The Devil's Light (40 page)

Her eyes became distant, as though recalling another life. “They'd kept
extensive data on me—IQ tests, psychological profile, language skills, intelligence background, travel abroad. And, of course, my commitment to Israel—”

“I remember it well. I used to think it had cost me a wife. Perhaps a life.”

She gave him a level look. “After all these years, are you still angry?”

“Angry? No. Right now I'm feeling a little sad for us both.”

Turning, Anit gazed at the ruins. “Our lives may be an accident, not what we intended. But I try never to look back. What I knew after Meir died was that I had no spouse, no children, and could pass for an American.” She paused. “In defense of my colleagues, they didn't want someone with a death wish, or who was acting out of revenge. I was able to convince them I wanted to serve Israel.”

“So you chose the hardest work there is.” Brooke's tone became crisp. “I know a fair amount about the Mossad. No other agent knows your identity. You're allowed to kill, and are trained to do it well. And, if need be, to carry out assassinations.”

Turning away, Anit was silent. At length, she said coolly, “We took our oath of allegiance at Masada, where a cadre of Jews killed themselves rather than surrender to Rome. We're sworn never to disclose the details of our work.

“That means not just to you, but family or friends. If I'm involved with an Israeli man, no matter how well I deceive him, after three months I must report it. Better to have no relationships at all, unless it's inside the Mossad.” Her voice gained intensity, as though, against her will, she was feeling a surge of repressed emotion. “The ideal agent is a loner who's willing to give up her life and disappear at will. In fact, the best of us are arguably insane—fanatic patriots with a pathological gift for deceiving others. Not to mention becoming someone else.”

“How long have you been Laura Reynolds?”

“Four years now.” In profile, her lips formed a smile without humor. “I can tell you more about Laura's childhood than my own—school friends, the clothes I wore, what Mom put in my lunchbox, favorite movies and TV programs, my date to the junior prom. I have a transcript at NYU, created by a gifted hacker; a credit history in New York; and a hard-earned doctorate from American University. As you well know, I need it all. It's easy enough for an Israeli spy to get killed in the Bekaa
Valley, and too many people willing to compete for the honor. Especially Hezbollah.”

“Do they suspect you, I wonder?”

“Before you showed up?” Anit answered pointedly. “I gather people keep trying to kill you.”

“Only twice, and only Sunnis. But don't think I'm not concerned for you.”

“Nor I you,” she said more softly. “But caring isn't our job, is it? As for whether my cover is working, one seldom knows until it's too late. But it's elaborate enough. I'm a genuine archaeologist who, my boss believes, is moonlighting for UNESCO.”

Brooke laughed out loud. “You're joking.”

“Hardly. UNESCO thinks that, too. Which allows me to delve into smuggling out of purer motives than the locals would attribute to the Mossad.” She faced him, her voice becoming somber. “As you'd expect, it gets complicated, even unnerving. And now I'm sleeping with Adam Chase, an American business consultant.”

Once again, Brooke felt a stab of fear for her. “I take it you're here to watch Hezbollah.”

“Of course. Knowing smugglers helps me divine when Hezbollah is bringing in arms and rockets from Syria. My travels for the dig have allowed me to guess at where they're hiding their command centers—if only from the places they don't allow me to go. So when the next war comes, we'll carpet-bomb those sites, and Israeli commandos will kill their leaders.” Her tone became harder. “As I told my recruiters, I'm not doing this to avenge Meir. Nothing can bring him back. So instead of counting our children, perhaps I can count the dead commanders of Hezbollah, and imagine the families I've helped save from their rockets.”

Brooke repressed a chill. “Do you know who their leaders are?”

“They're very secretive. But yes, we know some of them.”

Once again, Brooke looked around them. In the dusk, the tourists had dwindled. Quietly, he said, “But now you're searching for a nuclear weapon.”

Anit nodded. “Al Qaeda has turned my work on its head. Suddenly I'm looking for smugglers who aren't connected to Hezbollah; places al Qaeda might hide from its network of spies; or strangers who aren't from the Bekaa Valley—”

“So the tip about an ‘important shipment' came from you. As well as the possible sighting of a man from Ayn Al-Hilweh.”

Anit regarded him gravely. “And it was you, I now understand, who originated the theory about an attack on Tel Aviv.”

“Yes. I think Bin Laden is pulling off a massive hoax, and that by now al Qaeda has moved the bomb into Lebanon. Perhaps within miles of here.”

Briefly, Anit touched her eyes. “But that's the problem, isn't it? We can't send commandos into the Bekaa looking for a bomb that could be anywhere. Hezbollah would slaughter them before they found it. And if they did find the bomb, Hezbollah would take it.” She shook her head. “Ten years ago, when we were lovers, I never imagined us wondering how to save my country from al Qaeda.”

You already know, Brooke thought. You're just not ready to face it. But all he said was, “I have a source. Tomorrow I'm going to see him.”

“If it's not too late,” she answered. “How many days or hours, I wonder, do we have left?”

D
eep within the cave, Al Zaroor studied the photograph on his laptop. Around him, the three Palestinians talked among themselves.

“Who is this man?” Al Zaroor asked.

One of the Palestinians, Mohammad Hamzi, spat at the stone floor. “An American who calls himself Adam Chase. He pretends to be a businessman. But he's an agent of the CIA.”

Al Zaroor looked up. “How do you know this?”

“We tried to kidnap him two years ago, in Beirut. He killed my partner and got away. Then he disappeared.” Hamzi's voice turned hard. “Before that he recruited the first PLO lackey we eliminated, Khalid Hassan. Chase's target was Fatah al-Islam.”

Al Zaroor felt a jolt of fear. “So this is the same man who met with Farad?”

“We think so, yes.”

Al Zaroor studied the American's face more closely as he absorbed the meaning of his presence here. That people within the CIA did not believe Bin Laden's threat was predictable. But this man had come to the Bekaa Valley. Al Zaroor wondered what he knew, and what the Zionists might learn as a result. At once his thoughts moved to the two dead Syrians. The risk of killing them was that their disappearance had raised questions; the benefit was that neither man could answer them.

“You say this photograph was taken in Baalbek,” Al Zaroor said.

“Yes, just before he checked into the Palmyra Hotel. As you asked, we put several of our comrades in strategic places, watching for strangers.
The man who sent this knows the American on sight.” Hamzi paused, then said in a lower voice, “We should eliminate him at once.”

Al Zaroor sat against the wall of the cave. If they knew “Adam Chase” was here, he reasoned, so did Hezbollah. By himself, the American was not a serious threat—there was only so much he could glean in the next seventy-two hours. But Hezbollah could pose grave dangers. In the CIA's place, he would set aside its historic loathing, and go to Hezbollah. And if he were Hezbollah, he would snatch this agent off the street.

All this he thought without speaking. Except for the Pakistani, no one in the cave knew the contents of the coffin—Al Zaroor had let the others believe it was gold. But the Iraqis and Palestinians eyed the technician with suspicion. They, too, were capable of thinking the Renewer had lied, and they knew far more than this American. So for Hamzi to be snared by Hezbollah would pose the greater threat. The question was whether he could kill the American without getting caught.

At length, Al Zaroor said, “If you murder this agent, you must leave the valley at once. I don't want you followed back here, or caught in the act. Unless you can take him out swiftly and silently, let him live.”

Hamzi folded his arms. “Our man is watching him now. He can call me when the American is alone.”

Al Zaroor considered this. Then he dug into a duffel bag and took out a new cell phone. “If you succeed, or leave Baalbek without trying, call the number I'll give you. Let it ring three times, then hang up. If I hear the telephone, I'll rest easier.” He paused, then added coldly, “If not, I'll hope this agent killed you. You cannot fail and live.”

Hamzi's jaw worked. “I won't fail,” he answered. “The American will die as Khalid Hassan did, unable to make a sound.”

Darkness shrouded the Temple of Bacchus, relieved only by a three-quarter moon. Above the wall surrounding the ruins, Brooke and Anit could see the lights of Baalbek, more lights scattered in the hills above. The tourists were gone, and they were alone. By the grace of Dr. Antoine Abboud, Laura Reynolds had a special pass.

“This Shiite friend of yours,” she asked, “how can he help us?”

“He can't, directly. But he knows everyone in the valley—who they are and what they do.”

Though the light was dim, he saw her face set. “Hezbollah, you mean. And then what? You'll just knock on their door?” Anit emitted a short, bitter laugh. “Perhaps I can accompany you, with an introduction from the Iranians—”

“You bargain with Hezbollah for the dead,” Brooke cut in softly.

“Yes,” she said with lethal quiet. “They exchanged the charred remains of my fiancé for six imprisoned fighters. So how can I object?” Her tone remained cool. “There are, however, certain practical barriers to my involvement. My agency has invested a considerable amount of time and money in preparing me to be here—in part, to replace the network snuffed out at Hezbollah's direction. If Hezbollah finds out who I am, they could treat me with the same consideration they accorded William Buckley, with variations appropriate to my sex. And if they try to swap me for a busload of would-be suicide bombers, my agency has warned me, the price is too exorbitant.” Her voice softened. “If I die, I'd like some good to come of it. If I live, I don't want to go slowly insane in a Lebanese prison, reduced to the pathetic hope that my country will retrieve me by releasing terrorists who, sooner or later, will murder other Jews.”

Watching her, Brooke ached at how completely they had changed since they were lovers. “If I go to Hezbollah, Anit, I won't involve you.”

“A little late, don't you think? Who do you suppose that waiter and bartender work for? The best I can hope for is that they're debating whether I'm an American spy or simply an American slut.”

“Let's leave it that way. Just tell me this—who else but Hezbollah could find this bomb?”

Anit gazed at the moonlit ruins. “Many in my agency don't believe a strike would come from here. Some think al Qaeda will cross the border into Galilee. Others believe the bomb will come by sea—”

“And then what does al Qaeda do? Smuggle a nuclear technician into Israel, then drive the bomb to Tel Aviv? As to the border, forget the twenty-foot fence bristling with Israeli soldiers and surveillance equipment, or the UN troops who patrol it. For the last fifty miles southern Lebanon is controlled by Hezbollah, and filled with land mines planted by your army. Only a fool would run a bomb through that.” Facing her, Brooke finished emphatically, “Al Qaeda won't. Once they're close enough, they'll fly it into Israel. The Bekaa is close enough.”

Anit shook her head. “Our air defenses are too good.”

“Even the best can be beaten—including by amateurs who penetrate no-fly zones by accident. Our operative is no amateur, and he's stolen a two-hundred-pound bomb designed to detonate at one thousand feet. He'll try to use it exactly as intended, working a nuclear variation on what LET did to the Taj Mahal and New Delhi—”

“That was India,” Anit retorted. “Our air force has standing orders to shoot down a suspicious plane, and signals intelligence that can follow air traffic from any airport in Lebanon.”

“How many planes can you watch? Chances are al Qaeda will use a private jet, take off from an airstrip no one uses, and fly literally beneath the radar. If I'm right, within three days' time.”

Reflexively, Anit glanced around them. “So you think this will happen on September 11.”

“Unless it's sooner. Al Qaeda is drawn to symbolic dates. September 11 became symbolic only after they couldn't bring off the attacks that summer, when Ariel Sharon came to Washington.” Brooke's voice softened. “If they had, Ben would still be alive. The week Sharon visited, Ben took time off to help Aviva with the wedding.”

The reference to Ben, instinctive and unplanned, seemed to cause a change in Anit. Quiet, she looked down. “I'm sorry for what I said to you all those years ago—about not being a serious person. Only a very serious person would risk his life to come here.”

“For better or worse,” Brooke answered, “we've become the same person.”

“No. We're fictitious people, pretending to be lovers when we can't be. My overseers have cautioned me never to forget that.” She faced him again. “When I entered the Mossad, I had to disclose every sexual relationship I'd had. So you were already in my file.”

Brooke smiled a little. “How thick is it?”

She did not smile back. “You took up a fair chunk. But that was when I could remember how I felt, and how hard it was to leave you. That man and woman are dead now.”

The last words pierced him. “Not dead,” he insisted. “Just dormant. And the part of me that still loves Anit Rahal won't put Laura Reynolds at risk.”