Vulcan's Fire

establishing a more devout routine. He began by uttering a smooth assurance of his belief that the Hezbollah fighters represented the fruit of Islam’s warriors. Then he said that at dawn tomorrow he would begin the Fad salat, the five daily prayers conducted by a group praying behind an imam.

Esmaili had accepted the news in stony silence, trading the briefest of glances with Tawfiq and Fida. Azizi, the liaison between Momen and the men who would execute his mysterious plan, seemed satisfied with the situation. A trifle uncharitably, Esmaili thought, He can afford to be satisfied. He probably does not have to perform our mission. Esmaili weighed the situation and cataloged the operative factors. Because Hezbollah was dominated by Iranians such as himself, the movement was largely Shia. Therefore, Imam Elham possessed unquestioned power as a Shiite cleric.

Azizi had said, “Brother, you know that an imam must be obeyed because he speaks for God.”

“Yes, of course,” Esmaili had replied. “That is why Dr. Momen sent him. Aside from his position in the scientific organization, Imam Elham’s religious authority cannot be questioned.” Esmaili conceded that the double dose of power was bulletproof. And that knowledge chilled him to the marrow. Esmaili held not the ghost of a doubt that Momen and Elham were perfectly content sending their jihadists to destruction if there seemed some advantage.

“That is the wonder of it,” Azizi insisted. “We achieve Paradise merely for the worthiness of the effort, not for the results.”

Esmaili had concluded the discussion in the only way possible. Inclining his head, he had intoned, “Allah be praised.”

Watching the westering sunlight slanting onto Southern Lebanon’s cedared hills, Ahmad Esmaili contemplated his likely future and indulged in a silent heresy.

BEIRUT

Major Fahed Ayash deposited Frank Leopole at Rafix Kara’s office building in the fashionable Verdun area of West Beirut. “I was going to introduce you in person,” the Druze officer explained, “but I must meet with a, ah, supplier, before he leaves. I return in an hour, no more.”

Leopole had no option but to make the best of his circumstances. He looked around, feeling ballistically naked in one of the region’s riskiest cities, and longed for his Sig. Better inside than an obvious Gringo on the street, he concluded. He went upstairs, admitted by the lone secretary.

The office defined the man.

Leopole took in the ambience, which an interior decorator might call Post-Modem Ballistic. The place was strewn with weapons: rifles, pistols, a few shotguns, and two machine guns. Leopole recognized one as a Soviet RPD, which he considered the finest LMG ever made. It rested on its bipod with hundred-round drum in place. The other was partly obscured behind some ammo boxes but Leopole thought the stock resembled an even older antique: a Lewis Gun.

Kara’s desktop was clean, with two exceptions. One was the .455 Webley revolver of the same vintage as the Lewis. The other was a two-tiered organizer with roasted peanuts in the In basket and figs in the Out basket. A wastebasket and well-used chair completed the administrative suite.

Leopole was drawn to a Steyr SSG in the corner, complete with Kahles ten-power scope and ten-round magazine. He had owned one of the Austrian sniper rifles long ago but sold it when his logbook of rounds fired revealed that he had not shot it in four years. He seldom kept a gun that he did not fire at least semiannually. On the other hand, his partner, retired Master Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Foyte, had more firearms than he knew and simply bought a new safe now and then.

Leaning over, hands behind him in deference to gun culture etiquette, Leopole was interested to note four hash marks painted on the stock. Then the door opened behind him.

“Ah, Colonel Leopole.”

The SSI operator turned to see a short, compact man with a Lebanese nose, thinning gray hair, and a brisk, cheerful manner that belied his well-cut business suit. Rafix Kara strode across the carpet, extending an arm. Leopole stood erect and grasped the proffered hand. The men shook briskly, both squeezing hard before releasing as if on mutual consent.

Kara nodded toward the Steyr. “I see you admire fine rifles,” he said in French-accented English. “But one should expect that of a United States Marine!”

Every Marine a rifleman, Leopole thought. It was a catchy sentiment, if no longer true.

“Well, sir, I wish I’d kept the one I used to own. It was the most accurate production rifle I ever had. My hand loads would hold under three inches at five hundred yards.”

The Druze leader wrinkled his brow. “Then why part with such a fine weapon?

Leopole shrugged. “I didn’t shoot it very often and was short of space in my safe.”

Kara’s eyes registered surprise. “A safe? Surely one such as yourself needn’t hide fine weapons in a safe. That is for bankers and merchants!” He swept a hand around the room. “This is my gun safe, Colonel!” He laughed in appreciation of his own joke.

Leopole looked around again. Two walls and much of the floor did in fact resemble a walk-in gun vault. It occurred to Frank Leopole that Rafix Kara had acquired a veritable alphabet of weapons: AKs, FALs, a couple of AUGs, the RPD and SSG, even a couple of RPG launchers. He returned the Lebanese leader’s broad smile. “How do you stay proficient with so many weapons, sir?”

“Oh, I do not. I merely have this… collection… to ensure a ready supply. I have guns in various calibers, you see? The Soviet round for AKs and RPDs; 7.62 NATO for FALs, sniper rifles, and MAGs; 5.56 for Galils, AUGs, and some M16s though they do not function well.” He cocked a mirthful eye at his guest. “As you no doubt already know!”

“Uh, yessir. But what about these?” He pointed to the RPG launchers.

“Oh, those are no problem. Rocket projectiles are easy to get, Colonel. Last I heard, less than two hundred dollars here in Beirut.” He unzipped a knowing grin. “Unless you want a volume discount. But the launchers will cost you three hundred each.”

Despite his cautionary instincts, Leopole found himself liking the merchant. “You’re what we call a one-stop shopping center, Mr. Kara.”

The Druze laughed loudly, more for emphasis than empathy. “One-stop shopping center! That is good, Colonel. Quite good.” He shook his head in appreciation. “Some of my associates will enjoy that description.” Gaining enthusiasm, he swept his hand around the room again. “This is just my personal stock, as you might say. Now, if you really want to bargain with me, we can discuss body armor, night vision, even light armored vehicles.”

“Well, sir, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Kara returned to his desk and opened the nearby closet. He extracted soft body armor and a Browning Hipower. Donning both, he said, “Let us go out, Colonel. We can talk business while having some lunch.”

On the street with his bodyguard, Kara indicated his preference for an open-air stall selling pastirma. He stepped to the counter and ordered two servings of the air-dried beef, insisting, “Please permit me. This is my favorite, Colonel.”

Gunfire chattered two blocks away, stray rounds slapping the concrete wall above their heads. Leopole dived for cover, reaching for the pistol that was not there.

Kara knelt beside him, dripping aplomb. “Not to worry, Colonel Leopole. This sort of thing happens often in my city.” He shrugged philosophically. “Probably a celebration of some sort. Many Lebanese have an unfortunate tendency to fire into the air when happy or excited.”

Glancing left and right, the former Marine levered himself off the sidewalk. “Damn! I knew I should’ve ignored the State Department order about personal weapons.”

The Druze leader turned to his bodyguard and passed a brief exchange. The burly security man raised his left leg and produced a.22 Beretta from an ankle holster. Kara handed over the backup piece, butt first. “This is Kamal’s personal weapon but you may keep it until you remedy your, ah, unfortunate state of undress.”

NABATIYEH GOVERNATE

Imam Elham professed to know little of military affairs but a great deal about religious doctrine. As near as Ahmad Esmaili could tell, the cleric did not exaggerate on either point.

However, Esmaili drew the line when theology interfered with operations.