Devil's Eye (23 page)

Caine gave him a knowing nod.

Hammad called to his men. They filed slowly out of the ruptured building, peering cautiously around them. Several looked curiously at the two dogs lying near the sofas. The militia leader, with Caine and Jones, headed back to the sandbagged intersection where the two Americans had first entered Mustafa Ali Hammad’s enclave.

“
We owe you some debt of gratitude,” Hammad said as they walked.

“
You can get us to the airport,” Colonel Caine replied.

“
Certainly.”

Jones caught the look of his fellow commando, anticipating his next words.

“
Like I told you before, Arie. We should have flown in here in the first place.”

“
What? And miss the fun of getting here?” Jones replied.

The militia leader failed to see the humor of the situation.

“
Our courier will drive you. You will have to forgive our lack of armed escort, but you see how we are preoccupied,” Hammad said sarcastically. He paused thoughtfully, then added: “I hope, gentlemen, that the attack on us and your visit are strictly coincidental. I would hate to view you as a liability.”

“
That goes both ways,” Colonel Caine replied coolly.

Hammad did not respond.

The dusty orange station wagon was parked alongside a sandbag barricade where the dark
‐
haired woman who had brought them was chatting with several young armed guards. Their casual air suggested that the rocket attack and gunfight that had just transpired had never occurred.

“
I am sorry that your foray is for nothing,” the militia leader said. “But I think you would be better served to seek your answers at home.”

“
We’ll see,” Colonel Caine replied as he climbed into the back seat of the station wagon. He knew that his partner would want to sit by the fiery woman who had verbally dueled with him.

Colonel Jones bade farewell and climbed into the front seat, with a thankful glance at Caine. The woman had already slid behind the steering wheel.

“
Give my regards to your General Bradley,” Hammad said with a knowing grin as he waved off the travelers.

The Volvo spun its wheels in the dirt covered street, then peeled off towards the Rue de Damas. The young woman careened around a corner and turned south along the main street that used to be the border between the main rival factions contesting dominance over Beirut and Lebanon in the previous civil war. Battle damaged buildings still marked their route very distinctly.

Just as the woman was about to turn into an intersection towards the Avenue de L’Aeroport, a light brown Peugot screeched out of a small side street ahead of them intending to block the station wagon, while a battered gray Mercedes pulled in front of them from a parked position along the broad avenue.

The two Americans—reacting instinctively—grabbed their remaining grenades from their windbreakers, rolled down the windows, and pulled the grenade pins. Their wordless actions gave the driver the very clear impression that they had experienced this before.

“
Don’t slow down!” Jones ordered. “Pull up between them!”

“
We’ll smash into them!” she exclaimed.

“
Make it their problem!” he affirmed.

She drove the Volvo straight ahead to the surprise of the armed occupants of the Peugeot who had expected her to slow down. The driver quickly reversed to avoid being broadsided, then lurched forward with a sharp left turn to meet the station wagon side by side. The driver of the Mercedes trying to cut her off suddenly realized that the station wagon would smash into his side. He veered back to his right. His armed companions looked at him and shouted something.

The three vehicles were now speeding abreast no more than two feet from each other with the Volvo in between. The attackers trained their machine guns through open windows on the woman and two Americans, but couldn’t fire for fear of hitting their henchmen on either side of the station wagon.

Caine pitched his grenade into the Peugeot. Jones threw his into the Mercedes.

“
Go! Go! Go!” each of the officers shouted.

Both cars veered violently away with their occupants yelling wildly inside. The doors flew open and several of the men from the Peugeot and Mercedes dived out, just as explosions ripped the cars one after the other.

As the bedlam ensued traffic in both directions stopped and effectively cordoned off the block
‐
long battle scene. Bystanders had ducked for cover in doorways and behind parked cars, as if they were used to such interruptions.

By the time the surviving gunmen could gather their wits, the dark haired woman had veered around several stopped cars and sped away with a wicked smile on her face.

They reached Beirut Rafik Hariri International Airport—named after the assassinated former Prime Minister—without further incident. The airport had been a target in its time for competing militias and even bombings by the Israeli Air Force during armed struggles in the first decade of the 2000’s. The United States Embassy still bypassed the coastal airport after arrangements it had made with the Lebanese government to fly helicopters directly to its Embassy compound in the Awkar area of northern Beirut.

So, no one paid much attention to the white Sea King helicopter with U.S. Navy markings and a sash of red paint at its tail rotor when it swooped in from the ocean. It landed at one of the private operator sites away from the main terminal. The Volvo’s occupants were waiting, standing alongside the station wagon.

“
How will you return?” Colonel Jones asked with genuine concern, turning his head to the woman. “This orange wagon is a moving target.”

“
I will wait for Mustafa,” she replied. “He is my cousin.”

Colonel Caine picked up the backpacks they had placed on the hood and passed them to his partner with a gesture.

Colonel Jones, in turn, handed them to the woman. Inside were the armor piercing machine pistols and the Uzis.

“
Give him these,” Jones said. “With our compliments.”

“
And thanks for his information,” Colonel Caine added.

“
But he did not tell you anything.”

“
I think he did,” Caine asserted. “Until we meet again.”

Caine started towards the helicopter with the blades still whirling. Colonel Jones hesitated and turned towards the woman. They looked probingly into each other’s eyes.

“
My name is Aida.”

Chapter 21

The Sea King rose, tilted nose down and instead of heading in the direction of the U.S. Embassy, sped back out to sea. A fuselage painted green and a slower, steadier maneuver would have identified it to observers as the same type used by the American President as Marine One.

The two commandos were settled in their jump seats, silently watching the receding coastline of Lebanon. Colonel Caine eventually turned to his companion.

“
I see you’ll be looking for a way back to Beirut.”

Colonel Jones turned to him with a knowing smile. “I think, maybe so.”

They both knew any such effort would be difficult. Their membership in the Omega Group forbade private travel to any potential hot spots in the world that could compromise their person or reservoir of top secret information.

Once over international waters about 150 miles southeast of Beirut, they spotted the looming deck of the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Dwight D. Eisenhower. It was heading west across the Mediterranean with several escort warships after a courtesy visit to the military base at Haifa, Israel.

The white helicopter looked stark against the carrier’s gray superstructure near which it landed. Colonel Caine and Colonel Jones hurriedly climbed out and were escorted inside the “island” painted with a large, white numeral 69. An elevator lifted them four levels to the bridge. Upon entering they saluted the Captain who welcomed them aboard, then turned to salute a grim
‐
faced General William Bradley, their commanding officer. He had flown from the United States for a debriefing aboard the “Ike” after he learned the two commandos had been ambushed midpoint in their mission while waiting for the nighttime pickup in the Mediterranean.

The exit from Beirut by helicopter was a contingency in the event of any interruption in their original plan. The isolation of the aircraft carrier assured secrecy and eliminated the presence of virtually all parties involved in the background and planning of the original mission. General Bradley had arranged to arrive unannounced and alone. All he had with him was his battered, leather briefcase—a sentimental attachment from his early career.

The Captain asked his Executive Officer to escort the three men to a ready room off the bridge. Here amid an array of the most advanced electronic and communications equipment, General Bradley opened his briefcase and spread onto a large glass tabletop several manila folders that looked quaintly out of place amid the sophisticated electronics.

The two commandos looked expectantly at the folders.

“
So, why don’t you go first?” General Bradley said instead.

Colonel Caine and Colonel Jones looked at each other.

“
We were set up!” Caine declared indignantly. “Someone tried to blow us out of the water!”

“
Couldn’t we start a little more neutrally?” General Bradley responded defensively. “A chance encounter with pirates or smugglers?”

“
No, sir,” Caine retorted. “They knew we were coming.”

“
They were plying a definite search pattern,” Colonel Jones explained. “There’s no question, it was a deliberate attack.”

“
It could only mean someone knew our orders.”

“
The Lebanese contacts set a trap?”

“
Negative, sir,” Caine asserted. “They met us, as planned. There was some confusion. They were targeted too. Things had been relatively quiet until we arrived.”

“
The setup is somewhere between Washington and Tel Aviv,” Colonel Jones concluded. “A piece of paper on one of the bodies had our rendezvous coordinates written on it.”

“
They were definitely looking for us,” Colonel Caine emphasized.

General Bradley listened thoughtfully.

“
There’s no chance it was on the Lebanese side?”

“
No, sir. They took fire to bring us in and they took fire to get us out. I don’t think they were play acting for our benefit,” Colonel Caine explained.

“
So, who wouldn’t want you to make the rendezvous? Someone who knew what you would find?”

“
No, sir. We don’t think so,” Colonel Jones continued. “Someone who knew what we
wouldn’t
find. Someone who didn’t want us to know that Warlock’s lead was a bad one.”

“
If Hammad was in on it, he could have just lied to us. Led us on further,” Caine reasoned.

“
We promised a fortune for information on Jeannie,” Colonel Jones said. “He could have played us along, but didn’t.”

“
If Warlock’s lead was false, we’d find out sooner or later anyhow,” General Bradley countered.

“
Maybe someone’s playing for time,” Caine said. “An obvious diversion.”

“
What does time have to do with ransom for Jeannie?” General Bradley continued.

“
It gives the kidnappers more time to cover their tracks,” Colonel Jones interspersed.

“
Or they may have more than ransom on their minds,” Caine offered.

General Bradley heaved a loud sigh from his barrel chest. “I want a full report. Cover all possible angles. ‘Your Eyes Only’.” He leaned heavily over the glass topped table, head lowered in thought. “For now, don’t speak of this to any other member of the Group,” he muttered with lowered chin, staring at the manila folders lying on the table.

“
We should still talk with Sherwyck,” Colonel Caine declared.

“
Yes,” General Bradley replied absent mindedly.

“
There’s something else,” he finally said. The General fingered the manila folders.