trying to kill you.”

  “Only twice, and only Sunnis. But don’t think I’m not concerned for you.”

  “Nor I you,” she said more softly. “But caring isn’t our job, is it? As for whether my cover is working, one seldom knows until it’s too late. But it’s elaborate enough. I’m a genuine archaeologist who, my boss believes, is moonlighting for UNESCO.”

  Brooke laughed out loud. “You’re joking.”

  “Hardly. UNESCO thinks that, too. Which allows me to delve into smuggling out of purer motives than the locals would attribute to the Mossad.” She faced him, her voice becoming somber. “As you’d expect, it gets complicated, even unnerving. And now I’m sleeping with Adam Chase, an American business consultant.”

  Once again, Brooke felt a stab of fear for her. “I take it you’re here to watch Hezbollah.”

  “Of course. Knowing smugglers helps me divine when Hezbollah is bringing in arms and rockets from Syria. My travels for the dig have allowed me to guess at where they’re hiding their command centers—if only from the places they don’t allow me to go. So when the next war comes, we’ll carpet-bomb those sites, and Israeli commandos will kill their leaders.” Her tone became harder. “As I told my recruiters, I’m not doing this to avenge Meir. Nothing can bring him back. So instead of counting our children, perhaps I can count the dead commanders of Hezbollah, and imagine the families I’ve helped save from their rockets.”

  Brooke repressed a chill. “Do you know who their leaders are?”

  “They’re very secretive. But yes, we know some of them.”

  Once again, Brooke looked around them. In the dusk, the tourists had dwindled. Quietly, he said, “But now you’re searching for a nuclear weapon.”

  Anit nodded. “Al Qaeda has turned my work on its head. Suddenly I’m looking for smugglers who aren’t connected to Hezbollah; places al Qaeda might hide from its network of spies; or strangers who aren’t from the Bekaa Valley—”

  “So the tip about an ‘important shipment’ came from you. As well as the possible sighting of a man from Ayn Al-Hilweh.”

  Anit regarded him gravely. “And it was you, I now understand, who originated the theory about an attack on Tel Aviv.”

  “Yes. I think al Qaeda is pulling off a massive hoax, and that by now the bomb has moved into Lebanon. Perhaps within miles of here.”

  Briefly, Anit touched her eyes. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? We can’t send commandos into the Bekaa looking for a bomb that could be anywhere. Hezbollah would slaughter them before they found it. And if they did find the bomb, Hezbollah would take it.” She shook her head. “Ten years ago, when we were lovers, I never imagined us wondering how to save my country from al Qaeda.”

  You already know, Brooke thought. You’re just not ready to face it. But all he said was, “I have a source. Tomorrow I’m going to see him.”

  “If it’s not too late,” she answered. “How many days or hours, I wonder, do we have left?”

  FOUR

  Deep within the cave, Al Zaroor studied the photograph on his laptop. Around him, the three Palestinians talked among themselves.

  “Who is this man?” Al Zaroor asked.

  One of the Palestinians, Mohammad Hamzi, spat at the stone floor. “An American who calls himself Adam Chase. He pretends to be a businessman. But he’s an agent of the CIA.”

  Al Zaroor looked up. “How do you know this?”

  “We tried to kidnap him two years ago, in Beirut. He killed my partner and got away. Then he disappeared.” Hamzi’s voice turned hard. “Before that he recruited the first PLO lackey we eliminated, Khalid Hassan. Chase’s target was Fatah al-Islam.”

  Al Zaroor felt a jolt of fear. “So this is the same man who met with Farad?”

  “We think so, yes.”

  Al Zaroor studied the American’s face more closely as he absorbed the meaning of his presence here. That people within the CIA did not believe Bin Laden’s threat was predictable. But this man had come to the Bekaa Valley. Al Zaroor wondered what he knew, and what the Zionists might learn as a result. At once his thoughts moved to the two dead Syrians. The risk of killing them was that their disappearance had raised questions; the benefit was that neither man could answer them.

  “You say this photograph was taken in Baalbek,” Al Zaroor said.

  “Yes, just before he checked into the Palmyra Hotel. As you asked, we put several of our comrades in strategic places, watching for strangers. The man who sent this knows the American on sight.” Hamzi paused, then said in a lower voice, “We should eliminate him at once.”

  Al Zaroor sat against the wall of the cave. If they knew “Adam Chase” was here, he reasoned, so did Hezbollah. By himself, the American was not a serious threat—there was only so much he could glean in the next seventy-two hours. But Hezbollah could pose grave dangers. In the CIA’s place, he would set aside its historic loathing, and go to Hezbollah. And if he were Hezbollah, he would snatch this agent off the street.

  All this he thought without speaking. Except for the Pakistani, no one in the cave knew the contents of the coffin—Al Zaroor had let the others believe it was gold. But the Iraqis and Palestinians eyed the technician with suspicion. They, too, were capable of thinking the Renewer had lied, and they knew far more than this American. So for Hamzi to be snared by Hezbollah would pose the greater threat. The question was whether he could kill the American without getting caught.

  At length, Al Zaroor said, “If you murder this agent, you must leave the valley at once. I don’t want you followed back here, or caught in the act. Unless you can take him out swiftly and silently, let him live.”

  Hamzi folded his arms. “Our man is watching him now. He can call me when the American is alone.”

  Al Zaroor considered this. Then he dug into a duffel bag and took out a new cell phone. “If you succeed, or leave Baalbek without trying, call the number I’ll give you. Let it ring three times, then hang up. If I hear the telephone, I’ll rest easier.” He paused, then added coldly, “If not, I’ll hope this agent killed you. You cannot fail and live.”

  Hamzi’s jaw worked. “I won’t fail,”
he answered. “The American will die as Khalid Hassan did, unable to make a sound.”

  Darkness shrouded the Temple of Bacchus, relieved only by a three-quarter moon. Above the wall surrounding the ruins, Brooke and Anit could see the lights of Baalbek, more lights scattered in the hills above. The tourists were gone, and they were alone. By the grace of Dr. Antoine Abboud, Laura Reynolds had a special pass.

  “This Shiite friend of yours,” she asked, “how can he help us?”

  “He can’t, directly. But he knows everyone in the valley—who they are and what they do.”

  Though the light was dim, he saw her face set. “Hezbollah, you mean. And then what? You’ll just knock on their door?” Anit emitted a short, bitter laugh. “Perhaps I can accompany you, with an introduction from the Iranians—”

  “You bargain with Hezbollah for the dead,” Brooke cut in softly.

  “Yes,” she said with lethal quiet. “They exchanged the charred remains of my fiancé for six imprisoned fighters. So how can I object?” Her tone remained cool. “There are, however, certain practical barriers to my involvement. My agency has invested a considerable amount of time and money in preparing me to be here—in part, to replace the network snuffed out at Hezbollah’s direction. If Hezbollah finds out who I am, they could treat me with the same consideration they accorded William Buckley, with variations appropriate to my sex. And if they try to swap me for a busload of would-be suicide bombers, my agency has warned me, the price is too exorbitant.” Her voice softened. “If I die, I’d like some good to come of it. If I live, I don’t want to go slowly insane in a Lebanese prison, reduced to the pathetic hope that my country will retrieve me by releasing terrorists who, sooner or later, will murder other Jews.”

  Watching her, Brooke ached at how completely they had changed since they were lovers. “If I go to Hezbollah, Anit, I won’t involve you.”

  “A little late, don’t you think? Who do you suppose that waiter and bartender work for? The best I can hope for is that they’re debating whether I’m an American spy or simply an American slut.”