by Ben Coes
“Fuck the law,” said Calibrisi. “Hack it!”
“I’m in,” said Corrado. “I should rob banks for a living.”
“I assume there’s no name attached to it,” said Calibrisi. “We’ll have to petition the bank itself.”
“That will take too long,” said Jessica. “It’s Bolin. There’s no other explanation. Josh, get Bolin on the phone.”
“Freeze the money while you’re in there,” said Calibrisi, “if you can.”
“Done,” said Corrado. “There was two-fifty, plus another thirty in a different account. I froze it all.”
Brubaker leaned forward and pressed the speaker button. The phone clicked several times. After a minute, Bolin came on.
“You’re very persistent, Ms. Tanzer,” said Bolin. “What can I do for you now?”
“Stop the plane,” said Jessica sharply. “Order it diverted. Right now.”
“The plane? What plane?”
“The cargo plane that left Chaklala one hour ago headed for Beirut.”
“You’re accusing me of lying to you?” asked Bolin, indignant. “I explained to you: the chopper crashed on its way to Rawalpindi.”
“We watched it from the sky. The chopper landed safely.”
“How dare you!” barked Bolin.
Corrado held his thumb up, nodding. Jessica leaned in, pressed mute.
“What?”
“I got a link,” Corrado whispered. “I found a way inside one of the bank’s databases. It’s his account.”
Jessica pressed the mute button again.
“Field Marshal Bolin, explain why Aswan Fortuna transferred a quarter billion dollars into your bank account less than two hours ago.”
Bolin was silent.
“This is an act of war,” said Jessica, not making any effort to hide her rage. “You are a corrupt and vile man. These men risked their lives for your country.”
Bolin was quiet.
“We expect you to order that plane diverted,” said Jessica. “Right now.”
“The plane went with the deal,” said Bolin. “The pilots don’t work for me. I have as much control over that plane as you do.”
“So you admit it?”
“Grow up,” said Bolin. “El-Khayab is gone. India and Pakistan have stood down their nuclear arsenals. You have your coup d’état. Isn’t that what this was all about?”
The phone clicked and went silent. Jessica glanced around the table. She sat down and shut her eyes. She reached up and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
Finally, she opened her eyes and looked at Balter.
“How long until they land?”
“Five hours, tops.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” said Jessica, looking at the phone. “They’re going to land. Aswan Fortuna is waiting for them. He’ll … he’ll torture Dewey. He’ll torture him, then kill him. And there’s nothing we can do.”
The room was silent. All eyes were on Jessica. She stared straight ahead, with a look on her face that none of them had ever seen; a pained look, innocent and broken.
Finally, Calibrisi spoke up:
“There is something,” said Calibrisi. “I’m just not sure there’s enough time.”
“What is it?” asked Jessica. Tears were in her eyes, which she made no effort to hide.
“You’ll need the president to make the call, Jess,” said Calibrisi.
“Make the call to who?” asked Jessica.
“Tel Aviv,” said Calibrisi. “The Israelis might be able to save him.”
70
BEIRUT RAFIC HARIRI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
BEIRUT
Two hours after sunset, Beirut Rafic Hariri International Airport was crowded.
One of the busiest airports in the Middle East, a pair of flights, an MEA flight from Damascus, the other a Lufthansa flight from Munich, had just landed. Hundreds of people packed the main terminal building, greeting the arriving passengers. Meanwhile, people getting ready to board the planes gathered with their families.
The main terminal at Beirut Rafic Hariri spread in a straight rectangle nearly half a mile long. Its soaring, modern white lines showed the country’s effort to try and resurrect a feeling of safety, security, wealth, and beauty that had once been the hallmarks of this troubled city, especially its architecture. Some cracks, chipping paint, and, in one section of the terminal, a partial hole in the roof near the Cedar Lounge, showed the reality of present-day Beirut and its generations of conflict and war.
A few miles from the airport, a white school bus rumbled along through a busy neighborhood in Dahieh, a suburb in southern Beirut.
Inside the bus, Rueq Khalid, a commander in the Al-Muqawama Brigades, the paramilitary wing of Hezbollah, walked down the center aisle of the vehicle.
Khalid wore jeans and a short-sleeved button-down khaki shirt. A thick nylon ammunition belt was wrapped around his waist. Khalid had a thick black beard and mustache, short-cropped black hair, thick eyebrows. His eyes were blank, cold, as he walked the line of soldiers, who, like him, all wore jeans and a khaki shirt. They sat upright, staring out the window at the passing neighborhoods of southern Beirut.
In Khalid’s right hand, aimed at the ceiling, a Kalashnikov, its gray steel chipped and scratched, the weapon’s half-moon magazine clutched tightly in his right hand.
He walked to the back of the bus and tapped the glass of the back door with the toe of his boot, then turned and walked forward to the front of the bus.
He counted forty-two men in all, plus himself.
The bus passed the entrance gate to Beirut Rafic Hariri. At Rue Farid, the driver took a right, then a quick left onto a service road. After more than a mile, the driver took another right onto a small, unnamed service road along the south edge of the airport. The bus moved down the quiet, dark road. It passed several small office buildings, a large lot filled with parked bulldozers and forklifts, and a few warehouses. At the last building, the driver took a right and drove past a darkened corrugated steel warehouse to an empty parking lot in back. He parked at the back of the lot, the front of the bus a few feet from a chain-link fence, at the southern perimeter.
Behind the fence, the runway spread out in a gray plain in front of the bus. Wide and flat, the tarmac moved in a straight line for more than two miles, from the unlit end, where they were now parked, to the brightly lit main landing area at the far end of the runway. The lights of the main terminal building twinkled in the distance.
Khalid stepped down the bus stairs. He was followed by two similarly dressed Hezbollah soldiers; plainclothed, neatly attired. One of the soldiers carried a set of long-handled wire cutters. In near darkness, he began to cut through the links of the fence, starting at the ground and working his way up. Soon, he had cut a line six feet high. Then he cut to the right. He took the fence and pushed forward. He stepped through, dropped the wire cutters, then with both hands yanked the fence toward himself. The section of fence fell to the dirt.
Khalid stepped through the opening. He nodded at the young Palestinian who had just cut the fence.
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one, then lit it.
“That will do,” he said.
* * *
A few miles away, in a busy, densely populated industrial area in northern Beirut called Bourj Hammoud, Aswan Fortuna entered a plain, run-down six-story cement and glass building through the front door. Nebuchar followed behind him. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. They swept past a pair of young Palestinians who stood guard, glancing about nervously. The guards’ weapons were not visible but their leather coats bulged at the sides.
Aswan and Nebuchar stepped quickly inside the lobby of the building.
Inside the door, they were met by a stocky man in his late twenties. He was bald and olive-skinned. He had a thin mustache. His left ear was noticeable because half of it was missing, severed in a jagged line across the top, as if it had been cut by a saw. His skin was badly pockmarked with acne
. He had a look, a demeanor, that could only be described as vicious. His black eyes were like pools of raw anger. He gripped a weapon, a sawed-off Beretta 12-gauge shotgun, in his right hand, aimed down at the floor.
“Hello, Muamar,” said Nebuchar.
“Nebuchar, Aswan,” said Muamar, nodding. “Come in. Quickly now.”
He waved then inside.
Muamar nodded to one of the two men, who quickly shut the door.
“Bless Al-Muqawama,” said Nebuchar. “Thank you for your help on such short notice.”
“I received the call from Na’im Qasim himself,” said Muamar. “We’re happy to help. But we must be quiet. Lebanese Armed Forces does not know we’re here. Even the airport operation; it will be tricky.”
“How tricky?” asked Nebuchar, concern in his voice.
“Don’t worry,” said Muamar. “It will be difficult, but we will get it done. LAF is very, very disorganized. Getting him off the plane will be easy. Getting away, that will be more difficult.”
Aswan and Nebuchar followed Muamar back through the darkened lobby of what had been an office building, now empty.
At the back of the lobby was a door. Muamar stopped, glanced at Nebuchar and Aswan. He held up a finger.
“Listen,” he said. “Do you hear anything?”
“Nothing,” said Nebuchar. “Why?”
Muamar did not answer. He turned, went through the door, then flipped a light switch on the wall. It was a dark, musty-smelling stairwell. The three men descended two flights of stairs. They went through a doorway, into a long hallway that was lit up by a single bulb dangling from a wire in the ceiling. The floor of the hallway looked derelict; it was littered with empty bottles, soda cans, and old newspapers. It was a squalid place; abandoned, as if it hadn’t had visitors, occupants, anyone for years. There was no sound, save for the footsteps of the three men walking quickly across the cracked cement.
Aswan and Nebuchar followed Muamar down the long, dim hallway. At the end of the hallway they took a left. They walked down another long, littered corridor, beneath another lightbulb that dangled from a wire. At the end of the second hallway, Muamar turned.
“Can you hear it now?”
Aswan glanced at Nebuchar, then at Muamar. He heard nothing. Then, after several seconds, he heard something. Barely above a whisper, someone’s voice. Or perhaps a radio playing somewhere far away.
“A radio?” asked Aswan.
Muamar turned the knob on a large steel door. As it cracked open the silence was replaced by music, a rap song, blaring at full volume.
Muamar pushed the door completely open. The room was large and windowless. In the middle of the room stood a long steel table. To the right was a wooden chair. Both were empty. Against the right side wall, chains hung from hooks in the ceiling and dangled down to a machine on the floor with a large steel wheel and handle. He walked to the radio and turned it off.
Aswan stared at the chains. He let out a small gasp as he registered the splatters of dried blood layered on the walls behind where the chair sat, the ground covered in red.
Nebuchar walked slowly across the room. His eyes bulged in horror.
On the ground against the left side wall, a collection of objects was arranged on the floor in a line. Saws, knives, a machete, piles of rope, several car batteries with wires coming out, red plastic gasoline canisters, a chain saw, a television, several more radios, too many hammers to count, a pile of pliers, garbage bags, a large leather whip, chains, bricks, a small pile of long branches from a tree, a staple gun, filthy towels.
“You look like you’re going to be ill,” said Muamar, looking at Aswan. “This is the war. This is what happens in the war, on both sides. The Jews are just as bad.”
“Do not mistake my mood,” snapped Aswan. “I am nauseous, yes, but this is my duty as a father. This place, this room, is precisely what we have asked you for. It could not be any more perfect.”
“You have given us much, Aswan,” said Muamar. “We share your thirst for revenge. This man, his name is Andreas?”
“Yes,” said Nebuchar. “Dewey Andreas.”
“We have all heard his name,” said Muamar. “He is an enemy to us all for killing Alexander. It is an honor to help you destroy the American.”
“Is the team at the airport?” asked Nebuchar.
Muamar glanced at his watch. He reached for his cell phone and pressed a button. He spoke rapidly in Arabic, listened for a few moments, spoke again, then hung up.
“They’re waiting,” said Muamar. “Forty-three in all. The pilot is in touch. They’re two hours away.”
“And their instructions are clear?”
“They are to bring Andreas directly here. They are not to harm him.”
“Good,” said Aswan.
Muamar smiled briefly and glanced at his watch.
“It’s going to be a long wait,” said Muamar. “There’s a more comfortable room upstairs.”
Muamar turned and walked to the door. Nebuchar followed. Aswan remained still.
“I’ll wait here,” said Aswan. He walked to the chair and sat down. “I would like to wait here. This is the last duty I will perform for my son.”
71
EN ROUTE TO BEIRUT
Dewey awoke with a shudder. Slowly, he moved his head. For a moment, he had forgotten where he was. But it came back to him now in a wave of pain, fear, and nausea.
How long have I been passed out? He was angry at himself. How could I drift off like that? Then he remembered: Beirut. Fortuna. He would be waiting. Whatever it took to get Bolin to turn on him, it just showed how far Aswan would go to avenge his son. Dewey shuddered at the thought of the torture that surely awaited.
Dewey shut his eyes. He shook his head.
“No,” he whispered to himself. “Not yet. I’m not ready to die.”
He needed to think. To strategize.
Dewey focused his eyes. The nausea was gone now. He saw, first, the pool of blood and vomit that spilled across the corrugated steel of the cabin floor. It ran back toward the rear, the motion of the plane pushing it backward.
Dewey’s legs were straight in front of him. Flex-cuffs held the ankles together tightly. His arms lay on his lap, flex-cuffs tight around his wrists.
He looked across the cabin at the young terrorist. He sat on a fold-down canvas seat, staring at Dewey, smoking a cigarette. On the ground in front of him, a small pile of butts had collected.
Dewey’s eyes met the young killer’s. The terrorist stared at him, refusing to look away.
“He’s awake,” said the terrorist. “I was afraid I lost you. Do you know that if you’re dead when I deliver you to Aswan I myself will be killed?”
Dewey said nothing. Slowly, painfully, he sat upright.
“You killed my brother in Australia,” said the terrorist. “You recognize me now, yes?”
Dewey leaned back against the steel rebar. His hands were between his legs. With his shoulder, he wiped blood and vomit from his beard.
“What’s your name?” asked Dewey.
“Youssef.”
Dewey showed no emotion, but the memory stirred. The face of the terrorist in the car, shooting at him.
“Now you remember,” said Youssef. “Thought you killed me? You thought wrong.”
Dewey stared in silence.
“Would you like some peanuts? We’ll begin the in-flight movie in a few minutes. Today we’re showing Bambi.”
Dewey ignored him. Looking down, he saw a glint of steel at his ankle. They had neglected to remove his Gerber blade from the sheath at his ankle.
Slowly, he leaned forward, his wrists cuffed tightly together, and pulled the cuff of his pant leg down, making sure the tip of the blade was covered.
“When do we land?” asked Dewey.
The terrorist stood up.
“That’s a good question,” he said. “I myself would like to find that out. I have a woman in Beirut and tonight I would like to get laid. I haven’t fu
cked anything in over a month.”
“I guess you guys don’t count goats, do you?” asked Dewey.
Youssef laughed. “That was good. You see, I appreciate a sense of humor. Not bad, Andreas. I would never fuck a goat, though. A cow maybe, but not a goat.”
Youssef walked to the front of the cargo hold. A large steel door shut off the hold from the flight deck.
Quickly, Dewey moved his cuffed hands to his ankle.
The terrorist took a small mouthpiece from a radio near the door.
With difficulty, Dewey pulled the knife from the sheath. Working as fast as he could, his hands bound tightly together, he sliced the flex-cuffs from his ankles. He turned the knife and slowly, carefully inserted the tip of the blade between his tightly-bound wrists, then pushed.
In Arabic, Youssef spoke into the mouthpiece and then placed it back on the radio. He walked back and stood over Dewey. He took out a cigarette and lit it.
“You smell like throw up.”
Dewey stared up at the terrorist as he clasped his big hands over the hilt of the Gerber, concealing it just in time.
“Where did you train, Youssef?” asked Dewey. “Jaffna? Darfur?”
“Bekaa Valley.”
“Have you ever guarded someone before?” asked Dewey. “Did they teach you how to keep watch?”
The terrorist smiled. He shook his head as he looked down at Dewey.
“Stupid question,” he muttered. “Of course.”
“What’s the first rule?” asked Dewey.
The terrorist took another puff. He exhaled, then smiled.
“The first rule is don’t look away.”
“What’s the second rule?” asked Dewey.
“Keep your weapon with you,” said the terrorist.
“Very good,” said Dewey.
“What’s your point?” asked the Arab. “What does it matter? You are tied up like a pig. I could fuck your mother in front of you and you couldn’t do a thing.”
“My point is, in the span of a minute, you broke the two most important rules,” said Dewey. “You looked away and you left your weapon over there on the seat.”