Ghost

by Fred Burton

  I reach the beer hall’s door and plunge inside. The place is noisy, with lots of small groups of airmen clustered around tables. Toward the back, in a shadowy corner, I see my contact. He’s about my age, twenty-eight, and looks totally out of place among the buzz-cut military types taking up the other tables. His blond hair is long and bushy. He sports a droopy, poorly groomed mustache. He wears a brown corduroy jacket with a paisley tie that does not match his shirt. He looks like a cross between Frank Serpico and Sergeant Schultz.

  I slip into the chair across from him and say, “Good evening.”

  “Good evening,” comes the reply. His voice is gravelly, but his English is so good I can hardly detect an accent.

  I notice he has a leather-bound folder sitting on the table in front of him. I wonder what’s inside. He notices me looking at it. Unconsciously, he puts one arm protectively across the folder.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, Agent Burton.”

  “We face the same enemy. We’re allies. It is the least I can do.”

  “Allies, yes,” the German says, “unlike the French.” He leans back in his chair and awaits my reaction. He is searching for some common ground here.

  I can’t help but agree with him. “They chart their own course.”

  “And it has bitten them in their arrogant ass. Again.”

  That’s true. In September, a radical group called the Lebanese Armed Revolutionary Faction launched a series of five bombings in Paris that killed or wounded almost two hundred people. Instead of retaliating, we think the French government negotiated some sort of truce with LARF.

  “Do you think they will find the courage to convict Abdallah?” the German asks me.

  “I hope so. He killed two diplomats.” Georges Abdallah is the heart and soul of LARF. He was caught and sentenced by a French court to four years in prison for weapons and explosives charges. In just a few days, the French will put him on trial for the murder of Lieutenant Colonel Charles Ray, the American military attaché in Paris, and an Israeli diplomat. Both were gunned down in 1982 by Abdallah and his men. The bombings in Paris coincided with the news that Abdallah would stand trial for murder.

  “I will tell you something about that,” the German begins. He leans forward across the table and starts to say something in a very low voice.

  “Hamadi has been talking,” he says. The news is tantalizing. I find myself on the edge of my chair.

  “He and his brothers all have senior positions in Hezbollah. His brother Abdul Hadi is the chief of security.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. He’s also told us that Hezbollah’s behind the Paris bombings. Their agents cooperated with some Iranians working out of the embassy in Paris.”

  This will be news to Foggy Bottom. The German has given me a nugget. Two months after the bombings, the French released three hundred million dollars of a billion-dollar loan to Iran that had been frozen. Shortly after that, three French hostages were released in Beirut. The French have their own contacts with Hezbollah. But they overpaid for their people, at least if our own thirty-million-dollar deal is any indication.

  Every nation says they don’t negotiate with terrorists. That’s just a farce.

  I think this news over. “We have all been affected by Hezbollah.”

  “That is true. It is too bad that your country failed to kill Fadlallah.”

  I’m caught off guard by that comment. He’s referring to the 1985 bombing of Sheikh Fadlallah’s motorcade in Beirut. The blast killed about eighty civilians but failed to take out the spiritual head and founder of Hezbollah. He survived, and accusations that the CIA was behind the attempted hit have floated around the Dark World ever since.

  I make no reply. We sit in awkward silence for a minute until the waitress shows up with our food and drink. The German clutches the pitcher of beer and pours me a frothy glass. Then he fills his own glass and offers a perfunctory toast. We clink glasses and set to work on our schnitzel.

  Through a full mouth, the German changes the subject. “We want our people in Beirut back. But we are constrained by our own laws.”

  I want to say, “So are we.” But after Iran-contra, such a comment has no credibility. Instead, I stick another forkful of schnitzel in my mouth and avert my eyes.

  “Sometimes I wish we could handle this like the Soviets did.”

  I swallow and smile ruefully. “If only.”

  In 1985, four Soviet diplomats were kidnapped in Lebanon. Dark World gossip held that the Soviets responded by tracking down the families of the abductors and kidnapping them in retaliation. Then they started sending Hezbollah body parts—fingers mainly. Whether this was true or not, I don’t know. The fact is one of the diplomats turned up dead, but the rest were released in a matter of weeks. It certainly didn’t hurt the KGB’s hard-core reputation for playing dirty.

  I take a long pull from the glass he’s poured for me. The beer is a delicious and rare indulgence for me. Since seeing how the pressure-cooker atmosphere affects my fellow agents at the DSS, I’ve been very careful. The fact is, we are agents first, family men second. The DSS demands that; it is a sacrifice too many fail to understand until they’re already caught up in the Dark World. By then, it is too late.

  I ask, “Anything new on the La Belle bombing?”

  The German polishes off his mug of beer and reaches for the pitcher. “No. Nothing except that we think the Stasi was involved.”

  This is news to me. “How?”

  “They supplied intelligence to the Libyans. They might have had a hand in the preoperational target surveillance, too. Maybe even in the target selection.”

  The East German secret police helped kill American servicemen. The revelation drives home a key point about the Dark World: Justice is ever elusive. The East German agents involved in La Belle will get away, just like the Libyan hit teams that tried to kill Calkins and Pollick. After almost a year in this business, it is hard not to feel resigned about this. It’s just the way things work.

  Finally, just as I feel my belt constricting my stomach, we scour the last morsels off our plates and sit back, stuffed and satisfied by the wonderful meal. The German hands me the leather-bound folder.

  “These are the men we want. Some we have names for, others we don’t. Would you show them to the hostages who have come out? Perhaps they might recognize some of them.”

  I open the book and see a page full of mug shots. The very first one is Imad Mugniyah.

  I look the spook right in the eye. “Of course I will.”

  Noticing my reaction, he asks, “You know that man?”

  “Yes. Mugniyah.” I spit his name like a curse.

  “He is top on our list.”

  “On ours, too,” I say.

  “Why do you think the French let him go last year?” the German asks me. This is true. The French actually caught Mugniyah, but after we requested that they hold him, they let him go. They set free the mastermind behind the deaths of 241 marines. That same operation killed 58 French paratroopers. Mugniyah walked and justice was betrayed. Those in power deemed politics more prudent.

  What about his victims? Who will speak for them?

  The Italians did the same thing with Abu Nidal in 1985. A U.S. Air Force officer actually chased Nidal’s flight halfway across the Med, trying to get permission to divert it to an American base. He never got it, and Nidal escaped—again. If the West could ever get serious about Islamic terrorism, we’d be able to stop it. Right now, we all have divergent interests in the Middle East.

  “They play their own game.”

  “Yes. Yes, they do,” the German says as he slaps a few marks onto the table to cover the meal. “I hope you get him.”

  “I hope we get him, too.”

  Twenty minutes and a walk through the snow later, I’m back in my hotel room. I start to pack my things, as I have another C-141 to catch later tonight. I reach for my briefcase and pop it open, intending to put a few things into it.

/>   The small black Italian moleskin journal I recently purchased sits inside. It catches my eye, and I stare at it for a long moment as an idea hits me. I reach down and withdraw the journal. It feels smooth and cold to my touch.

  This will be my legacy. I got into this business because I wanted to make a difference in the world. I wanted to help make it a safer place for Americans. For anyone, really, who respects the rule of law. Someday, if Sharon and I ever have children, I will be able to open this journal and show them what I have accomplished for them. The world they will inherit will be minus these blights. At least, that is my goal.

  And blight number one is Imad Mugniyah.

  I move to the small, hotel-room desk and sit down. I open the journal and stare at its empty pages. Right now, it is a blank slate, just like my career. From my shirt pocket, I produce my black Parker rollerball pen. The tip hovers over the virgin paper. It is time to commit.

  With great care, I begin to write.

  1. The Fox.

  Mugniyah, Imad Fayez.

  Imad Mugniyah is believed to have been born in Lebanon in 1962 to a prominent Shiite cleric. A member of Hezbollah, Mugniyah has been linked to nearly every major terrorist operation the group has executed; however, his exact role within the group is unclear. Mugniyah has variously been reported to be Hezbollah’s chief of operations, security chief, director of intelligence, chief of international operations, and the overall commander of Hezbollah’s armed wing. He also allegedly possesses close links with the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps and Iranian intelligence, as he appears to act as a bridge between Hezbollah and the Iranian government.

  He has proven extremely elusive because of his sound operational security and reliance on individuals he explicitly trusts. Mugniyah’s whereabouts are unknown.

  Mugniyah is the first. There will be others. Before I leave the Dark World, I will do whatever I can to see each name crossed off this list. Justice will be served and the victims will have peace.

  fifteen

  LITTLE ITALY

  Not long after my return to Foggy Bottom, Mr. Dittmer calls up the CT office as reinforcements for the protective security details in New York. As if chasing terrorists and trying to find hostages isn’t enough for us, now we’ve got to pull dignitary duty as well.

  Actually, it turns out to be kind of fun. We set up shop in a midtown hotel and take turns racing around Manhattan in our Ford Crown Victorias and Jeep Wagoneers, covering convoys of foreign diplomats who’ve come for the UN General Assembly meetings. We carry Uzis, get to use our earpieces, and hassle irritable New Yorkers as we weave around traffic jams. In the past few days, I can’t even tell you how many times we’ve received the finger from some expletive-spewing Manhattan driver.

  When we protect motorcades, we run with a lead car and a trail car, five agents to a Jeep, four to a Crown Vic. The agent riding in the front passenger seat of the lead car scans the road ahead. Both he and his driver carry Smith & Wesson Model 19 revolvers, tucked away in shoulder holsters for easy access. We’ve learned not to wear hip holsters when pulling this sort of duty. Between the confined spaces and the seat belt, it takes too long to draw our hand cannons that way.

  In the backseats, two agents cover the sides with Uzis and shotguns. They keep their windows rolled down and their weapons hidden by their doors so average citizens cannot see them. That way, if a gunfight erupts, they’ll be ready to engage in a split second.

  The Jeeps also have a tail stinger. Where most Americans would put groceries in their Wagoneers, we have an extra jump seat. The fifth agent is stationed there, Uzi at the ready, covering the rear.

  The lead car, usually a Crown Vic, is the motorcade equivalent of a fullback. It runs interference for the rest of the formation, its driver prepared to swing out left or right and block any incoming vehicular threat. The follow car, usually one of the Jeeps, needs to be heavy and powerful. It is our blunt defensive instrument in case the motorcade comes under serious attack. The driver’s job is to deflect any incoming threats, ramming them if necessary.

  Foggy Bottom assigns me to protect Giulio Andreotti, Italy’s foreign minister. We worked up a profile on him prior to his arrival and discovered some disconcerting facts about the guy. Andreotti is one of the doyens of the post–World War II Italian democracy, which means he’s been a power broker and cabinet member in some capacity in dozens of governments since the 1950s. In his thirty-plus-year career, he’s made plenty of enemies and seems to have had the temerity to off a few.

  For the past year, there has been increasing speculation that Andreotti had a hand in murdering Michele “the Shark” Sindona, an Italian banker and heroin trafficker. Somebody poisoned Sindona’s coffee while he was serving a life term in prison for murdering a lawyer.

  Giulio Andreotti apparently doesn’t like journalists any more than Mob bankers. In 1979, a reporter named Carmine “Mino” Pecorelli started investigating Andreotti’s Mafia connections. For his efforts, he was assassinated by a hit team in Rome. Exactly who was responsible has never been made clear, but there seems to have been some involvement from a criminal right-wing syndicate known as the Branda della Magliana.

  What does this all mean—besides the fact that Italian politics are obviously a lot more interesting than ours? Well, for those who have to guard him, it means potential trouble. Andreotti is a big target, and lots of irate Italians want him gone. He apparently doesn’t mind playing hardball in return, which only made his enemies list grow. Guarding this guy could be the most dangerous thing I do as a DSS agent.

  I spend a sleepless night in my midtown hotel room, reading and rereading the file my fellow agents have worked up on Andreotti. He’s a powerful man with a long reach, and many, many friends in the United States—not to mention a few enemies here. We’ll have to take special precautions wherever we go with him. Before dawn, I write down a laundry list of extra security procedures we’ll need. Some will require the help of the New York Police Department.

  The next day, I begin my shift with the Italian foreign minister. He’s in town for the UN General Assembly meeting, but he also has some associates he needs to meet. He tells us he wants to dine at a swanky restaurant in Little Italy. Fine. We send over an advance agent to conduct a site recon and check the place out.

  The advance agent reaches the restaurant, only to find it closed. The entire street is deserted and no cars are parked anywhere on the block around the eatery. Something does not seem right.

  I decide we need to do an EOD sweep. These are the NYPD bomb squad guys—EOD stands for Explosive Ordnance Disposal. I’ve had them on call all day for just such a scenario. We launch them, but while they’re en route, the advance agent makes contact with the restaurant’s owner. He’s an Italian American with a thick accent and a bad disposition. He tells our agent on the scene that there’s nothing to worry about, he has ensured that his restaurant is secure. He tells our agent that everything’s already been taken care of in preparation for the foreign minister’s arrival.

  We can’t trust that.

  We send in the EOD team as soon as they arrive. As they check for bombs, we scour the place for weapons. Nothing. The place is clean.

  Meanwhile, I climb behind the wheel of one of our black Crown Victorias. I’ll have the lead car for this motorcade. Ahead of my ride is an unmarked NYPD intel car with four plainclothes detectives inside. Their job is to scout the road ahead, finding the best route to our destination.

  We hit Little Italy right on schedule. As soon as we reach the restaurant’s general neighborhood, we encounter hardly a single moving vehicle. All the shops are closed. Nobody is on the sidewalks. Only a few parked cars line the streets.

  We press on as my eyes roam from the street ahead to the buildings on either side of the road. I scan the doorways, windows, and balconies, praying I won’t see an assassin or a sniper team. Every nerve is jangling. I feel raw and adrenaline-rushed. The Smith & Wesson’s weight against my side feels reassuring. Of cour
se, if I end up having to use it, it’ll mean we’re in last-stand mode. The driver’s job is to drive, not shoot. He only pulls his piece as a last resort.

  I wonder if this is how Custer felt riding into that box canyon in Montana. Instead of Sioux warriors, we’re driving headlong into a manmade canyon of shops and apartments, surrounded by Italians. Though I can’t see anyone, I sense we’re being watched. There are eyes out there in the night, tracking our every move.

  I key my radio and call our advance agent. “Five minutes out.”

  The agent replies, “Roger. Site clear. We’ll meet you curbside.”

  We make a final turn and reach our destination. Limousines are parallel parked all up and down the avenue. I notice some of the limos have New Jersey plates. It looks like we’re going to a millionaires’ club meeting.

  Andreotti’s limo finds a parking space and slips into it. We burst out of our rigs and quickly prepare for the foreign minister’s arrival. Near the entrance to the restaurant, I spot several oversized men. Hired muscle. They all look like Luca Brasi on steroids.

  Andreotti slips from the rear of the limo and hits the curb. We escort him into the restaurant. The place is empty, save for a single rectangular table in the back occupied by a dozen or so men. Baskets of bread sit on the starched white linen tablecloth between bottles of Chianti. At the head of the table sits an elderly gentleman in dapper attire, whom the others treat with deference. He smiles. They smile. He frowns. They frown. They’re speaking Italian, which I can’t understand. I take a long look at the old man, trying not to be too obvious about it. I recognize him from somewhere, but I can’t place his name.

  As the foreign minister steps to the table, the men welcome him with obvious affection and friendship. He sits down with them and is soon immersed in the flow of the conversation. I stand nearby, keeping my head on a swivel until a waiter comes over and asks me to follow him. He leads me to a table prepared for us out in front of the restaurant. We’ll be dining outside while business is conducted within. He gestures for me to have a seat.