by Brad Taylor
22
The Ghost checked the security of his hotel room door, deciding it was good enough. If someone wanted to come through the hard way, it would take more than one blow, and that would leave plenty of time to get him out on the balcony, and away.
He’d managed to slip out of Sidon in the chaos of the bombing and had elected not to drive all the way home to Tripoli. He wanted to open the briefcase as soon as possible, but he needed a secure area to analyze the information. He’d stopped in Beirut and rented a room in the Hamra area, next to the university.
He placed the briefcase on the chipped table in front of the television and stared at it for a second. He went into the bathroom, blotted a washcloth in the sink, and returned. He righted the briefcase and cleansed the dried blood from the handle. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but it felt like the right thing.
He placed it back down flat and opened it. Inside was a sheaf of papers, a wallet, a thumb drive, and a passport.
He picked up the passport and wallet first. Credit cards and Saudi Arabian identification for a man named Ahmed al-Rashid. One more name for his record books. He was pleased to see it was a Gulf Cooperation Council country. Being in the GCC would make it much easier to pass across borders of any member state. The passport itself looked official, but was in pieces, with the picture missing. He assumed he would have received instructions on final assembly, but that was obviously not going to happen now.
The credit cards were in the same name, as was the international driver’s license. In the sheaf of papers he found a bank statement, with a balance of fifty thousand dollars. He assumed one of the cards was a debit card from the bank. The money was fine to get started, but he wouldn’t be using the identity of Ahmed for very long. If he decided to continue.
He continued flipping through the papers and found the biography of the United States Middle Eastern envoy. A man named Jeffrey McMasters. Fifty-seven years old, with the face of a distinguished patrician. Gray around the temples and a hint of a smile around the eyes. A professional diplomat with over thirty-five years of service. He noted he was a former ambassador to the United Arab Emirates and had worked in the Jordanian Embassy, but had done nothing with the state of Israel. That stood to reason because the United States would be looking for someone who understood the area, but who could never be accused of having a bias.
He flipped to the next page and saw the itinerary of McMasters’s Middle East trip. The envoy was hitting quite a few countries over the next seven days. Most stops simply stated the city and duration, but some actually listed the events of the day and the lodging arrangements. The Ghost guessed that the Hamas offshoot group had greater penetration of some countries than others.
He saw the envoy was due to land in Lebanon tomorrow, but would be spending only about eight hours on the ground before leaving again and flying to Turkey. He would visit at least four other countries before his final stop in Doha, Qatar, for the peace talks. The stop before that was Dubai, UAE.
Dubai was one of the few places with a complete itinerary, and the chosen hotel caught his eye. The Al Bustan Rotana, a premier five-star establishment in a city known for five-star establishments. But this hotel had a little extra notoriety, beyond the luxury. It was the same one where the Mossad had assassinated Mahmoud al-Mabhouh, chief of Hamas’s military wing, in 2010. A spectacular killing by the Zionists that made the Palestinians look weak.
Using fake passports from at least four different European countries, the hit team had conducted surveillance on Mahmoud for days, penetrated his room in the hotel, waited on him to return, then suffocated him to death.
The irony of the envoy choosing this hotel bit deep. Maybe he would take on the assignment. To kill McMasters in the same hotel as the Hamas operative would send a clear signal-especially if done in the same manner. No giant car bomb. No random slaughter of civilians. A targeted killing in a special place.
He shuffled through the rest of the paperwork, seeing more credit receipts and other useful information, but nothing substantial. In truth, he only half focused on it, his brain turning over the nuances of the attack.
He knew that neither Hamas nor Hezbollah would acknowledge any role in the killing, which left him alone. Breaking up the peace process might be good enough for those factions, but he wanted the world to know why. He’d have to create a group out of whole cloth and begin seeding jihadist websites with some statements. Get them ready for the claim of credit after the attack. Luckily, in this day and age, all it took was an Internet connection to be an instant jihadi. He knew he would have the name of his “group” on the world stage should he succeed. More important, he’d have the Palestinian plight on the world stage as well, just like Black September had at the Munich Olympics in 1972.
He kicked around the idea. He knew if he chose to do it, he’d have to get rid of the Saudi identity within forty-eight hours after using it. Someone had leaked the information of the meeting in Sidon, and he had to assume that whoever that was had all the information he had. Including the target. Thus, he couldn’t use it to attack. He would need to get another, without Hezbollah help.
He reflected on the explosion in Sidon yet again, at a loss as to who had perpetrated the attack. It couldn’t be Hezbollah, because the setup was way more complicated than necessary. Why go through the trouble of bringing him down to Beirut, convincing him to attend the meeting, then agree to the change in venue if they only wanted to kill him? And if the targets were the other men, why bring him in at all? Simply do it.
In the end, he decided it didn’t matter. Someone had attacked the meeting, and he’d probably never find out the who or why, since everyone had an agenda. The only decision that mattered was whether he wanted to continue on or disappear. If he wanted to continue, he needed to make sure that Hezbollah knew he was alive. Give them confidence that he was working for them and prevent them from shutting off the credit cards and bank accounts for the Saudi identity. In fact, have them complete the passport and other identity papers. He was sure they could point him to a forger.
He made his decision and picked up the phone. He would continue on, initially as their man, on their puppet strings. Lull them a little bit, before cutting the strings and becoming Ash’abah.
The Ghost.
23
The man called Infidel saw his Hezbollah contact take a seat along the Corniche, eating a cup of gelato just like he’d been instructed. He dialed the contact’s number, watching him pick up the phone.
“I’m across the street from you, inside the park. See me?”
He saw the kid look left, then right, finally fixating on his park bench.
“Come on. You can finish the ice cream over here. I have another assignment.”
The boy raced across a break in traffic and slid into the park bench next to him. He gave the assassin his goofy smile and said, “A lot of work lately. That’s good, huh?”
The assassin handed him an MP3 player, saying, “I need you to listen to this and translate what’s said.”
The boy eagerly took the device, wanting to be a part of an operation, loving the feeling of being a Hezbollah foot soldier. He was no more than sixteen or seventeen and could have been a merchant or an aspiring businessman, something Lebanon used to be known for. Instead, he was an aspiring terrorist in an organization that was cultlike in its brainwashing. He’d never had a chance to live, and now, because of his affiliation, the assassin would see to it that he never did.
The boy was his conduit into Hezbollah for mundane matters, when he didn’t need to see the hierarchy. He was the person who had provided the computer camera/bomb to the Druze. Whenever simple instructions, money, or equipment needed to be passed, it came through the boy. He was smart and loyal to a fault, convinced that the assassin was some super-secret Hezbollah weapon who had the ear of Nasrallah himself. The name Infidel meant a great deal in the boy’s circle of friends, and the fact that he was the conduit gave him special status and envy.
“I had a mee
ting today with some people on behalf of the party. It went a little strange, and I implanted a technical device to record what was said after I left. That’s what I want you to translate. It’s a couple of hours of tape, but not all of it is dialogue.”
It was no accident that he’d left the Hezbollah meeting without asking for his backpack or other equipment. The digital camera he had shown the Hezbollah members cloaked a remote recording device with a wireless transmitting capability. It would pick up all conversation for two hours of continuous use and transmit that recording in bursts to a special collection device. The range was limited, so the assassin had been forced to embed the collection capability in the frame of his car, which he could access via the cell network.
He’d waited three hours after his meeting before conducting the download. He hadn’t wasted the time, going straight back to his apartment, packing up, and moving to a small, nondescript hotel. He’d taken precautions to never let Hezbollah know where he lived, but was under no illusions about their reach. Luckily, everything he owned fit into a large duffel bag and two Pelican cases.
The boy pulled out a notebook. Before hitting play, he said, “Does this have something to do with the computer I’m picking up from the Druze contact?”
Taken aback, the assassin showed no emotion. “Yeah, it does. How’d you get roped into getting the computer back? I thought that was a one-way deal.”
“It’s not your computer. I think that one is destroyed. The meeting the Druze attended was attacked, and he left with someone else’s computer. He called the party, and I’m supposed to pick it up in a few hours near the university.”
The assassin simply nodded, his brain working in overdrive. “Well, we don’t have a lot of time then. Listen to this, and you’ll be on your way.”
The boy put in the earphones and hit play, listening and scribbling on his pad. The assassin left him to it, trying to puzzle out this latest bit of intel. What was this about a computer? And why would the Druze contact Hezbollah? Surely Nephilim Logan was now dead, and the Druze would suspect Hezbollah had killed him. Something was not right.
He watched the boy for any signs of what was being said, but nothing registered in his body language until about an hour into the tape. Then, the boy stopped writing and looked at him, his eyes wide. When the assassin did nothing but give him a hard look in return, he went back to the page, scribbling furiously. Soon enough, the tape was done.
“Well, what do you have?”
“Abu Infidel, it’s not good. You need to stay away from these people. Tell the Resistance what they’re doing.”
“Spit it out. What’s on the tape?”
“Well, there’s apparently an assassination being planned, but not here in Lebanon. Somewhere else. The assassin was at the meeting with your computer. Someone attacked the meeting, and there’s something about an American intelligence agent, who’s now dead. There’s a lot of the talk that I couldn’t understand because it was garbled, but the assassin lived. He called the person on this tape, and he’s going forward with his plan. He asked for help.”
“Who is it? What’s his name? What’s his target?”
The Infidel quietly seethed. He was the chosen one for this work, the professional used when it was something delicate with strategic implications, and they’d hired someone else. The fuckers had actually gone to another player when he had a perfect record.
“They didn’t say. They seemed pleased that he was continuing, but didn’t say anything specific, except the target was bringing money and they wanted that money to go away.”
“Money? For what? Who’s bringing money?”
“I don’t know.” The boy put his hand on the assassin’s forearm. “Your name came up. They said they were going to kill you to keep you from affecting the operation because of something else you’d done.”
The news didn’t really upset him. Deep inside, he knew his time here was coming to a close. Hezbollah was just too damn paranoid to let him run around forever. He knew they’d try to kill him sooner or later. The issue now was stopping that order before it got out to the Hezbollah chain of command. He’d last five seconds in Beirut if that happened, looking over his shoulder at everyone who walked behind him.
The second issue was this new assassin. Kill me, huh? How about I kill your whole fucking plan? It was a matter of pride now.
He didn’t know the man’s name, but he knew where to find it. And he’d need the computer the boy was supposed to pick up. He looked at his watch and saw he had about forty minutes before the meeting with the Druze.
“Come on. I need you to read something else.”
“What? I don’t have time for that. I have to meet the Druze, then pass the computer to someone else.”
“Who?”
“Abu Aziz.”
That computer is important. Abu Aziz was one of the guys on the inner circle protective detail of Majid and Ja’far. It would work out well that he wasn’t in the Dahiyeh, because he was a giant of a man and the most competent. Of all the inner circle that the assassin had met, Aziz was the only one with combat experience, having earned his position through skill in the 2006 war with Israel.
“I’ll pay for you to get to that meeting. I have as much interest in this as you do.”
He stood up and flagged a cab. The boy mistook his irritation at what he had translated as an urgent need to inform the Resistance. He entered the cab as well. He said nothing until they entered the outskirts of the Dahiyeh, then said, “You have something for me to read here?”
The assassin saw his face twist in confusion, and said, “Just a quick stop. Nothing for you here. You take the cab to the meeting. When you get the computer, come back here. Don’t worry about taking the computer to Aziz. Bring it right back here. I’ll be upstairs with the leadership. Give me a call, and I’ll let you know if it’s okay to come up.”
Infidel smiled. “I’ll introduce you to the power brokers. The real people of the Resistance. Forget about Aziz. He’s an errand boy.”
The boy’s eyes glowed at the thought. He nodded vigorously. “I’ll come right back here. You’ll tell them to call Aziz?”
“Yes.”
Infidel paid the cab driver up front, then walked to the cafe, glancing to make sure his car was still parked where he’d left it. He was fairly sure he’d need a rapid mode of exfiltration, and waiting on a cab wouldn’t cut it.
Two men were at the entrance. Walking up to them was incredibly dangerous, but he had one card to play: He supposedly had no idea Hezbollah wanted him dead. If these guys didn’t either, then he’d be allowed into the cafe just as he had been before. If they did know about the order, they’d be smirking behind his back, thinking they were now saved the trouble of hunting him down. Either way, they’d let him into the inner sanctum, with no idea that he knew what they’d planned for his fate. A little thing, this bit of information, but something potentially decisive for a man of his skills.
He allowed himself to be frisked, telling them he’d simply come back for his camera and backpack. The two guards radioed into the inner sanctum. He hoped that Majid and Ja’far would be upstairs and not inside the cafe. Killing everyone there would be difficult. He needn’t have worried. The radio call came back, and a conversation ensued, with both guards surreptitiously stealing glances at him. They finally told him he could enter, and led him through the cafe to the stairs, one in front and one behind.
So it’s option number two. Good. Rather have them know why I’m killing them.
The guard in front opened the door to the office and stepped inside. The assassin caught a glimpse of Majid and Ja’far inside, both with insincere smiles. The door swung outward, toward him. In one fluid move, he swung the door closed on the lead man and pulled the carbon-fiber push dagger from his belt, the blade sticking out between the second and third finger of his clenched fist.
Four inches of plastic in the shape of an arrowhead with a handle perpendicular to the blade, it looked like the T
-bone of a porterhouse steak, with four ridges that ran from the handle down to the tip. None of the ridges held much of an edge, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t made to cut, but to stab.
The assassin turned to the guard behind him, tied up the hand holding the pistol grip of his AK, and punched the man three times in the neck with the push dagger. He grunted twice, and a fountain of blood jetted out of his neck, spraying the walls like a garden hose dropped by a child.
The assassin let him fall to the ground and swung open the door. As expected, the first guard was coming through it to find out what had happened. His eyes went wide at the slaughter, but his brain wasn’t quick enough to react.
The assassin punched him three times in the fold where his neck met his shoulders, and another fountain of blood erupted, spraying the hallway in an obscene amount of crimson liquid.
The assassin let him drop, picked up his AK-47, and entered the room.
24
Like some bloody apparition from a horror movie, the Hezbollah leadership watched Infidel close the door.
“I understand you guys have some issues with my work.”
To their credit, they showed no fear. Because they still think they’re in control.
Majid spoke first. “Abu Infidel, I have no idea why you chose to seal your fate, but you are done now. Your choice is how you die. Put down the gun, and it will be quick.”
“Shut the fuck up. I have no time for bullshit Arabic bravado. You hired another assassin, and I want to know who. There’s also the matter of money going out. A great deal of money. I want to know where.”
Ja’far said, “The other killer is none of your concern. It isn’t Hezbollah business. Leave us now and we may reconsider your fate.”
The assassin walked over to Ja’far, grabbed a fistful of hair, pulled his head back, and punched him deep with the push-blade. Ja’far’s arms swung wildly. He leapt to his feet, clamped his hands over the wound to his carotid artery, and ran in a circle like a decapitated chicken, finally slamming into a wall and sliding to the floor, the blood still pumping out of his destroyed neck.