explosives, but he could not and damned well would not show anything that looked like fear to this guy. Ibrahim might be a little pencil-necked geek, but the dude had real balls, dicking with a bomb like this. He noted that Ghosn was sweeping the dirt off like he was using the brush on a girl's tits, and made his own efforts just as cautious. Ten minutes later, he had uncovered the back.
“Ibrahim?”
“Yes, Marvin?” Ghosn said without looking.
“There ain't nothing here. The back's just a hole, man.”
Ghosn lifted the brush from the case and turned to look. That was odd. But he had other things to do. “Thank you. You can stop now. I still have not found a fuse.”
Russell backed off, sat on a mound of dirt, and proceeded to empty the rest of the canteen. On reflection he walked over to the truck. The three men there along with the farmer were just standing — the farmer watching in the open, the others observing more circumspectly behind the stone walls of the house. Russell tossed one man the empty canteen, and had a full one returned the same way. He gave a thumbs-up sign to all of them and walked back to the bomb.
“Back off for a minute and have a drink,” Marvin said on his return.
“Good idea,” Ghosn agreed, setting his brush down next to the bomb.
“Find anything?”
“A plug connection, nothing else.” That was odd, too, Ghosn thought, pulling the top off the canteen. There were no stenciled markings, just a silver-and-red label block near the nose. Color-codes were common on bombs, but he'd never seen that one before. So, what was this damned thing? Maybe an FAE or some kind of sub-munition canister? Something old and obsolete that he'd never seen before. It had come down in 1973, after all. Maybe something that had long since gone out of service. That was very bad news. If it were something he'd never seen before, it might have a fusing system that he didn't know. His manual for dealing with such things was Russian in origin, though printed in Arabic. Ghosn had long since committed it to memory, but there was no description for anything like this. And that was truly frightening. Ghosn took a long pull from the canteen and then poured a little across his face.
“Take it easy, man,” Russell said, noticing the man's tension.
“This job is never easy, my friend, and it is always very frightening.”
“You look pretty cool, Ibrahim.” It wasn't a lie. While brushing the dirt off, he looked like a doctor, almost, doing something real hard, Russell thought, but doing it. The little fucker had balls, Marvin told himself again.
Ghosn turned and grinned. “That is all a lie. I am quite terrified. I truly hate doing this.”
“You got a big pair, boy, and that's no shit.”
“Thank you. Now I must return while I still can. You really should leave, you know.”
Russell spat into the dirt. “Fuck it.”
“That would be very difficult.” Ghosn grinned. “And if you got a reaction from 'her', you might not like it.”
“I guess when these suckers come, the earth really does move!”
Ghosn knew enough of American idiom that he fell backwards and laughed uproariously. “Please, Marvin, do not say such things when I am working!” I like this man! Ghosn told himself. We are too humorless a lot. I like this American! He had to wait another few minutes before he calmed down enough to resume his work.
Another hour's brushing showed nothing. There were seams in the bombcase, even some sort of hatch… he'd never seen that before. But no fuse point. If there were one, it had to be underneath. Russell moved away some more dirt, allowing Ghosn to continue his search, but again, nothing. He decided to examine the back.
There's a flashlight in my sack…'
“Got it.” Russell handed the light over.
Ghosn lay down on the dirt and contorted himself to look into the hole. It was dark, of course, and he switched on the light… He saw electrical wiring, and something else, some sort of metal framework — latticework would be more accurate. He judged he could see perhaps eighty centimeters… and if this were a real bomb, there would not be so much empty space. So. So. Ghosn tossed the light to the American.
“We have just wasted five hours,” he announced.
“Huh?”
“I don't know what this thing is, but it is not a bomb.” He sat up and had a brief attack of the shakes, but it didn't last long.
“What is it then?”
“Some kind of electronic sensing device, perhaps, a warning system. Maybe a camera pod — the lens assembly must be underneath. That doesn't matter. What is important is that it is no bomb.”
“So, now what?”
“We move it, take it back with us. It might be valuable. Perhaps something we can sell to the Russians or the Syrians.”
“So the old guy was worried about nothing?”
“Correct.” Ghosn rose and the two men walked back to the truck. “It is safe now,” he told the farmer. Might as well tell him what he wanted to know, and why confuse him with the facts of the matter? The farmer kissed Ghosn's dirty hands, and those of the American, which further embarrassed Russell.
The driver pulled the truck around, and backed into the garden, careful to do as little damage to the rows of vegetables as possible. Russell watched as two men filled a half-dozen sandbags and hoisted them into the truck. Next they put a sling around the bomb, and began to crank it up with a winch. The bomb — or whatever it was — was heavier than expected, and Russell took over the hand winch, displaying his strength yet again as he cranked it up alone. The Arabs swung the A-frame forward, then he lowered the bomb into the nest made of sandbags. A few ropes secured it in place, and that was that.
The farmer would not let them leave. He brought out tea and bread, insisting on feeding the men before they left, and Ghosn accepted the man's hospitality with appropriate humility. Four lambs were added to the truck's load before they left.
“That was a good thing you did, man,” Russell observed as they pulled off.
“Perhaps,” Ghosn said tiredly. Stress was so much more tiring than actual labor, though the American seemed to handle both quite well. Two hours later, they were back in the Bekaa Valley. The bomb — Ghosn didn't know what else to call it — was dropped unceremoniously in front of his workshop, and the party of five went to feast on fresh lamb. To Ghosn's surprise, the American had never had lamb before, and so was properly introduced to the traditional Arab delicacy.
“Got something interesting, Bill,” Murray announced, as he came into the Director's office.
“What's that, Danny?” Shaw looked up from his appointments schedule.
“A cop got himself killed over in Athens, and they think it was an American who did it.” Murray filled Shaw in on the technical details.
“Broke his neck barehanded?” Bill asked.
That's right. The cop was a skinny little guy,“ Murray said, ”but…'
“Jesus. Okay, let's see.” Murray handed the photo over. “We know this guy, Dan? It's not the best picture in the world.”
“Al Denton thinks it might be Marvin Russell. He's playing computer games on the original slide. There were no prints or other forensic stuff. The car was registered to a third party who disappeared, probably never existed in the first place. The driver of the other vehicle is an unknown. Anyway, it fits Russell's description, short and powerful, and the cheekbones and coloration make him look like an Indian. Clothing is definitely American. So's the suitcase.”
“So you think he skipped the country after we got his brother… smart move,” Shaw judged. “He was supposed to be the bright one, wasn't he?”
“Smart enough to get teamed up with an Arab.”
“Think so?” Shaw examined the other face. “Could be Greek, or anything Mediterranean. Skin's a little fair for an Arab, but it's a pretty ordinary face, and you said it's an unknown. Gut call, Dan?”
“Yep.” Murray nodded. “I checked the file. A confidential informant told us a few years ago that Marvin made a trip east a few years back and made contacts with the PFLP. Athens is a convenient place to renew the association. Neutral ground.”
