The Devil's Light (39 page)

“Where did you go to school?”

“For prep school, Hotchkiss, then college at NYU—”

“NYU? When were you there?”

Laura regarded him curiously. “I graduated in 2000. Why do you ask?”

“Because I got my master's there, at about the same time. Did you ever take any courses in Middle Eastern studies?”

“No. But I did go to some seminars at the Kevorkian Center, just out of curiosity.”

Brooke nodded. “I spoke at a program there, and attended several others. That could be why I look familiar.”

Gazing at her arrack, she smiled faintly. “That seems so long ago. Doesn't it to you?”

“Yes. So does everything before 9/11.”

Laura did not look at him. At length, she said, “I lost a friend there.”

“In various ways, I lost three.” Brooke paused, then added quietly, “But I interrupted your story. You never told me how you got here.”

She seemed to ponder the question. “I wanted to leave the U.S. for a while. Maybe what happened was part of it.” She turned to him. “In any event, Lebanon is my second home. I went to American University, got a doctorate in archaeology, and started looking for work. So what about you, Adam Chase?”

The barman, Brooke noted, was still polishing glasses, his back turned to them. “If I can buy you dinner,” he answered, “I'll tell you my story.”

She gave him an appraising smile. “Do you often bribe women to listen to you?”

“Nope. I'm just old-fashioned.”

“So it seems. Our ‘relationship' is a half-hour old, and you're trying to pay for everything.” Briskly, she drained her arrack. “I may be a scholar of sorts, but I'm not impoverished. If you agree to split the bill, I'll consider it.”

* * *

The restaurant, too, bespoke its history, with venerable rugs and brass plates on the walls, sturdy beams bracing the ceiling, and white tablecloths fatigued by years of use. Save for an elderly English couple, the restaurant was empty. They sat down at a table looking out at the garden, ordering their appetizers and entrées from a squat, attentive waiter. To go with their fresh trout, a specialty of the Bekaa Valley, Laura recommended a bottle of Ksara Chardonnay.

Over their first glass, Brooke outlined Adam Chase's life and career—much of it, like Laura's, spent in the Middle East. She listened attentively, as though parsing every nuance and detail. “So you prefer Lebanon?” she asked.

“Definitely. Everywhere in the Islamic world is fascinating—up to and including Afghanistan. But too often the weather's terrible; you can't touch the women; and the residents want to kill you.” He spread his hands to indicate their surroundings. “How many places have a great story, ethnic diversity, nice weather, terrific food, beautiful women, and a rich cultural heritage? Lebanon has them all.”

“Yes,” Laura said tartly, “and also a tragic history. Which everyone—especially us, the Israelis, the Syrians, and the Iranians—seems intent on adding to.”

The waiter, hovering nearby, refilled their glasses. “If I sounded glib and stupid,” Brooke said, “I'm sorry. Like you, I don't want to see this country destroyed. I take it that all the young men on the posters I saw in town are Hezbollah martyrs.”

“Yes.”

He frowned. “I don't understand the cult of martyrdom. Killing yourself to take the lives of others is very strange to me.”

Abruptly pensive, Laura gazed at the table. “And to me. I excuse nothing—not the suicide bombings, the rocket attacks on Israel, or the kidnapping and murder of Israeli soldiers and civilians. But the Shia have a story of their own, filled with poverty and neglect. Hezbollah filled the void.”

He watched her face. “It must be tiring,” he said at length, “listening to other people's ignorance.”

She looked up at him with a perfunctory smile. “That's not what I was feeling tonight.” She hesitated, then added softly, “The truth is that my life here is way too solitary.”

“How so?”

“Cultural differences, for one thing. Many Lebanese Christians don't leave home until they're married. So you see forty-five-year-old men marrying women two decades younger, having lived all their lives with Mom. Not a rich dating pool for an independent woman in her thirties.”

“What about your colleagues?”

She neatly cut a piece of trout. “They're nice, not to mention interesting. But there aren't many single people of either sex, at least anyone my age. We have a new intern, twenty-five, who reminds me that a decade of life makes all the difference in the world. I mean, think of us when we were twenty-five.” Looking into his face, she concluded softly, “So no, Adam, this has been far from tiresome.”

“Or for me.” Brooke hesitated. “I don't know how long I'll be in Lebanon. But I'm very much enjoying your company. Do you think we could stretch this out with a drink?”

She tilted her head. “At the bar?”

Brooke glanced at the waiter. “My room, I thought.”

She studied her plate, then gave him a long, cool look. “All right.”

They settled the bill, preoccupied with their own thoughts. Brooke felt the waiter watching them. Leaving, they walked into the lobby, Brooke lightly touching her arm. “I'm on the second floor,” he said.

They climbed the stairs. Though they were close together, she said nothing, nor did she look at him. To Brooke, she seemed to occupy a separate space.

The second floor had a sitting area with lush rugs and antique furniture. Near his door, someone had left a large wicker basket on wheels, designed to transport used sheets and towels. Moving it aside, Brooke gauged its weight, too light to contain a man. Laura observed him in silence.

Looking about them, Brooke opened his door. He turned to Laura, standing aside for her to enter. Their eyes met, and then she stepped inside the room.

Brooke switched on a light. She looked around her, seeming to register her surroundings—a Cocteau print, a rug, a double bed, an old table, the open door to a tiny bathroom, a window that overlooked the Roman ruins, lit at night. Brooke went to it, drawing the curtains. Then he walked to the door, turning its lock, then inserting the chain on its latch. “Now we have privacy,” he said.

Laura faced him. He moved close to her, gazing into her face. Then he placed his hand behind her neck and kissed her gently on the lips. As though by instinct, she returned the kiss with equal softness, extending it for a last moment. Then he raised his head back, looking into her dark, stunned eyes.

“So this is what happened to you,” Brooke said quietly. “If I didn't know you, I might not have guessed.”

Anit Rahal gazed back at him. “Nor I about you.” She hesitated. “And so?”

He looked around the room, to suggest a fear of listeners, then gestured at the bed. They sat beside each other, silent for a moment. Touching his hand, she murmured, “This isn't how I imagined it.”

His throat felt tight. “Did you imagine it?”

“Many times.” She shook her head in wonder, then spoke in the same near whisper. “Then I saw you tonight, and it was all I could do to maintain cover. When did you start this work?”

“After Ben died. But at least I didn't vanish.”

Her shoulders twitched. “I had my reasons.” She paused, then took his hand. “I think that's all we should say now.”

“There isn't much time.”

“I know. But there are people we must speak with, things I'm not free to discuss. Let's agree that I'll give you a tour of these ruins tomorrow, in early evening.” She smiled a little. “My doctoral studies included the Roman period.”

“Impressive.” Leaning over, Brooke undid her scarf and ponytail, freeing her hair. “Sorry, but I needed to mess you up a little.”

“At least you left my buttons alone.” Anit stood abruptly, then looked down at him. “I'm not going to sleep very well.”

“Nor I. Though given what I'm here for, I wasn't before.”

Standing, Brooke walked her to the door. She opened it, scanned the hallway, then turned to him again. For a moment, all he wanted was to look at her. Then he rested curled fingers against her face, saying, “Good night,
habibi
”—Arabic for “my sweet.”

For a last moment she looked into his eyes. “Good night, Adam,” she said, and left.

F
or the next twenty hours—precious by his reckoning—Brooke was frozen in place. He kept trying to track down Fareed, until his friend's scratchy phone call from Amman informed him that he would return tomorrow. The rest of his time was spent worrying that the bomb was now in Lebanon, rechecking his room for surveillance devices, scanning emails, and wondering how Anit's life had brought her to this place. He felt anew the force of seeing her again; he could only imagine the reverberations of their chance encounter within their agencies. Reporting it to Grey and Brustein, Brooke explained, “We had a relationship at NYU.”

“Define ‘relationship,'” Brustein prodded.

“More than meeting for coffee. Though sometimes we had coffee in the morning—”

Sharply, Grey interjected, “This is the woman you told me about.”

“Yes. The question now is if and how we work together.”

“What do you suggest?”

Brooke gazed out his window at the ruins. “Last night, we played at becoming involved for show. Maybe we should play that out.”

“What about the ‘human factor'?” Grey inquired. “Where does that come in?”

“It can't. We both know why we're here—”

“Her masters may object,” Brustein cut in. “Your cover is threadbare; hers may not be. You could end up getting both of you killed. Or worse.”

Brooke knew this all too well. Quietly, he replied, “What are their priorities,
Noah? If they think I'm right, and that time is short, I know what mine would be.”

There was silence on the other end. “We'll let you know,” Brustein said.

An hour before he was to meet Anit, Brooke received his answer. “We've reached an understanding,” Grey advised him. “At least for today. But they're not going to like where I know you're headed.”

“I think they're out of choices,” Brooke rejoined.

She stood at the entrance to the ruins, appearing as composed as the woman she pretended to be. Only the brief look she gave him, fond yet apprehensive, suggested the complexity of her feelings. They entered the site together, cognizant of the tourists in pairs or guided groups. After a moment, Brooke took her hand.

“So you've heard,” she murmured.

He looked around them. “Yes. We're lovers again, in public, by order of our governments.”

“Why not? We only get fired if it's real.” Her voice softened. “So much has happened. To both of us, it seems.”

They stopped, gazing at the remains of a city built two thousand years before—massive temples to Jupiter, Venus, Mercury, and Bacchus, a huge courtyard with an altar for sacrificing animals. Above the ruins, the haunting sound of the Muslim call to prayer echoed from the jagged ridges of the Anti-Lebanon Mountains.

“This is amazing,” Anit said. “The greatest temple complex ever conceived.”

“Why here in Baalbek?”

“Political savvy and imperial arrogance. A line of emperors decided to build a monument to Rome's power, while incorporating tributes to certain local gods.” She glanced at him. “Building all this took two and a half centuries, a hundred thousand slaves, and countless tons of sandstone and marble hauled from throughout the Middle East. As you'll see, the Romans used a pure stone masonry technique, excluding mortar. Instead they strengthened the joints with iron clamps, coated with lead to avoid oxidation. They truly meant this place to last forever.”

Brooke raised his eyebrows. “You actually know archaeology, don't you?”

“Of course. I may not be real, but my doctorate is.” Her voice lowered. “I also learned that nothing lasts forever. But I hope this isn't Israel's time to vanish.”

Taking his hand, she led him from structure to structure, commenting on each for the benefit of whoever might overhear them. In the failing light, the pillars, colonnades, and archways cast shadows at their feet. At length, she guided him up the steps of the Temple of Bacchus, the best preserved of the structures. Sitting there they could watch the site, Brooke saw at once, noting anyone who approached them. It reminded him of whom Anit Rahal had become.

“What happened to you, Anit?”

She continued keeping watch. “Laura,” she corrected. “A lonely American archaeologist, having a fling with you. The least you can do is remember my name.”

Brooke ignored this. “The last I heard you were getting married. Then nothing.”

Still not facing him, she spoke in a monotone. “And then the war in Lebanon,” she answered. “Our political losses were great, but our casualties relatively light. A little over one hundred.” She paused, then finished. “One was Meir, a helicopter pilot in the reserves. I remember telling you that I would die for Israel. Instead my fiancé was killed by a Hezbollah rocket.”

Brooke grasped her hand tighter. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'd imagined you living a happy life.”

“So did we. When Meir was called up, he was thirty, a promising architect. I was quitting the army to start a family.” She faced him. “And when I imagined you, as I often did, you were working for the State Department.”

Brooke shrugged. “September 11 changed things. For the past nine years I've been lying to everyone outside the agency. But you know how that goes.”

Anit studied him. “Have you ever wished for an ordinary life?”

“At times. But it's so hard to go back to who I was. There are days I envy other people, yet feel detached from them. It's like I lost my innocence so they can cling to theirs.” He heard a tinge of bitterness in his tone, and stopped himself. “So when Meir was killed, you were ready for the Mossad.”