Imam Sadegh Elham had never been accused of subtlety. Though Esmaili thought that Azizi would have provided a preliminary report, the cleric demanded an immediate debrief. In fact, he was waiting when the truck arrived at the Hezbollah cell’s headquarters.
Esmaili’s feet had barely touched the ground. He was sore and tired, more focused on addressing his sniper trainees than dealing with the priestly commissar from Tehran. “Imam, I can only say that the attack went as planned. I do not have direct information on the results but surely Brother Azizi can provide that for you.” He turned to go.
A bony hand extended from the white robe, clutching Esmaili’s arm. “I have heard from Azizi. I would hear from you. Brother.”
Esmaili shot a glance at Larijani. The boy was being hailed as a hero by his classmates, including Hazim, who apparently had recovered from his snit at not being chosen.
The grip tightened on Esmaili’s arm. He looked down, then raised his gaze to Elham’s face. The imam saw the emotion there and released his grip. “Come, let us talk briefly.”
Accepting the situation, Esmaili ordered his thoughts. “The coordination with Azizi’s fighters was good. The timing went well, based on the information the Beirut organization provided. Our two snipers opened fire on schedule and Yazdi was killed. I do not know if they hit any of the Zionists.”
“No matter. They did well enough.” Thus did Sadegh Elham write the epitaph of Moshen Yazdi. Esmaili thought:
“I did not expect Larijani to survive,” Esmaili replied. Somehow, he felt a growing urgency in putting a name if not a face on those who made the sacrifices.
Elham ignored the sentiment. “Your report taken with Azizi’s pleases me, brother. The coordination between two units that had never worked together speaks well for everyone concerned.” He almost smiled. “Tehran will be pleased as well.”
Esmaili read between the lines. Dr. Momen will be pleased. It was all Esmaili could do to ask what relevance the recent operation had to whatever was forthcoming.
“May I provide anything else, Imam?”
Elham waved dismissively. “You may go.”
Derringer gaveled the meeting to order. It was a rarity, as SSI’s directors normally maintained boardroom decorum, but the news from Beirut had goaded most of the attendees into unaccustomed excitement.
As the chatter abated, Derringer remained standing. He wanted to exercise some command authority, though a couple of the people in the room had outranked him.
“I will summarize,” he began. “Last night an attack was made against the Kara compound in Beirut, presumably by Hezbollah operatives. Rafix Kara’s vehicle was rammed by a suicide car, resulting in the death of his wife, one son, and two other people. A second car smashed through the gate and unloaded four assassins armed with small arms and explosives. They were all killed but they killed some of Kara’s people and inflicted damage on the compound. One of our team members was seriously wounded.”
Derringer looked around the room. The short-notice meeting had barely drawn a quorum but that was sufficient. “The question before us is how this attack will affect our training team’s contract with the Israelis and the Druze militia. Our people were about ready to leave for the Hasbaya region but now they’re forted up, consulting with the IDF liaison officers.”
Marshall Wilmont spoke for many of those present. “Admiral, it seems this attack was aimed specifically at our team. I mean, as I understand it, there hasn’t been an attack on Kara’s facility in recent months. The timing just doesn’t look coincidental.”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m in touch with Mr. Baram of the Israeli embassy, and he’s trying to get more information for us. But I don’t think we can expect any hard intel right away. Meanwhile, I promised Frank that we’d discuss the situation and let him know of any decisions sometime today.” He looked around again. “Any thoughts? Corin?”
Corin Pilong was SSI’s contracting officer. She was so slightly built that she barely qualified as petite, though her intellect more than offset her Filipina physique. “Admiral, it’s as I expected when we talked last night. This was accepted as a high-risk assignment, to the extent that we acknowledged the chance of fatalities. In fact, we took out higher insurance premiums for that very reason.” She paused a moment to consult her notes, then continued in her silky voice. “There is nothing in the contract that allows us to withdraw for… well, really, for any reason.”
Derringer nodded. “Yes, that’s what we expected. After all, it reflects the circumstances that pertained when we agreed to work with the Israelis. Now, George Ferraro isn’t here — he’s in Spain with his wife — but I contacted him. As VP and chief financial officer he says that we cannot afford to violate the contract.” Derringer gave an ironic smile. “That’s not exactly news to anybody in this room, but I’d like the record to show that George’s input was received.”
Wilmont wriggled his ample bottom in his chair, a sure sign that he wanted to speak. Derringer took note. “Yes, Marsh.”
Addressing the board members, Wilmont revealed what Derringer already knew. “A few days ago I talked with Brian Cottle, who basically approved us for this job when others in State didn’t want to hear the letters SSI. He indicated that since things have changed in Lebanon, there’s more, shall I say, appreciation for what we do. He didn’t come right out and say that we’re off the hook for the Iranian yellow cake scam that the Israelis ran on Foggy Bottom and Langley, but that seems to be the way it’s going.”
Samuel Small, an erstwhile Air Force colonel, wrinkled his brow. “So how does that affect our Druze contract, Marsh?”
“Well, I mention it because if we’re getting out of detention with State, maybe we don’t have to rely on this contract for our corporate survival.”
Small drummed his fingers on the table. “So are you saying that maybe we should pull out and let the chips fall?”
Wilmont sensed that he was being made the heavy: someone who would violate a contract and hope for better offers. “No, damn it! That’s not what I’m saying!” He glanced around, realized that his voice had risen, and people were staring at him. “I just think that we’re obligated to consider whether the increased risk to our people is worth the penalty for withdrawing unilaterally.”
Derringer sought to retrieve the situation. “I concur with Marsh that we owe our loyalty to the men we send in harm’s way. But I talked with Frank late yesterday and he says they want to stick to the mission, at least for now.” He glanced at Sandra Carmichael. She was not a board member but she attended most meetings to provide information. “Sandy? Any thoughts?”
Carmichael raised a manicured hand to brush a blond curl. “From the operations side, Admiral, I don’t have much to add. Frank’s the one with his boots on the ground, and the guys trust him. If they want to continue with the job, it’s their call.”
“Very well.” Derringer caught a gesture from Thomas Varlowe, chairman of the advisory board. “Yes, General.”
The former three-star leaned forward, his chiseled features and gunmetal gray hair emphasizing his demeanor. “It seems that there’s a consensus that we will proceed with the contract. That is as it should be, but I want to emphasize the point. If this firm is to retain its credibility, and therefore its future, it
Michael Derringer declared, “This meeting is adjourned.” He felt a tug at his heart as Marshall Wilmont slumped in his chair.
“We’re staying,” Leopole declared.
The SSI operators gathered in the lounge area murmured their approval. In the second row, Bosco and
