Breezy tapped fists in a hoo-ah sentiment.
Rob Furr and Rick Barrkman clearly approved of the news. Though he envied his partner’s opportunity during the raid, Barrkman had kept his opinion under control. “You lucky SOB” was all he had said.
Furr shrugged it off. “Luck of the draw, man. Coulda been you as easy as me.”
In the back row, Robert Pitney bit his lip. He was disappointed in himself more than he let on. He had allowed himself to relax behind the guarded walls of the compound and lacked a weapon when general quarters sounded. He vowed that it would never happen again. Never.
Leopole elaborated upon what he learned from headquarters. “The board of directors met this morning and decided that our contract does not allow us to pull out of this assignment. There was, however, some sentiment for releasing anybody who wants to go.” He paused to allow that information to settle. When nobody spoke up, he continued.
“The fact that we apparently were targeted rather than Mr. Kara’s people has been noted by the board. But there’s no provision for extra hazard pay since we’re already drawing hazardous duty and overseas bonuses.” He shrugged. “Sorry, guys. The pot of gold is maxed out.”
Chris Nissen’s Barry White tones rose from the first row. “Colonel, I don’t know about the rest of the guys but I’d sure like to get off the bull’s-eye here. When do we go to our op area?”
Leopole shifted his feet and folded his arms. “Well, Staff Sergeant, you know the old saying: ‘Be careful what you want because you might get it.’ We’re probably headed for the Hasbaya area day after tomorrow. But remember that if the Hezzies could pick us out of the crowd here in Beirut, they won’t have much trouble IDing us in the villages where the militias operate. So keep that in mind.
“As we mentioned before, we’ll try to blend in as much as possible, especially regarding clothes. I do not recommend carrying anything but AKs or Galils because that’s what the locals are packing.” He shifted his gaze to the snipers. “You guys with the precision rifles should keep them out of sight as much as possible.”
Phil Green raised a hand. “Colonel, now that Mr. Kara’s laid up, who’s the Druze honcho?”
“Well, Mr. Kara never intended to operate with us in the field so nothing’s changed in that regard. Major Ayash remains the senior IDF liaison officer, and we’ll be working with him and his subordinates.”
Wallender asked the obvious question. “Colonel, how is Mr. Kara? I mean, is there any solid info on his condition?”
“Well, he wants to talk to me so I’m going to see him before we leave.” Leopole did not bother expressing the sentiment, but it was one visit he was not going to enjoy.
21
The ward was well guarded. Kara’s people appeared at least as professional as the police officers and possessed more daunting hardware. Frank Leopole had never seen an automatic weapon in a hospital before, but as Kara himself was fond of saying, “This is Beirut.”
Pausing outside Kara’s door, Ayash turned to Leopole. “He may still be sedated but he insisted on seeing you before you go. I have arranged for a doctor to interrupt us in about five minutes.”
The American nodded. Then Ayash rapped a tattoo on the door — three fast, two slow — and called something in French.
Rafix Kara lay propped up in bed, an oxygen tube to his nose. Leopole noted that it was a double room with the other bed removed. A Druze occupied a chair in the far corner, and with a start Leopole realized that it was Walid, the surviving son, wearing a ballistic vest. He cradled his MP-5 across his knees, a suppressor screwed onto the barrel.
Rafix Kara turned his head and focused on the visitors. The light of recognition illuminated his dark eyes. He raised his right hand, as his left had an IV inserted.
Ayash approached the bed and grasped the extended hand. Speaking slowly and clearly, he said, “Mr. Kara, Lieutenant Colonel Leopole is here to see you.”
“My friend Frank.” The voice was a croak, the words slightly slurred. Leopole stepped beside Ayash and laid a hand on Kara’s arm.
“I’m here, Mr. Kara. I’m so glad that you escaped… and I am so sorry for the loss of your family.”
With a start, Leopole realized that he may have insulted Walid but the young man gave no hint of resentment. Rather, he continued watching the door.
“Frank, listen.” Kara managed a grip on Leopole’s arm. It was surprisingly firm. “My family… it is the Druze people. You came to help them.” He inhaled deeply, sucking in oxygen. “You can do it, Frank. Do not think about me. Just do your job with…” He licked his lips. “With the militias.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what we’re going to do.”
Kara inhaled again. “Promise me.”
“Of course, Rafix. Of course I promise.” An awkward silence fell across the room. Leopole was conscious of every passing second. Finally Ayash took advantage of the lull.
“Mr. Kara, I think that we should go. There is still…”
“Good-bye my friend Frank.” Kara gave another squeeze. “I will not be seeing you again, but thank you for all you have done. And what you will do.”
“Rafix, I am going to come back and see you before long. I’ll give you a full report…”
“No. No, that won’t happen, Frank. I’ll be gone by then. I’ll be gone.” He looked up, directly into Leopole’s eyes. “I deserve to die.”
Frank Leopole, former lieutenant colonel of Marines, could not think of a response. He sought for the words and, finding none, conceded defeat. “Good-bye, sir.”
In the hallway Ayash suddenly stopped. He turned and said, “Rafix Kara is a great man. But like all great men, he is flawed. In his case, it was not hubris but physical weakness that affected his judgment. The wounds he suffered over the years finally caught up with him, and he needed more and more pain relief. The morphine clouded his mind, and he unknowingly gave his enemies the information they needed to try to kill him. He survived the initial attack, but in losing his wife and one son he lost his will to live. So you see, Frank, they did kill him after all.”
Esmaili had a problem.
Ebrahim Larijani had left for Beirut as a subdued, visibly frightened young man. He returned with the aura of a blooded veteran despite the fact that there was no indication he had spilled any blood at all. Nevertheless, his colleagues accorded him deferential treatment that had been notably lacking before. After all, his rank in the class pecking order had only been superior to the departed Yazdi, blessings be upon him.
The exception, Esmaili noted, was Hazim. Still the best shooter in the class, he had welcomed Larijani upon return from Beirut but otherwise maintained coolly cordial relations.
Esmaili decided on a cell meeting in the truest Marxist sense.
Gathering his shooters well away from Azizi and Elham, the Hezbollah leader set up his unexpected star pupil for a lesson in humility.
“I have decided that we should sit down to study the lessons of Brother Larijani’s experience in Beirut. Because he is the first of you to experience sniper combat, each of you can learn from his observations and take them with you when your turn arises.” He turned to Larijani. “Brother, please describe your mission for us.”
Larijani shifted his position. All the men were sitting on the ground, arrayed in a circle. Esmaili usually conducted such meetings in that manner to reinforce the perception of equality among the cell members. It also meant that every man could look at everyone else, with attendant psychological pressures for composure and veracity.
“Well, we deployed as Brother Azizi directed. I was on the north side of the Zionist compound and Yazdi on the east. We were both roughly two hundred meters from the target area. We arrived in daylight to see the details
