“I intend to, First Sergeant. I intend to.”
4
Robert Pitney was on trial, and he knew it.
While driving the 120 miles from Reading, Pennsylvania, to Arlington, Virginia, the prospective Lebanon team member had time to contemplate his interview with Frank Leopole and Jack Peters. Making his way to SSI’s office took some doing in the D.C. area traffic, but he parked his Nissan Xterra in the employees’ lot as directed and entered the lobby eighteen minutes beyond his ETA.
Pitney introduced himself at the front desk and waited for his hosts to appear. It was immediately apparent who was whom: the former Marine O-5 with the high and tight haircut and the ex-Navy officer who looked completely at home in a three-piece suit.
“Colonel Leopole, I’m Robert Pitney.” The erstwhile cop extended his hand and exchanged grips with the operations officer, hard and fast. Peters’s handshake was equally firm without the same testosterone dose. “I apologize for being late,” Pitney hastened to add. “I hope you got my cell phone message.”
“Not a problem,” Leopole replied. “The receptionist passed your call while we were meeting with Admiral Derringer.”
Peters was aware that the two shooters were sizing up one another. He sought to ease the atmosphere, which was neither tense nor warm. “You did well to get here when you did… Robert?”
Pitney nodded. “Yes, sir. My father was Bob and I didn’t like ‘Bobby’ so I’ve always been Robert.” He grinned self-consciously. “Some people think it sounds pretentious but it’s better than ‘Hey kid.’ “
Leopole showed the way past the desk into the office spaces. “How long did it take, Robert?”
“I allowed three hours. I took Thirty to East York, then Eighty-three to Baltimore and Ninety-five on down, but there’s more construction and delays than I expected between here and 495.”
“Always is,” Leopole replied. “But I don’t suppose it would’ve been much of a saving if you’d flown.”
“No, sir. Besides, I don’t fly anymore unless I have to. The security bothers me, and it can be tedious traveling with a gun.”
“Ah, do you have one on you?” Peters asked.
“In the car. I figured I shouldn’t wear one in here without permission.”
Leopole felt himself warming a bit. “Well, don’t sweat it, Robert. We’re a gun-friendly outfit. Besides, you still carry a badge, don’t you?”
“Actually, Colonel, I do not. I left my department in Massachusetts after a couple of disagreements with the chief.” He paused, testing whether the SSI men were interested in the details. He took their silence as curiosity and ventured a brief explanation. “I’m a gun guy, but most law enforcement officers, LEOs, aren’t. When I became our training sergeant I requested a bigger budget, more than just qualification. The chief wanted to put the money into surveillance gear and radios. Well, we had a couple of, ah, marginal shootings, and I told the investigators what I thought.” He shrugged. “It cost the city some money and my services were no longer required. So I moved my family to Pennsylvania.”
“What do you carry?” Leopole asked.
“I have two Springfield XDs in the car. A .40 and a .45.”
Peters was puzzled. “Why two?”
“Well, sir, if I have to use one I still have the other to get me home.”
Frank Leopole appreciated the practical aspects of Robert Pitney’s philosophy. “I’m a 1911 man myself, but it’s not about gear. It’s about training, which is what we’d like to discuss with you.” He motioned toward a chair in the conference room and the three men settled down to business.
Peters took the lead, as he expected. “Robert, as you know we’re forming a training team to work in Lebanon. Frankly, we’re quite enthused about your background, especially since you’re well qualified on weapons and you speak Arabic.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Peters. But I should say up front that I’m a pistol shooter and rifleman, mainly from IPSC three-gun competition. I don’t know much about belt-fed weapons and nothing about explosives. But I do have a lot of experience as an instructor, and you have the references from my police and military clients. As for the language, well, it’s mainly conversational. I’d have to study some to get up to speed in terminology for weapons and tactics.”
Peters said, “We’ll introduce you to Omar Mohammed, our head training officer. He speaks all the major Muslim languages and can brief you on some of the technical aspects we’re addressing.”
Leopole threw out a toss-up question. “Have you been to Lebanon?”
Pitney’s green eyes narrowed slightly.
“May I ask what kind of business?” Peters interjected.
“Import-export. Last time was in 2002, but I’m not involved in that.”
Leopole decided to cut to the religious chase. “Robert, I understand that you converted to Islam. Is that correct?”
Pitney gave the SSI man a three-count before answering. “Colonel, Shareefa’s family is Sunni, like ninety percent of Jordanians. So that’s my affiliation, and our children’s. But if you’re wondering about me because I’m officially a Muslim, well, you already mentioned your Mr. Mohammed…” He allowed the sentiment to dangle in midair.
Leopole shifted in his seat. “No, no, nothing like that, Robert. You’re right about Dr. Mohammed. He’s invaluable here. But he was born a Muslim, and I just want to clarify things. You understand that some of the operators you’d be working with might wonder why an American would convert to Islam in… times like these.”
Pitney leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “Colonel Leopole, I married Shari nine years ago. Some of my fellow policemen wondered the same thing, before 9-11. Most of them saw I was the same guy, doing the same job to the same standards as before. I was still Sergeant Pitney, not Sergeant Abdullah. The ones who let it interfere with their work got transferred to other divisions.
“Now, my daughters inherited a tough situation. They’re growing up with kids who’ve never known anything about Islam but the war on terror. Their knowledge of Muslims is limited to suicide bombers and religious zealots. But my little girls were born in this country and they’re going to be raised as loyal Americans.” He leaned back, fingers drumming on the table. “Next question.”
Leopole looked at Peters, who looked back at Leopole. Finally Peters asked, “Mr. Pitney, when can you start?”
Colonel Yakov Livni brushed a topographical map with the fingers of one hand. “Solly, we need to reassess our operations in Lebanon. We’re already overextended, and it’s… costing us good men.”
Brigadier General Solomon Nadel knew exactly what Livni meant. The brigade commander had attended the burial, then put it behind him. Though two years younger than his subordinate, he had more than a year in seniority, and was connected besides. Not that it mattered: they were both professionals who respected one another’s opinions, however infrequently they meshed.
Nadel scratched his head, habitually sunburned beneath his thinning hair. He often wore his beret stuffed in an epaulette rather than wearing the ridiculous cap. Away from the troops he preferred an American boonie hat, which at least afforded some protection to the face and neck, but a
“Yakov, I do not disagree with you. My God, you know the situation in Northern Command as well as I. The whole brigade is overextended, guarding its assigned area and supporting your Egoz boys across the border. For that matter, so is most of the Ninety-sixth Division.” He spread his hands in frustration. “I have made two requests through channels for more assets or fewer operations. The division commander supports me but Mossad and the cabinet want to keep the pressure on Hezbollah, and supporting the Lebanese is the best way to do that.”
Livni turned away from the chart table and slumped into a camp chair. He almost upset the Galil rifle leaning
