30

NABATIYEH GOVERNATE

The visiting dignitary was known as Akhmed. The Chechen sniper arrived with two packs, a custom rifle case, and a significant reputation. In his travels his score was said to run upward of two hundred Russians, treacherous Afghans, collaborationist Iraqis, invading Americans, and assorted other infidels. It was said that he never missed.

Esmaili did not believe it; neither did Hazim, who now admitted that he missed fairly often.

Nevertheless, Esmaili and Azizi were present to greet Akhmed when he stepped out of the truck. Azizi took the lead. “Brother, welcome! Your presence here honors us all.”

Akhmed bowed his head in deference to the homage paid him. He muttered a perfunctory response that was barely audible and shook hands without conviction. Esmaili would have dismissed him as a dilettante but for the eyes, dark and peering. Many Muslims avoided direct eye contact. Not the Chechen. He looked directly at each Hezbollah officer, as if trying to see what lay behind their own eyes.

The three quickly got down to business.

Settling in a secluded cabin, Azizi and Esmaili briefed the master sniper on their plan. “We know that your time here is limited,” Azizi began. “Therefore, we will make it as useful and . . . profitable ... as possible.”

Esmaili shot a look at his colleague. Nothing had been said about payment for Akhmed’s services. The Iranian looked at the Chechen with surging ambivalence: respect for his record and questions about his motives. Well, he has to eat like the rest of us. But Esmaili wondered how so devout a fighter as Azizi got his philosophical fingers around the notion of a mercenary who was well paid for slaying God’s enemies. Let alone Imam Elham.

Akhmed nodded his appreciation. He was a tall, spare man in his late thirties or early forties. He moved smoothly, confidently, and seemed to expend his words as economically as his ammunition. “I shall want to see the ground as soon as possible. Today, even. After that we can talk again and make more definite plans.”

“Yes, of course,” Azizi replied. “Brother Esmaili is completely familiar with the area around both villages.”

Akhmed turned to Esmaili and focused on him. The Iranian was mildly upset to discover that he found the attention unwelcome. He looks at me as if through a scope. On the other hand, Akhmed the Sniper probably looked at everyone that way. Esmaili tried to envision two hundred kills, or merely two hundred hits. Never a scorekeeper, he acknowledged that most of his victims had been killed at close range from his early days on the firing squads.

Close range—what range does this Akhmed prefer?

“Brother, the terrain around Amasha and El-Arian is similar. We can insert you into favorable positions from two to perhaps six hundred meters.”

“I usually fire from two hundred meters for head shots,” Akhmed responded. “On a standing man, between four and five hundred.”

Is that all? Esmaili hoped that his disappointment was well concealed. “What rifle do you shoot?”

“A modified Dragunov. It is not my first choice, but the British AWC that I prefer was ruined in a recent operation. With that, I was confident out to seven hundred meters.”

Esmaili merely nodded. He knew that the AWC PM was effective well beyond seven hundred. Rather than press the matter, he concluded, “You should have something to eat, then we can examine the terrain.”

Leaving their guest to have lunch, the Hezbollah men stepped well away. “I did not know he shoots for hire,” Esmaili began. The tone in his voice said, As you failed to tell me.

Azizi took no offense. “It is his way, and his services are invaluable. God will know Akhmed’s heart and his worth at the proper time.”

Esmaili was disinclined to discourse on religious matters. “I can understand his concern with the Dragunov, but the British rifle is capable of far more than seven hundred meters. Certainly nine hundred—with a capable marksman.”

“Oh, Akhmed is certainly capable. But he only shoots when he is confident of a kill. That is part of his fee: a bonus for every observed hit. Therefore, he seldom works with a regular spotter. Whomever we assign to him will also serve as . . . how would you say it? A tabulator?”

Esmaili folded his arms, assuming a petulant posture. “And our man? What does he receive for his services?”

“Let us hope he does not receive a bullet through his head. But to answer your question, brother, our man will have the knowledge that he serves Allah.”

“Of course, my brother. Of course.”

* * * *

AMASHA

“Your mission is this Hazim character. He’s out there. Find him, shoot him, and don’t get hurt.”

Rob Furr and Rick Barrkman absorbed Frank Leopole’s directive. But their pleasure at being reunited was marred by the onerous chore of locating an elusive shooter who devoutly wished to remain hidden. Both snipers knew how tediously dangerous their job could become.

Furr was smart and capable but also cautious. “Colonel, isn’t it possible that the Hezzies want us to go looking for this guy? They probably know there’s only two of us with this training team.”

“Rick and I have already discussed that. In fact, we talked to Captain Hamadeh about it. So, yes, this Hazim or whoever he is might be a stalking horse to draw us out. But apart from the Hezzies’ propaganda, we know that somebody out there is a decent shot, and I believe in preventive medicine rather than trauma treatment.”

Barrkman had studied the area topographic maps and narrowed the likely hides near both villages. “Skipper, we’d double our chances of tapping this guy if we split up and work with other spotters. Rob and I might be willing to do that, but there’s no reason to think Hazim works alone. If it comes to a real sniper duel, it could be more of a tag team event than one on one.”

Leopole’s square jaw was thrust outward. “Concur. That’s why I brought you guys together again. We’ll go with our strength for starters and see what turns up. If there’s no definite results after a few days, we can split up.”

Furr squirmed slightly, shifting his feet. “So, how do we know if we bag this bird? I mean, even if we get the body he probably won’t have ID on him. It’s not like there’ll be a big sign saying, ‘Congratulations, you just snuffed Hazim.’”

“Good point. I guess we’ll know if their sniper activity falls off. If not, it means it’s not him or they have other talent. In either case, we’re ahead if you whack one of their shooters.”

Furr and Barrkman gave each other approving glances. The personal nature of the contest appealed to their competitive spirits.

“Another thing,” Leopole added. “This isn’t like the usual sniper or even countersniper operation. Basically, we’ve been called out and it’s high noon on Main Street in Dodge City. In other words, it’s a duel. But there’s more riding on this than just who walks away. Hezbollah will learn something about us depending on whether we accept the challenge or not. So the fact that you guys are out there hunting Hazim tells the opposition that we’re not playing safe. We’re here and we mean to stay.”

“Don’t worry, Skipper,” Barrkman chirped. “If we find him, we’ll kill him.”

Leopole tipped his cap back on his head and rubbed his chin. He thought for a moment, then looked both shooters full in the face. “That’s the way to think of it, you’re the hunters, but you’re hunting other predators. They may have more experience than you do, and presumably they know the land better. But I’m confident that you’re both more proficient, and I think you’re smarter.” He grinned. “Guys, just don’t get wrapped around your egos. Keep your heads in the game without worrying about what the Druze or I or anybody else thinks. At the same time, realize that you’re going up against a specific individual who’s proven that he’s dangerous, day or night.”

Furr recited something he had heard long ago. “Colonel, I respect my enemy but I don’t fear him.”

“Who said that?”

“Me!”

Leopole snorted. “Like hell you did!”

Furr toed the ground, glancing into the dirt. Finally he conceded, “I think it’s from an old samurai movie.”

“Well, you don’t look like any samurai I ever saw. But forget that bushido bullshit. There’s no warrior’s code out there, guys. There’s only winners and losers.”

* * * *