The Devil's Light (27 page)

Ben smiled. “You can skip the wheelchairs. But fifty years sounds like a good beginning.”

In August, Brooke served as best man, the high point of a celebratory weekend in the Hamptons. For the most part, buoyed by his friends' happiness, Brooke succeeded in quelling his own envy. Anit had been three months in Israel, and never called. Perhaps friendship was too much, or Brooke hoped, too little.

A
t ten o'clock that evening, Brooke and Terri Young met with Carter Grey, Deputy Director Noah Brustein, and Frank Svitek, head of operations. That Grey looked tired was expected: His face was chalky and he sat in odd positions, trying to ward off the spinal pain that shot through his back to his legs. But there were also smudges of fatigue beneath Svitek's eyes. Even Brustein—the toughest and fittest of men—showed his strain in the terseness of his remarks, as though speech drained him of reserves. Brooke could understand this: The demands of briefing the White House and anxious leaders of Congress were eating into the time he spent trying to save an unknown American city. That he was willing to give Brooke a precious hour was a sign of regard and, Brooke suspected, his respect for Carter Grey.

For the first twenty minutes, Brooke argued his thesis as tightly as he could: that Israel, not America, was al Qaeda's target; that a nuclear strike would eradicate the Jewish homeland; that the psychological effect of Tel Aviv's destruction would transform America's policy and terrify its populace; that Lebanon was the optimal launching pad; that al Qaeda had allies at Ayn Al-Hilweh; and that the safest route to the Bekaa was through the Gulf, Iraq, and Syria. Brustein and Svitek focused on two telling questions: How would al Qaeda get through Syria, and how could it defeat Israel's air defenses? Even to Brooke, his answers were not wholly persuasive: He argued that any attempt to detonate a bomb—whether in America, Europe, or Israel—would have weak points, and that these two risks were surmountable. At the end, Brustein said in a neutral tone, “All theory, no fact.”

Brooke glanced at Terri. “Two facts,” she told Brustein. “Yesterday afternoon signals intelligence picked up a cell phone call to someone in or near Ayn Al-Hilweh. The message was suspiciously brief: ‘The party is delayed—'”

“Did they get the cell phone numbers?” Svitek asked.

“Yes. As far as we know, they've never been used before.”

“Ghost phones,” Grey suggested.

Terri nodded. “So we think. But the call came from somewhere near southeast Iraq.”

Svitek looked at the others. “What about the voices?”

“The caller spoke Arabic—we think with a Saudi accent. His listener said nothing at all.” Terri glanced at Brustein. “We don't have a verified voice sample for Amer Al Zaroor. But for what it's worth, we believe he's a Saudi.”

For a moment, no one spoke. “The second piece,” Terri continued, “results from the DEA's famous war on drugs. They have an informant in a trucking company who may smuggle arms and men into Iraq for al Qaeda. This source tipped DEA that a ‘secret shipment' was coming through Iraq—prearranged by a stranger who'd slipped into Iraq months before, who he heard talked like a Saudi—”

“So he never met or saw this guy?” Svitek interjected.

“No. And the shipment turned out to be a hundred cartons of cigarettes.”

Svitek snorted. “Which tells us what, exactly? That the DEA is full of shit?”

“The DEA thinks this guy is reliable,” Brooke replied, “and that he's fascinated by his association with the world's superpower.”

Svitek laughed softly. “He'll learn. Probably about a minute before al Qaeda saws his head off.”

“Maybe so,” Brooke countered. “But suppose this isn't a lousy tip, but a ploy.”

Brustein gave him a skeptical smile. “Like Dubai?”

“Like Dubai,” Brooke insisted. “There may be a pattern here, a glimpse into the mind of a clever and cautious operative. You can argue that, twice now, our mastermind has sent dummy shipments to throw us off the track, or to probe for potential danger.” He faced Svitek. “The shipment of cigarettes was discovered a day before the call to Ayn Al-Hilweh. Both occurred in or near the Iraqi port of Umm Qasr. That's one place, among
others, where a boat piloted by al Qaeda through the Gulf could offload a nuclear weapon.”

Wincing, Grey turned in his chair. “It's plausible, Noah.”

Though Brustein rubbed his eyes, obviously weary, Brooke could feel the intensity of his thought. “We'll alert the Iraqis,” he responded, “as well as our people there. Also the Syrians, the Lebanese—”

“For whatever good that does,” Grey said. “They're worthless in the Bekaa—”

“There's also the Mossad,” Brustein continued. “We'll go to them, of course.”

Brooke shook his head. “When Hezbollah and Lebanese intelligence rolled up Mossad's network two years ago, they found a bonanza of retired generals, government officials, and businessmen—all recruited to ferret out Hezbollah's underground installations. The Mossad can't rebuild those assets overnight. Especially given that its last recruits are either dead or in prison.” His tone became caustic. “I suspect the Israelis are almost as feeble in Lebanon as we are. Though not quite.”

Brustein's eyes narrowed. “And your point is?”

“That Lebanon is full of people who were, are, or would be happy to become informants. Its politics makes Chicago look like a hamlet in Vermont—they don't just jail political rivals, they blow them up with car bombs. You can't believe anyone completely, or be certain of their motives.” Brooke paused. “Even if you had a bunch of people to send there—which you don't—they wouldn't know Lebanon from Disney World. It's not a place for neophytes.”

Svitek bristled. “We already have operatives there.”

“In the embassy. No matter how smart they are, they'll never find the bomb through social networking. Most Sunni and Shia don't do cocktail parties.”

“We also have people under nonofficial cover,” Svitek said defensively. “Lorber insists he has a strong relationship with Lebanese and foreign intelligence, and that he's getting good information.”

“How would Frank know?” Grey inquired. “He can't speak Arabic.”

Brustein smiled without humor. “What are the alternatives, Carter? We've got thirteen days until Bin Laden's deadline, and our orders are to focus on America. There's not enough time for Frank to acquire a second language.”

“And no need for it,” Brooke said. “I speak Arabic quite well.”

Brustein appraised him. “I thought this was where we were going.”

Glancing at the others, Brooke replied, “Because it's logical. I have sources of information that aren't transferable—”

“Why not?” Svitek shot back. “Agents should be loyal to the Outfit.”

“I wasn't paying them. They trusted me, at least to a point, and I could usually figure out where the line was.” Brooke faced Brustein. “I know people in the Ministry of Defense, civilian and military intelligence, the PLO, politicians, journalists, businessmen. I know Lebanese who can get me to other Lebanese. Who else ever developed enough information about Fatah al-Islam to get some of them arrested?”

“You did good work,” Brustein said. “You also nearly got yourself killed—”

“Lorber nearly got me killed.”

Brustein's face lost all expression. “Whatever the case, Adam Chase had his cover blown. What do you propose to do about that?”

“Nothing.”

As Brooke expected, the one-word response caused a skeptical silence. “If I'm lucky,” he continued, “the only bad guys who know for sure that I'm a spook are Fatah al-Islam. I won't be knocking on their door to ask about a missing bomb.” He looked around the table. “We don't have time to invent another legend and all the pocket litter that goes with it. As Adam Chase, I already have a passport, credit card, Internet identity, and all the rest. I could slide into my own old existence, with freedom of movement and renewable contacts. All we need is to update my life since 2009.”

Brustein gave him a level look. “It won't surprise you that I anticipated this. Lorber doesn't want you there. He's also enlisted the support of the ambassador, who has the ear of Alex Coll. As you learned, Frank has his ways.”

“Does he also have reasons?”

“Several. That he doesn't need you. That your cover is blown. That you're likely to get snatched, or murdered in some horrific way—”

“Frank should know,” Brooke snapped. “That's why I'm not going anywhere near him—no meetings, no reports, no phone calls.”

Brustein held up his hand. “Then let me speak for myself,” he said tiredly. “You're smart and resourceful, a valuable asset that we're going to
redeploy. I like you. But even if I didn't, I don't want you tortured like William Buckley, or beheaded like Danny Pearl. I've seen that film before.”

“So have we all,” Brooke amended with equal softness. “To quote
The Godfather,
‘This is the life we've chosen.'”

“A life of calibrated risk,” Brustein objected, “not recklessness. Frank says that knowledge of who you are is broader than Fatah al-Islam.”

“Really? Who else did he tell?”

Grey emitted a bark of laughter. “Cut the crap,” Brustein said. “You were virtually declared to Lebanese intelligence—”

“To Bashir Jameel, a man I came to trust.”

“I thought you said that no one in Lebanon is to be trusted.”

Engaged in debating his superiors, Brooke had forgotten Terri Young. Now he saw her look of quiet concern. Exhaling, he answered, “But what if I'm right, Noah? Both you and Frank Svitek risked your lives in the field. Carter nearly died there. Everyone in this room would have sacrificed his life to prevent 9/11. Now al Qaeda's got a bomb that could annihilate hundreds of thousands more.” He paused, looking from Brustein to Svitek. “If I get killed, the Outfit's lost a single man. I'd prefer that not to happen. I'd also prefer that al Qaeda not evaporate Tel Aviv.”

Brustein gave him a dubious look. “Suppose, as you suggest, that al Qaeda gets this bomb to the Bekaa. How do you attempt to find it without alerting Hezbollah? Do you want Hezbollah to seize a nuclear weapon? Or worse, give it to the Iranians? I can assure you that Israel doesn't.”

Brooke shrugged. “Would you rather al Qaeda has it? They've got nothing to lose; Hezbollah and the Iranians do. That's why the Soviets didn't destroy New York.”

“You forget the history,” Svitek remonstrated. “Hezbollah has killed more Americans than any group except al Qaeda.”

“I know that. But with all respect to the dead, Hezbollah bombed our embassy thirty years ago. Rumor has it that the Outfit exacted a measure of private revenge.” At the end of the table, Brooke saw Grey smile grimly. “We all know Hezbollah is on the terrorist watch list,” Brooke continued, “and that it's illegal for anyone in our government to talk to them. We also know there are times that we need to. That's part of what we're for—to preserve the virginity of the moral men and women who employ us.”

“You can't just go to Hezbollah willy-nilly,” Svitek objected.

Brooke still looked at Brustein. “I don't expect to. Anything I might do with Hezbollah goes through Langley first.”

“Good,” Brustein said sardonically. “That way we can all be prosecuted for violating federal law. Those ‘moral men and women' are prone to second-guessing. If Hezbollah winds up with a bomb, I'm not sure I could blame them.”

Brooke could not quarrel with this. “You've heard my reasons, Noah.”

Brustein gazed past him. “We can't just do this,” he said at length. “Your proposal would need approval at the highest levels.”

“That starts with our director,” Grey urged. “Azzolino took this job because the president trusted him. This is what his juice is for.”

For a long moment, Brustein considered his old friend. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I'll talk to Carl,” he told Brooke. “You'll just have to wait.”

H
is thoughts consumed by the meeting, Brooke could not go home. Instead he returned to his office and began to study a detailed map of Iraq.

Where was this man? he wondered—by now, even the slowest ship would have made it from Baluchistan to Iraq. If Brooke was right, and the shipment of cigarettes was another feint, his enemy had chosen to hide and wait. But where?

Unless there was no such man—at least no bomb headed toward Lebanon—and Brooke had constructed an elaborate fiction based on his own past. Which, in other contexts, approximated the definition of insanity.

Sitting back, Brooke considered the only known photograph of the man believed to be Amer Al Zaroor. Have I imagined you, too? he wondered. I don't even know if you're dead or alive.

But someone in southeastern Iraq, a Saudi, had placed a cryptic cell phone call to Ayn Al-Hilweh.

Brooke closed his eyes.
If I get killed, the Outfit's lost a single man. I'd prefer that not to happen. I'd also prefer that al Qaeda not evaporate Tel Aviv.

Once again, he wondered what had become of Anit. Then, inevitably, he found himself studying the photograph of Ben and Aviva.

This is the life we've chosen,
he had told the others. But only Grey knew the reasons for Brooke's choice.

* * *

At 7:00
A.M.
on a Tuesday in September, the beginning of his final year in graduate school, Brooke went running along the Hudson. As sometimes happened, he felt the shadow of Anit running with him.

But the day itself was uplifting, a sunny, crisp morning, its angled light foretelling autumn. Brooke ran easily, lighter of spirit than on most days, nodding to runners and pedestrians headed the other way. As usual, he ended the run at Sheridan Square, his breathing still deep and even.