Easy Day for the Dead (19 page)

What did concern him was that there seemed to be only one exit, the stairs they entered from. This would be a bad place to be caught in an ambush.

Pistachio and Saeedi ordered the local Almaza beer, but Major Khan didn't drink what he called the
foreign poison
. Instead, he drank bottled water.

“How are we supposed to meet ladies here?” Pistachio said out loud.

“Maybe this will help,” Saeedi said, pulling out his pistol so Pistachio and Khan could see.

“What're you doing that for?” Pistachio asked.

Saeedi put his pistol away. “I'm just joking.”

“It isn't funny,” Pistachio said.

“You guys brought yours, too, right?”

“Yeah, but we're not flashing them around.”

“I'm not flashing it around. I only showed you two.”

Pistachio shook his head.

Saeedi laughed. “You worry too much. You're going to get a heart attack. Just relax.”

Pistachio popped a few pistachios in his mouth and cracked the shells with his teeth. “I'm trying to relax.”

A group of three women walked into the restaurant and were seated at the table next to them. Saeedi immediately began talking up the women. Khan ignored it. It was hard enough pretending to be attracted to his wife without having to pretend to be attracted to strangers, too. He didn't have to come with his friends, but he tried to act sociable and let them have their fun.

Two of the girls invited them to sit at their table. One had straight brown hair and the other had curly brown hair. Khan motioned for them to go. It would leave him in peace. The curly-haired girl sat on the opposite side of Pistachio. Saeedi clapped his hands, a smile stretched across his face so wide, it looked like his skin might split.

Pistachio and Saeedi laughed and talked with the girls in Arabic. They joked and teased and seemed to be having a great time. The women appeared to enjoy the attention as well, judging by their squeals of delight. More drinks were ordered. Khan heard his name whispered a few times. He swiveled his chair around so that his back was to his friends and the women.

The waiter came up to his table with another bottle of water. When he put it down his hand brushed Khan's. Khan looked up at him. He was young, maybe twenty-two. His skin was smooth and his dark eyes were so inviting. He had the build of a swimmer.

Khan looked away, terrified his own eyes would reveal the desire he couldn't defeat.

“Your friends are having a good time,” the waiter said.

Khan watched Pistachio and Saeedi. They were fools, but they were open with their desires. Why should they enjoy this life and he be denied its pleasures?

“Where is your restroom?” Khan asked, keeping his voice low.

The waiter motioned with his head toward the back of the restaurant. Khan nodded and then looked away. The waiter disappeared while Khan casually watched his friends. They were completely enthralled by the women.

“I think that airline food did a number on my stomach. I'll be back in a few minutes,” Khan said, getting up from his table.

“What? Sure, we'll be here,” Pistachio said, barely looking at him.

Khan paused, then walked to the back of the restaurant. He found the door leading to the restroom and strode in. The young waiter was there, pretending to be tidying up.

“I—” the waiter started to say, but Khan grabbed him by the throat and pushed him against the wall. The waiter's eyes went wide.

“I don't want to hear another word out of you,” Khan said, bringing his face in so that their noses touched. “Get on your knees, now.”

Khan let go of his throat and pushed the waiter down. He remembered the door and was turning to lock it when it swung open and Pistachio walked in.

“Thought I'd better check . . . see how you are,” Pistachio said, looking from Khan to the waiter and back.

Khan stepped back from the waiter and furiously brushed at his suit. “The spilled water,” Khan said.

Pistachio looked at Khan's suit then up at him. “Look, it's none of my business.”

He knows!
Rage and guilt roiled Khan's stomach. “It's no one's business,” Khan said, pushing his way past Pistachio and going back to his table. A few moments later Pistachio returned.

“I see you managed to save our sick friend from getting lost,” Saeedi said, laughing as he casually put an arm around one of the women. “You've got a career as a shepherd, Pistachio,” Saeedi said. The women giggled.

Khan realized he was reaching for his gun when the door to the restaurant banged open. A large man walked in. He wore an
expensive blue sport coat over a white T-shirt and designer jeans. He didn't wait to be seated, but walked right over to Pistachio and Saeedi.

“You dishonor our family by associating with these pigs,” the man said. He was at least six foot two and well over two hundred pounds. Khan figured most likely a brother of one of the women.

The curly-haired woman stood up. “You do not own me, Talal! I can do what I want.”

“Filthy whore!” Talal shouted, slapping her face and knocking her down. Saeedi jumped up with his pistol drawn and swung it at Talal, but for a big man he moved quickly and easily dodged the blow. Someone screamed.

Talal cocked his right arm, ready to land a haymaker against Saeedi, but Pistachio stepped in and dropped him with a punch to his temple.

The door opened and a man charged in. He looked the spitting image of Talal. Khan got up from his chair and went to intercept him, but before he got to him the waiter darted between them.

“Please, no fi—” Khan brought up an elbow and slammed it into the waiter's temple. The man went down like a sack of rice. The twin threw a punch at Khan, but Saeedi got there first, hooking the man's arm and pulling him down to the floor. A crack like a shot from a small-caliber pistol meant Saeedi had just broken the twin's arm.

Pistachio grabbed Saeedi and pulled him up. “We're out of here.”

Saeedi started to resist and whipped his pistol out. “We'll finish them.”

The rage in Khan dissipated and he realized the danger they'd just fallen into. “He's right. We have to go now!” Khan barked.

Saeedi holstered his pistol.

They hurried out of the restaurant and into the night.

When they were far enough away Khan led them into an alley. When he was sure no one had followed them he rounded on Saeedi.

“You will not derail this mission.”

Saeedi opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Me? I was just defending myself. What about you? You hit that waiter like you were trying to kill him. What the hell was that about? The only one that'll screw this up will be you.”

Khan saw Pistachio start to open his mouth to speak. Before he could say anything, Khan pulled his own pistol out of its holster and pushed the barrel into Saeedi's chest. “Say that again,” he said quietly. Saeedi looked at Pistachio. Pistachio shook his head. Saeedi lowered his head like a wounded puppy dog.

Khan lowered his pistol. “Let's go back to the hotel. Tomorrow will be a big day.”

A
lex awoke just after 0630 to the sound of Cat's and Leila's voices. After dressing, he stepped out of his room and saw them sitting on the couch talking. Alex rubbed his eyes and asked, “Were you two talking the whole night?”

They glanced at him then giggled. At least they seemed happy.

An hour later, Pancho and John arrived with the team's weapons, ammo, and other goodies. All five armed themselves with concealed Zoaf 9mm pistols.

For breakfast, they sucked on cold energy gel tubes.

Cat called for a taxi, then she went downstairs with Alex to wait for it in the parking lot. “You and Leila seemed to have a lot to talk about,” Alex said.

“Does that bother you?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Just curious.”

“Girl stuff,” she said, dismissing his curiosity.

Alex was still curious, but he let it go.

The taxi arrived and they both sat in the back while the cabbie took them down snowy streets past unfinished buildings, charred and bullet-riddled walls, and a partially destroyed house. They continued to a spot a block away from their rendezvous place at the Café Paris. Alex and Cat put on their sunglasses and zipped up
their jackets while they walked around the perimeter checking for surveillance, or worse, a sniper. When they were sure the area was clean, they moved in closer and checked again: buildings, vehicles, and pedestrians.

Inside the café they briefly studied the people, mostly women, except for a man with a briefcase. Alex and Cat removed their sunglasses. Alex chose a table away from the windows, so any outside explosion wouldn't hit them with fragments through the glass. They sat down with their backs to the wall and a view of the front entrance and kitchen exit—Alex noted the entrance and exit as escape routes. If he needed an additional route, he could throw a chair through the window and jump through it.

They were nearly an hour early for the 1030 rendezvous with their agent. This made it more challenging for their contact if he was planning to set up an ambush. While waiting, they ordered Lebanese coffee. Their waitress brought two empty demitasses and poured the coffee at their table from a long-handled coffeepot. Alex took a sip. The coffee was thick and had a strong, bitter taste.

At 1030, there was no sign of their contact—he was late. Maybe he wouldn't show. A few minutes later, Omar Bisharia arrived, a handsome young Lebanese man wearing a tight black T-shirt and blue jeans. His eyes were piercing—something the intel pictures hadn't conveyed. He was a leader in the Arab Spring against Syrian domination of Lebanon. He recruited for his militia from a poor area of Tripoli called Bab-al-Tabbaneh. With Omar came a heavyweight who had massive biceps and forearms, a thick neck, and a small head with a little cap on top of it. His scraggly beard made him look like Brutus in the Popeye comic.

Alex and Omar exchanged bona fides and chitchatted in English before Omar switched to Arabic. Cat translated.

“I mean no offense, but our strongest supporters, the ones who will bear arms in this battle, don't like Americans,” Omar said.

“I understand,” Alex said. “Two Palestinians are being held hostage in the Sheikh Abdallah Barracks in Baalbek. There is another man being held there, an Iranian named Hassan Khamenei.”

“The Farsi instructor. Who are the Palestinians?”

Alex showed them pictures of two men. “The Palestinians are Youssef Rahbanni and Dalal Haddad.”

Omar's and Brutus's eyes widened. Brutus became tense like he was about to eat the table. “Youssef,” he mumbled.

Omar leaned forward. “Where did you get this information?”

The waitress came to their table, and they became quiet. Alex ordered drinks for Omar and Brutus. The waitress left with their order.

“I can't say,” Alex said.

Cat resumed translating.

“You can't say, or you won't say?” Omar asked.

“Both,” Alex replied.

“And what do you get out of rescuing this man?”

“Khamenei's wife wants him rescued. If we help her, she'll help us in a separate matter with Iran,” Alex whispered.

When Alex said “Iran,” the edges of Omar's lips rose.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
“What do you need from us?” Omar asked.

“I need your help assaulting Hezbollah so we can rescue the hostages.”

“Why don't you do it yourself?”

“I don't have enough men.”

“Why not?”

The waitress brought their drinks. They became quiet again. After the waitress left, Alex and Omar continued talking while Cat translated.

“My guess is that if anyone finds out the United States is supporting you, it might lead us to war,” Alex said.

Omar took a leisurely sip of his drink. “War is nothing new to us.”

“Americans don't know war at home like you. They don't want to.”

“Maybe they should. Then they wouldn't be so quick to send their soldiers to kill and be killed.”

“I haven't experienced war in my own country, but I have experienced war.”

“Then why risk it for your people?”

“If we don't stop Iran, we face a destruction as great as, or greater than, war. We need to rescue Khamenei as soon as possible.”

“Some people say I have a gift for seeing the true nature of people.” Omar examined Alex's face.

“I wish I had that gift.”

“Is there anything you're not telling me that I should know? I'm not fond of surprises.”

“Hezbollah might be expecting us.”

Omar smiled. “They're always expecting us. They just don't know when. How many men do you need?”

“How many men do you have?”

“Forty-two. That's including us.” He looked at Brutus.

“That'll have to do. If you have a bank account, I'll wire twenty-five thousand U.S. dollars to help pay for weapons and ammunition.”

“We don't do this for money.”

“I would've brought weapons and ammo, but the best I can do now is cash.”

Omar shook his head.

“It's not for you. It's for your men. I imagine many of them will be using personal weapons.”

“Yes.”

“If the mission is a success, I'll wire twenty-five thousand more. For your men.”

“Okay.”

Alex and Omar made plans for attacking Hezbollah and rescuing
Hassan Khamenei and the two Palestinians. When the two finished, they shook hands. Omar and Brutus left.

Before Alex paid the bill, Cat pointed to the counter display next to the cash register. “These Lebanese pickles look so good.”

“What?”

“Pickles.”

“Can we do takeout?” Alex asked.

“I'll ask.” She spoke with the woman behind the counter.

Alex was nervous. They'd already spent enough time in this café, but it would be good not to be seen leaving with Omar. The cashier put Cat's pickles in a plastic box and wrapped a rubber band around it. Cat paid the bill and asked the cashier to call a taxi. A scattering of light snowflakes drifted to the ground as the cab pulled up to the curb. Alex and Cat walked out of the Café Paris and hopped into the cab.