Vulcan's Fire

merchant who supplies so much money to the Druze and the warlord who keeps them armed?”

“We are well informed on all such men, my brother. But you need not concern yourself with those measures. Focus instead on the task at hand.” He turned to begin walking, knowing that his colleague would follow. “You will have some assistance. We have been preparing for this mission for many months now, and reinforcements will be available.”

Esmaili absorbed that information and the implications. “May I ask how many men? And their state of training or experience?” He did not enjoy having to cadge operational information from the imam, but had learned that if he did not ask, frequently he was not told until later.

“The details are still being finalized in Tehran and Damascus. We will have the information in ample time, though.”

Damascus¹. So it is a larger operation than I thought.

As if reading Esmaili’s thoughts, Elham continued. “I can tell you, my brother, that the technical material for our mission must come through Syria. That information is for your ears only.”

“Certainly, Imam.”

“I mention that detail because it may be necessary for you to dispatch some guards to conduct the shipment here. We cannot always rely upon our Syrian brothers for the public support that we might wish.” He curled a lip, sneering at the niceties of diplomacy. “But they have often been most helpful in the past, and as long as our people are involved in the shipments, I am told that there should be little trouble.”

Esmaili was enough of a strategist to grasp the essentials. “The goal, then, is deniability of direct Syrian support.”

Elham almost smiled. “More precisely, the goal is political deniability. Our government, the Syrians, and the United Nations will conduct a masquerade. In such cases, each side knows that the others are being disingenuous but it is to the advantage of all to proceed with the charade. If no one objects, the result is the same as if nothing happened at all.” A genuine smile unfolded itself. “Such people much prefer to avoid unpleasant facts than to deal with them.”

“Then I suppose we should be grateful that there are such creatures.”

“God is great, brother. God is great.”

BEIRUT

Leopole had inherited Kamal Azzam, Kara’s chief bodyguard, who was charged with getting the American and Major Ayash to the airport for their return to Israel. Before they joined Ayash, Leopole wanted another perspective on Rafix Kara. He had no option other than Kamal.

“Kamal, I am worried about Mr. Kara. Is he all right?”

Azzam was nothing if not loyal. “Yes, of course he is all right. What do you mean, Mr. Leopole?”

“Well, when I left him he was much more, uh, animated than before.” Leopole recognized that Azzam’s English had its limits. “I mean, he seemed free-spirited, almost playful.”

The security man nodded in comprehension. “Oh, yes yes. That is medicine. Mr. Kara takes pills for pain.” He touched his head with both hands. “Has been okay mostly but sometimes old wounds hurt him still.”

The SSI operative filed that intelligence for reference. He wondered if Yakov Livni knew that the IDF’s senior Druze contact might be subject to morphine highs now and then.

Leopole heard the ballistic crack; a high-pitched snap instantly followed by a supersonic object striking concrete. Several more followed.

Frank Leopole was too experienced a gunfighter to remain upright on a city street, looking for the source of the shooting. He dived behind a fruit cart outside a stylish shop, drawing his loaner Sig as he did so.

He peeked from behind the cart, trying to sort out the situation. More gunfire. People racing in every direction, some screaming, a few sobbing. Two or three had assumed awkward positions on the sidewalk. Typical confusion. He remembered to breathe, sucking in oxygen to fuel his system.

The cart provided decent concealment but precious little cover. A rifle round could easily penetrate it, and probably most pistol ammo from across the street. Call it twenty-five meters.

Then Leopole remembered: there had been no time to check the Sig’s sights. He had no idea where it shot. Worse than that, he did not even know if it functioned. While it was extremely unlikely that Rafix Kara would own an inoperable weapon, one just didn’t know until one tried.

Leopole saw a hanging sign across the street, advertising women’s clothes. The Arabic script offered no decent aimpoint but the O in “Boutique” was a decent substitute for a zeroing bull’s-eye. He raised the P229, gripping with both hands, and stroked the trigger. The 9mm round impacted the sign, moving it visibly, but at that distance it was impossible to tell where.

He felt fifty percent better.

Kamal.

Leopole looked behind him, seeking Kara’s bodyguard. No sign of him. That was bad news indeed; the Druze was obviously a serious young man. Leopole was skilled at sizing up men, and Kamal had impressed him as dedicated to the point of obsession.

Where is he?

Twenty meters to his left front, Leopole glimpsed two men, one with an AK and the other with an FAL. They were walking briskly, diagonally across the street in his direction. He noted that they covered one another, the FAL man reloading while his partner scanned left and right. They’ve done this before.

The American looked again for his escort. The two shooters probably were hostile, but in West Beirut you never knew. They might be responding to an unseen threat. Leopole leaned back on his haunches and saw two forms on the sidewalk. One was a woman who was still moving; the other was Kamal Azzam, who was not.

That settled it. When the shooters got fifteen meters away, Leopole centered his borrowed Sig’s sights on the right-hand man with the AK. The American’s mind was rational; almost calm. His heart was not. He thought: Squeeze between the beats. Not enough time. He pressed the double-action trigger once, twice, three times.

Then he breathed and shifted targets.

The AK gunner had flinched visibly and turned partly away. In that interval Leopole had a new sight picture and was taking up the slack when more gunfire sounded to his left. Somebody’s shooting at the FAL guy. The remaining hostile spun on a heel, fired two rounds semiauto, and collapsed. More shots followed him to the ground.

Leopole shifted his scan to the right again and saw the AK shooter backpedaling to the far curb, firing short, ill-directed bursts. He must have a vest. It was longish distance for a head shot, but Leopole tried. He fired once, saw no hit, and realized that he still did not know where to hold. People were running in the background. Rule Four: be sure of your target and backstop. He reached for the magazine pouch on his left side and managed a tactical reload. Then he thought: Kamal.

Staying low, Leopole dashed to the Druze. From ten meters away he realized the young man was dead. Live people don’t look like that. Kamal had worn soft body armor that offered no protection against rifle ammunition.

A Lebanese in a uniform knelt beside the wounded woman, an AK-74 lying beside her. Leopole wondered if the gendarme — or whatever he was — had shot the second offender. Belatedly, the SSI man remembered to holster his pistol. It was not the time or place for a stranger to be seen packing.

A high-pitched European-style siren warbled up the block. Its two-tone, high-low bleat announced that Red Crescent had been summoned. With professional detachment, Leopole admired the response time. He knew of American emergency responders who refused to enter a crime area until the street was blue with police.

Abruptly, he remembered a National Guardsman who had responded to the Watts riots in ‘65. Leopole was not old enough to remember those days, when “African-Americans” were “Negroes.” But he knew that black radicals had torched buildings, then shot at the fire trucks, killing a fireman and two cops. The firemen had withdrawn, quipping, “Burn, baby, burn.”

Fahed Ayash was by his side. “Colonel, are you hurt?”

Leopole stirred himself from his reverie. He looked at the liaison officer. “Yeah, I’m okay. But…” He gestured at the body.

“Yes, I know.” The Israeli Druze grasped the American by the arm and led him toward a cab. “We must get