waiting for us to shoot their buddy.”
A polite knock of the door was followed by Ayoob Slim and his English-speaking aide. “Excuse, please.”
“Yes, sir,” Leopole said. “Come in.”
Slim and the militiaman entered. The latter laid a knapsack on the table. It was half covered with dried blood. “We find this where you say,” the acolyte explained.
Leopole looked in the bag and found nothing of interest. He grinned at Furr. “Like you said, Rob. That’s a mort.”
Barrkman punched his partner in the arm. “Way to go, pard.”
Furr merely took another drink.
“Was there a body?” Leopole asked the Druze.
“No, sir. But much blood on ground. Dragged marks in grass. Two hours no more.”
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
When the militiamen had left, Leopole resumed the debriefing. “Okay, you nailed one because they sacrificed him for a chance at you. This Hazim character is smart and patient. That’s worth knowing. So how do you want to proceed?”
The shooters exchanged knowing looks. Barrkman said, “Let us sleep on it, Boss. We’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“All right.” Leopole clapped Barrkman on the shoulder and left.
As the door closed, Furr regarded his friend. “Man! How you gonna sleep after that?”
33
Imam Elham convened a small select audience to hear the message from Tehran. “The moment has arrived,” he announced. “We will begin in three days or less.”
Elham glanced around the room. The other cell leaders were focused, attentive. Mohammad Azizi appeared to possess an excess of nervous energy. Clearly he was eager to demonstrate his influence.
“This mission has no code name,” Azizi added. “It is simply ‘The Operation.’”
Esmaili assessed the fighters’ collective mood. Generally it was relaxed, though some of the men fidgeted. Perhaps they knew that The Operation would lead to their rendezvous in Paradise.
“We have received detailed instructions by messenger,” Elham continued. “Radio communication has been kept to a minimum, and little information has been passed that way, even in cipher.”
Esmaili felt a faint prickling between his shoulder blades, as if he sensed a sniper’s crosshairs settling there. “Excuse me, Imam, but that seems to indicate that some information has been radioed. The Jews and their American lackeys undoubtedly can break any code.”
Azizi was not pleased with the outspoken cell leader. While Elham had been away, coordinating other aspects of the forthcoming venture, Azizi became responsible for defending the operation’s planning and execution.
Elham interjected, concerned about any possible rift in the organization. “Yes, my brother. Given the opportunity to retrieve two or three very brief messages from hundreds or thousands sent on our net, and given enough time, any coded message can be broken, especially with computer analysis. But rest assured, brothers, that our benefactors in Tehran have taken every precaution.” He smiled indulgently, as if assuaging a classroom full of worried children. “Without going into unnecessary detail, I can say that what messages are sent by radio are done so in what is called a onetime pad. That means—”
“That the encryption method is used only for that message, never to be repeated.” Esmaili felt testy enough and worried enough to commit a breach of decorum.
Azizi suppressed a scowl at his Hezbollah colleague, aware that some men in the room were astute enough to interpret the building tension. “Quite so. Your experience does you honor, my brother. And therefore, you will understand that even if our enemies should overhear one of our messages, they will have a very difficult time reading it and an even harder time making sense of it.” He morphed his frown into a smile. “By then, it will be far too late for them.”
Elham took charge again, returning focus to the overall plan. Using a map pinned to the wall, he said, “The attacks on the villages will provide cover for the special operations teams infiltrating the Jewish border and proceeding to specially selected targets.” He pointed to the crossing points within a few kilometers of each other.
“And the method of attack?” Esmaili asked.
Sadegh Elham raised his stony gaze from the map to the questioner’s eyes. “Dr. Momen has provided us with the greatest possible weapon. Carrying it to Paradise represents the greatest possible honor.”
Esmaili grunted. “A suicide mission.”
“Oh, no, brother. Not a typical suicide bombing. Rather, each weapon is the greatest suicide bomb yet available to us.” He leaned back and actually smiled. It was a chilly, predatory smile with ice around the edges.
“We have two nuclear devices. Each of them can be carried by one man, and each bomber shall have at least three escorts. Their mission is to get him to his assigned target — at the cost of their lives.”
Phil Green stuck his head inside Nissen’s small office. “Newbies are here.”
Nissen laid down the map he was examining with the new Druze liaison officer, Hussain Halabi. The former NCO tapped the Israeli on the arm. “Come on, Lieutenant, let’s meet the troops.”
Outside, two men dismounted from the Land Rover. Robert Pitney was accompanied by a very large individual wearing green fatigues and a boonie hat that appeared half a size too small. Green exclaimed, “Ken, my man! You still using VWs for barbells?”
The two mercenaries exchanged comradely hugs and back slaps. Ken Delmore tweaked Green’s mustache. “You’re getting gray, amigo. Or did you just stop using Grecian Formula after Pakistan?”
Green reached up — it was a bit of a stretch — and pulled off Delmore’s hat. “At least I still have hair!”
Delmore, a determinedly cheerful giant, retrieved the hat and looked around. “Colonel Leopole said that Bob A. is here. Where’d he get off to?”
“Oh, he’s like, you know. Working.” Green shrugged philosophically. “Some people insist on doing that.” Sensing Nissen’s presence, he made the introductions. “Chris Nissen, Ken Delmore.”
The two shook, Nissen wincing slightly at Delmore’s crushing grip. “Welcome to our humble AO,” Nissen began. “You come well recommended.”
“Well, thank you, Sergeant. I’m really looking forward to working with you guys. Just show me the area, let me check my zero, and put me where you need me.”
“All right.” Nissen looked at Pitney. “Robert, you’re probably familiar with the general situation from your time at Amasha, but you might as well tag along while we show Ken around.”
Before Pitney could reply Nissen gestured to the IDF delegate. “Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant Halabi. He’s our… ah, new… Druze liaison officer.”
Halabi took three brisk steps forward and shook hands with the two Americans. “You are much needed here, gentlemen. Thank you for coming.”
Delmore grinned hugely. “My pleasure, sir.” Nissen and Green grinned at each other, and Pitney caught the meaning. The money’s better than good, which always doubled the pleasure.
Nissen turned from the informal meeting and led the way down the main road running through the village. “As you can see, this is a defensible position, especially with the open areas on most sides. The militia has been working to improve the perimeter, and we have people on guard twenty-four/seven.”
Delmore stopped abruptly and stood in his size twelve boots. “Good field of fire on this side of town, and it looked pretty much the same on the way in. Nearest cover must be — what? Three hundred meters?”
Halabi stood with arms akimbo. “It is 320 from here to that stand of trees. I suggested that we plant command-detonated mines in there but the militia lacks expertise and equipment in that area. I hope for some
