Another ninety minutes passed before they reached the outskirts of the Bekaa Valley proper. Bolan smelled the change before he saw it, picking up the various aromas of humanity and cultivated earth, in contrast to the arid hills and desert they were leaving. Somewhere up ahead were cooking fires and livestock, families and fields. His enemies were waiting for him there — and possibly some friends.
The hills provided cover as they passed outlying farms and villages. In one such, even from a distance, Bolan picked out murals in the likeness of the late Ayatollah Khomeini, and the ayatollah's strident voice was broadcast over amplifiers in the village square. Around the blaring speakers, men and women went about their business, seemingly immune to the harangue.
"Does that go on around the clock?"
"They turn him off at sundown," Chamoun replied, "and start him up again at dawn. Even in death the great man guides them through their day — each day — with words of wisdom."
Bolan shuddered at the thought of listening to twelve- or fourteen-hour sermons every day. It was a daunting prospect, but experience had taught him human beings can adapt to almost any situation over time.
"Are these believers?"
"Some." Chamoun was studying the village with a stern tactician's eye. "The leaders of the Islamic revolution bribe the elders they can't convert on faith alone, recruit the younger peasants or intimidate them, and the rest fall into line. These people are accustomed to obeying orders — from the government, the Syrians, the warlords, hashish traders. It's in their blood. Their faith in God gives them strength to persevere."
The warrior glanced at Chamoun, surprised. "You recognize their dedication, then?"
The Christian rebel smiled. "Of course. I make no war against these people over their religion. That's for zealots in Beirut. We fight Iran's people here because they are invaders. They would subjugate our people and make Lebanon a foster child of Teheran. In the pursuit of power, they align themselves with evil men who deal in poison, and their souls are lost."
They put the village and its noisy marketplace behind them, trekking on another six or seven miles before the scouts veered off along a narrow, dusty track that climbed through rising hills. A pair of sentries recognized Chamoun and showed themselves, but Bolan had a feeling there were others, carefully concealed along the way.
The camp was simple — tents and shanties situated in a glen that featured running water and a shady grove. Among the trees, about half a dozen children hesitated in the middle of a game resembling tag, prepared to bolt and hide if there was any hint of danger from the new arrivals. Women tended cooking fires around the center of the compound, and the men kept weapons close at hand.
"My people," Bolan's contact said by way of introduction. "Some would call us rebels. I prefer to think that we are patriots, defending our homeland against traitors and outsiders. Is that so wrong?"
"I might not be the one to ask. I haven't marched in step with my elected government for quite a while."
Chamoun examined Bolan's face. "You understand, I think, what we are fighting for. The Shiites have a home here. I would not deny them that. But we don't need the Iranians to warp our minds, the dealers in narcotics to corrupt our young. I will not rest while enemies remain on Bekaa soil."
"Let's see what we can do about that, shall we?"
They were moving past the cook fires toward a tent that seemed to be Chamoun's command post, when a woman darted out in front of them and blocked their progress. She was young and lovely, with the dark complexion of her race and eyes that sparkled when she smiled.
"Is this the stranger?"
Chamoun ignored her question and addressed himself to Bolan. "Please forgive my sister's rash impertinence," he said. "Despite her age, she hasn't learned her place."
A spark of anger flashed behind the woman's eyes. "I know my place as well as anyone," she snapped. "I should be fighting at your side against our enemies. Now tell me," she addressed herself to Bolan, "have you come to help us?"
"If I can."
"One man?" Her tone was skeptical. "I hope you are a mighty warrior."
"Come with me." Chamoun brushed past his sister. "And, by all means, don't take Mara seriously."
Bolan wouldn't let himself glance back, but he could feel her eyes on him, following his every movement as he crossed the camp and disappeared inside her brother's tent. Would she be friend or foe? And did it matter in the long run? He had work to do, and enemies enough to occupy his time outside the rebel camp. And, yet, there had been something in her eyes…
Deliberately he pushed the image out of mind and concentrated on the task at hand. Distractions could be fatal in the hellgrounds, and he didn't plan on giving up his edge, however slim it might turn out to be.
If only he hadn't been captivated by those eyes.
* * *
"So, that is the American."
Startled by the voice at her elbow, Mara Chamoun turned to face the speaker, nearly wincing as she recognized Amir Rashad. His smile repulsed her, and she cringed as his eyes flicked down to her breasts and back again, making her feel unclean.
"It is," she answered simply.
"He will join us?"
"That is up to Joseph."
"Of course."
Rashad was staring at her brother's tent, and despite the respite from his hungry eyes, Mara remained uncomfortable in his presence. "I have work to do," she said, and turned away from him.
Of the single men in camp, Amir Rashad stood out as one who made her skin crawl. Mara loathed the way he stared at her and sometimes even licked his lips. So far he hadn't tried to touch her, but the day would come, and when it happened, Mara thought that she might have to kill him. If her brother didn't do it first.
She concentrated on the stranger, this American who had been sent to them from more than halfway around the world. He was a warrior — she'd seen it in his face — and would have known that much without the trappings of his uniform and weapons. This one had her brother's look of dedication to a cause that may be hopeless but was never given up as lost. She wasn't certain he could help them, but she knew that he would try.
Why was she interested in the American? There had been other visitors in camp from time to time, but they were always small men from Beirut, or Europeans with their pasty faces blistered by the sun. This man was different, hardened by the life that he had led. A killer? That was given, but he wouldn't kill from spite or any other petty motive. Like her brother, the American would choose his enemies with care.
And what of allies?
Mara watched the children playing, shadows ducking in and out among the trees, oblivious to plans of violent death that her brother and the American were hatching a few short yards away. In their turn the boys would eventually become soldiers in the cause, and some or all of them would give their lives in combat with the enemy. She didn't find the prospect daunting or depressing. Such was life, and it would never change until their foes had been defeated.
Mara had grown up on war, indoctrinated by her father and her uncles in the grim necessity of fighting for the land. She hadn't been considered a potential warrior, as her sex had marked her for the more prosaic tasks of cooking, cleaning and bearing children. Thus far she'd managed to escape the latter, though she wasn't strictly virginal. Her young man had been killed in combat with the Druze militia, and the intervening months had scarcely dimmed his memory. Still, Mara was mature enough to put the past behind her, concentrating instead on the future, grim as it might be.
Would the American be helpful to their cause? What moved him to enlist with strangers in a war so far from home?
No matter. He must have his reasons. They would be made clear in time. Just now his talents mattered more than motives, and his contribution to the cause would be measured in deeds.
Her flesh was creeping, and she turned in time to catch Amir Rashad before he turned away, pretending to be occupied with other things. For just an instant, she considered speaking to
her brother, having him persuade Rashad to mind his eyes, but Joseph had more important things to deal with than a lecher in the ranks. Rashad wasn't so great a threat that Mara couldn't deal with him herself.
And, meanwhile, there was the American. He might not be among them long, and she'd like to know more of him while she had the chance. It was an opportunity that might not come again, a chance to look outside her narrow orbit and behold the world at large.
Her mind made up, she waited for the stranger to complete his business with her brother. After they were finished with their talk, Mara thought, there would be time to catch him on his own.
* * *
Amir Rashad had learned to cope with the disdain in Mara's eyes. She didn't take him seriously as a man, but that would change once he had proved himself, when he had wealth and power of his own. Experience had taught Rashad that women followed money as a hunting dog pursues its prey. They found the lure irresistible, and it would be the same with Mara, when his time came.
She'd have to realize that her brother was chasing shadows, living in a dreamworld. He'd never change the Bekaa Valley with his posturing and skirmishes against an overwhelming enemy. In time he'd be ground to dust and scattered to the winds. It would require imagination and tenacity to weather out the coming storm.
Rashad had both, and he was hedging by cultivating allies in the hostile camp. The errands had been trivial at first. A whisper now and then, with payment made in cash. If Chamoun prepared to launch a raid against the growers, Rashad would pass the word, allowing preparations to be made. It bothered him in the beginning to realize that people with the same beliefs were being killed because of information he supplied, but life was hard, and all survival had a price attached. If there were also risks, at least Rashad saw an immediate reward for his activities, instead of waiting months and years for the elusive victory foretold by Joseph Chamoun.
Rashad wasn't a traitor in his own, small understanding of the term. A traitor violated trust, broke faith with cherished friends, but such was not the case with him. He had no friends of any consequence within the camp, no single person who would mourn his passing if he died. There were acquaintances who tolerated him, and some who flaunted their contempt in public. None of them were interested in Rashad, except as one more body for the ranks, another pawn to be used up — and ultimately sacrificed — in Chamoun's unending war.
He might have left the camp to make his way alone, except for Mara. From the moment of their first encounter, he was smitten with her beauty, fiercely jealous of her peasant lover. In the evenings when they walked along, Rashad had followed them and watched them from a distance, brooding as their love was consummated underneath the desert sky. In desperation he'd seen a chance to end it, save her from herself, and he had spoken to his contacts, briefing them about the next raid. The peasant's death had been a stroke of luck, accepted by Rashad as God's blessing on his love for Mara.
She'd change her mind about him one day soon, when she discovered that her brother's dreams were merely so much smoke. Rashad wouldn't inform her of his own role in the unit's defeat — forgiveness might have been too much to ask — but affluence and power would conspire to make her want him, drive the peasant and his boyish good looks from her mind.
The stranger posed a problem, but Rashad wasn't discouraged. He would know Chamoun's intentions when the time came, and it would be relatively simple to inform the men who trusted him, relied upon his information. The American would be Chamoun's last chance, a bid to crush his enemies with foreign help, and once the threat was neutralized. Amir Rashad would be in a position to demand more money, more respect.
He'd been watching Mara on the far side of the compound, and she caught him at it, frowning disapproval. It made no difference. Women changed their minds from day to day and hour to hour. She'd change her mind about Rashad when he had laid the proper groundwork, gone through all the necessary moves. She simply wouldn't have a choice.
Content with his position in the scheme of things, his choice of sides in the engagement yet to come, Rashad moved closer to the tent where Joseph Chamoun was huddled with the tall American. He wouldn't eavesdrop on their conversation; that would be too hazardous. But when Chamoun emerged, there'd be ample opportunity to ask some pointed questions, learn enough to let his contacts know that he was shooting for the big time.
Soon.
He could feel it in his bones.
* * *
"Your plan is dangerous," Chamoun declared. "These people aren't fools."
"Agreed. But at the moment they're in trouble. Shaken and disorganized. They need to find another outlet for their poison in a hurry. That's where I come in."
The rebel leader clearly had his doubts. "From what you tell me of your recent clash in Nicosia, they could hardly trust you."
"My guess is they don't know what to think right now. It's fifty-fifty whether they believe I set them up in Cyprus or they've got another player in the game. They're hungry for a new connection, and they haven't got much time to put it all together. That's my edge."
"I'm accustomed to a more direct approach," Chamoun replied.
"That's fine, assuming that you have the troops to make it stick. Unfortunately, when I look around outside, you seem to be a little short on numbers."
"We are strong enough."
The Executioner had touched a tender nerve, and he retreated diplomatically. "No doubt, but if these people have a weak point, I believe it's greed. Talk money like you mean it, and they let their guard down just enough make them vulnerable."
"Then we strike?"
"You got it. Once they let us have an opening, I'll need your strength to follow through and nail them down."
"They may not welcome you. There's a chance that you will fail."
"In that case," Bolan said, "you can go on with the direct approach and have a ball. Right now I'm asking for your help to back my play. It won't take long."
"How long?"
"Two days," he said, offhand. "No more than three."
"Such confidence."
"I have a feeling for these men. They're in business — some of them, at least — to make the largest profit they can gather in the shortest time. They're earning zilch without the Cyprus pipeline, but they still have overhead. If I can reach the men on top, I think they'll play."
"Beware of Bakhtiar," Chamoun advised. "He doesn't share Moheden's lust for money."
"No," the Executioner conceded, "but he still wants something all the same. He's looking for a contact in the States, someone to circulate his product while he gives America a taste of holy war at home."
"Will he believe you're that man?"
"He might. If nothing else, the prospect ought to put me close enough to take him down." He hesitated. "What's your reading on the Palestinian?"
"Halaby? Oh, he hates the Jews all right, but he's also interested in — how would the Americans describe it? — looking out for number one?"
"That fits."
"Halaby broke with Arafat because the PLO command wouldn't adopt his schemes for more elaborate attacks on Israel. Always he'd have some plan for an invasion, with himself in charge, and Arafat rebuffed him. It isn't enough for him that everyone should hate the Jews. The world must also recognize Halaby."
"That's a bonus. I can stroke his ego if I have to. Offer him a little something extra on the side. His troops might come in handy if he got the notion Bakhtiar was starting to monopolize the spotlight."
"It's possible."
"Until I have a foothold," Bolan said, "I'd like to take the pressure off. Can do?"
"My men won't obstruct you, but you realize that there are other groups involved. Our war against the growers is a struggle shared with others. Some will listen if I ask them to postpone attacks. The rest may not."
"I'll take the chance. If you can call your markers in, it ought to give me breathing room. I don't expect a miracle."
"You may require one."
"Thanks. I like
your confidence."
Chamoun allowed himself another dazzling smile. "Believe me when I say I wish you all success. A victory in your cause is a victory in mine as well. I won't profit if you fail, but I have learned that wishful thinking is a vice."
"A little hope won't kill you."
"No. I think we can afford a little hope."
But it would take a damned sight more, the soldier realized, to carry off his mission in the Bekaa hellgrounds. Hope was fine for newlyweds and kids on Christmas Eve, but it had never saved a combat soldier on the firing line. Worse yet, unrealistic hope could be a killer.
Bolan would be going into battle with his eyes wide open, hoping for the best and counting on the worst when he made contact with his enemies. They'd be curious, for openers, and he should count on some hostility besides. How much would greed help tip the scales? Enough for him to pull it off? Or maybe just enough to get him killed?
Whatever, if it started to unravel, he'd have to try another angle of attack. Chamoun's way. The direct approach.
Chapter Sixteen
The next day was devoted to Bolan's orientation, with a guided tour of the Bekaa Valley starting shortly after dawn. The Executioner had finished breakfast — something that reminded him of curried rice — when Chamoun appeared before him in the uniform of a Syrian army officer. Bolan noted that half a dozen other rebels were dressed in similar fashion, and Chamoun carried an extra uniform, draped across one arm.
"It may not be a perfect fit," he said, handing over the khaki garments, "but I believe this should suffice."
"Are we enlisting?"
"Not quite. But to pass unnoticed in the Bekaa, you must put on a familiar guise. The people are accustomed to the sight of Syrian patrols. Our native enemies cooperate with the invaders and accept their presence in the valley as a gift from God. We've managed to acquire some vehicles and samples of their clothing, which are sometimes useful."
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