12

 

NABATIYEH GOVERNATE

 

 

Mohammad Azizi delivered Dr. Momen’s colleague, on schedule.

 

Imam Sadegh Elham appeared to be in his mid-forties. In contrast to the corpulent Momen, Elham’s was a thin, spare frame with few of the scientist’s unctuous mannerisms.

 

However, Esmaili noticed that the cleric’s eyes had the same look. While Imam Elham did not wear spectacles, his gaze—penetrating and perceptive—reminded the Hezbollah operative of Momen’s. Ahmad Esmaili felt a tiny chill. Both of them are probably mad.

 

“Peace be upon you,” Esmaili greeted the cleric. Elham replied in kind, apparently with genuine sentiment. Then he presented papers identifying him as spiritual advisor to the Hezbollah cell. That his bona fides were genuine there could be no doubt. His warrant was handwritten by Dr. Momen and countersigned by his deputy.

 

After the ritual greetings, Ahmad Esmaili showed the imam to his quarters, allowed him to settle in, and departed. Esmaili realized that he was glad to be out of the man’s presence.

 

Azizi saw Esmaili standing alone and joined him. “Our guest is satisfied with the present situation. You have prepared well, and Dr. Momen should be pleased.”

 

The Hezbollah leader managed a straight face. “Praise be to God that we have performed our mission ... so far.” He regarded Momen’s acolyte. “You will be in frequent contact with the doctor?”

 

“Yes, yes.” Azizi nodded eagerly. “My duty requires me to return to Tehran at various intervals. But do not worry, brother. You will be well mentioned in my reports for your work ... so far.”

 

Esmaili waved a hand. “Oh, please do not trouble yourself. Doing the work is reward enough.” This time the sentiment did require some facial control. He wondered if Azizi were gullible enough to believe the statement or merely indifferent, knowing something of what was to come.

 

If Azizi were skeptical, he concealed it beneath an earnest demeanor. “Soon there will be plenty of work for your men to prove their devotion to the jihad.” He actually smiled. “That should please them, should it not?”

 

“Most assuredly. I only pray that we are up to the task—whatever it may involve.” How long are we going to continue exchanging banalities?

 

Azizi recognized that Esmaili was fishing for more details. But that did not bother him. Were it otherwise, he might have had reason for suspicion. “My friend, you know almost as much as I do at present. For now it is enough that Dr. Momen has entrusted an important mission to our hands, and favored us with his most valued advisor. We will learn more details when we need to know them.”

 

“Then my fighters can be satisfied. I should check their progress this afternoon. Please excuse me.”

 

Azizi nodded deferentially. “Of course, brother, of course. I shall see you at the evening prayer. The imam will conduct it himself.”

 

“I shall be honored to pray behind him.”

 

As he walked away, Ahmad Esmaili was careful to keep his head up and his shoulders back. He did not wish Mohammad Azizi to realize how the Hezbollah chieftain really felt: like the loneliest man in Lebanon.

 

* * * *

 

HAIFA, ISRAEL

 

Chris Nissen convened the planning session with the entire SSI team. “Colonel Leopole is meeting with our main Druze contact in Beirut but he left a list of topics for us to cover.” He set down his notes and jumped on one of his favorite subjects.

 

“What’s the best way to take down a roomful of bad guys?”

 

“A Mark 82 through the roof,” Breezy quipped. When his wisecrack drew no laughter, he went on the defensive. “Well, a five-hundred-pounder takes down a bunch of bee-gees.”

 

“It’s not a theoretical question,” Nissen insisted. “If we’re going to work with the Druze in securing their villages, we have to be ready to show them some interior tactics.”

 

Bosco sought to cover his partner’s gaffe. “We have the canned routine from the company’s training manual. Use flash-bangs if possible, frags if necessary, and put at least a short stack of operators through the door or another entry. Then run the walls and hose anybody with a weapon.”

 

Nissen nodded in agreement. “But what if there’s known or possible noncombatants?”

 

“That’s why we start with flash-bangs. Then secure everybody there and let the intel guys sort them out.” He shrugged. “It’s worked for us before.”

 

Nissen returned to the main subject. “Well, let’s realize that our clients will not have the latest gear that some of us brought. We need to stay focused on teaching them to use their own weapons as efficiently as possible.”

 

Josh Wallender broke his usual silence. “Chris, what do we know about the Druze and their gear?”

 

“Not a lot right now. Mostly AKs. I don’t think they have many sidearms. That means when we get to interior tactics we’ll show them how to use what they’ve got. The more specialized weapons, like precision rifles, we’ll address as they arise.”

 

Phil Green, the ex-SWAT cop, had a lot of experience putting cuffs on uncooperative suspects. “I don’t think we can be too dogmatic about this, Sergeant. I mean, there’s too many variables, and good-guy bad-guy recognition is a biggie, especially when everybody looks alike. Besides, what if there’s more suspects than operators? There’s going to be a lot of noise and confusion, especially with women and kids screaming and crying. We’ll have some guys slinging their own weapons while putting flex cuffs on everybody, and that reduces the number of shooters for emergencies.” He shook his head. “I’d avoid an inside fight if at all possible.”

 

Privately, Nissen agreed, but Leopole had wanted various scenarios discussed before meeting the militiamen in Lebanon. “Okay, you’re right. It’s likely to be dark and noisy and confusing. Lots of chances for distraction and surprises. But I’m talking a last-ditch situation. No way to solve the problem without entering the room.

 

“Just for consideration: a bud of mine did an exchange tour with the SAS. He said at Prince’s Gate in 1980 one of the terrorists at the Iranian embassy was hiding among the civilians. They pointed him out so two SAS dudes scooped him up and pinned his arms against the wall. One of the other guys double-tapped him with his MP-5 and that was that. All twenty-six hostages were released and five of six terrorists were KIA. A real slick op.”

 

“Not quite in line with our usual ROE, is it?” Bosco asked with wink.

 

“No, Mr. Boscombe. It is not.”

 

Bob Ashcroft, who had trained as a police crisis negotiator, had another angle. “The only situation I can think of for entering a room would be a hostage situation. I mean, if the BGs have shot a couple of hostages and tossed the bodies out the door, then all bets are off. Otherwise, I’d maintain a perimeter and wait ‘em out.”

 

Nissen realized that the subject was far more varied than the training teams would have time to address with their clients, so he sought to simplify matters. “All right, then. Let’s consider this: you have two or three men ready to enter a room full of hostiles. What’s their best choice of weapons and tactics?”

 

Breezy turned serious for a moment. “I really like my suppressed MP-5 with a light. And I’d wear goggles and ear protection.”

 

“Why ear protection if you’ve got a suppressed weapon?”

 

The operator unzipped a gotcha grin. “Because, Sergeant Nissen, the bad guys prob’ly don’t have suppressed weapons.”

 

“Okay, point well taken.” He looked around. “Anybody else?”

 

Robert Pitney squirmed on his seat. After a moment, he spoke up. “It might sound odd, but I’d take a big-caliber race gun with a laser sight. And a light.”

 

As a former Green Beret NCO, Chris Nissen had little experience with the civilian shooting world. But he was intrigued. “Okay, it does sound odd. But suppose I’m willing to be convinced.”

 

Pitney was aware that everyone in the room was looking at him. He stood up. “I like a pistol for interior tactics for all the obvious reasons. And a double-column .40 or .45 gives me twelve to fifteen rounds, which should be plenty. If not, I carry my first reload at the front of my tactical belt. I can swap magazines in less than two seconds.

 

“I brought a compensated Springfield XD with me. It’s loud, but like Mr. Brezyinski just said, we’ll have ear protection. The integral compensator keeps the muzzle steady, and at typical distances you can do ‘hammers’ with both rounds inside two inches.

 

“The red dot or laser sight is a big advantage in dim light and against multiple opponents. At room-clearing distances—inside twenty-five feet—you can engage several targets very quickly.”

 

Nissen was impressed. “Okay, that makes sense to me. But you’re not going to carry a specialized weapon like that for everyday use.”

 

“No, sir, I’m not. It’s a special tool for special circumstances.”

 

“What if the BGs have body armor that your ammo won’t handle?”

 

Pitney shrugged. “Inside a room with a bunch of hostiles, I wouldn’t rely on torso shots anyway. I’d shoot for the eyes.”

 

The retired noncom frowned. “That’s a very high standard of marksmanship, Mr. Pitney. Especially when people are shooting at you.”

 

“Yes it is, Sergeant Nissen. It certainly is.”

 

* * * *

 

SSI OFFICES

 

Marshall Wilmot was overweight to the point of being fat. His goal was to remain shy of obese, and recently he would not have claimed victory in that campaign, for it was more than a battle. Privately, he envied the hell out of Michael Derringer, who in his mid-sixties tipped the scales barely twenty pounds more than his Annapolis weight.

 

On the other hand, Wilmont retained most of his hair and needed glasses only for newsprint.

 

Wilmont stopped at the top of the stairs, regaining his breath. At that moment Matt Finch dashed past, taking the steps two at a time. “Hey, Marsh,” the personnel officer chirped. “Still avoiding the elevator? Good for you. Keep it up, man!” On that cheerful note, the slender forty-something was gone.

 

SSI’s chief operating officer watched him disappear. Damn marathoners. They’re fanatics.

 

At length Wilmot reached the second-floor landing and opened the door. Aside from his physical bulk, he felt as if he carried an equally onerous burden—a load to be shared with Mike Derringer.

 

Wilmot nodded to Peggy Singer, who broadcast a contralto “Good morning,” ending on an upscale that bespoke cheerfulness. It also alerted her boss in the inner office that a visitor was inbound.

 

Derringer swiveled his high-backed chair, turning away from his computer console. “Good morning, Marsh.” He stopped to scrutinize his partner more closely. “You look like yesterday’s chow, if I may say so.”

 

Wilmot plopped his bulk into the visitor’s chair. “You may, and you did.” He emitted a short wheeze and realized that he had left his handkerchief at home again. His marriage remained on the downhill slope, and tending hubby’s laundry had never been a priority for Jocelyn Brashears Wilmot. He contented himself with extracting a partial tissue from his coat pocket and dabbed his mouth.

 

Derringer wondered if Sandy Carmichael or Frank Ferraro in the operations division maintained their emergency responder certification.

 

Finally Wilmot regained his breath and his voice. “Mike, I saw Brian Cottle last Friday night. He was at the club with some of his Foggy Bottom friends.”

 

“Is he still running scared over State’s embarrassment after our African outing?”

 

Wilmot nodded. “But he’s only frightened, not terrified like he was a couple of months ago. I arrived late for happy hour and Brian was working on his third drink. So I eased him over to an empty table and bought him another round.”

 

Derringer approved. “You sly dog, you.”

 

“Actually, I don’t know how much slipped out and how much he actually wanted me to know. But he pretty much laid it out. State and CIA are still red-faced over the way the Israelis snookered them, and sending us chasing all over Africa and the Med and the Atlantic after that yellow cake. So I laid it on a little thick, you know? I said, ‘Jeez, Brian, we did exactly what you guys wanted us to do and now we’re the bastard cousin at the wedding.’”

 

“I hope he absorbed a boatload of guilt.”

 

Wilmot shrugged his burly shoulders. “Well, he didn’t argue. He just sort of acknowledged that maybe we’d got a raw deal, being denied other contracts because our team did the work that we’d been hired to do.” Wilmot paused, trying to recall the conversation. “The fact that the yellow cake sank with that ship our guys took was all to the good. I mean, State understands that the cake never reached Iran. But once they realized that Mossad had been calling the shots through third parties and cutouts, there was some, ah, unwelcome scrutiny on the hill.”

 

Derringer leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. “Yes, I know. So what’s the point of Mr. Cottle’s unhappy hour?”

 

“Well, since I had him alone I pushed the man-to-man thing, you know? I said, ‘Look, Brian. We’re forced to do business with the damned Israelis, the same people who used us and got a couple of our guys killed. So when the hell are you,’ and I emphasized you, ‘going to let us out of detention?’”

 

“Good lad. So what’d he say?”

 

“Well, then he did get defensive. His voice went up a couple of octaves and basically he said, ‘Shit, Marsh. I’m the one who approved SSI for the current Israeli job. If it’d gone to somebody else, the foreign contracts desk probably would’ve turned you down. Then you’d really be stuck.’”

 

“Is that true?”

 

Wilmont coughed again. While regaining his composure, he nodded. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, he’s the deputy undersecretary for international security so he can direct traffic pretty much where he wants. I think that his boss rubber-stamps most of Brian’s recommendations unless it’s high visibility.”

 

Derringer laughed. “Like Radar on MASH. ‘Here, Colonel. Sign this.’”

 

“Well, maybe not quite like that. But I felt better after pumping Brian. He’s a decent guy down deep—just has trouble showing it sometimes.”

 

“So, does that mean that we might be considered for some U.S. Government contracts anytime soon?”

 

Wilmont squirmed his weight against the seat. “I’ll know more on Wednesday. But I think things are easing up because when I left, Brian promised to stand me to a three-martooni lunch.”

 

Derringer chuckled aloud. “Well, he might welch on a business deal, but a promise made when drunk is sacred.”

 

“You got it, Mike.”

 

* * * *