Devil's Light, The

by North Patterson, Richard

  “Allah will reward you,” Al Zaroor replied.

  They had met only once, at a safe house in Brussels. Outside, a bleak, sleeting rain seemed to permeate the streets, deepening the gloom of winter. But Salem Rajah’s dark eyes held a molten glow.

  Rajah was in his early thirties, with dark curly hair and the nerves and sinews of an athlete. He had been a fighter pilot in the Royal Saudi Air Force; sitting across from Al Zaroor in a worn chair, he projected the alertness of a man trained to fly at sickening speeds. Now he wished to fly only for al Qaeda. When Al Zaroor explained his plan to destroy the Zionist state, Rajah remained impassive.

  “Where do I acquire the plane?” he asked.

  No emotion, Al Zaroor thought approvingly; rather, a practical inquiry on an essential point. His tone was quiet and authoritative, suiting his sense of Salem Rajah. “In Belgium,” he answered. “When the time comes, we’ll provide you with the money and a Lebanese passport. On the night of the mission, we will meet you at the field we have chosen, timing our movements to coincide with your arrival. In less than ten minutes you’ll land, acquire the weapon, and take off for Tel Aviv.”

  Rajah’s thin smile carried the hint of amusement. “Just like that, attracting no attention.”

  “If all goes well. You will file a normal flight plan showing a route from Beirut to Baalbek.” Leaning forward, Al Zaroor looked intently at the pilot, reading his expression as he spoke. “You’ll take off from a private airstrip, flying at a low altitude. In the last few minutes you’ll turn off the radio and land in a darkened field. Can you do that without lights?”

  “Yes, by means of GPS. I would need lights only at the very last instant.” Rajah frowned in thought. “How much does this bomb weigh?”

  “About two hundred pounds.”

  Rajah raised his eyebrows. “Light,” he remarked. “That expands our choice of aircraft. Considering the Zionist air defenses, that’s important.”

  Al Zaroor had expected this. “They’re the best in the world, I’m told.”

  “In most ways, yes. The Jews are prepared for an attacker coming at the highest speeds, from less than a hundred miles. The commander of the air force and his deputies have authority to order an intruder shot down.” Rajah paused a moment, reviewing his knowledge. “The heart of their air defenses is a sophisticated radar system that picks up virtually anything in the sky, even gliders. In order to respond more quickly, the Jews divide their airspace into zones. Within each zone they have at least two pilots who can take off in sixty seconds, as well as antiaircraft missiles they can fire off even quicker. Once they see you, you’re dead.”

  Rather than daunted, the pilot sounded as though he were coolly assessing a challenge. “So how do you beat them?” Al Zaroor asked.

  Rajah smiled at this. “By not doing what they expect. At the height of the Cold War, when Soviet air defenses were second to none, a demented Finnish teenager flew a private plane from Helsinki to Moscow and landed in Red Square. The Russians weren’t prepared for an aircraft flying at low altitude. If he’d had a bomb, that kid could have reduced the Kremlin to rubble.”

  “That was thirty years ago,” Al Zaroor rejoined. “The Zionist air defenses are much better.”

  “Better, yes. But good enough?” Again Rajah’s lips curled. “Like the Russians’, the Zionists’ defenses aren’t designed to pick up small, slow-moving objects whose flight pattern is obscured by ground cover, glare, or weather. Five years ago Hezbollah put up an Iranian drone, flew it for ten minutes over the Galilee, then returned it to southern Lebanon intact. Even the Jews admitted it was like trying to catch a mosquito with a net.”

  Gazing up at him, Al Zaroor asked mildly, “So what aircraft would you use to destroy the Zionist homeland?”

  “A Cessna 185,” the pilot answered promptly. “A single-engine propeller plane.”

  “What about payload?”

  “The payload on this Cessna is roughly eleven hundred pounds. I’d need a hundred pounds of fuel. Add two men—four hundred pounds at most—and a two-hundred-pound bomb. That leaves four hundred pounds to spare. We’ll get to Tel Aviv.”

  “In how long?”

  “That depends on the flight plan. I’d fly thirty feet above the ground, so that it’s hard for the radar to pick me up, and I’d choose a path where I can use hills or trees for cover.” Rajah stopped, making a mental calculation. “From the Bekaa, that could take me half an hour.”

  “What about Zionist spotters on the ground?”

  Rajah shrugged. “At night, they won’t know what we are. We could be Jews in a private plane, or the drones the Zionists use to spy on Hezbollah.” He paused. “The greatest danger is from an AWAC—a plane stuffed with radar that can pick up objects below it. But they’d have to know that we were coming.”

  Satisfied, Al Zaroor said, “I’ll make sure the Jews know nothing.”

  Rajah sat down again. For the first time, his tone of voice suggested a trace of awe. “Tell me about the properties of this bomb,” he requested. “That will affect our final moments.”

  Slowly, Al Zaroor nodded. “The bomb will have a nuclear core, surrounded by explosives that are triggered by a very precise electrical system. When the trigger goes off, it ignites the explosives, causing the nuclear event. Once the bomb starts falling, the trigger detonates it at one thousand feet.”

  Rajah frowned. “A weapon that detonates on impact would allow me to stay lower. Less chance of detection; less chance of getting shot down before I can drop the bomb.”

  “I understand. But much of the energy of a groundburst is spent digging a useless hole. An airburst maximizes the damage to the target area.” Al Zaroor paused for emphasis. “That is why I chose this weapon. Tel Aviv, and everything around it, will cease to exist.”

  Rajah bent forward, considering the problem. “All right,” he said. “Let’s assume we fly in undetected. When we reach Tel Aviv, we suddenly go straight up. In about forty-five seconds we’ll reach one thousand feet. Even when they see us, it will be too late. The bomb will detonate before they can react.”

  Al Zaroor stared at him fixedly. “In a single flash of light, Rajah, you will have destroyed the Zionist state. Perhaps its death throes will take a year, perhaps two. Then maps will be rewritten, the word ‘Israel’ removed. Only your sacrifice will live.”

  Rajah fell quiet. The reality of his death had entered the room. Softly he said, “Inshallah.”

  As night fell, Al Zaroor called an operative in France. He wondered if the Renewer still lived to give his blessing.

  “Yes?” the man answered.

  “I am eager,” Al Zaroor said.

  Three words. The man who heard them, not knowing what they meant, would post a notice on an Internet dating service.

  Man seeks Jewish bride.

  NINE

  Before dawn, Fareed drove Brooke and Anit to the mausoleum of Abbas al-Musawi, the first leader of Hezbollah. The three were silent. The night before, Fareed had asked if Brooke’s inquiry related to the missing bomb; Brooke’s reply, though noncommittal, had left its shadow in his friend’s dark eyes. Anit’s insistence on joining them was an unwelcome surprise. She would not say if she was acting on her own; Brooke knew only that she was in grave danger. Consumed by her thoughts, she did not look at him.

  The mausoleum was an elaborate shrine of domes and spires, its outline dark against the first thin light. Getting out, Anit stood before the charred shell of a car, itself a shrine. Many years before, an Apache missile fired from an Israeli helicopter had incinerated Musawi, his wife, and his four-year-old son while they drove through the valley. His successor, Hassan Nasrallah, traveled in a caravan of eight land rovers, disembarking under an enormous cloth so that Israel’s spy satellites could not detect which vehicle he used. Watching Anit, Brooke tried to imagine her thoughts.

  “Let’s go,” he murmured. Without responding, Anit turned and began walking toward the mausoleum. It was as though she occupied her own
space.

  Two armed guards awaited them, Hezbollah soldiers. They confiscated Brooke’s camera and cell phone, then Anit’s and Fareed’s phones, and opened the great steel doors so that the three could enter.

  Above them a field of tiny spotlights seemed to flicker like candles in the shadows. The mausoleum itself was stone and marble, its ceilings an intricate mosaic of cut glass. Brooke stood beside a display case that held the artifacts of death—Musawi’s glasses, his wife’s prayer book, their son’s charred shoes. At the center of the marble floor was a glass lacework structure through which Brooke could glimpse the tomb of the Shia martyr. Spread before it was a sumptuous carpet on which a lone man prostrated himself in prayer.

  Their guard gestured for Brooke and Anit to wait. Silent, they watched the man continue his veneration, his body as still as theirs.

  The worshipper stood, tall and slender in a long white robe. As he turned, Brooke saw a bearded man barely older than he, with the thin face of an ascetic or a scholar. He greeted Fareed pleasantly, in Arabic, before the journalist stepped outside. Then he appraised his two visitors with a half smile that did not touch his probing eyes. In perfect English, he said, “I am Hussein Nouri.”

  His erudition was no surprise—Nouri, Brooke had learned, held a doctorate in political science from the University of Paris. “Adam Chase,” Brooke replied. “This is my colleague Laura Reynolds.”

  Nouri’s smile vanished. “I know of you,” he told Brooke. “Four days ago, you called on Grand Ayatollah al-Mahdi, delphically warning of events to come.” Facing Anit, he said in a sardonic tone, “And you, I understand, are an archaeologist.”

  Left unspoken was his perception of what else she might be. Nouri’s voice was an instrument, Brooke realized, used to convey meaning beyond the words he chose. “As I said,” Brooke repeated, “we’re colleagues.”

  Nouri’s eyes glinted. “So I am to understand. And now you want my help.”

  “Yes. In our mutual interests.”

  “Do we have such interests?” Nouri asked mildly. “In 1982, the Americans came to support the Christians and the Zionist invaders.”

  “Yes,” Brooke said flatly. “And many died.”

  Nouri crossed his arms. “You are brave to speak of American deaths in such a place. Let alone Jewish deaths.” He paused to study Anit before facing Brooke again. “I know nothing about the bombings of your marines or your embassy, or the unfortunate death of your chief spy in Beirut. But those were difficult times. One could say that by coming to a land not theirs, they volunteered to die.” His voice rose slightly, its cadence quickening. “Now it is thirty years later, and still you call us terrorists. Do you think we don’t belong here? Are you unaware that many thousands of Lebanese have since been killed by the Zionists, your allies? Does it not matter that a plurality of our citizens vote for us in free elections? Or that our only conflict with America occurs in our country, not in yours? And now you, Mr. Chase, come to us not in friendship, but to save the Jews who murder us in our homes.”

  Brooke paused to choose his words. “I come on behalf of sanity,” he replied. “Al Qaeda would pervert Islam—”

  “Do not insult us,” Nouri cut in harshly. “We were among the first to condemn the carnage of September 11. We do not commit mass murder against civilians in their own land. That is the work of al Qaeda—and of the Americans and Zionists in Palestine, Pakistan, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Lebanon, our homeland.” Again he eyed Anit. “What caused our latest war with the Jews? I ask you. They refused to trade our prisoners for theirs, requiring us to seize a few more hostages to sweeten our proposal. Instead of negotiating, the Zionists bombed our towns and cities and murdered thirteen hundred civilians. The handful of Jews who died here were invaders.”

  At the corner of his vision, Brooke could see Anit, her face an expressionless mask. “We are Lebanese,” Nouri continued, “and we are Shia. We care for our people, and work to make our voices heard in this pantomime of democracy thrust on us by the French. We fight to defend our land, and liberate the borderlands the Zionists have stolen, because our nation’s army is too weak.” He turned to indicate Musawi’s tomb, finishing softly, “We honor our martyrs, but would gladly forgo martyrdom. We wish to live in peace.”

  “If I’m right,” Brooke rejoined, “there will be no peace for anyone. The Shia least of all.”

  Nouri’s lips compressed. “Tell me what you want.”

  “Osama Bin Laden claims that tomorrow al Qaeda will destroy one of our cities with a stolen Pakistani bomb.” Brooke inclined his head toward Anit. “We think Bin Laden lied from beyond the grave, and that the bomb is here.”

  “Here?” Nouri repeated softly.

  “In or near the Bekaa, perhaps in the Anti-Lebanon Mountains.” Brooke paused, then said bluntly, “We believe that they are using Hezbollah territory as a base. And that they plan to detonate the bomb over Tel Aviv, destroying the city.”

  Nouri looked from Brooke to Anit. “What evidence do you have?”

  “Enough. Rumors of a sensitive shipment through Iraq. The disappearance of a Syrian security officer who helped a truck pass through a checkpoint. Information that the Jefaar clan helped smuggle a mysterious package through the mountains. The presence of a Pakistani nuclear technician. The appearance in this valley of al Qaeda sympathizers from Ayn Al-Hilweh—”

  “Yes,” Nouri interrupted. “One seems to have been asphyxiated by his own blood, then dumped in a field. It might have been better had someone questioned him first.”

  For the first time, Anit chose to speak. “Circumstances prevented that,” she said coolly. “Now we need your help.”

  Nouri gave her a brief, chill smile. “What if our help is not forthcoming?”

  “Within the next two days, they will try to execute this plan. If they succeed, hundreds of thousands of Israelis will die—”

  “And this is my concern?”

  “Al Qaeda hopes it will be,” Anit said in the same flat tone. “They believe that Israel will retaliate against the enemies they can find. If so, this valley would become a wasteland fit only for cockroaches, where the few Shia still alive will envy their dead.”

  “So,” Nouri responded with a terrible quiet, “you propose that we live to kill Zionists some other time, or they will kill us all before the week is out.”

  “I propose nothing. But that’s what I believe would happen.”

  Nouri scrutinized her. “Given the Zionists’ indiscriminate brutality—which you advance as our reason for helping them—perhaps it would be better if we find this bomb ourselves. I believe the Jews call that a ‘deterrent.’”

  “No,” she said curtly. “They’d call it a provocation, and assume you’ll give the bomb to Iran.” She paused, then continued in a tone as cold as his. “I promise you that the Mossad knows where you are—your leaders, your bases, your underground facilities, where you store your rockets. Did you think when you rolled up their agents you found them all? I assure you that’s not so. This bomb will be deadly to anyone who possesses it.”

  Impassive, Nouri stared at her. Only his eyes betrayed anger. “There’s no time for this,” Brooke told Nouri. “Your men took my camera, from which you can circulate photographs of the Palestinians from Ayn AlHilweh. Your network is broad and deep—you have observers who watch for strangers at roadblocks and in every town. Perhaps they’ve already seen these men, and thought them insignificant. Not so. Any recent sighting could suggest the area where al Qaeda has the bomb.”

  Nouri’s smile was grim. “So this is the extent of your assistance? Then what do we need you for, and why should two enemy spies live another hour? Unless extracting information about your sources in Lebanon takes a little longer.”

  Anit showed nothing; perhaps she had stopped caring. But Brooke felt the fear in the pit of his stomach. Evenly, he said, “We expect to receive more useful information—our network extends far beyond the Bekaa. In the meanwhile, we can serve to witness your good intentio
ns. By comparison, our deaths would be at most a transient pleasure.” Brooke paused, then chose to lie. “So would anything else you do to us. Our superiors value us too greatly.”

  For a long moment, Nouri studied him. At length, he said, “Do not attempt to leave this valley. If we wish to speak with you further, we will contact Fareed. Now go.”

  They left in silence, Anit staring straight ahead.

  TEN

  Brooke and Anit sat in the shade on Fareed’s porch, drinking coffee as they looked out at the valley, green and vivid in the bright sun of mid-morning. Fareed left them alone; in his mind, Adam Chase had become a dangerous man, Anit perhaps worse. Sentries from Hezbollah watched them from the driveway. Brooke felt time running swiftly.

  Anit was pale and silent, as though she had withdrawn an inch beneath the skin. Hezbollah had killed Meir; this morning she had revealed herself to them, destroying years of subterfuge in an hour. All that might come of this was her own death. At length, Brooke said, “I know how difficult this is.”

  She did not look at him. “We need to stop al Qaeda. Then nothing else will matter.”

  “Suppose Hezbollah takes the bomb. The Mossad must have a plan.”

  Anit sipped her coffee, then said in a low voice, “They do. But neither your satellites nor ours can track Hezbollah’s search.”

  “So this ‘plan’ requires you to be with Hezbollah.”

  Anit watched the sentries. “There’s a GPS on my phone,” she answered. “I can call in a strike force—four choppers, thirty or so commandos. They’d land in half an hour.”

  “Too little,” Brooke said bluntly. “And too late. Hezbollah will expect all that.”

  Anit shrugged. “They gave my phone back.”

  “Sure. They want the Mossad to know you’re still alive. Unless and until they track down the bomb, that serves their purpose. Then, if they like, they can kill us.” A sudden thought surfaced. “That may be why they’ll take us with them. They’ll kill us in a ‘firefight,’ then blame it on al Qaeda. I’m not sure what to hope for.”