The Devil's Light (32 page)

Brooke nodded. “Your home is astounding.”

“And redolent of the past.” Adallah glanced at him sideways. “I believe in the lessons of history. With respect, Mr. Chase, your country is antihistorical. You run through the world breaking china, believing yourselves unique. But the Romans, Spanish, and British came before you, and the Chinese will take your place. Time punishes the vain.”

“True enough. But the deadline of mortality tends to make a man shortsighted. Or you wouldn't spend time in Beirut, or trouble yourself with bodyguards.”

A glint of humor surfaced in Adallah's eyes. “Time also punishes the pompous,” he replied. “But sooner. Come, let us enjoy the garden.”

He led Brooke into a shaded patio, which was enclosed, Brooke saw at once, by wings of the house as well as a sheer rock hill, affording no sight line for an enemy with a high-powered rifle. Through the center of the patio babbled a man-made stream, fed by a waterfall that spilled from the hillside behind them, disappearing in a culvert beneath Adallah's home. The waterfall and stream combined to create a splashing sound that echoed through the culvert. “An invention of my great-great-grandfather,” Adallah advised Brooke. “It made conversation harder for the servants to overhear. He took no one's loyalty for granted.”

“How long did he live?”

“Until he died of lung cancer. I gather he also fancied this garden as a place to smoke.” He gestured for Brooke to sit. “In any event, it's pleasant to receive an American. These days I seem to be less popular.”

Smiling, Brooke answered, “It must be your alliance with people on the U.S. terrorism watch list. You forgot to ask permission.”

Adallah shrugged. “As so often, your government looks at another country and sees only itself. And too often, as now, the faction supported by the U.S.—the Sunni—is hopelessly corrupt. But in America they have become George Washington, democracy's friend. So I must be mistaken.”

The remark was accurate enough that Brooke laughed aloud. “Still,” he retorted, “reasonable minds may wonder why Hezbollah, which defies the government and arms its own militia, is any better. Of course, one needn't steal if one is funded by Iran.”

Adallah's arid smile confirmed his preference for pragmatism. “Our
population is now forty percent Shia, tied to Hezbollah. By allying with Hezbollah, and seeking to reform our electoral process, we offer them a choice—are you Lebanese patriots or are you clients of Iran and Syria, using our soil as a base? We shall see.

“On the same subject, your allies in Israel provide Hezbollah with excuses for not disarming—their periodic slaughter of our civilians, and their relentless oppression of the Palestinians. Given a choice between stupidity and brutality, they opt for both.”

“Fortunately for the Palestinians,” Brooke said sardonically, “the Druze, Hezbollah, and the Maronites care deeply. Though not enough, it seems, to let them vote or hold jobs. It's far easier for Hezbollah to lob rockets at Israel in the name of an ‘oppressed' people they insist on keeping in hellholes. Forgive me if I miss the subtle difference.”

Adallah gave another shrug of his thin shoulders. “This is not their country. Were it to become so, the Palestinians would empower the Sunnis, making them a permanent majority. So they must go.”

“But where?” Brooke inquired. “Israel offers them nothing. So camps like Ayn Al-Hilweh make Lebanon a breeding ground for Fatah al-Islam. To men like these, caught between you and the Israelis, only al Qaeda offers a vision. This game of realpolitik you play carries risks. The catastrophe I fear now could consume you.”

“Let me ask you this,” Adallah responded mildly. “Al Qaeda attacked Washington and New York. But what has Hezbollah done besides killing the Americans you sent here? Have they blown up your buildings? Have they kidnapped or killed Americans in other lands? Or have they simply done to you, albeit with a certain cruelty, more or less what your forefathers did to the British?

“Any day now, you and Israel may need Hezbollah, and all your delicacy about ‘terrorists' will mean nothing. In turn, I hope the United States will stop presuming to tell us what is good for Lebanon.” He gave Brooke a probing look. “Despite my remark about Americans, I acknowledge that you are one—a man in a hurry. In this case, I cannot blame you. So let us not mince words. While the rest of your countrymen are building bomb shelters, you believe the threat lies here. I have no love for Israel. But as a conservative and a survivor, the idea of Lebanon playing host to another breaker of china appalls me. Especially one obsessed with breaking china on such a massive scale.”

Brooke accorded him a deferential nod. “Then our interests coincide.”

“For the moment. So let me remark on the profound stupidity of America's policy toward Lebanon. On the one hand, the U.S. wants the Lebanese army to absorb the Hezbollah militia. Yet because the U.S. gives the army its most antiquated weapons, they cannot match Hezbollah's weaponry. As a result, only Hezbollah can fight Israel. And now you—Adam Chase—may need Hezbollah to retrieve this missing property.”

“It's not that simple.”

Adallah's melancholy eyes were sober. “No indeed. Hezbollah will want things, and so will the Iranians. Should the worst occur, Hezbollah will want security from Israeli reprisal; the Iranians may want America's sufferance for their oh-so-peaceful nuclear program.”

“I can't arrange that,” Brooke said bluntly.

Adallah raised his eyebrows. “Not in exchange for Tel Aviv? Then the outcome may be a terrible cosmic justice.” For the first time, Adallah's tone became sharper. “Iran will develop a bomb, whether anyone likes it or not. Not even the Israelis believe their own nonsense about destroying Iran's nuclear facilities—they're too widely dispersed, and too far underground. The real purpose of Israel's bleating about Iran is to distract your government from Israel's crimes against the Palestinians, not to mention its adamant refusal to give them a country of their own.”

The cool eye of a realist, Brooke thought, ever looking beneath what is said for what is sought. “There's also the question of who gets the bomb.”

“If the bomb reaches Lebanon,” Adallah said simply, “all you may have is a choice of enemies. Do you want it in the hands of Hezbollah and Iran or al Qaeda?”

“It's a problem,” Brooke answered laconically. “What do you suggest?”

“I can do nothing with al Qaeda. But if you choose to approach Hezbollah, I will seek out my Lebanese friends of the moment: the Maronite general Caron and the Shia grand ayatollah al-Mahdi. They can help you with Hezbollah—time is too short for you to start from scratch.” Adallah smiled a little. “Oh, I know—al-Mahdi is also on the U.S. list of terrorists. If listing enemies were the path to survival, your empire would last an eternity.”

This required no comment. “There is one other favor,” Brooke ventured.

“Yes?”

“Before the bomb reaches Lebanon, it must pass through Syria. These days you have ‘friends' there as well. Perhaps they'll listen to you, or tell you things they may not say to us. That could spare us all a tragedy.”

Adallah's eyes became hooded. “Syrian intelligence is formidable,” he said in a dispassionate tone. “After all, they planned the murder of my father and Rafik Hariri. So, yes, I will mention this to them.”

Brooke thanked him and headed for the refugee camp of Sabra and Shatilah.

A
l Zaroor stared through the windshield at the roadway bisecting the flat, featureless terrain of southern Iraq.

Behind him, the females babbled incessantly about nothing. Sweat soaked his clothes; the sclerotic air-conditioning, though noisy, did not relieve the 120-degree heat that conjured vapor from the asphalt. His fears were simple—that somewhere on this road, an Iraqi stooge of the Americans would not be gulled by a garish bus filled with Shia women. His greatest hope was that the spell cast on America by Osama Bin Laden had kept their intelligence agencies from guessing his true path.

Stop obsessing,
Al Zaroor told himself—
you do nothing by exhausting yourself with images of failure.
He closed his eyes and allowed blackness to envelop him.

The squeal of brakes wakened him with a start. A traffic checkpoint manned by Iraqi soldiers had blocked the vehicles in front of them—a small truck, then a van. A soldier with a gun slung over his shoulder spoke to the truck driver through his window. Al Zaroor's driver, Tariq, watched stoically.

“Is this usual?” Al Zaroor whispered.

Tariq did not turn. “We'll see.”

They watched a minidrama unfold like a silent film: Prodded by a young mustached soldier, the driver left the truck, shuffled sullenly to the rear, and opened the corrugated panels. This soldier and another began inspecting the contents of the truck. “No,” Tariq said quietly. “This is not usual.”

The cost of subterfuge, Al Zaroor thought, was helplessness. His planning did not matter. All that counted now was the thoroughness of this search.

Five minutes passed, then five more. Traffic sped in the other direction without stopping. Whatever its purpose, this inspection was directed only at vehicles headed north.

At length the soldiers completed the search and raised the long wooden barrier, permitting the truck to pass beneath. The barrier lowered, and the ritual began again, the next driver ordered from his van and compelled to open the rear door. But this time Al Zaroor saw the sandy-haired American in sunglasses and lightweight shirt and pants talking with an Iraqi lieutenant. Taking out penknives, the soldiers sliced open one box, then another. “Not usual,” Tariq repeated in a tighter voice.

As if to confirm this, the American and the lieutenant sauntered to the back of the van as the soldiers kept opening boxes. After a few more, the American spoke to the lieutenant, who spoke to the soldier, who stopped his search. What came over Al Zaroor was not relief, but a deepening worry: Perhaps the American had cut short the inspection because none of the boxes could hold a bomb. Behind him, the women continued babbling about husbands, unmarried daughters, and the excitement of visiting Baghdad. Fingernails on a blackboard.

The driver of the van closed the rear panels. The American spoke to the young soldier with a mustache. Scowling, the soldier lay down on the steaming asphalt and slithered beneath the van. Al Zaroor's mouth went dry.

If this procedure was repeated, al Qaeda's dream could end in failure. Vainly, Al Zaroor imagined means of escape. But he already knew there was none.

Face shiny with sweat, the soldier slid from beneath the van and sat on the asphalt, shaking his head. “A bad assignment,” Tariq murmured.

His calm surprised Al Zaroor. But perhaps the young man was a fatalist; fighters did not expect a long life.

Again the barrier rose. The van drove on, leaving their bus next in line.

The mustached soldier approached the window. When Tariq rolled it down, he shot Al Zaroor a brief look, then told the driver curtly, “Get out.”

Tariq did. The two men exchanged more words. Tariq opened the cargo hold in the side of the bus, exposing the suitcases of the women.

To the side of the road, the American and the Iraqi lieutenant stood in the blistering heat, watching two soldiers stack suitcases on the asphalt. In this silent, burgeoning nightmare, the lieutenant spoke to the same young soldier. With a look of resignation, the man sat down on the road and began sliding on his back beneath the bus. Standing apart, Tariq stared at his feet. Al Zaroor forced his mind to go blank, then filled it with prayers for his afterlife. But another image pierced them—the soldier staring up at the metal casket hidden between spare tires.

At length, his head appeared from beneath the bus, then the rest of him. He was still for a moment before he stood again, facing his lieutenant. Trapped, Al Zaroor awaited the end.

Slowly, the soldier shook his head.

The lieutenant turned to the American. More words passed. Then the Iraqi waved Tariq back into the bus.

He got on, still not looking at Al Zaroor. In seeming slow motion, the barrier was raised, and the bus drove through. A fever of relief seeped through Al Zaroor. “What happened?” he murmured to Tariq. “The Iraqi must have seen our cargo.”

“We pay him not to,” Tariq answered. “His lieutenant also.”

Al Zaroor sat back. He took a deep breath, and tried to sleep again.

At two in the afternoon, Brooke Chandler took a taxi to the Sunni section of Beirut.

Within minutes, he entered a different culture—the women covered, the streets jammed with stalled traffic and carts peddling fruit and goods, horns honking in a cacophony that produced nothing but more horns blaring. Brooke got out well short of the entrance to Sabra and Shatilah and began browsing. If anyone had followed him, he concluded moments later, he was skilled.

At length, he entered the camp, a prison without walls—the home to sixty thousand Palestinians allowed no other home.

A guide waited to take him to the camp's leader. They passed through a rabbit warren of cramped dirt alleys, concrete or cinder-block buildings with corrugated doors and roofs, tangles of electrical wires doubling
as clotheslines. The gray squalor was relieved only by the bright signs of shops, posters portraying Palestinian martyrs, and the flags of rival factions—the secular Fatah, party of Arafat; the Islamic militant Hamas. Now and then Brooke saw buildings pocked with bullet holes from factional fighting or, even more grim, the thirty-year-old massacre of four thousand people by the Maronite militia, the Falange, unleashed by Ariel Sharon. Next to Ayn Al-Hilweh, this was the worst Palestinian refugee camp in existence, a crowded slum with no potable water, no hospital, a single clinic, and too few schools serving children with no future. By law, the Lebanese barred the Palestinians from citizenship, voting, or holding jobs outside the camp. The results were plain enough—the young man in one corner carrying a submachine gun, the children's pictures depicting dead bodies killed by planes or missiles Brooke had seen in one of the schools. Though Brooke's job required dispassion, this place always made him angry.