The Devil's Light (46 page)

The land cruiser shook, breaking free as the aqueduct collapsed. “Praise Allah,” Khazei murmured under his breath.

Leaning, Brooke scanned the open field. For an instant, he could not see the van. Then it was caught in a flash of yellow, the lights of a small plane as it glided to earth.

I
n split seconds, Al Zaroor saw everything—the Cessna landing, two jeeps speeding toward it from the edge of the field, his pursuers escaping the tunnel. Beside him, Walid gripped the steering wheel, driving parallel to the plane as it taxied. Al Zaroor's mind raced.

He picked up the radio, barking at the Iraqis in the rear compartment. “Leave the bomb there. Two jeeps are after the plane.”

The van skidded to a stop, rattling over the bumpy ground. “Out,” he told Walid, and jumped from the van. The Iraqis scrambled from the rear, grenade launchers at their hips. In the distance, the headlights of the lead cruiser came toward him. The jeeps kept speeding toward the nose of the plane. Pointing at them, Al Zaroor ordered the Iraqis to fire.

Said, Chihab, and Abur fell to their knees, aiming RPGs. Motioning Walid to follow, Al Zaroor ran to the back of the van.

Through its open doors he saw the dark outline of the bomb. He scrambled in, Walid following. Reaching into the crate, they lifted the steel cylinder, knees buckling with its weight. They carried it to the opening and let it gently drop to earth. Walid closed his eyes at the thud.

The bomb was silver in the moonlight. Sliding out, Al Zaroor heard the sound of an explosion. He saw one jeep in flames, the other speeding toward the plane. As Said launched another grenade at the jeep, a burst of bullets from its machine gun cut down Chihab and Abur.

Rajah leaped from the cockpit. “Kill the others,” Al Zaroor told Walid, and knelt alone beside the bomb.

Accelerating, Nidal raced toward the white van. As Khazei snapped orders through the radio, Brooke saw an RPG knock the second jeep on its side. Their headlights caught a man taking the wheel of the van.

Suddenly it was moving. Circling, the van began heading toward them. “Car bomb!” Anit cried out.

Nidal jerked the wheel, turning sharply. The van swerved toward them, its headlights closer. At thirty feet, Brooke knew they could not escape.

Wrenching Anit by the arm, he pushed the door open. For an instant he hesitated, then pulled her with him into the void.

Propelled by the weight of his fall, they tumbled to the earth. Pain shot through Brooke's shoulder. Rolling sideways in the dirt, he saw the van crash into the side of the jeep. For a split second, he saw Nidal's face through the window. Then the orange fireball filled his vision, searing his eyes and skin.

Anit.

Scrambling to his knees, Brooke saw her lying in a bed of grass and dirt. As he crawled toward her, Anit raised her head. In the glow of the flames, he saw a bloody gash on her face. He pulled her upright, stumbling away from the fire. Then they fell to earth again.

Brooke turned toward the wreckage. Nidal curled forward, no longer human, then vanished in the fireball. Framed in orange, Khazei rose from the ground, still gripping his AK-47. Suddenly his head jerked back, its top lifting in the air. Then Brooke saw a lone man with a handgun, his striking face visible in a flash of light.

Al Zaroor.

The pilot was opening the Cessna's cargo holder. Desperate, Brooke began crawling toward the dead man.

In the light, Al Zaroor spotted the American.
You,
he thought, fighting back the urge to gun him down. There was no time; Adam Chase must not stop him now.

Swiftly, he looked around him. Near the nose of the plane, the surviving Iraqis fired at Hezbollah fighters pinned down near their toppled jeep. Running bent at the knees, Rajah reached Al Zaroor, then lifted the nose of the bomb. Gripping its fins, Al Zaroor said, “Two minutes more.”

With a final lunge, Brooke reached Khazei. The fighter's eyes were open, his forehead gone. Grabbing Khazei's rifle, Brooke saw Al Zaroor and the pilot loading the silver cylinder into the cargo hold. As the pilot closed the door, Al Zaroor spun toward Brooke, firing.

Face in the dirt, Brooke heard bullets thud into the earth, another striking the corpse beside him. Blindly, he groped for Khazei's pockets. His fingers touched one cell phone, then another. Brooke shoved them in his shirt pocket and slowly raised his head.

Al Zaroor and the pilot were scrambling into the cockpit. As Brooke reached for Khazei's rifle, he heard Anit call out for him.

She was kneeling in the grass, her bruised face white in the fiery glow. The plane began to move. From near the ruined jeep, a Hezbollah fighter rose to his knees, aiming an RPG at the cockpit. Brooke swiftly glanced over his shoulder. Then he raised the rifle and fired off two rounds.

The fighter snapped forward, the RPG falling from his hand. Then the plane crushed him beneath its wheels.

In the cockpit beside Rajah, Al Zaroor saw the fighter go down, then felt the thud of the plane running over the man's body.

For an instant, he could not grasp this. His people on the ground were dead—there was no one left to cover his escape. With a sudden terrible finality, he understood.

The American,
he thought, and a prayer formed on his lips, even as the image of Bin Laden filled his heart and mind.

Anit turned to Brooke, stunned. Underhand, he tossed a cell phone to her. As she grasped it, he saw the glint of comprehension in her eyes. She pushed a button and began speaking rapidly in Hebrew.

She paused, listening, then put away the phone. She looked back at
Brooke, her voice strained. “It won't reach Tel Aviv. But when one of our pilots shoots it down—”

“No choice,” he answered swiftly. “We needed Al Zaroor to take the bomb away from Hezbollah. Pray it falls to earth intact.”

The arc of headlights cut him short, coming toward them in the darkness like the eyes of giant insects. Hezbollah, Brooke knew—survivors of the first suicide bomb. He threw the rifle near Khazei's body.

The jeeps stopped beside the wreckage. Emerging, the fighters appeared as dark outlines in the dwindling light.

One walked forward, becoming a compact, bearded man Brooke had not seen before. The man stopped, gazing at the pyre that had consumed Nidal, then at Khazei lying on the ground. Standing, Brooke saw tears in his eyes.

Khazei's body lay between them. “They're all dead,” Brooke told the fighter. “The plane escaped.”

A flash of anger crossed the man's face, leaving a frightening blankness in his eyes. He raised his rifle, aiming at Brooke. Then he saw Anit behind him.

The rifle moved, as if drawn toward Anit of its own volition. Tightly, Brooke said, “Hussein Nouri guaranteed our safety. Before you do this, ask his consent.”

The man froze. He stepped back two paces, the others gathering around him, then took out a cell phone. As he spoke, Brooke turned to Anit.

She gazed into his face. He could read her thoughts. They had achieved what they wanted; their last minutes, if it came to that, would end like this. Neither could find words.

Still gripping his rifle, the man walked toward them. Facing him, Brooke stepped in front of Anit.

The fighter's eyes were cold now, his face grim. In a flat tone, he said, “Nouri offers you a parting gift, a jeep. He suggests that you drive it to Beirut, and that you never come to Lebanon again.”

Brooke glanced at Anit. Transfixed, she was staring at the sky. Looking up, he saw an orange flame in the distance, the Cessna exploding, marking the death of Amer Al Zaroor and the failure of his mission, the final death of Osama Bin Laden. When Brooke turned to her again, Anit's eyes were closed.

“Shalom aleichem,”
Brooke told the fighter in Arabic. Peace be with you.

O
n the tenth anniversary of September 11, Brooke and Anit ate dinner on an outdoor patio overlooking the Corniche.

As they did, the world absorbed the salvation of Tel Aviv in a barrage of words and images. The Israeli prime minister praised his country's air defenses, and the strike force that had retrieved the bomb and two charred bodies from the wreckage. The American president stressed the close cooperation of the CIA and the Mossad. Ordinary Israelis expressed gratitude and defiance, while Americans returned to their homes, some in tears. Political leaders in both countries proclaimed a great defeat for al Qaeda.

Brooke and Anit were, as they wished, invisible. They had spent the day debriefing their agencies as their governments erased their role. Both were exhausted; both were acutely aware of the date. And yet, despite that and all that had happened to them, they could feel the resonance of what they had achieved—Tel Aviv had been spared a nuclear holocaust, and they were still alive. And so, though spent, they shared lamb, couscous, and a chilled bottle of Chardonnay.

The restaurant, Al Dirwandi, had been a favorite of Brooke's. From their table above the Mediterranean they could see the palm trees, the glittering lights of clubs and hotels, lovers idling along the broad pathway at the water's edge. The night was warm and breezy and, for the moment, safe. Bashir Jameel had stationed his people at the door, a parting gift to Adam Chase on the last evening he would ever spend in Lebanon.

The reddened gash ran across Anit's bruised cheekbone. Touching it
absentmindedly, she surveyed the couples all around them—confident men and attractive women, eating and drinking and toasting each other in the afterglow of a historic tragedy averted. At length, she said, “This is surreal, isn't it?”

“Which part?”

“All of it. Being with you. Where we were only hours ago.
Who
we were, and what we did. Half of me is Laura Reynolds, and still in the Bekaa Valley. The other half can barely believe I was there. And now we're sitting here, watching Lebanese try to go about their lives.”

Brooke sipped his wine. “For many of these people, tragedy is five feet—or five minutes—away. Denial is their only defense even now. Last night we helped preserve their dream state.”

“But what we did and saw never really occurred, did it? We were never in the Bekaa, it seems. The PLO never helped us. And Hezbollah did nothing at all.”

Brooke gazed at the wooden elephant Anit had placed between them. “Better for everyone, the argument goes. So this became a triumph for your air defenses, pure and simple. That will save Hezbollah some face, and allow Israelis to sleep a little better. The truth would be too hard, and too complex, to live with.”

Anit gave him a guarded look. “That fighter you shot—” she began, then asked, “You thought Hezbollah would take the bomb, didn't you? And then murder the only witnesses—us.”

Brooke inhaled. “I don't know. Hussein Nouri let us go. Perhaps we could have trusted him. If so, I killed a man I didn't know, for nothing.”

“But you also assured the death of Al Zaroor.” Absently, Anit brushed the hair back from her face. “How many others did we kill, or cause to die, and how many lies did we tell? Yet the world keeps on spinning as before. Which is the point of what we do, isn't it.”

Brooke gazed at the Mediterranean. “Do you know what makes this even harder to absorb? That I did all that with you—Anit Rahal. And that we're sitting together, ourselves again, trying to make sense of what we've been through.”

“Can you?”

“Some of it. No matter what else I accomplish in this job, nothing could match staving off a nuclear 9/11.” He paused, trying to find words that captured a still elusive thought. “Then there's something I haven't felt
since I saw al Qaeda take down the World Trade Center. The sense that I own my life again, and can do with it what I choose.”

She contemplated him across the table. “All I know is that I'm very glad you survived. Beyond that, I feel lost. When I'm not too numb to feel anything.” She looked away. “Five years ago, I became someone else. Who am I now, I wonder.”

“The person who helped save Tel Aviv. That no one else knows doesn't make it less so.” Brooke hesitated, searching for a way to retrieve the woman he had loved from all that scarred her. Softly, he said, “I know very well what your life has become. But it's not too late to change course. In fact, due to my brilliance, you'll have to.”

She tilted her head. “Meaning?”

“That I've completely blown your cover—with Hezbollah, al Qaeda, and the Iranians. As a field agent, you can't be Laura Reynolds, or even Anit Rahal. Your career as a spy is over.”

She looked at him steadily. “I've considered that. It's also pretty much true of you, unless you try espionage in China. So where does that leave you?”

To his surprise, Brooke felt his throat constrict, then spoke on impulse. “It's way too soon to answer that, and we're too disoriented to try. But I believe that some things happen for a reason. Ten years ago I lost you. In the last few days I found you again, under the most unimaginable circumstances, and then we saved each other's life. Tonight, looking at you, I remember the life I wanted before.”

Her eyes clouded. “We're different now.”

“Yes. We know too much. But that shouldn't make it impossible to live much as others do—far less innocent, perhaps, but far happier than we've been.”

Anit traced the rim of her wineglass. “What would that even look like, I wonder.”

“So many questions, Anit—I'm just making this up as I go. But maybe we could teach in a quieter corner of the world.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Teach espionage, you mean?”

“For you, archaeology—after all, Laura Reynolds has a Ph.D. I assume some genius in the Mossad can find a way of transferring her credits to Anit Rahal.” He paused, then ventured, “Maybe we can't talk about everything we know. But at least we can say in public what we actually believe—
about Lebanon, the Palestinians, and our governments' mistakes. Too many Americans and Israelis like their enemies one-dimensional. You and I know how complicated the world is, and how little slogans have to do with reality.”