The Devil's Light (35 page)

On the surface, al-Mahdi ignored Brooke's tacit reference to the murder of Americans. But his eyes bored into Brooke's, underscoring the passion of his words. “There is also the matter of Israel. As a man of faith, I cannot believe that God gave Palestine to Jews alone. But your country enables the Zionists to treat Palestinians as your ancestors treated the Indians, expelling them from their native land and dividing them on the West Bank as though creating reservations. Nor did God grant Jews the right to invade this land and kill or maim its people—it is America, not the Almighty, that supports them.” Al-Mahdi's voice softened. “So what principles does your country live by? And who, I might ask, are the terrorists?”

However elegantly, they were edging closer to raw truths. “I can only speak for myself,” Brooke answered. “But one definition of a terrorist is someone who straps a bomb to himself and kills innocent people. The first such actions took place here.”

Briefly, al-Mahdi's stare turned cold. “I trust you are not condemning Islam as a religion of violence. We did not kill the Jews in World War Two, or bomb the Japanese in Hiroshima and Nagasaki.” He paused, modulating
his voice. “But you are speaking of Hezbollah, of course, and perhaps of me. There are many ways in which its leaders and I disagree, though I do not wish to tell you what they are—or were. But what Lebanese do in defense of Lebanon adds a layer of moral complexity, at least with respect to Israel and those who aid it. You must agree, Mr. Chase, that if the Soviets had tried to occupy America, your people would have claimed the right to kill them in their offices and encampments. That, regrettably, is the most effective way of persuading an occupier to leave.”

This was, Brooke sensed, as close to a defense of Hezbollah's beginnings as the grand ayatollah would advance. For himself, he thought it prudent to pass over the car-bombing of Rafik Hariri, or the deaths of Israeli civilians caused by Hezbollah rockets. “You and I may not always agree,” Brooke said. “But be assured that I'll convey what you've said to my friends in Washington.”

Silent, the ayatollah regarded him with an expectant look. “In turn, is there anything else you wish me to know?”

“There is, Your Holiness. A great evil may be coming here, with terrible consequences to America and Israel, but also to Lebanon and, especially, the Shia.” Brooke leaned forward, speaking to al-Mahdi in a clear, emphatic voice. “I believe outsiders mean to provoke a deadly war between Israel and Hezbollah and Iran. I know that you and Hezbollah are separate. But, as Shia, they look to you.”

“What guidance would you have me give?”

“To watch for strangers, and to listen. If these men succeed, hundreds of thousands will die. And that could be the least of it.”

Al-Mahdi's expression became impenetrable. “That sounds much like Bin Laden's threat against America.”

“So it does.”

Nodding, al-Mahdi seemed to withdraw his attention, a signal that the audience was done. As he left, Brooke glanced back over his shoulder. The grand ayatollah was again utterly still, his eyes closed, as if returning to a place of peace or, perhaps, absorbing the troubles of the world.

I
n a cab provided by the grand ayatollah, Brooke returned to the Christian section by an equally circuitous route. Out of caution, he had the driver drop him in Gemmayze.

The night was warm and pleasant, the cobblestone streets crowded with young people and couples hardy enough to be careless of their hours on a weeknight. Passing by a nightclub that pulsed with festive Lebanese music, Brooke briefly regretted the loss of a carefree life. But his mind kept working on different levels—wondering if he had told al-Mahdi too much or too little, searching for some way to secure information on Fatah al-Islam. The phone buzzed in his coat pocket.

Several thoughts struck him at once: that few people had his number; that the call might be critical; that he had parted with the phone during his time with al-Mahdi; that the caller might wish to divert his attention or stop his movements, setting him up to be shot or snatched off the streets. Maintaining the same pace, he put the phone to his ear.

“How was the grand ayatollah?” Jameel asked.

Of course, Brooke thought—Jameel had ties to Hassan Adallah. “Looking out for me, Bashir? Then I hope you're on your cell phone.”

At the reference to his obvious fear that his phone was bugged, Jameel answered drily, “A new one.” He paused, then said, “There was an arrest at the entrance to Ayn Al-Hilweh. The driver had a bomb in his car.”

Involuntarily, Brooke stopped moving. “Fatah al-Islam?”

“We think so, yes. The man was from the refugee camp in Tripoli.”

Brooke began walking again. “Who was he after?”

“He's not talking. But Fatah al-Islam has one overt enemy within the camp.”

The PLO, Brooke thought at once. He wondered how this would affect Ibrahim Farad's assessment of his own safety. “You've got security cameras at the entrances to Ayn Al-Hilweh,” he said. “I assume you're reviewing all the tapes from the past two weeks. Not just to see who entered, but who left.”

“Of course.”

With that, Brooke got off, moving at the same pace toward the Albergo.

Close to midnight, Al Zaroor, Tariq, and the Syrian carried the bomb in its casket to the powerboat. After giving Tariq his hurried thanks, Al Zaroor and the stranger, Yusif Azid, crossed the Tigris into Syria.

A van waited there. Sweating, Al Zaroor and Azid loaded the bomb into the van, then covered it by turning the powerboat hull upward. Before dawn, they had transferred their cargo to a diesel-belching truck driven by a Syrian smuggler, and Al Zaroor had dressed in a uniform identical to that which Azid already wore. But Azid was who he appeared to be, an officer in military intelligence. He was also a Sunni fundamentalist, secretly worshipful of Osama Bin Laden, and had done al Qaeda crucial favors in the past. But he could manage this very large favor only by taking a few days' vacation time, then behaving as though he were still on duty. Or so he said—Al Zaroor could not quite trust him.

Not that he had a choice. In the abstract, the plan was the best he could design for Syria. The chubby and phlegmatic trucker, Hussein, thought he was smuggling antiquities to Lebanon for the usual shadowy purposes, most likely to finance Hezbollah. By early morning, they had entered the normal stream of commerce—the main highway through the north of Syria. The bomb was concealed among crates of machine parts covered by falsified Syrian documentation. The three oddly assorted companions occupied the cab, exchanging awkward conversation beneath the spasmodic wheeze of feeble air-conditioning. As in Iraq, the drive was long and flat and hot; as in Iraq, they faced the risk of checkpoints. But the Syrians, unlike the Iraqis, were purposeful and suspicious. This made Azid necessary.

For miles, they moved in a line of vehicles—trucks, vans, beat-up
cars, a few luxury vehicles. Shortly before eleven, traffic slowed abruptly. Though Al Zaroor did not yet see a checkpoint, there could be no other reason.

He glanced sideways at Azid. If the Syrian planned to betray the mission, a mass of soldiers might be waiting at the checkpoint. Azid would be promoted; Syria would have the bomb; Al Zaroor would be tortured and executed or left to rot in a stinking Syrian prison. Unless he used the gun in his holster to put a bullet through his temple.

He had a long time to weigh his choices. The massive truck in front of them inched forward as the unseen checkpoint cleared one vehicle at a time, even as the traffic in the other direction passed unimpeded. It felt too much like the checkpoint in Iraq. Al Zaroor breathed deeply, willing his tension to subside.

At last the truck, creeping ahead, exposed the ends of a mobile barrier that otherwise remained invisible. Al Zaroor watched a uniformed official speak to the driver, then casually scan his papers. That no one searched its cargo made Al Zaroor more, not less, apprehensive—it suggested that the Syrians were looking for a particular truck. Azid's face showed nothing. Al Zaroor would not betray his nervousness by asking if this procedure was routine.

When the truck cleared the checkpoint, Al Zaroor saw that it was manned by only two policemen. The official walked up to their van, motioning for Hussein to roll down his window. Then he saw Azid and froze.

With a thin smile, Azid held up his identification. In this ambiguous moment, Al Zaroor touched his gun.

“Move on,” the official said, and the truck rolled through the checkpoint.

Brooke got up early and ordered breakfast in his room. He felt trapped and useless, craving some activity that would get him out. But pointless movement carried only risk. So he stayed there, sending a report to Langley that omitted any mention of al-Mahdi. Then he saw the email from Terri Young.

She had little new—the checkpoints in Iraq had yielded nothing, nor was there any report from Syria. Her most concrete news was that Washington
was emptying out, with Republicans blaming Democrats for a catastrophe that had yet to occur. When Brooke's cell phone buzzed, it came as a relief.

The man spoke with the accent of a Palestinian. “At three o'clock this afternoon, Mr. Chase, you will visit the Crusader Sea Castle in Sidon. Perhaps you can learn from the past.”

The caller clicked off, leaving Brooke to wonder whether this message came from Farad or Fatah al-Islam. But he would not scare off Farad by calling back.

It was a little past eleven. Time enough to wander the streets of Sidon, then meet whomever waited.

The day grew hotter, the cab so suffocating that Al Zaroor, sitting between Azid and the trucker, could smell the noxious mix of sweat with aftershave that no doubt served as Hussein's substitute for bathing. To kill time, the trucker produced photographs of his wife and two sons. Perusing them out of politeness, Al Zaroor saw a doe-eyed woman, pretty from what little her cover revealed, and two handsome boys in soccer uniforms. Life held many mysteries, Al Zaroor reflected—the latest being how such a dull-looking beast could spawn such sons. Murmuring compliments, he passed the snapshots to an equally bored Azid.

“My boys are keen athletes,” Hussein informed his companions. “Also readers—especially the Koran. Sharia has raised them well.”

Still apprehensive, Al Zaroor watched the traffic ahead, moving steadily across the scrub and khaki terrain. “Have you a family of your own?” Hussein inquired.

Al Zaroor thought of Salwa, the one woman he might have loved. But that was very long ago; like his parents and sister, no doubt she thought him dead. Perhaps his parents were dead, too, and Salwa thickened by bearing some other man's children. “No,” Al Zaroor responded. “That was not God's wish.”

Clearly not,
Azid's silent look said. Al Zaroor felt his fleeting sadness become resentment of both men. Perhaps it was only that they assisted jihad on vacation from the comfort of their lives. He willed his mind to leave his body, envisioning the path ahead.

As planned, they turned sharply south, passing Aleppo and the ruins
of ancient cities, rendered more haunting because no one knew why the cities had died. They continued without pause, sharing soggy pita pockets provided by Hussein. At length, they reached the outskirts of Hama, a pretty place along the Orontes River, its banks lined with trees and gardens—another place Al Zaroor had no time for. To his irritation, Hussein stopped at a stand outside the city.

“What's this about?” Al Zaroor demanded.

Oblivious, Hussein smiled. “Halawat,” he said. “Want some?”

“No,” Azid interjected curtly. “Thank you.” The intelligence officer, Al Zaroor realized, also felt jumpy. He hoped their reasons were the same.

Debating which man to watch, Al Zaroor got out with the driver, pretending to stretch his legs. Standing in line, Hussein talked to no one. From where he stood, Al Zaroor could not observe Azid. Silent, he fidgeted while Hussein consumed the pastry, a combination of cheese-based dough and ice cream soaked in honey and topped with pistachios. The remnants glistened on his fingers.

Here I stand, Al Zaroor thought, watching a fat man clog his arteries while a nuclear weapon sits in the back of his truck, uncertain of whether the second man is a traitor to his uniform, or to me. “Let's move,” he prodded Hussein.

When they went back to the van, Azid put away his cell phone.

Ten minutes later, they hit a second checkpoint.

This one was different, Al Zaroor knew at once. The traffic ahead was not backed up, suggesting that the checkpoint had just appeared. In front of it stood six soldiers and an officer.

For the few seconds he had, Al Zaroor watched Azid's eyes, wondering whom he had called. A muscle twitched in the Syrian's face. “Open the door,” Azid told the driver.

As Hussein slid out, then Azid, Al Zaroor touched the gun in its holster. On the steaming tarmac, Azid walked up to the slender young officer. Their voices were faint, fragmentary; Al Zaroor tried but failed to read lips. Then Azid took out his identification.

The officer studied it, then demanded Hussein's papers. Scanning them, he faced Azid again, his voice now audible. “Let's look inside.”

As Hussein shrugged, Azid sighed with a theatrical impatience that did not conceal his apprehension. Al Zaroor wondered which man—if either—had betrayed him.

Swiftly, he got out. At the rear of the truck, the officer and Azid watched Hussein open the steel door. Nodding to the officer, Al Zaroor stood to the side. The false identification in his pocket was his only shield.

Inside the truck were crates of auto parts. Summoning his soldiers, the officer ordered them to remove each crate, eyeing their contents through the cracks. Al Zaroor watched as if in a waking dream, knowing that the process would uncover his anomalous cargo.

At last the rectangular crate was exposed. “What's that?” the officer sharply asked Hussein.