Furr shrugged. “Go along to get along, I guess.”
“Well, let’s shoot snout before we draw a crowd. If there’s time left over I want to do some position shooting.”
“Six-pack of beer on the best offhand group?”
Barrkman responded, “Sure. Are you buying Maccabee or Goldstar?”
“No way. You’re buying
“Now how’n hell did you know that?”
Rob Furr enjoyed the gotcha. “Somebody once said, ‘Time spent on Google is seldom wasted.’”
Barrkman tossed his partner a box of Black Hills. “You gonna talk or shoot?”
Inserting a magazine, Furr quipped, “I’m gonna shoot, then I’m gonna drink your beer.”
“Well, all I can say is you’d better enjoy it while you can. Where we’re going there’s probably not much liquor.”
“Hey, Lebanon’s national beer is Almaza. It’s considered an excellent pilsener. Most people drink it with salt.”
“Google?”
“Pitney,” Furr replied.
“Say what?”
“Robert Pitney, the new guy. His wife’s family used to do business in Lebanon so I asked him about the culture and food and stuff.”
Barrkman nodded quietly. “He doesn’t seem the drinking kind.”
“Well, neither do you. But he’s not. In fact, he’s Muslim.”
“Muslim? You gotta be…”
“Hey, you gonna talk or shoot?”
Hazim was a dutiful student in most aspects of his Hezbollah training, but none more so than his desire to become a sniper. He heeded Tawfiq’s advice about not removing the scope too often, but he lavished considerable care on the action and the optics.
Esmaili nurtured the youngster’s ambition, providing encouragement with some practical assistance. Returning from a supply run, the Iranian diverted to the practice range before delivering his goods to the warehouse. As expected, he found Hazim playing with his daytime scope. Esmaili dropped a canister beside the young Lebanese.
Hazim looked up, surprised. “Teacher! I did not see you.” He leapt to his feet, almost stepping on the metal can.
“Stealthiness is a virtue for most warriors, but especially snipers.” Esmaili almost smiled. “I admire your diligence, boy. Accept this gift.”
Hazim forgot himself and bowed reverentially, as if to an imam. Then he knelt to examine the container. It was dark green with yellow stencils in the Jewish alphabet. Opening the tin, he withdrew a rectangular cardboard container. Though ignorant of Hebrew, he was adept at numbers. “7.62 NATO” held significance for him.
“Ammunition for the rifle!”
“Two hundred fifty rounds. Use it sparingly. I do not know when I may have more.”
As Hazim all but genuflected, Esmaili returned to his vehicle. Tawfiq was waiting with a knowing smile. “You are spoiling that boy, you know.”
The commander returned the grin. “Yes, I know.” He glanced over his shoulder, observing the Lebanese fighter declaring God’s bounty to his friends. “He will be useful one day. Or night — depending on how long the batteries last.”
Esmaili stopped to ponder whether his manipulation of the youngster was much removed from the late ayatollah’s exploitation of children in the Iraq war. Without reaching a conclusion, he asked, “How is he progressing?”
Tawfiq almost chuckled. That was significant, as he was a man who seldom laughed — or had reason to. “Actually he shows some promise. He has read the sniping manual repeatedly and I believe he could recite long passages. I have worked with him on the mil scale, and since it is based on meters there is not much room for confusion.”
“How is his marksmanship?”
“Well, not remarkable but he shows ability inside three hundred meters. He can hit a half silhouette about half the time, depending on wind. Beyond that, he might be useful for harassing fire…”
Tawfiq cocked his head at his colleague’s sudden silence. “Yes?”
“I was just thinking. Do you remember our second trip to Iraq, supporting the resistance fighters?”
“Yes, yes. Two years ago, more or less.”
“There were reports of an Iraqi sniper called Juba. He was said to use a Tabuk, the Iraqi version of the Yugoslavian rifle.”
“I thought he was a fiction. A ghost to scare the crusaders.”
Esmaili shook his head. “I believe he was genuine — for a while. If he was killed or went away it mattered little. Other successful snipers could continue shooting in his name, and spread the fear.” He gave a grim, tight smile. “We may have our own Juba growing right here.”
Tawfiq was unaccustomed to guile beyond the tactical variety. The psychological aspect was new to him but he recognized the potential benefit. And the risk. “He may not last long.”
“True.” He paused for an ephemeral moment of self-examination. Then he asked, “What word is there about the next supply shipment?”
Colonel Yakov Livni was a man with many irons in the same fire. The fire was the impending clash in southern Lebanon, and few but his immediate colleagues knew how badly he had been burned. The loss of his nephew was seldom far behind his brown eyes, and alternately he rebuked himself for previous errors while striving to avoid making others.
Fahed Ayash was part of that plan.
Livni made the introductions, a quick turnaround since he himself had only met Leopole at their original briefing with Brafman. By way of explanation, Livni said, “Mr. Leopole, Major Ayash will be your primary liaison with the Druze militias. He has worked with some of them before, and he has as much experience as anyone I know in that area.” Livni nodded to Ayash as if to say, “You’re on.”
Ayash spoke passable English, telling Leopole, “In Beirut you will meet a man named Rafix Kara. He is very important to our… ah, the mission.” The Druze officer grinned self-consciously. “His influence alone could be enough to produce success, let alone his contacts and his support.”
“Yes, Mr. Baram mentioned him during the planning sessions in Arlington. I trust that Mr. Kara knows we’re coming.”
Ayash nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. In fact, we have arranged for you to meet him, as you say, one to one. That is how he prefers to operate, on an individual basis. He believes it is the best way to measure a man, especially someone he does not…”
“Trust?”
“Oh, no, Colonel. I was going to say, ‘someone he does not know.’” The IDF man smiled, as much in satisfaction at his quick recovery as at the American’s justified skepticism.
Leopole stood up and stretched. His lower back was cramped again; he wondered if it were occupational tension or the aging process.
The Druze seemed taken aback. He blinked twice, moved his lips, and then found the words. “We are all working together in the IDF: Jews, Druze, Army, special operations. I do not know your, ah, grasp of my people’s culture but we Druze are all of the same blood. Family, you know? Nobody would do anything to risk hurt to others.”
The SSI operator noted Ayash’s heightened color, which could only be embarrassment or anger. It was obvious which was the more likely. Waving a placating hand, Leopole replied, “Oh, no, Major. Please do not think
