national interest to take anyone for granted. And for that reason, few of the security operatives remained indefinitely. Esmaili recalled that they were transferred out, like himself, or otherwise disposed of, often for the smallest of reasons. Or for no reasons but a doctrinal concern about any individual gaining too much knowledge or influence.
The door to the inner office opened and Azizi beckoned.
With an effort of will, Esmaili forced himself from the chair and strode through the portal into his future.
The office, if it was such, contained a desk and a few chairs. Besides Azizi, Esmaili saw three robed men, speaking quietly while facing away from the door. At length the shortest figure turned, his hands within the large sleeves of his robe.
Esmaili felt a shudder in his shoulders and worms in his belly. Belatedly, he realized that his tremor was visible.
Dr. Gholamhossein Momen extended his hands from his white robe. They were long, bony, manicured hands. “Peace and mercy and the blessings of Allah be upon you, my son.”
Esmaili returned the greeting, bowing his head deferentially. To himself, he conceded ephemeral gratitude for a chance to escape the doctor’s eyes.
Momen was cursed with dreadful vision. Most of his life he had worn thick glasses that gave an eerie magnification to his brown eyes. They were his dominant feature, seemingly widened unnaturally behind the lenses as if seeking to observe everything around him in minute detail. Which was exactly the case.
The years had not been kind to the scientist. Always short and stout, even his traditional robes failed to conceal his growing obesity. His face behind those spectacles was fleshy and wan, in contrast to his short, dark beard.
Momen stepped around the desk, moving to greet Esmaili in a gliding motion that almost seemed serpentine. It took an effort of willpower for Esmaili to hold his ground, not merely for fear of insulting his host, but for the sign of weakness that retreat would impart. He devoutly did not wish to appear weak in the presence of Dr. Momen.
They grasped hands, and Esmaili felt the clammy sensation of the doctor’s skin. Then, with a start, he realized that the perspiration might as easily be his own. He forced himself to look into the magnified eyes and mutter a dignified response. “I am honored that you have called upon me, Doctor.”
Momen released the grip and waved to a chair. “And I thank you for coming so quickly, brother.” He glanced at Azizi, who seemed approximately relaxed in the doctor’s presence. “Our friend assures me of the quality of your work in Lebanon.” A tight, grim smile. “Not that I ever doubted it.”
Momen returned to the swivel chair on the other side of the desk, motioning one of the other men to leave. It was tacit indication of the trust placed in Esmaili. Otherwise, Dr. Momen was seldom out of sight of at least two armed guards.
Ordinarily there would be coffee or tea, perhaps with wafers, and some preliminary small talk. But Momen had neither time nor use for polite conversation. He fixed his myopic gaze upon the visitor and said, “I have need of your services again. Arrangements have already been made with your superiors. Once you return to Lebanon, you will operate under Mohammad Azizi, who reports directly to me.
Esmaili had forgotten the doctor’s penchant for speaking of people as if they were not present. Evidently Azizi was accustomed to the habit; at least he made no objection.
It occurred to the Hezbollah operative that he had not been asked to volunteer for anything. He was receiving an assignment that permitted no refusal. Harking back several years, Esmaili recalled what befell the only two men who had ever tried to decline the honor of an assignment from Dr. Momen.
“Certainly, Doctor.” Esmaili managed to keep an even tone.
Momen leaned back in his swivel chair, hands inside his sleeves again. He reclined enough to look at the light in the ceiling, apparently entranced with it. Speaking in an oily, sibilating voice, he seemed lost in free association.
“I have brought you a long distance for this short meeting because you need to understand the gravity of my… our… plans. The operation has many layers, each independent of the others. No one but I and a few others know the entire plan, for obvious reasons. A degree of technical expertise is required, and specialists will be assigned to each cell as the schedule moves forward.”
Momen finally turned his attention back to Esmaili. “My son, your cell will be responsible for delivering one of the technical teams to its destination. You have not been told, but your recent activities were planned months ago in order to gain a position of advantage for that purpose.” The ghosting smile returned for a few heartbeats. “Again, secrecy is maintained for obvious reasons.”
Another deferential nod. Then Momen was on his feet again. “You have done well. I am confident that you will continue doing so.” He turned dismissively but then, as if an afterthought, he added, “I will dispatch a beloved colleague to assist you before long.”
Esmaili expressed gratitude for the sentiment, then followed Azizi out of the room. In the exterior hallway Azizi looked at his new partner. “Well? What do you think?”
Esmaili thought:
“About the operation, of course.”
A noncommittal shrug. “I do not know enough to form a judgment, brother.” Then he remembered to add, “It is in God’s hands.”
Azizi seemed satisfied with the platitude. He said, “I have more meetings this afternoon. You return to Damascus tomorrow and on to Lebanon. I shall rejoin you in a few days.” He raised a cautionary finger. “You must never speak to anyone about this meeting unless I clear it.” He gave an ironic grin. “For obvious reasons.”
“Certainly, my brother.”
Esmaili shunned a taxi for the return to his room. It was only a ninety-minute walk, and he wanted to clear his head. Well before he arrived, he had the basics of the plan in his mind.
He also knew that the odds of surviving the mission were less than those of an infidel entering Paradise.
8
Omar Mohammed convened the meeting of the Lebanon training team that would develop a training program for the Druze militiamen. He began, “Mr. Baram has obtained some information on the state of training of our clients, but since there are several locales we do not know exactly the needs of each. Therefore, we should have two contingencies: a very basic syllabus and a more advanced one for those militia who possess some basic knowledge.”
Mohammed rose from his chair and flipped the cover off an easel. As an experienced briefer he knew that revealing subject headings always invited the audience to read ahead of the presentation, which interfered with comprehension. The first page had a list of topics: Organization, Communications, Weapons, Tactics, Combat Trauma.
“These are the areas that Mr. Baram told us to look at. As you can see, the groups we’ll be training are willing to learn many of the basics from us, even though many of them undoubtedly have combat experience. I consider that an encouraging sign. It means that most of them seem to have an open mind.” He shrugged. “Considering what they are facing, perhaps that is as important as anything else. Actually, I suspect that in the end we may learn as much as they do.”
Chris Nissen, the former NCO who would lead one of the teams, raised a point. “Doctor, it seems to me that a lot of the Druze will have some combat experience. They’re likely to think they don’t need any weapons instruction.”
The suave Iranian native shrugged eloquently. “In that case they would not have hired us. True, we’re
