Devil's Eye (16 page)

“
I don’t know, Mr. President,” Brandon replied. “It must be something new.”

The national security adviser entered with a concerned look on his face. “Mr. President,” Howard intoned as he walked towards the Chief Executive’s desk, ignoring Brandon and McCallister. “General Starr of the Joint Chiefs is dead.”

“
What?” the President exclaimed.

Howard looked quickly to Brandon and McCallister.

“
Apparently, something spooked his horse near the old Pawtomack Canal. We’re still investigating.”

“
Investigating what?” the President demanded.

“
Whether it was an accident or not.”

“
What the ff…?” the President caught his last word.

Chapter 16

Colonel Caine searched the two bodies lying in the cockpit of the bullet
‐
riddled cruiser, while his fellow commando hauled in their tattered rubber raft. Colonel Jones ripped the transceiver from a special pocket inside the raft and threw it overboard.

“
This one must be the chief,” Caine said. “He’s got a scrap of paper in his pocket. Coordinates scribbled on it.”

“
Our general location, no doubt,” Jones replied as he took the wheel of the ocean going speedboat.

They heard splashing sounds to the port side and instinctively grabbed their weapons. Caine leaned over to see a body being jostled sporadically. “It’s one of them. Something’s chomping at him.”

“
Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” Colonel Jones said coldly.

“
What about his buddies?” Caine asked. “We should give them a decent burial at sea.”

“
It’ll bring the sharks. Might keep them around here when we’re in the water near shore.”

“
My thoughts exactly,” Caine replied. He grabbed one of the bodies under the armpits, lifted it to the gunwale and shoved it overboard.

“
Do you think they’re devout militants?” Jones wondered.

“
I don’t see how ‘assassin’ and ‘devout’ go together,” Caine grunted as he pushed the second body overboard.

Colonel Jones aimed the cruiser toward the Lebanese coast fifteen miles away, while Caine rigged the go fast with plastic explosives.

As dawn approached they were several miles off the escarpment rocks that jutted out from the northwest part of the city—a signature landmark of Beirut. Beyond them in lighted profile against the fading darkness stood the oceanfront buildings of the Raouche district along the Avenue du General DeGaulle.

“
A brown Peugeot sedan’s supposed to meet us at the escarpment overlooking Pigeon Rocks,” Jones affirmed as he cut the engines about one
‐
half mile offshore.

“
The ultimate test,” Caine replied, heaving out the anchor. “Will they be waiting?” He opened the engine cowling in the rear and set a triggering device to detonate the explosives upon ignition.

The officers lowered their motorized skid into the water, put on their scuba gear and abandoned the cruiser. They signaled each other, adjusted their breathing devices, grabbed onto the skid and steered it just beneath the swells towards shore. Each surfaced several times to double check their bearings and within fifteen minutes the grinding of the skid on the bottom told them they were at the foot of the cliffs. They were at an overhang of the steep and jagged escarpment, out of view of several seaside patios and cafes overlooking the famous Pigeon Rocks.

Caine steered the skid north along the cliffs and into a secluded, narrow u
‐
shaped grotto under an area of warehouses beyond the promenade overlooking Pigeon Rocks. They grounded the skid on the tiny strip of beach under the cliffs and quickly removed their scuba gear. Caine hurriedly emptied the canisters of their supplies, while Jones turned the underwater sled back towards the sea. He swam with it into deeper water then drove the skid into the bottom.

Back in the grotto, they quickly changed into the casual clothes provided and divided their deadly cargo into their back packs. Each thrust his military issue Beretta into his belt.

“
How do I look?” Caine asked. He zipped up a maroon windbreaker over his pistol.

“
Like an infiltrator dressed as a tourist,” Jones replied. “What about the scuba gear?”

“
Either way, we’re not swimming. Let’s bury it.”

Caine looked along the steep cliffs and pointed to his left. “There’s a path up that way.” They climbed their way to the top and were soon on the boulevard in front of a large parking area and warehouse. They walked south along the boulevard and after a sharp hairpin turn found themselves in the area above Pigeon Rocks, joining light pedestrian traffic in the early morning hour. An old man on a donkey heavily laden with vegetables was riding nearby, while cars, trucks and a bus wended their way past him. The city was waking to a new day.

The two Americans approached the overlook, gazed at the ocean for a minute and spotted a speck offshore that was the cruiser they had rigged to explode. They looked back along the sidewalk, past several large buildings on the opposite side of the boulevard, towards their landing spot.

They focused on a sandy overlook where a brown Peugeot sedan was to meet them. Seeing nothing, they looked at each other and wordlessly concluded that their contacts must have been in on the plan to assassinate them.

“
Looks like nobody’s bothering to show up,” Colonel Jones intoned. He turned his gaze back toward the sea and leaned on a railing.

Just as he said so, he saw a motorboat with four men aboard speeding through the swells in the direction of the cruiser. He tapped Caine who was still looking for the contact car.

“
They’re coming from the marina,” Jones said.

“
They’re in a hurry,” Caine observed. ”A couple of ‘em are sporting heavy weapons.”

“
Looking for their buddies.”

The two Americans turned again towards their rendezvous spot when they noticed a dusty, orange Volvo station wagon driving in their direction. It passed them, made a u
‐
turn on the divided boulevard, passed them again going in the opposite direction, then abruptly turned left onto the sandy overlook.

“
Worth trying?” Jones asked.

“
We have nothing else to do,” Caine replied.

They walked cautiously towards the station wagon.

“
Like expected, but it’s not a Peugeot,” Caine said as they hurried their step.

“
It’s not a man either,” added Jones.

They approached the station wagon, one from each side.

“
Pardon me, Miss,” Jones asked in French from a respectable distance on the passenger side. “Can you tell us the way to the National Museum?”

The woman turned her head towards Jones. Long, raven black hair framed her beautiful olive features that appeared seasoned beyond her years.

“
Please tell your friend to come around to your side,” she replied in English. “You make me nervous.”

Caine responded by slowly walking around the front of the car and stopping next to his partner.

“
Can you tell us the way to the National Museum?” Jones repeated.

“
Are you interested in the Mamluk Period?” she replied in a formal tone.

“
No, the ancient idol from Byblos,” Colonel Jones responded.

“
The pre
‐
historic one?”

“
Paleolithic.”

She eyed the two Americans sternly, throwing her glance from one to the other. “Get in. I’ll drive you.”

Caine and Jones nodded imperceptibly to each other, placed their backpacks onto the back seat and climbed into the station wagon.

She had to be their contact. She knew the countersigns and was overtly unaware that they were supposed to be dead. Otherwise she would not have bothered to meet them. The two Americans were increasingly certain that their betrayer had to be in Washington.

The woman started the car, spun the wheels a few feet in reverse, shifted to forward, made a sharp turn on the overlook, throwing up sand as she maneuvered, then darted back onto the boulevard heading south.

Just then a thunderous explosion resounded offshore. The woman jerked her head in the direction of the blast.

“
Watch where you’re driving,” Colonel Jones said calmly from the back seat.

A knowing grin crossed her face.

Seabirds were suddenly in the air and people in the vicinity hurried to the overlook at Pigeon Rocks to see what happened. Passing cars pulled over to the sidewalk and people jumped out to stare offshore. In the distance was a large speedboat burning and settling into the water.

The woman weaved around several cars as she passed the promenade where passersby were gathering. A patrol boat and several other craft were already headed to the scene.

“
Do you always advertise your arrival?” the woman probed as she maneuvered in traffic.

Neither officer answered.

She stared at Jones through the rear view mirror, her look presuming the two officers had something to do with it.

The woman drove another quarter mile southward then veered east from the oceanfront drive and onto the Boulevard Saeb
‐
Salaam. They were headed into the center of Beirut towards the remnants of the battle line dividing Muslim west Beirut from Christian east Beirut along the Rue de Damas.

“
We were expecting a man in a Peugeot,” Jones eventually said looking at her through the rear view mirror.

“
I am the man in the Peugeot,” she replied coldly. “You arrived at a bad time. There was shelling here last night. There will probably be retaliation today. The man who was to pick you up was killed, unfortunately. The Peugeot was destroyed.”

“
I’m sorry,” Jones said.

The woman showed no emotion. “We’ll go as far as the Hippodrome then turn south at the green line and on to Colonel Hammad’s headquarters.”

“
I see you still call it the green line, even after the war,” Colonel Caine noted.

“
It will always be so. It is peaceful for now. As you can see, the scars of the war remain on many buildings. The line of demarcation has shifted to the Old Airport Road—in Sunni and Shiite quarters. They are the most volatile at the moment.”

“
Too bad,” Caine said.

“
There is progress,” the woman replied matter
‐
of
‐
factly. “Economic, cultural. Politics is the only uncertainty. The city is still a powder keg. Especially, after the assassinations.”

“
And Colonel Hammad is in the middle of it?” Caine asked.

“
That is none of your business,” she replied.

Her words were a reminder that the two Americans were not necessarily among friends. Colonel Jones straightened himself in the back seat and readjusted his Beretta in his belt.

“
Why are you here to see him?”

“
That’s none of your business,” Colonel Jones retorted.

She flashed her eyes at Jones through the rear view mirror, then stared ahead and drove on with a perceptible increase in speed.

Soon she pulled up to an intersection blockaded by sandbags and guarded by armed men dressed in casual civilian clothes. Decrepit stucco buildings lined the intersection and sand interspersed with litter covered the street. The woman said something to one of the guards behind a pile of sandbags and he motioned her through with a wave of his hand. Caine looked back at Jones who handed him his backpack.

After another half block the woman stopped the vehicle and climbed out. The two Americans followed her into an apartment building that looked condemned from the outside with soot stains and remnants of fires, shell holes, crumbling verandas, and broken windows.

They walked up two flights of stairs.

“
I take it this is temporary,” Colonel Caine said.