by Brad Taylor
“Look, I’m just an overeager anthropologist with a liking for Middle Eastern historical sights. I’m supposed to be in Syria on a dig. Unfortunately for me, I also have some other unique skills. So does the man who watched you enter the restaurant. I don’t know what a true ‘operator’ is, since I’ve never been in the military, and it seems like everyone who’s ever held a gun says that’s what they are nowadays, but I do know I’m the one they sent for this meeting. What do you have?”
He leaned back. “Wow. I have been gone too long. The world is just not right.” He said it with a smile, breaking off when the waitress approached to take their order. Watching her walk back to the kitchen, he said, “Man, to be young again. These Lebanese women are friggin’ hot.” He winked. “Not that my age has stopped me any.”
Jennifer gave a tentative smile, wondering where this was going. Is he coming on to me? Really?
She’d never done an operational link-up with a deep asset and was unsure what to make of the guy. On the one hand, when they’d met, he was as professional as anyone in the Taskforce, executing the operating procedures like a robot. Now, he was acting like a drunk businessman who’d come to Beirut for a convention.
He saw her draw back and took her hand. The act sent her instincts into the red zone, until she felt something in her palm.
“Don’t worry. I’m not trying to get in your pants. Unless you’d like it, that is.”
He grinned again and pulled his hand away.
“That’s an SD card with a complete rundown on a hit that happened in Tunisia three days ago. Taskforce took down a guy that was financing an assassination here in Lebanon. Originally, we didn’t care because all the indicators pointed to a simple sectarian hit against some other faction in this fucked-up country. Taskforce now thinks it may be directed against Western interests. Meaning the U.S.”
“So what are we supposed to do? Get this card to someone else? Why were we pulled from Syria?”
He snickered, then saw she was serious. “They didn’t tell you why you were sent?”
“No. All we got were the PM instructions.”
“Well, operator,” he said, “you’re here to save the day. Get the assassin. Protect American interests and all that bullshit. Same thing we always do.”
Jennifer said nothing for a moment, doing the wasted mental calculations of how the mission would affect her trip to Syria. Like a child who’d let go of a balloon, seeing it float inexorably skyward, she tried to find a way to get back what she wanted. She realized Syria was lost for good.
“All right. What can you offer me besides this SD card?”
“Well, for one there’s a very big discrepancy between the information found in Tunisia and what I know. I’ve been hearing about a hit for a few months, but it was always against internal Lebanese interests. Now, the intel weenies think the guy from Tunisia was financing a hit specifically against a U.S. government official. I think they’re wrong.”
“Why? If it’s single-source intel from the mission, it seems prudent. Not something to ignore.”
“It came from the hit, but there wasn’t any smoking gun. You’ll see when you boot up that SD card. The target hasn’t talked yet. The Taskforce intel folks went through his hard drive and pieced it together. They’re keying on the words ‘infidel’ and ‘American,’ and made a leap of logic. It’s prudent if taken by itself, but I’ve been working here for over seven years, feeding the beast quality intel. Those analysts go through one hit and all of the sudden everything I’ve said is discounted. I’ve been hearing those same words used in reference to plenty of assassination attempts, but not as the target.”
“You mean they’re going to kill a foreign national in the presence of an American? At an American-sponsored conference or something?”
“No. In this case, ‘infidel’ has a very specific meaning to these guys. I’m telling you the assassin is an American.”
12
Back in our hotel room, Jennifer gave me a rundown of what she’d learned while I went through the SD card the agent had passed. I hated hearing the briefing secondhand, but I’d had to make a hard call on who went into the cafe and had decided that I’d do more good outside, ready to react should something go wrong. Jennifer possessed a steel-trap mind and would draw much less attention to the meeting than I would. Hot little hammer meeting a businessman was better than a roughed-up expat.
The case officer’s story certainly matched up; the SD card had a clinical report, with all primary references being the thoughts of some analyst with a fifty-pound head. No concrete information on the target or the timing, with every statement preceded by “appears to be…” or “suggests…” Not a lot of help in our decidedly fluid mission statement. I decided to do my own investigation.
“Come on. Let’s go see a guy I know.”
“Who?”
“A soldier I met a long time ago on a training package here. Before the Taskforce. Before Nine-Eleven. He’s a Special Forces guy I trust.”
We left our fancy hotel, a five-star treat that tried hard to make you forget the deadly terrain it was parked within, but failed because of the metal detectors and physical searches at the door.
Heading to the coast road, we passed the destroyed Holiday Inn, a mocking, bullet-ridden reminder of the animosity simmering just below the surface of Beirut. A testament to both the potential and the reality of the country.
Going generally south along the coast, we left the city behind us. About forty minutes later, we turned east and entered the foothills of the Chouf Mountains, home of the Druze sect.
One of the eighteen recognized sects in Lebanon, it was a monotheistic religion that was neither Christian nor Muslim. Primarily found in the Levant, the Druze were known for their fighting prowess and staunch loyalty.
Driving along winding mountain roads, full of switchbacks, we reached the small town of Deir Al Qamar. I cut north, finally stopping at a modest stone house, carved straight into the side of the mountain with a view that would command millions in the United States.
I killed the engine and said, “Hope he still lives here.”
“Really?” Jennifer said, “That’s the best you can do? How long has it been? Ten, fifteen years?”
“Yeah, but all these homes are family owned. This isn’t like America. The sects tend to stick together for survival, and none more so than the Druze. If he’s not here, whoever is will know where he lives now, and it’ll be somewhere close.”
The door of the house swung open before we were out of the car, an attractive girl of about thirteen on the stoop. She said something in Arabic back into the house, then, in heavily accented English, said, “Can I help you?”
I stopped at the base of the steps. “We’re looking for an old friend of mine. I met him when I was in the Army a long time ago. His name’s Samir al-Atrash.”
Before she could answer, Samir himself came onto the stoop. He looked exactly the same, a tall, rangy guy with jet-black hair and a bushy mustache. He stared at me without recognition for a second or two, and as I waited to see if he would remember me, I realized I was wrong. He wasn’t exactly the same.
My memory of him had been frozen decades before, and like holding an old photo to your reflection in a mirror, I saw the changes. He had some gray coming through and a few more wrinkles. Crow’s-feet around his eyes where there’d been none before.
He said, “Pike?”
I grinned. “I was beginning to think I hadn’t left an impression on you, what with all the money we wasted on your training.”
His face split into a smile. “Impression? No, you didn’t. At least not in any good way.”
I introduced Jennifer, and he led the way into his house. We settled into a small, comfortable den, the girl from earlier now teamed with a younger boy, both clinging to the armchair Samir was sitting in.
“You’ve been busy,” I said. “You were single the last time we talked.”
“Times change. Sooner or later, you
realize what’s truly important. You don’t have a wife? Children?”
“No.” Not anymore.
He laughed and said, “You’re going to die a greasy, dirty old man. You should try it, Pike. I think you’d like the lifestyle.”
I barked a fake laugh and awkwardly changed the subject, not wanting to make him feel bad. His brow furrowed at the abrupt shift, but I pressed on, talking about our business interests instead. How we loved the travel and adventure. Jennifer helped out by asking questions about the Druze. As usual, she knew more than I did and had never even been to the country.
At a natural pause in the conversation, he whispered to his kids, then watched them scamper away and disappear into the back of the house.
“What can I help you with?” he asked, “Surely you didn’t drive into the mountains just to banter about your lack of commitment or your love of travel.”
About time.
“Well, I was hoping to run something by you. Your unit, actually. See if that intelligence fusion cell you always bragged about can corroborate anything. Surely that thing is wired throughout the country by now. Pride of the Lebanese Armed Forces. Isn’t that what you said it would be?”
He glanced at the floor, then said, “I’m not in Special Forces anymore.”
“Oh…well, can you still get access? As a regular grunt?”
“Pike, I’m not in the Army. I quit after the 2006 war.”
“Really? You would be the last guy I thought would leave the Army. What happened?”
His demeanor shifted, and not in a good way. “Israel invaded us and the Lebanese Armed Forces did nothing, letting Hezbollah do all the fighting that should have been done by the LAF. We didn’t even react when the Israelis blew up one of our convoys, killing a general. It was disgusting. Even my Special Forces unit sat on the sidelines and watched the civilians get slaughtered. If it hadn’t been for Hezbollah, many, many more would have been killed.”
The answer surprised me, not the least because of his vociferousness about the subject. This wasn’t the soldier I had left. A man all about unity and Lebanese solidarity, about a true armed force that had no sectarian leanings. Now he was siding with Hezbollah, the “militia” that started the fight in the first place by kidnapping two Israeli soldiers. And it was Hezbollah that Israel went after. Not the LAF. I wasn’t looking to get into a political argument, realizing more things had changed than the crow’s-feet.
“I’m sorry to hear that. It was good seeing you again. We’ll get out of your hair.”
He sat up. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t need your pity, and I’m not confused. I’m the one who lives here. I saw it happen. Thousands of Lebanese civilians killed, compared against maybe one hundred and fifty Israelis. All soldiers.”
He was gripping the armchair hard and breathing heavy, daring me to say something against him. I recognized the signs. We were skating over a sore that I had opened, and he was about to do something we’d both regret.
I said, “I’m not looking for a fight. We’ll just leave.”
He stood up, mocking me. “Not looking for a fight? That’s not what you used to say. All that training to protect something and all you were doing was helping out the Israelis. You in the West are all alike. Train the stupid locals then leave when the hostilities get to a level you don’t like. You don’t know what suffering is.”
That was enough. Very few had suffered as I had, and the fact that he had two children walking the earth told me he wasn’t one of them. I balled up my fists, ready to go as far as he wanted to take it. I saw Jennifer jump up, probably wondering what she should do. I was wrong.
She stepped between us, looked Samir in the eye and said, “Pike’s family was murdered. Both his wife and child. For nothing. That’s why he changed the subject when you started talking about marriage. Don’t push his buttons about suffering. I promise you won’t like the results.”
I whipped my head to her. Samir’s mouth fell open.
She continued. “He has the same rage you do. He looks just like you when he gets worked up. He didn’t invade Lebanon; so don’t take it out on us.”
Samir looked from her to me. I said nothing, but my expression told him it was true. He sagged back into his chair. When he spoke, he was back to being the Samir I knew.
“I am sorry. Sorry for the both of us.”
I exhaled and sat down as well.
“That’s okay,” I said. “The rage is mostly gone now.” I smiled. “Jennifer was just trying to scare you.”
He scraped something off of his knee and said, “Maybe I can help anyway. I have sources. I can ask around.”
“No, no. This is like what we used to investigate. I’m not going to ask you about the price of bread in Tripoli. Don’t worry about it. It was good just seeing you. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Wait. I’m telling you I have sources. Just like I used to have. Let me help.”
I paused and looked at Jennifer; she shrugged, saying, What’s the harm?
“Okay. My government has heard about an assassination attempt here in Lebanon. The sticky point is that we can’t figure out the target. Some analysts say it’s Lebanese, and some say it’s American. With the new United States envoy to the Middle East doing his first tour, coupled with the peace process in Qatar, people are getting antsy. I just figured I’d see if you could help neck it down. See what you’ve heard.”
Surprised by the question, he said nothing for a moment, sizing me up as if for the first time, seeing things that should remain in the shadows.
“Because it would help in your archeological business?” he said. “Help you find sites? You and Jennifer?”
I held his eye for a moment, then said, “Because I was asked to check while I was here. Nothing more. A favor for friends in the government. Can you get that to the fusion cell?”
“No. My sources aren’t military ones.”
“Druze?”
He said nothing, simply looking at me, and it clicked. He’d gone completely over.
“Tell me you’re not with Hezbollah. You can’t possibly be with those murdering thugs.”
He grew indignant. “I am Druze, and will always be, but Hezbollah is a power. We have connected with them. They aren’t the murderers you say they are. They are the majority in our government now. I’m not with them, but I don’t fight them.”
“How on earth can you-a Druze-say that? They want an Islamic state, for God’s sake. They started the damn 2006 war! They’ve got a fucking theme park celebrating the destruction of your country. And you blame Israel…”
I stomped to the door, Jennifer right behind me. I opened it, turned around, and said, “They are your road to ruin, and you don’t even see it.”
“Pike, wait. No matter what you think of them, they can help. After the Hariri assassination they’ve become very sensitive to killings in Lebanon. They get blamed for them all. If what you say is true, they’ll want to stop it just as much as you do. And me. They have connections like nobody else in this country. They’ll be able to find out if it’s true or not. I promise they won’t want an American getting killed here. They want to consolidate political power, and that would only hurt them.”
“I can’t believe I just heard that come out of your mouth. They kill Hariri, the man putting your country back together, and now I should use their help because they got caught and don’t want to get blamed again. Do you hear yourself?”
“They didn’t kill Hariri. You can believe that. No way. That’s just what the Zionists want the world to believe. Either way, you have the same interests here.”
I didn’t like the stench of it, but he was right. Feed this to Hezbollah, and they’d get to the bottom of it. Unlike us, they’d just cut off some heads. The end-state was fine by me. The only question was whether they weren’t behind it in the first place. Odds were what he said was true. Hezbollah didn’t do a lot of kidnapping and killings of foreigners anymore, since they’d gotten hammered for the suspic
ions of killing Hariri-and since they’d assumed a majority in the government.
I decided I was willing to risk it…with some caveats.
“If you go to them, you’d better make damn sure you don’t mention me or Jennifer. Nothing about us, understand? You might trust those torturing Islamic fascists, but I sure as shit don’t.”
I gave him our cell number and walked out to the car, Jennifer in tow. To my back, Samir said, “I’ll call tomorrow.”
When I didn’t respond, he said, “Pike. I’m still Samir. I wouldn’t join a group of terrorists. Hezbollah doesn’t run around killing anymore. The civil war is long over. They don’t hire assassins.”
13
Infidel felt comfortable following the Druze. He had stuck to main thoroughfares and was now walking on foot down the Corniche, the long stretch of western coastline along Avenue de Paris. Full of fishermen and tourists, it was easy for the assassin to blend in. The only reason anyone came to the Corniche was to walk, so no destination was expected. He could follow all day long without arousing suspicion. Not that it mattered. The Druze seemed relaxed in the environment and showed no signs of attempting to sort out any surveillance efforts.
Yesterday, the assassin had met his contacts in Hezbollah at the same coffee shop they always used, in the heart of the Dahiyeh, surrounded by thugs. He was not a timid man, but he greatly feared being killed by mistake inside the stronghold. After all, he looked exactly like someone a paranoid foot soldier for Hezbollah would think was a U.S. spy. Someone to torture purely for the pleasure of it. He was thankful for the iron hold Hezbollah’s hierarchy had over their men. It was cultlike in its efficiency.
The meeting was strained, with a vibe that was different from previous encounters. He’d been paid and congratulated for his successful killing of the investigator, then told about a rumor of an attack in Lebanon, possibly against U.S. interests. A walk-in, a Druze no less, had brought information from an unknown source.