14
It was a measure of Rafix Kara’s charm that he could manipulate strong men who knew they were being manipulated. The day after their initial meeting he began the charm blitz by presenting Frank Leopole with two ultimately pragmatic gifts. “Accept these,” the merchant began, “and wear them in good health.”
Leopole opened the box, finding a Second Chance Kevlar vest and a Sig Sauer P229 with three loaded magazines plus a belt holster.
The American mercenary looked up, wide-eyed. “Mr. Kara, I certainly didn’t expect any gifts. I mean, it’s up to me to provide my own…”
Kara waved both hands vigorously. “No, no, my friend. Since that unfortunate demonstration by my people yesterday, it is up to
In his Marine Corps career, Leopole had served mostly with mission oriented professionals who tolerated the inescapable Charlie Sierra factor common to all militaries. Kara broached no trivialities, lest any of them divert him from the welfare of his cause. And his cause was far more than a corps: it was a people.
The Druze warlord — no other single word described him— would not have made a model Marine. He was studiously flamboyant, though the Corps certainly had its share of such types, including the mercurial Smedley Butler with two Medals of Honor and the iconic Chesty Puller with five Navy Crosses. But in their brief time together, Leopole recognized Kara as a natural leader, the sort of commander who worked simultaneously behind the lines and at the front of his organization. Beneath the charming, almost boisterous exterior, the American discerned the steel core that Colonel Livni had described.
Considering Kara’s charmed life and checkered affiliations, it occurred to Leopole that the Druze matched the Corps’ self-proclaimed title: No better friend, no worse enemy.
As Leopole tried on the vest, he wondered what he would do with it. “I don’t know if they’ll let me on the plane with these things, so maybe I should leave them with you.”
“Oh, I have plenty of both. After all, this is Lebanon.” He shrugged philosophically. “Why don’t you keep them until you leave? That way I can return Kamal’s Beretta.”
Leopole returned the grin. “Yes, sir. I appreciate the loan.” He laid the backup gun on the desk, slide locked back and magazine removed.
Kara sat down and opened the folder marked “IDF-SSI.” He produced narrow-lensed reading glasses and scanned his notes. Satisfied, he removed the spectacles and regarded Leopole again. “You are doing well here, Colonel. I appreciate it when a plan proceeds as drafted, mainly because I know how rare that is. But after today we should have a firm grip on things. Major Ayash seems satisfied with our progress. He should be back shortly.”
Leopole sat down opposite Kara. “Well, he and Colonel Livni obviously have a lot of experience working together.”
Kara laughed aloud, leaning back with his hands clasped behind his head. “Yakov! What else did he tell you about me?” Before Leopole could respond, Kara rebounded, hands on the desk. “Do not bother answering. It’s only a rhetorical question, you know?” The smile was back — a semipermanent feature on the Druze’s face. “Yakov and I have worked together for years, and we have fought as well. He probably did tell you that.”
“Well, he…”
“Of course. That’s the way of the world here. Shifting alliances, new priorities. Changing loyalties is one of the permanent factors in the Middle East. But Yakov and I…well, we serve different causes but whenever those causes overlap, we work together. Neither of us has ever betrayed the other.” He jabbed the desktop with an emphatic finger.
“Yes, sir. That’s what he told me.”
“Now you and I, Frank. I will call you Frank from now on. You and I, Frank, we start fresh.” He thumbed his chest. “I am Rafix now for you. No baggage, you might say. We take each other to face value, and because we both are honorable men, we work hand in hand.” He grinned self-consciously. “Or better, hand in glove?”
“Affirmative, sir. Hand in glove.” Leopole did not care to pursue a masculine hand-in-hand image.
“Now,” Kara continued. “Our village and regional militias you already know about. You and Major Ayash will work with them in the way we all agreed. The Israeli government pays your employer, who pays you I trust.” He did not wait for a perfunctory response. “But things are active down there, Frank, and they will get more active. I admit I do not know just what Hezbollah has in mind, but it wants more control of more land. Yakov and I are in contact about that but his masters will not want to admit that, you know?”
Leopole nodded. “Oh, yes. That’s why the IDF Druze members are assigned to us: for liaison and for deniability.”
“Yes, yes. Just so.” Kara laughed aloud. “Deniability! It is big part of what you do, yes? You are there but you are not there even when everybody knows you are there. You are — what is your word? — indivisible?”
“Ah, that’s ‘invisible,’ Rafix.”
The warlord thoroughly masticated the etymological distinction. “In-visible. Ah, I see. Not visible!” He chortled again. “Hey, Frank, I see invisible! Makes me like Superman, yes?”
Leopole wondered about Kara’s sudden giddiness. Maybe the arms merchant had imbibed something between breakfast and lunch. “Well, sir, ah, Rafix, that would mean you have X-ray vision.”
“Then what is ‘indivisible’?”
“It means undivided. That is, unable to divide. Remaining whole.” Leopole decided not to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Heaven only knew what an ebullient Rafix Kara would make of
Kara turned serious again. As if reading the American’s mind, he declared, “Like your country, Frank.” He shook his head side to side. “Not like mine. Poor-poor Lebanon. She is never united.”
Leopole sought a chance to end the moribund discussion, or at least change its direction. “Well, Rafix, maybe when our mission is over, that part of your country will be more unified than before.”
For a man of action and violence, Ahmad Esmaili unexpectedly found himself gaining admiration for the philosophical, scholarly cleric who had taken control of the Hezbollah cell. Never mind that the imam’s devout routine was unwavering: prayers every morning, noon, afternoon, evening, and night. The full ritual usually was observed, and Esmaili noted that even some of the most zealous fighters went along with the routine more for appearances than from conviction.
But Imam Elham — or, equally likely, Dr. Momen — had demonstrated exceptional foresight and attention to detail. Esmaili admitted to himself that the planning stages for the forthcoming operation were handled with military competence. For it was, ultimately, a military mission.
Following the afternoon
Elham said, “Come, let us walk.” It was, Esmaili realized, often a time for confiding an operational detail that had been withheld. Elham seemed to mete out such items as if they were cash to be spent sparingly. So it was today.
“In order to assure security for our mission, it will be necessary to secure some additional areas. The holy warriors under Dr. Momen’s guidance will require some area for movement. You understand?”
“Certainly, Imam. But how much area? We have to know for planning purposes.”
The cleric turned briefly away, profiling his hatchet face. At length he said, “Certain locations around Hasbaya.”
“Hasbaya? That is a Druze area. I have operated there. Several villages are well defended with organized militias.”
Elham’s face remained expressionless, almost serene. “We know the strength of the Druze. In fact, I will confide to you that our operatives are watching those areas now, and conducting surveillance of their headquarters in Beirut and elsewhere.”
Esmaili was astute enough to appreciate what such surveillance involved. “You mean Rafix Kara? The
