improvement before long.”
Pitney usually was content to stand back and absorb information. But the Israeli’s comment left an obvious opening. “Excuse me, Lieutenant. But just how long do your sources indicate we have until Hezbollah makes a move?”
Halabi arched an eyebrow. “My sources are no better than anyone else’s most of the time. But I understand that some unusual measures are being taken for our benefit.” His concluding smile said that no further details were forthcoming.
The Lincoln Memorial was always crowded in the summer, which was exactly why Mordecai Baram chose that spot to meet Michael Derringer.
SSI’s founder arrived a few minutes early and took the rare opportunity to study the monument. As a lifelong, rock-ribbed Republican, Derringer had been educated to revere The Great Emancipator, but some libertarian doubts nudged the usual GOP dogma out of alignment. Having read Lincoln’s first inaugural, Derringer concluded that “Honest” Abe had been just as slick a politician as Bill Clinton — enforcing the Fugitive Slave Law while declaring secession illegal while conceding the people’s right to amend their government or overthrow it.
Derringer turned from the pale icon — ironically, the marble had been quarried in Georgia — and scanned the crowd.
There was Mordecai Baram.
Stepping around a crowd of poorly supervised children— apparently the only kind America produced anymore — the Israeli made eye contact with his SSI colleague. They avoided shaking hands and gave only a modest indication of recognizing one another. They stood side by side, looking up at the nineteen-foot statue as if it were the subject of an impromptu discussion.
“What’ve you got, Mordecai?”
“This is close hold, Michael, for obvious reasons.” The diplomat paused, looking left and right. “Intelligence sources have turned up something of possible concern for your people in Lebanon.”
“Your sources or ours?”
“There’s not much to go on, but decrypts mention three citations of something merely called ‘the operation.’ From context it appears to be aimed at southern Lebanon.”
Derringer turned to face Baram. “Your sources or ours?”
“Michael, please. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Isn’t that how it goes?”
Two boys scrambled past the men, brushing the adults’ suit coats. Derringer resisted the impulse to snag one of the offenders by the collar. “Very well. What else?”
“That’s all, at least for now.”
The retired admiral shook his head. “That’s it? Come on, there has to be more. This… operation… could be anything. Hell, it might be a surgery!”
“Michael, believe me. That’s all there is just now. You can make whatever you like of it. Tell your people or don’t concern them, as you wish. But I thought you should be informed.”
Derringer inhaled, held his breath, then expelled it. He found himself staring at the base of one of the thirty- six pillars supporting the Doric temple. “Very well, then. Thanks, Mordecai.” He turned to go, then paused and looked back. “You’ll tell me if…”
“I promise.”
34
The courier took a wrong turn in the dark. By the time he realized his error, it was too late.
Rounding the curve on the rutted pathway, the Toyota pickup lurched to a stop as the driver stomped on the brake. The fact that he was on that seldom traveled route was suspicious enough; running blackout lights was a giveaway to the militia manning the checkpoint.
A short firefight erupted at the junction of the Amasha-El Arian road.
While the driver lurched the battered vehicle into reverse, his passenger and the two escorts in the back opened fire. But they lacked a stable platform whereas the Druze sentries stood their ground, aimed just above the slitted headlights, and began shooting. At thirty meters most of the rounds went home.
The windshield erupted in a small blizzard of glass chips, turning darkly red on the inside. Struck by four rounds, the driver died almost immediately, and his foot slipped off the accelerator. The passenger, the most important man aboard, took two hits in the upper torso. He dropped his folding-stock AK and collapsed beside the driver.
One of the shooters standing in the back quickly recognized a no-win situation and bailed out. He sustained a grazing hit to one hip and staggered into the dark. His partner, more motivated or less experienced, braced himself against the rear of the cab. He lived long enough to empty his magazine and was gamely attempting to reload when unintentionally shot through the head.
Twelve seconds after it began, it ended.
Two of the militiamen approached the perforated pickup from each side, unaware that if either had to shoot, his partner would stand downrange. The third guard stood out of the subdued glare of the remaining headlight, covering their approach.
Leading with his muzzle, the left-hand searcher saw that the driver was dead, as was the gunner in the bed. Then the Druze leaned inside to turn off the engine. His colleague on the opposite side opened the door and allowed the passenger to slump partway out. The man was inhaling fast, shallow breaths. He muttered something unintelligible.
“What did he say?” asked the first militiaman.
“I do not know,” his partner replied. “I think it’s Farsi.”
The knock on the bedroom door came at an unseemly hour. Nevertheless, Yakov Livni had a standing order: far better to lose a little sleep than to snore through something important. As a military history buff he knew that Hitler’s generals had deemed
“What is it?” Livni called through the door.
“A priority radio report from Halabi,” came the reply.
“Bring it in.” Livni snapped on the bedside light and sat up on his cot.
The watch officer, an earnest captain wearing a yarmulke, stepped inside. He handed the scribbled note to the special operations chief, knowing that this time of day — or night — Colonel Livni would require an interpreter.
Playing an optical trombone, Livni extended the message form back and forth, seeking the best focal distance. He squinted, cocked his head, and gave up. “Something about an operation and special packages.” He looked up at the messenger. “Read it for me.”
The captain retrieved the form. “Lieutenant Halabi says one of his militia outposts intercepted a vehicle about 0215.” He checked his watch. “That was about fifty minutes ago. There was shooting, two Hezbollah dead and one wounded. The wounded man seems to be a messenger with an important dispatch for the cells operating around Hasbaya. Halabi attributes that to security concerns about transmitting messages by radio.”
Livni was fully awake now. “What else?”
“Well, the medics at Amasha treated the man, who is Iranian. They got someone to speak Farsi to him and evidently they overmedicated him. He began talking in random phrases. The one that kept recurring has to do with ‘the operation’ and something called ‘momen.’ “
The colonel leaned back against the wall, deep in thought. At length he asked, “Were there any documents?”
“Yes, sir. But Halabi says none have any bearing on special operations or this ‘momen’ reference.”
