4
SSI OFFICES
Robert Pitney was on trial, and he knew it.
While driving the 120 miles from Reading, Pennsylvania, to Arlington, Virginia, the prospective Lebanon team member had time to contemplate his interview with Frank Leopole and Jack Peters. Making his way to SSI’s office took some doing in the D.C. area traffic, but he parked his Nissan Xterra in the employees’ lot as directed and entered the lobby eighteen minutes beyond his ETA.
Pitney introduced himself at the front desk and waited for his hosts to appear. It was immediately apparent who was whom: the former Marine O-5 with the high and tight haircut and the ex-Navy officer who looked completely at home in a three-piece suit.
“Colonel Leopole, I’m Robert Pitney.” The erstwhile cop extended his hand and exchanged grips with the operations officer, hard and fast. Peters’s handshake was equally firm without the same testosterone dose. “I apologize for being late,” Pitney hastened to add. “I hope you got my cell phone message.”
“Not a problem,” Leopole replied. “The receptionist passed your call while we were meeting with Admiral Derringer.”
Peters was aware that the two shooters were sizing up one another. He sought to ease the atmosphere, which was neither tense nor warm. “You did well to get here when you did . . . Robert?”
Pitney nodded. “Yes, sir. My father was Bob and I didn’t like ‘Bobby’ so I’ve always been Robert.” He grinned self-consciously. “Some people think it sounds pretentious but it’s better than ‘Hey kid.’ “
Leopole showed the way past the desk into the office spaces. “How long did it take, Robert?”
“I allowed three hours. I took Thirty to East York, then Eighty-three to Baltimore and Ninety-five on down, but there’s more construction and delays than I expected between here and 495.”
“Always is,” Leopole replied. “But I don’t suppose it would’ve been much of a saving if you’d flown.”
“No, sir. Besides, I don’t fly anymore unless I have to. The security bothers me, and it can be tedious traveling with a gun.”
“Ah, do you have one on you?” Peters asked.
“In the car. I figured I shouldn’t wear one in here without permission.”
Leopole felt himself warming a bit. “Well, don’t sweat it, Robert. We’re a gun-friendly outfit. Besides, you still carry a badge, don’t you?”
“Actually, Colonel, I do not. I left my department in Massachusetts after a couple of disagreements with the chief.” He paused, testing whether the SSI men were interested in the details. He took their silence as curiosity and ventured a brief explanation. “I’m a gun guy, but most law enforcement officers, LEOs, aren’t. When I became our training sergeant I requested a bigger budget, more than just qualification. The chief wanted to put the money into surveillance gear and radios. Well, we had a couple of, ah, marginal shootings, and I told the investigators what I thought.” He shrugged. “It cost the city some money and my services were no longer required. So I moved my family to Pennsylvania.”
“What do you carry?” Leopole asked.
“I have two Springfield XDs in the car. A .40 and a .45.”
Peters was puzzled. “Why two?”
“Well, sir, if I have to use one I still have the other to get me home.”
Frank Leopole appreciated the practical aspects of Robert Pitney’s philosophy. “I’m a 1911 man myself, but it’s not about gear. It’s about training, which is what we’d like to discuss with you.” He motioned toward a chair in the conference room and the three men settled down to business.
Peters took the lead, as he expected. “Robert, as you know we’re forming a training team to work in Lebanon. Frankly, we’re quite enthused about your background, especially since you’re well qualified on weapons and you speak Arabic.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Peters. But I should say up front that I’m a pistol shooter and rifleman, mainly from IPSC three-gun competition. I don’t know much about belt-fed weapons and nothing about explosives. But I do have a lot of experience as an instructor, and you have the references from my police and military clients. As for the language, well, it’s mainly conversational. I’d have to study some to get up to speed in terminology for weapons and tactics.”
Peters said, “We’ll introduce you to Omar Mohammed, our head training officer. He speaks all the major Muslim languages and can brief you on some of the technical aspects we’re addressing.”
Leopole threw out a toss-up question. “Have you been to Lebanon?”
Pitney’s green eyes narrowed slightly. He’s testing me to see how I think on my feet. “Twice. My wife’s family used to have business there and I’ve seen Beirut, Tyre, and Sidon.”
“May I ask what kind of business?” Peters interjected.
“Import-export. Last time was in 2002, but I’m not involved in that.”
Leopole decided to cut to the religious chase. “Robert, I understand that you converted to Islam. Is that correct?”
Pitney gave the SSI man a three-count before answering. “Colonel, Shareefa’s family is Sunni, like ninety percent of Jordanians. So that’s my affiliation, and our children’s. But if you’re wondering about me because I’m officially a Muslim, well, you already mentioned your Mr. Mohammed . . .” He allowed the sentiment to dangle in midair.
Leopole shifted in his seat. “No, no, nothing like that, Robert. You’re right about Dr. Mohammed. He’s invaluable here. But he was born a Muslim, and I just want to clarify things. You understand that some of the operators you’d be working with might wonder why an American would convert to Islam in . . . times like these.”
Pitney leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “Colonel Leopole, I married Shari nine years ago. Some of my fellow policemen wondered the same thing, before 9-11. Most of them saw I was the same guy, doing the same job to the same standards as before. I was still Sergeant Pitney, not Sergeant Abdullah. The ones who let it interfere with their work got transferred to other divisions.
“Now, my daughters inherited a tough situation. They’re growing up with kids who’ve never known anything about Islam but the war on terror. Their knowledge of Muslims is limited to suicide bombers and religious zealots. But my little girls were born in this country and they’re going to be raised as loyal Americans.” He leaned back, fingers drumming on the table. “Next question.”
Leopole looked at Peters, who looked back at Leopole. Finally Peters asked, “Mr. Pitney, when can you start?”
* * * *
NORTHERN ISRAEL
Colonel Yakov Livni brushed a topographical map with the fingers of one hand. “Solly, we need to reassess our operations in Lebanon. We’re already overextended, and it’s . . . costing us good men.”
Brigadier General Solomon Nadel knew exactly what Livni meant. The brigade commander had attended the burial, then put it behind him. Though two years younger than his subordinate, he had more than a year in seniority, and was connected besides. Not that it mattered: they were both professionals who respected one another’s opinions, however infrequently they meshed.
Nadel scratched his head, habitually sunburned beneath his thinning hair. He often wore his beret stuffed in an epaulette rather than wearing the ridiculous cap. Away from the troops he preferred an American boonie hat, which at least afforded some protection to the face and neck, but a Tat alúf had to set an example.
“Yakov, I do not disagree with you. My God, you know the situation in Northern Command as well as I. The whole brigade is overextended, guarding its assigned area and supporting your Egoz boys across the border. For that matter, so is most of the Ninety-sixth Division.” He spread his hands in frustration. “I have made two requests through channels for more assets or fewer operations. The division commander supports me but Mossad and the cabinet want to keep the pressure on Hezbollah, and supporting the Lebanese is the best way to do that.”
Livni turned away from the chart table and slumped into a camp chair. He almost upset the Galil rifle leaning against a file cabinet. The general’s personal weapon reminded him that Solomon Nadel had not always been a map reader or logistics pervader. Not so long ago he was an enthusiastic shooter, and he still kept dust on his boots most of the time.
“All right, Solly. All right. We’ll continue doing what we can, but hear this: I refuse to commit any more understrength teams to an operation. You hear me? I absolutely refuse! If we cannot accomplish a mission with the men on hand, then I’ll pull in others to get the job done and let the other mission wait. But Ari was . . .”
Livni choked off a sob. He swallowed hard, looking around for a glass. Nadel read the signs and handed his colleague a plastic bottle. The colonel thanked the general with a quiet nod, drank deeply, and handed back the water. When he looked up at his superior, he could not think of anything else to say.
Nadel pulled another chair across the wood floor and sat beside the veteran commando. “Yakov, listen. The word is getting through at cabinet level. There is more support for covert operations with friendly Lebanese, especially the Druze. In fact, there’s a growing Druze presence outside the traditional areas around Beirut. I know of a couple of areas along the Syrian border. As far as I’m concerned, you’re already eligible for distribution of that intelligence, so come back tomorrow and we’ll talk again.”
Livni stared at the floor, nodding again. At length he looked at Nadel and trusted himself to speak. “You know, Solly, I was just thinking what old Colonel Baharof used to say in command and staff school.”
“Yes? What’s that?”
“We operate on incomplete information, and things are seldom as good or as bad as they seem.”
* * * *
SOUTH GOVERNATE, LEBANON
Ahmad Esmaili believed in thoroughness. It was one of the many reasons he was still walking the earth, praise be to Allah. Secretly he admitted to himself that he had been fortunate on several occasions, but far be it for a holy warrior to doubt that Fortune often represented the Will of God.
At least that is what he told his superiors, let alone the occasional imam who crossed his path. The revolution had taught him nothing if not the utility of carrying a Koran and quoting it at opportune moments.
Unlike many Hezbollah leaders, Esmaili believed in marksmanship and weapon maintenance. The former had just been put to good use, though admittedly the element of superior firepower at close range had been a major factor in slaying the Zionists. But now, after the excitement his men felt in the wake of the successful ambush, the Iranian insisted that they disassemble and clean their weapons. Properly.
Essam Tawfiq was reassembling his RPK faster than the others manipulated their AK-47s. But then Tawfiq was Esmaili’s most experienced man, one of the few who seemed genuinely enthusiastic about small arms. That was why the Iranian had designated him the machine gunner.
Leaning against the wall of the command building, Esmaili inserted a loaded magazine in his own rifle. Then he began refilling the one magazine he had used in the ambush. Loose rounds rolled on the tarp serving the five men nearest him. He noted that young Hazim was the next fastest in pounding his receiver cover into place, cycling the bolt twice, and tripping the trigger. True, the newcomer’s muzzle was pointed at Abdullah’s foot, but if the latter was unaware of the indignity, Esmaili was not inclined to make an issue of it. He thought, One accidental discharge now and then serves to focus the men’s attention.
As Hazim laid his weapon on the tarp—muzzle pointed away from the group—the boy looked around, obviously pleased with himself. He accepted his leader’s tacit praise, expressed by a nod of the head and the faintest of smiles. It had been a very good day for the neophyte fighter. He had claimed two of the Israelis, being certain of at least one, proven his worth to his fellow jihadists, and won the quiet approval of the man he most respected.
And something more. Hazim reached behind him and produced his prize, the Galil with side-mounted dovetail base to accept the weight of the American night scope. Nobody else had tried to usurp the treasure, but neither had Esmaili nor Tawfiq pronounced that he might keep it. Rather than delay the resolution, he ventured a question.
“Teacher, what shall we do with this?”
The Iranian extended a hand, and noticed the boy’s ephemeral delay in passing it over. When the weapon was relinquished, Esmaili made a point of grunting at the nine-kilogram weight. Some of the other men laughed in appreciation, exchanging knowing glances. One whispered to a friend, “Perhaps now Hazim knows why none of us wanted it!”
Esmaili removed the magazine and locked the bolt open. The muzzle incident moments before had happened to someone else. This latest breach had occurred to the leader. “Did I fail to teach you proper manners, boy? I believe that I did when you joined us. But that was weeks ago, and my dimming memory serves me poorly these days.”
Hazim blushed beneath his tan. His eyes lowered to the tarp as he muttered a muted apology.
Tawfiq shot a mirthful glance at his friend and colleague. He always enjoys times like this. Now he will regain the young fool’s devotion.
The leader made a point of visibly checking the chamber, then pretended to look through the Litton optic. With a dissatisfied grunt he handed the Galil back, followed by the magazine. “For your lapse in weapon handling, your punishment shall be to carry this burden for as long as it remains workable.”
Hazim’s carpenter hands wrapped around the scarred stock, then cradled the captured rifle in a gesture more befitting a parent with a child. “Thank you, Teacher! I promise my best efforts to learn this rifle’s proper use.”
The Iranian waved a cautionary finger. “That means you will have to find a source of American ammunition for it and suitable batteries for the scope.”
Hazim’s smile faded at the realization of the challenge he now faced. He did not even know the designation of the 7.62x51 NATO cartridges remaining in the magazine. As for batteries . . . where did they fit in the scope?
Esmaili and Tawfiq smiled broadly at one another. Each knew that the Iranian possessed both ammunition and batteries, but would reveal neither until the boy had worked himself into a quandary trying to solve the problem he had just brought upon himself.
* * * *