with four metal rods running parallel to its length. Hanging to the left side was an offset scope. At the base was a square box with a host of buttons and dials.
I took it and held it up to Knuckles. “What the hell is this thing?”
“It’s an EMP gun. You sight through the scope, pull the trigger, and it’ll knock out electrical components. At least it’s supposed to. It’s worked fine in testing, but had some issues on our predeployment training. I didn’t use it in Tunisia, but figured it might come in handy here.”
“Who’d we steal this from? Microsoft?”
“Actually, the Department of Defense. They have a request for proposal to develop an EMP gun that can disable a car. You know, so instead of using snipers with anti-armor rounds or spike strips, they simply zap the car with the EMP and cause it to shut down. Electronic fuel injection, computers, all that shit that’s in a car nowadays is vulnerable.”
“This thing will stop a car?”
“Hell no. We just stole the technology. The one they’re working on right now is about the same size as a car. They’re still trying to make it small enough to be useful. Ours is much less powerful. It’ll only take out small electrical components, like a computer, alarm switch, or a radio. It’s pinpoint and limited to about fifty feet, but might be useful.”
I held it up to the light of the cockpit for a better look, and Decoy noticed the bandage on my left hand. More precisely, he noticed the length of the bandage.
“Jesus,” he said. “Somebody shot off your pinky?”
I raised my hand so they could all see it. “Didn’t shoot it off, but it’s not as bad as it looks. They only took the first joint. Most of it’s still there.”
The boat grew quiet, the truth of my statement sinking in. Nobody was sure how to respond. I saw Jennifer wanting to say something to help, but I shook my head. Brett broke the silence.
“You should put some Monkey’s Blood on it. That’ll fix it.”
Everyone looked at him incredulously. I said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You know. Monkey’s Blood. Didn’t your mom put that on every single boo-boo you ever got? You don’t see it much anymore, but man, that stuff was a miracle worker. At least that’s what my mom says.”
“You mean Mercurochrome? The red shit they put on kids’ scabs?”
“Yeah. That’s it. Monkey’s Blood. It works on everything.”
At first, I was wondering how such an idiot could have reached the Taskforce. Then I saw the same inside- joke smile from his passport photo, and I started laughing. Before I knew it, everyone was giggling and snickering, even Jennifer. Brett had managed to defuse the entire discussion, without making an overt attempt. I was right. We’d get along fine.
I stood up and tied the fishnet closed, attaching a final twelve-pound anchor in addition to the other lead weights. Decoy and I shoved the net overboard, watching to make sure it sank with the evidence of the infiltration.
I said, “Come on. Let’s get back to Lebanon. We’ve wasted enough time on mothers’ remedies.”
Jennifer fired up the engine and got on a heading back to the Beirut marina. Knuckles said, “Well, now that you mention it, I have no idea why we’re here. Originally it was to rescue you. What is it now?”
“Somebody’s trying to kill the new Middle Eastern envoy, and we’re going to stop it.”
“Any leads, or are we working from scratch?”
“You remember that guy who tried to kill us in Bosnia two years ago? The one that got away?”
Knuckles’ face turned grim. “Oh yeah. I remember him. I wish I’d put a bullet in his head when I had the chance.”
I pulled out the screen capture we’d taken in Samir’s house.
“How’d you like a second shot?”
30
Lucas Kane took notice of the atmosphere surrounding him as he walked toward the photography shop. It was located in south Beirut, still in a prominently Shia area, but outside the hard-core Hezbollah state-within-a- state. Nasrallah posters adorned every other street corner, but that was it. No paranoid gunmen or street toughs with radios. Still, he was generating interest. He could feel the eyes on him from every direction, all wondering what this infidel wanted here. Wondering if maybe he was lost.
He wasn’t. The photo studio was the location of the Hezbollah asset that had helped the Palestinian assassin with his documents. Probably the same one that had built Lucas’s own. He didn’t know. All he’d done was provide passport photos to Majid, and Hezbollah had done the rest.
He’d driven by earlier in the day on a reconnaissance, noting the business hours. He wanted to ensure that nobody else was in the studio when he entered, so he’d waited until just before closing. For what he had to do, he couldn’t afford anyone else being present. Well, he could, but it would just make things messier.
The killing of the Martyrs Battalion leadership was on the street, and Lucas knew his time in Beirut was done. Luckily, from what he’d heard, nobody knew who had done it and the routinely paranoid Hezbollah immediately began ranting about Zionist infiltrators. It would only be a matter of time, though, before he was questioned. He had no illusions about how that would go, having watched the interrogation of loyal Shia who were suspected of working with the CIA. In November of 2011, Hezbollah rolled up the entire CIA network inside Beirut. In so doing, they hammered any and all they thought were working with the enemy. Hezbollah didn’t care if they killed thirty innocents if it meant getting one guilty party.
He’d already been called twice on his private cell phone from a number he didn’t recognize. Since the phone only worked on the parallel Hezbollah communications architecture, he knew it wasn’t good and had ignored both calls. He figured he had twenty-four hours at best before Hezbollah made a concerted effort to find him. The only thing going for him was the fact that the Martyrs Battalion was so secretive, not many in Hezbollah even knew he existed. Not many, but enough to cause him concern. One in particular worried him: Abu Aziz, the head of security for the Battalion. The man had never trusted Lucas and was probably the person who’d found the bodies.
He entered the studio, a small bell tinkling above the door. He heard someone shuffling from the rear and waited.
An old man of about seventy rounded the corner and came up short when he saw Lucas, a spark of recognition in his eyes.
“Can I help you?” the man said in English.
“I’m looking for Abu Bari.” Lucas used the Hezbollah
The proprietor shifted uncomfortably and looked out the window, whether to ensure nobody was about to enter or hoping someone would, Lucas was unclear.
“There’s no one here by that name.”
“Yes, there is, and I’m looking at him. Perhaps we should talk in the back.”
The man considered the request, then shuffled by Lucas. “Let me lock up.”
Instead of producing a key, he reached for the door handle, and Lucas knew he was about to run. If he made it to the street, he would be free. No way could Lucas take him down in this neighborhood.
Lucas slammed his body against the door, feeling nothing but skin and bones. The storeowner wailed.
“I’m here on Hezbollah business. Don’t make me report you.”
He nodded over and over again, then said, “I am Abu Bari.”
“Lock up.”
He did so, and Lucas followed him to the back. He positioned a chair to block the door and took a seat.
“Anyone else here?”
“No.”
“Good. I’m sure you’ve heard of the deaths of Majid and Ja’far, correct?”
Bari nodded, his eyes growing more fearful.
