Their night vision gave the room an eerie green tint. The lasers from their assault rifles danced around the room in front of them. To their left was the TV and a couple of ratty easy chairs. A small dining table with four chairs stood on their right. In front of them was a hallway. The rest of the room was clear.
Santos moved out first and MacMurphy followed him into the hall. A partially open door cut a line into the wall on their left. Santos pressed his back to the section of wall next to the door and pushed it open slowly with his foot. The door squeaked open on rusty hinges, making both Santos and MacMurphy cringe.
Santos eased into the room and scanned it. It was a bathroom. He saw a tub, sink and toilet, but otherwise it was empty. He glanced back at MacMurphy who nodded and then moved toward another door on the right side of the hallway. Santos followed.
MacMurphy stood next to the door and tried the knob. He turned it slowly until he felt the latch open and then gently pushed the door open. Hearing nothing, he moved through the door and into the room with his rifle at the ready.
He was met by two loud gunshots and a punch to the chest, which knocked him back into Santos. He reflexively touched off two silent rounds. They darted wildly into the ceiling as Santos shoved him aside and sent a short, silent burst of 5.56 mm rounds into the chest of the shooter. In the last reflexive action of his life, the shooter fired another loud shot at nothing in particular and slumped into the corner of the room.
“You okay?” whispered Santos.
Checking his Kevlar vest, MacMurphy replied, “I think so. Man that hurts. Damn! He creased my arm, too. Sonofabitch.”
Santos checked MacMurphy’s left arm and found an inch-long, burn-like wound oozing blood. “Could’ve been worse. Let’s go. We’re not done. There should be more of them. And they’re definitely awake now . . .”
MacMurphy quickly tore a strip of fabric from his robe’s hem and used it to bandage his arm. Then they stepped back into the hall and moved toward the back of the house. The only remaining room lay at the end of the corridor. When they reached the door, they flattened themselves against the wall at either side of it, Santos on the right and MacMurphy on the left. MacMurphy winced when the edge of his cut brushed against the wall.
The knob was closest to Santos and he tried it. Locked. He looked over at MacMurphy, who said, “Shoot it.”
Santos fired and kicked the door open and heard a woman scream, “She’s got a gun!”
He dove through the door and hit the ground rolling. In an instant, he assessed the situation. There was a cot to his right with the hostage in it and someone moving at the rear of the room. He instinctively fired a long burst at the movement. At the same time, MacMurphy turned into the room, saw the dark figure, and fired a long silent burst at it as well.
The figure was slammed back into the wall by the force of the bullets and fired two wild reflexive shots from a 9mm pistol before falling face down on the floor, quite dead. MacMurphy rushed toward the black figure and kicked the pistol away from the body. It was the old woman, dressed in a full, black burqa.
Santos stood up and went to the sobbing hostage. He found her lying half off the cot, trying to take cover behind the bed even though she was restrained by a handcuff that tied her arm to the metal headboard.
He looked into her terrified eyes and said, “It’s okay, Yasmin. We’re here to take you home.”
CHAPTER 55
Rather than waste time searching for the key to the handcuffs, Santos shot the chain and pulled Yasmin off the cot. She fell into his arms sobbing. Tears flowed down her face.
“He always gets the girl,” said MacMurphy to no one in particular.
Santos said, “That’s a switch.”
“Okay, let’s hurry,” said MacMurphy.
He turned and ran down the hall and out the front door with Santos and Yasmin close behind. MacMurphy almost tripped over the smoker as he bounded off the porch. Regaining his balance, he rounded the building and headed back toward the observation apartment in a crouch.
They reached the back door to the building and MacMurphy wrenched it open for Santos and Yasmin. All three of them bounded up the stairs and came face to face with a widely grinning Maggie. She almost knocked Santos over in her effort to get to Yasmin. Maggie threw her arms open and embraced the young woman tightly. “My god, I’m so happy to see you, Yasmin.” Tears ran down Maggie’s face.
That broke the logjam of emotions in Yasmin and she began to shudder and sob. The two women stood embracing and crying, wracked with emotion. With its chain still attached, Yasmin’s handcuff rattled on her wrist. In that moment, she barely noticed the pain it caused.
MacMurphy heard sirens in the distance and figured someone must have heard the shots and called in an alarm. He interrupted the reunion. “We’ve got to get out of here. Let’s gather our gear and vacate.” He turned to Santos. “Culler, keep the .45 but get the rest of our gear into the duffel bag and meet me downstairs tout de suite.”
He turned to Maggie. “Throw everything that doesn’t belong here into a garbage bag and follow Culler down to the Land Cruiser. I’ll be waiting in the car.” MacMurphy pulled his man-dress over his head and grunted when the fabric pulled at his makeshift bandage. He began removing his Kevlar vest more carefully. Then he picked at a bullet hole just under his heart, pulled out a flattened .38 slug and handed it to Maggie. “The bastard could shoot,” he said.
Santos quipped, “He shot twice—double tap. Close range. Only one hit. Not so good . . .”
“What do you mean? He also grazed my arm, and it hurts like hell! That’s not too shabby.”
MacMurphy dropped the vest on the floor next to his man-dress, turned on his heal and bounded down the stairs. Santos ran into the back bedroom and began stuffing rifles and ammunition into the duffle bag. Maggie led Yasmin into the kitchen and began to sweep paper towels, paper plates, and other sundry food items Santos and MacMurphy had bought for their surveillance into a large, black garbage bag. Yasmin helped as much as she could.
They all met moments later at the door. Everyone took one more look around the apartment, locked the door behind them, and headed down the stairs. Santos led the way with the duffle bag slung over his shoulder. They hesitated for a moment on the front stoop until they spotted the Land Cruiser with MacMurphy at the wheel. Moments later, they were in the car.
They heard loud sirens turning the corner behind them. MacMurphy looked into his rear-view mirror and saw two police cars, lights flashing, coming toward them from the direction of the university. He yelled, “Everyone down.”
They flattened themselves on the bottom of their seats as the two police cruisers sped past, went to the end of the road, and turned onto the dirt road leading to the bungalow. MacMurphy made a sharp U-turn, tires screeching on the pavement, and headed back up the street to the intersection. He switched on his lights just as he turned north onto Hassan Nassrallah Road. Once he hit the main road, he slowed. Traffic was light at this time in the morning, but there were still a few cars on the road. That made him feel more comfortable.
If he could just blend in and go with the flow of traffic until he got to the Dbaiyeh Marina, all would be well.
CHAPTER 56
The sun rose slowly above the horizon, casting a golden glow over the Mediterranean. They pulled into the marina, the Land Cruiser’s wheels crunching on the gravel surface of the parking lot. MacMurphy pulled up to the main pier where the Theano sat idling with its engines growling and sputtering in its slip.
The marina was quiet and dark; it had not yet awakened.
Fotopolous waved at them from the stern. He was barefooted, dressed all in white, and sported two weeks’ worth of a beard. Clearly, he had not attended church since his arrival in Lebanon. He flipped an unfinished cigarette into the water and helped Maggie and Yasmin over the rail and onto the stern of the yacht. They spoke in hushed tones.
“Wait,” said Santos, “let me get that cuff off.” Yasmin held her a
rm out over the stern while Santos manipulated the lock with a paper clip. She winced as he worked. After a few moments, the cuff fell off and Santos dropped it into the water. He looked up at her and smiled, rubbing her wrist gently. “Better?”
She looked at him with a thankful grin on her face. “You’re the best, Culler. Really you are . . .”
MacMurphy interrupted, “We need to move. Take good care of them, Nikos. Drop them off in Limassol and then beat it back here. Culler and I have some cleaning up to do before we can leave.”
“We’ve got clear seas,” said Fotopolous. “I’ll be back in a couple days. Throw me those lines, will ya?”
MacMurphy unhooked the stern lines while Santos ran up to do the same at the bow. They tossed the lines onto the deck as the Theano gently pulled away from the dock and turned toward the harbor exit. The yacht accelerated slowly in the harbor, but by the time it reached open water it was fully planed and running flat out, trailing the sea with a long white wake.
The women stood on the afterdeck and Maggie waved, but Santos and MacMurphy were already in the Land Cruiser heading back toward the Coral Beach Hotel.
The first thing MacMurphy did when they arrived at the hotel was dress his wound properly. Then he called Kashmiri. He briefly explained what had happened and told Kashmiri to take the next ferry back to Cyprus and wait there until further notice.
After he hung up the phone, MacMurphy started to pace in his room. He was too wound up to sleep. His mind raced. The police surely had found the bodies in the bungalow. They would investigate, and it would not take long before Hezbollah and Iran found out what happened and open their own investigation.
Did we cover our tracks well enough? What links could incriminate us?
The police investigation might lead back to the observation post in the apartment building, but that would probably end right there. Perhaps, the students could identify Kashmiri, but he had used an alias and was disguised as a Mullah when he met them. Clues leading to the rest of the team would be hard to come by.
Nevertheless, the Hezbollah investigation was another story. They would question the driver Walid and Walid would talk. He would give up his uncle Nabil, and Nabil would give up Kashmiri, whom he knew in true name. MacMurphy’s mind spun with alternatives.
Okay, Kashmiri is out of town and back in the relative safety of Cyprus. But that may not be enough. Hezbollah has long tentacles—certainly long enough to reach into neighboring Cyprus.
Regardless, Kashmiri would never again be able to travel freely between Cyprus, Lebanon, and Iran. MacMurphy might even have to arrange his relocation to the United States, which would be an expensive and delicate proposition the Agency would not be happy to hear.
While pondering all of this, MacMurphy heard his phone ring.
“Mac, this is Hadi. I just received some unsettling news. Walid is dead. Killed in a car accident. It’ll be in all the papers tomorrow.”
“What! Dead? What do you mean? Start from the beginning . . .”
“I don’t know much. I heard it from one of my journalist friends. They just found his body. He said, ‘Walid Nassar, age thirty-four, was found dead in his car at the bottom of a cliff between Jounieh and Kfar Yassine.’ That’s a direct quote.”
Still in shock, MacMurphy said, “Was he murdered?”
“I asked that same question. He said they were looking into it, but it looked like he just drove off the cliff near an overlook. The body was badly burned. They don’t suspect foul play yet, but there will be an autopsy.”
“As soon as you get to Cyprus give Nabil a call. See what you can elicit from him.” MacMurphy was thinking fast. “Just tell him you have a message to pass on to Walid and see what he says.”
“Will do. This doesn’t look good, does it?”
“Not good at all . . .”
CHAPTER 57
As Kashmiri boarded the ferry to Limassol, Abu Salah stood stiffly in front of Nasrallah and Qassem at Hezbollah headquarters. The two other Hezbollah officials were absent, but the scruffy Iranian, wearing the same ill-fitting brown suit, sat silently at Qassem’s side.
Abu Salah tensed and mentally cursed cab drivers with every filthy word he knew. His cab had broken down halfway to Beirut, and it had taken him all night to get home. He was collecting supplies for the hostage move when he received Nasrallah’s summons.
After a long stare over his steel-rimmed glasses, Nasrallah said, “I congratulate you, Abu Salah. You took care of Walid very swiftly.” He gestured toward a chair at the end of the table. “You may take a seat if you like.”
Slightly relieved, Abu Salah sat down and immediately felt some tension seep out of his body. If he kept the focus of the conversation on Walid, perhaps he could still relocate the hostage before Nasrallah found out she was still in the same safe house. “Thank you, sir. I made it look like an accident. No shots were fired and the car burst into flames when it hit the rocks.”
Qassem stroked his manicured beard and asked softly, “I hope you spoke to him before killing him. That is why we are here. We would like to hear what he said in his defense.”
Abu Salah nodded and looked over at the Iranian before speaking. He turned back to Nasrallah and said, “Walid admitted everything. He said he was the source of the leaks about the hostage.”
Qassem said, “So, he admitted to being an American spy. Everything fits now.”
“Not exactly, sir.” Abu Salah looked back at the Iranian. “He denied working for the Americans. He said he could never do that.”
“Then who was he talking to?” asked Nasrallah. “The French? English?”
Eyes still on the Iranian, Abu Salah said, “No, sir. He said he was helping Iran, the Ayatollah to be exact.”
“That’s absurd,” shouted the Iranian. He banged his fist on the table. “That’s the craziest thing I have ever heard.”
Nasrallah looked back and forth from the Iranian to Abu Salah. “I don’t believe it either. Why would Iran want to spy on us? We tell them everything. And in this case, we were simply doing what they asked. It was their hostage.”
Abu Salah said, “That’s what I said to him, but he was adamant that he received a message from the Ayatollah and that Iran did not trust us.”
“Enough!” shouted the Iranian. “Who delivered this supposed message from the Ayatollah to Walid Nassar? Who?”
Abu Salah was confused. He glanced at Nasrallah and Qassem who stared back at him quizzically. It was a good question. They waited for him to respond. “I . . . I didn’t . . . everything happened so fast . . . I . . .”
Qassem held up his hand. “Stop! Everyone stop.” Then, in a tone so soft they all struggled to hear it, he continued, “Relate to us what happened, Abu Salah. From the beginning. Do not leave anything out.”
Abu Salah began to explain exactly what happened after he left the conference room the previous day. When he got to the part where he pulled out his revolver at the cliff side, he paused. “And then I accused him of working for the Americans, which he denied vehemently. He claimed he did not know any Americans and had never even talked to one. He said he hated them.”
“But he admitted to working for someone, didn’t he?” said Qassem.
“Of course he did. He begged me to believe him. He said he was helping the Ayatollah. He reminded me that it was Iran’s hostage, not ours. He said he was just doing the Ayatollah a favor by keeping them informed. He said I would do the same.”
The Iranian asked, “Would you? Would you accept a clandestine relationship with Iran if you were asked?”
Abu Salah dropped his eyes. “I don’t know. I mean . . . my first loyalty is to Hezbollah—of course it is—but the Ayatollah is our friend, our mentor . . .”
“So, you might,” said Nasrallah.
Abu Salah was confused. “No! I would tell you, sir. I would come to you for advice and . . .”
The Iranian said, “This is going nowhere. I can tell you gentlemen unequivocally that we would neve
r do such a thing. We trust you explicitly.”
The comment drew raised eyebrows from both Qassem and Nasrallah, who glanced at each other knowingly. Nasrallah removed his glasses, polished them and set them back on his nose. He said to the group, “Let’s not get sidetracked here. The point is Walid Nassar may have thought he was talking to our Iranian allies, but clearly he was not.” He turned to Abu Salah. “You are not aware of what happened last night while you were in the Casino du Liban, are you?”
Confused, Abu Salah stuttered, “I . . . um . . . I . . .”
“Of course you are not aware.” Nasrallah was dead serious. His eyes burned into Abu Salah’s. “You are not aware because you did not check in on our hostage this morning. Isn’t that right, Abu Salah?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. My taxi broke down halfway to Beirut. I got in early this morning and did not go out there because you summoned me here. I came immediately when you called . . .”
“And it was your decision to keep a light guard force with the hostage, wasn’t it?”
Abu Salah did not like the questioning’s new direction. He suspected something ominous was about to drop. “I . . . um . . . yes, sir. Sometimes it is far better to use cover and concealment and to restrict knowledge of something than to use a large guard force to . . . you understand . . . it’s a matter of profile . . .”
“I understand the concept.” Nasrallah’s tone was professorial, even gratuitous. “You kept a low profile with the hostage. But last night, while you were gambling and ogling the women at the casino, your hostage was rescued and three people were killed. What do you think about that, Abu Salah?”
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