“If you deal with serious Druze, you are likely in good hands. The tenets of the faith include belief in one God, honesty, protecting the family and homeland, helping those in need, and respect for the aged. They disapprove of alcohol or tobacco, usually don’t eat pork, and reject polygamy. They do not marry outside the faith. As a rule, they reject materialism though some are successful businessmen.”
The Iranian-American felt himself warming to his subject. Though he realized that most of the door-kickers in the audience were only marginally interested in such things, he felt that he owed the operators the benefit of his knowledge.
“There are two main groups:
“What about the others, Doctor?” Leopole asked.
“Well, the inner group is
Breezy enjoyed playing the hey-dude surf bum to the Oxford educated lecturer. “So, Doc. Does that mean, like, we can ID most of the Druze by their clothes?”
The lecturer squinted his brown eyes in concentration. “It means you can tell the Druze by their clothes if they want you to identify them.” He paused for effect. “Or it means they are someone else who wishes to appear as a Druze.
“Now,” Mohammed concluded. “The Druze have fought just about everybody at one point or another. In the 1860s they massacred a lot of Christians, leading to French intervention about the time that Maximilian was engaged in Mexico. Since then the Druze have been allied with Christians and Jews and various Islamic groups.” He looked up. “In short, gentlemen, you should remember one thing. The Druze are expert survivors.”
Brigadier Solomon Nadel dismounted from a Merkava Mark III and tugged a shop cloth from his cargo pocket. Wiping some errant diesel fuel from his hands, he greeted his guest with a smile. “Yakov, I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.” He nodded over his shoulder. “Sometimes even a brigade commander needs to get his hands dirty.”
Colonel Yakov Livni recognized the flippant tone for what it was. “General, you don’t fool anybody. You can’t stay away from your Chariots.”
Nadel grimaced dramatically. “You found me out. Once a charioteer, always a charioteer.”
“Well, let’s just hope that we don’t need these Chariots north of the border.” Livni gave his superior a penetrating look. “You know, Sol, the days of battle tanks may be coming to an end.”
Pausing in midstride, Nadel turned to look at the Merkava. It was a tanker’s tank: designed for survivability with severely angled armor to protect the four-man crew; a twelve-hundred-horsepower engine for speed and acceleration; and a 120mm smoothbore as main armament. There was even a 60mm mortar carried internally. Finally the veteran tanker replied, “Well, it’s no secret anymore. We lost six Chariots in Lebanon in 2006 but one hundred crewmen were killed or wounded. That’s four times what we would expect just based on tanks destroyed.” He shrugged philosophically. “ATGMs are becoming more effective.”
Nadel quickened the pace. “But come on. You don’t want to talk about tanks when there’s covert operations to support in Lebanon.”
The two officers adjourned to Nadel’s office and closed the door. The general tossed his shop rag and his beret onto a file cabinet, showing no concern when the headgear missed the basket and fell to the floor. “All right, Yakov. What do you have for me?”
Livni eased his left buttock onto the edge of the desk and unfolded a map. “Solly, this is confidential for now, but you can tell your chief of staff. Formal notice will arrive in a few days, and there will be a planning conference with brigade and division commanders as well as my people and… others.”
The brigadier allowed himself a sly grin. “You mean Mossad.”
An eloquent roll of the shoulders was all the response needed. “Anyway, consider this a warning order. Your brigade and other elements of the division will be tasked with supporting our cross-border teams, especially those working with Druze militia.”
Nadel leaned back in his chair. “Druze. Well, they’re no friends of the Iranians, but my God, Yakov. Their areas are up around Beirut. How are we going to…”
Livni raised a pudgy hand toward the wall map. “Yes, most of their traditional areas extend south and east from Beirut. But there are also some Druze enclaves closer to our border.” He used a blunt index finger to circle an area in southern Lebanon.
Nadel looked at the map and recognized the name. “Hasbaya.”
“Yes, that’s a promising area. It’s about fifteen kilometers south of Mount Hermon and a similar amount from the Syrian border. We want to insert training teams into the area before Hezbollah gets a better foothold.”
“Well, that’s going to be a tall order. I mean, that close to the Syrians, there must already be some well- established Hezbollah supply routes and even some bases.”
Livni nodded decisively. “There are. Which is why we cannot allow the situation to remain uncontested. My boys are already making contact with civic and militia leaders, building goodwill with the local population. But we’re stretched too thinly, as… as.” He cleared his throat and looked away. When he turned back, he was composed again. “As we learned too often of late.”
Scanning the map more closely, Nadel emitted a soft whistle. “That’s almost twenty kilometers inside Lebanon. What sort of support are we expected to provide?”
“As we noted before, mainly logistics. Supplies, route security, and a powerful presence round the clock. Your reaction force should be fully briefed on the terrain and tactical situation. I am informed that intelligence will be updated frequently, but that’s a matter for the full briefing in a few days.”
Nadel arched his eyebrows. “Well, all right. But if Hezbollah wants to oppose the operation — and undoubtedly it will — things could get messy. I mean, it wouldn’t take much to escalate into another 2006 situation.”
“Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. But the decision has been made. The mood in the government seems to be that we’ll have another fight sooner or later, and we want our Druze friends to be as prepared as possible. While keeping a low profile.”
“Yakov, you mentioned supplies. That means either trucks or helicopters, and both can easily be intercepted. We’re bound to have casualties, and…”
“Well, maybe not so many this time.”
Nadel shook his head. “What do you mean?”
Livni lowered his voice. “Yes, there will be IDF personnel, including Israeli Druze. But there will also be, ah, third-party nationals doing much of the actual work.”
“Who would that be?”
The colonel leaned toward the general. “Americans.”
Of the capital’s twenty-two municipal districts, Esmaili considered one as good as another. But Dr. Gholamhossein Momen favored the Amirabad area, west of Azizi’s hostel, and that is where the meeting occurred. The fact that the district contained a nuclear research facility might have caused concern, but Esmaili reckoned that the doctor subscribed to what Americans called the “forest for the trees” method of hiding oneself.
Azizi escorted Esmaili to the scientist’s office and left for a moment. During the short interval, the Hezbollah operative took in the ambience. It reflected his memory of Dr. Momen from their association several years before. Austere, functional, businesslike, without adornment.
From his awful days on the revolutionary firing squad, through the eight-year agony of the Iraq war to the more satisfying, less constrained campaign in Lebanon, Ahmad Esmaili had become an adept judge of men. That is, of character. Very few had earned his full respect and fewer caused him genuine fear. Gholamhossein Momen was the only one who filled both descriptions.
Esmaili forced himself upright in the straight-backed metal chair. With his hands folded, he tried to exude an air of confidence, or at least calm indifference, for whomever might be watching. He knew that Momen’s acolytes never tired in their surveillance even of allies. Perhaps especially of allies. The doctor was too valuable to the
