Allah's Fire

by Chuck Holton

  The boy stopped abruptly when he saw Liz. “Is that your car against our house?”

  “Yes. Is it in the way?”

  “No. It is very nice.”

  “Thank you.” Liz smiled at the boy.

  “Mahmad,” Hanan brushed a hand over his head, “go play with your sisters.”

  The boy frowned but went.

  Ali nodded to Liz politely. “Welcome to our house.”

  Liz knew he spoke with pride for somehow he had been able to provide his family a home of only one generation of adults. Many in the camp lived with multiple generations in one dwelling. Some families had built a second story for sons and daughters-in-law. Liz had seen subway cars at rush hour with more space and privacy than many Palestinian homes.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ali. I thank you for letting me speak to your wife.”

  He inclined his head, went to his chair, and sat. Liz recognized his not-too-subtle statement that her time with Hanan was ended.

  With repeated thanks, she left, driving carefully through the camp, braking hard a couple of times to avoid the children who ran and played in the street, blinking tears that were for all the women lost in one way or another, Julie included.

  Fort Bragg

  “Gentlemen, this is John Cooper, Team Sergeant,” Major Williams said when John entered his office. “John, these are Special Agents Miller and Sandoval from the FBI Incident Response Team. They are going to explain to us why we’re here on a Saturday morning when we should be at home asleep.”

  John shook hands with the men, then stood next to Williams’s desk as Agent Miller pulled a sheaf of papers from a black cordura case.

  “Okay, here we go,” Miller began, finding the sheet he wanted. “Last month there was a bombing in Beirut that killed one U.S. diplomat and twelve other Americans, as well as scores of other people. Many were economists and bankers attending a World Bank conference.” He pushed an information sheet across the desk.

  John picked it up and began scanning it. He noted that the incident had occurred during their time in the Ivory Coast. He threw his commander a sideways glance. “You got me out of bed for this?”

  “The bombing has the Department of Homeland Security concerned,” Miller continued, as if John hadn’t spoken. “Agent Sandoval here was with the forensics team that just returned from the site of the bombing, and he found something quite…disturbing.”

  Sandoval spoke up. “The explosive that was used appears to be something our forensics team has never seen before. Or rather, we know that it exists as a chemical, but as far as we know, this is the first time it’s been used as a weapon.”

  John was still reading the brief he’d been given. “It says here that the bomber used Iso-Triethyl Borane. I hate to admit it, but that’s a new one on me. What is it?”

  “It’s a colorless, odorless liquid,” the agent answered. “It’s highly pyrophoric; it reacts very violently with oxygen and packs quite a wallop, almost as powerful as RDX or Semtex.”

  John rubbed the stubble on his face. “Okay, but why call us?”

  “Well,” Miller said, “the bomber smuggled this explosive through formidable security at this World Bank event. There were even Lebanese soldiers patrolling the site with explosives-trained dogs. None of them picked up on this stuff. If it can fool the dogs, it may be able to slip past our airport sniffers. You can imagine what will happen if someone gets a bottle of this stuff on an airplane.”

  The major took a quick swallow from his giant mug. “I recall a few years ago a guy got something similar on a plane disguised as contact lens cleaner. He used his watch for a detonator and set it off in the airplane’s lavatory. Killed one Japanese guy, if I remember right.”

  Sandoval nodded. “Correct. Except in this case, they wouldn’t even need a detonator. It appears that all they’d need to do is open the bottle.”

  “Wait a minute,” John said. “If this stuff detonates on contact with air, wouldn’t it be pretty tough to make? I mean, you’re not going to have some whacko bottling this stuff in his garage, right?”

  “Exactly,” answered Miller, “and this is why we’ve come to you. Making this stuff would require a pretty sophisticated lab. Perhaps even something with the backing of a terrorist state. We have people on the ground in Lebanon trying to track down the source of this explosive. When we find it, we’re going to need your team to go in and take it out.”

  John thought about those who orchestrated the murder and mayhem that took place that night, attacking people who not only could not defend themselves, but who were attempting to better the situation in the region. Suddenly, he could feel a fire starting in his gut. These people weren’t soldiers. They were thugs, nothing more. “I’m sold. When do we leave?”

  “Zero-nine-hundred.” The major answered flatly.

  “Okay.” John dropped the folder back on the desk. “Let’s get to work.”

  The two FBI men picked up their cases and walked out of the office. John was about to follow when Williams stopped him. “Hold it, John.”

  He turned to face his commander. “What’s up, boss?”

  “Are you okay to do this? You haven’t exactly had a lot of time to heal—and I don’t just mean physically. I can’t give you the details yet, but some big changes are coming, and we’re definitely going to need you to be 100 percent.”

  “I’m fine, Lou.” John put on his best fake smile. “If I have to spend another day in physical therapy, I’m going to kill something.”

  In reality, he wasn’t so sure. Until these past two weeks, as he’d had time to reflect while recuperating, he hadn’t realized how much of an effect the pace and work of Task Force Valor had on him.

  On one level, John knew that this was where he wanted to be. What he wanted to do. On another he recognized that he was becoming a different person, in much the same way that a career cop becomes embittered by spending too much time with the dregs of society. John was unsure whether he was becoming more jaded or less idealistic, but either way, he had a job to do.

  The cowards who bombed that hotel were still out there, most likely planning their next spineless act of violence and murder. These were people who understood no language but that of destruction.

  John Cooper and his men were fluent in that language, too, but as those who halted the devastation instead of inciting it. Now was the time to open a dialogue.

  He could see no better way to honor Doc’s memory.

  Beirut

  TWO WEEKS AFTER Julie’s disappearance—Liz couldn’t bring herself to think, let alone say, Julie’s death—she went with her parents to visit Dr. and Mrs. Assan in their grand house in the Raouche suburbs not far from the Corniche and the spectacular Pigeon Rocks. It wasn’t a visit she wanted to make. She knew it would be awkward for everyone with one family buried in grief, the other clinging desperately to hope.

  Liz climbed out of her father’s car and held her hand over her nervous stomach. Charles pushed back his shoulders as if bracing himself. He took Annabelle’s elbow and escorted her to the front door. Liz trailed behind.

  Dr. Assan himself greeted them in the madafah, the reception room, resplendent with contemporary reproductions of panels of old Lebanese wood carvings and arches painted with beautifully intricate, colorful floral and geometric patterns permitted under Islamic law. The room bespoke the Assans’ wealth and position, and on past visits Liz had loved its beauty. Today all she saw was Dr. Assan, his handsome face etched with grief. Though the official Islamic mourning period was the three days after a death, the Assans would be in mourning for the rest of their lives.

  Dr. Assan escorted them to the courtyard, where a fountain played and the sweet fragrance of jasmine and orange trees scented the air. He offered them coffee and tea and struggled to have a conversation, intent on showing them the Arab hospitality that was a legacy of the wandering Bedu.

  Liz found it painful to look at him, this man with a broken heart. He had been so proud of Khali
l.

  “I cannot tell you how sorry we are about Khalil,” Annabelle said, her eyes filling with tears. “He was a wonderful man.”

  Dr. Assan nodded. “I have been thinking that life is indeed strange. During the civil war I worried so about my sons. When we decided to stay in South Lebanon while so many others were emigrating, I moved the boys and Rena to our vacation home in the Lebanon Mountains to preserve their lives. I hired bodyguards who wouldn’t let Khalil or Bashir go anywhere alone. I hired tutors to teach the boys, to prepare them for university. I did everything to keep them safe.”

  He paused, swallowed. “Of course, as a doctor I had to remain here in Beirut to help care for the thousands wounded in the terrible fighting. I had to put myself in danger, but not my sons. Never my sons…”

  His voice trailed off, and they sat quietly. Liz tried to imagine what it was like to keep your children safe during the war only to lose one in peacetime through the act of a terrorist.

  She looked up and found Bashir Assan, Khalil’s older brother, had come into the courtyard. Liz had tried to like Bashir for Julie’s sake. He was, after all, her sister’s brother-in-law. He was handsome with dark hair and eyes and had a body stronger and stockier than the lean, elegant Khalil. He prided himself on charming the ladies, but Liz thought his eyes were calculating, cold.

  He was a newspaper reporter and columnist. “Just like you, Liz,” everyone said, as if this would give the two of them grounds for a fine friendship. It wasn’t going to happen.

  Bashir was an anomaly, the son of privilege who stood for everything his parents abhorred. He was very anti-American, very pro-Palestinian. Those positions didn’t bother Liz because Charles and Annabelle held similar views. What bothered Liz was his involvement with the radical activists who plagued the Middle East. Even her liberal father spoke out against them.

  “I admire them for their commitment to their cause,” Bashir had told her once. “But they are only sources to me.”

  Did he admire them enough to help them plan a suicide bombing?

  Many considered Hezbollah and the strident and suicidal Palestinians of the Intifada to be heroes, resistance fighters committed to keeping Israel within its own borders and who purposed to one day eradicate that country. She didn’t view the radicals in such a fine light in spite of Hezbollah’s recent attempts to improve its image by starting schools, building hospitals, and working within the country’s political structure. There were even Hezbollah party members seated in Parliament, especially from south Lebanon.

  Frankly, all the extreme militants scared and confused Liz. She couldn’t comprehend killing yourself and many, many innocent people in the name of your god. It was so antithetical to the biblical call to love your enemies and forgive those who offend. Christianity was about healing rifts and strife, while these Islamic extremists seemed intent on not merely continuing centuries-old vendettas but deepening the divisions and animosity. Their faith was about hatred, not reconciliation.

  Not that Christians had always represented themselves well in this part of the world. “What about the Crusades?” That was the question people always threw at her whenever she voiced her abhorrence of vindictive religious warriors.

  All she could say was that in their zeal, the Crusaders were often as misguided as the suicide bombers, even though their goal was to keep Europe free from Islam, which already had a foothold in Spain.

  “Elizabeth,” Bashir said, and Liz realized he was greeting her. She smiled at him and managed, she hoped, to look friendly.

  He turned to Charles. “Have you had any word about Julie?”

  “Nothing,” Charles said, a spasm of pain rippling across his face. “Not one word. I keep thinking today will be the day we’ll hear, but each day passes with nothing.” He shrugged, and Liz thought he looked too thin, all bones and angles. He’d lost weight over their ordeal.

  “I am sorry for your pain.” Bashir bowed his head, but Liz doubted he felt anything for any Fairchild except contempt. To him they were rich Americans trying to insinuate themselves into a country that didn’t want them or need them.

  “You haven’t heard anything, have you?” Annabelle asked him.

  Bashir blinked. “I beg your pardon?” The words were mildly spoken, but his eyes went hard.

  Her mother became flustered. “I’m sorry. I just thought… I mean, I thought you had friends, contacts, sources.”

  “If I knew anything, I would tell the authorities,” he said stiffly. “I know nothing of the bombing.”

  “Of course not. I-I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Charles reached out and patted Annabelle’s hand. She grasped hold before he could pull away.

  Bashir looked at Annabelle and at the clasped hands, no longer bothering to mask his dislike. “Khalil was killed, Mrs. Fairchild. Do you honestly think I would do anything to protect the people who murdered him? He and I might have disagreed in our methods for dealing with Jews and strengthening Lebanon, but he was my brother.” His voice blazed with intensity.

  Liz watched Bashir, fascinated. He truly was as devastated by Khalil’s death as his father. While she still thought it quite possible that he had heard news about Julie from sources unavailable to the rest of them, she no longer wondered whether he’d had anything to do with the bombing. Things might have been strained between the brothers, but family was all to a Lebanese, even one who, like Bashir, had many suspect acquaintances.

  Rena Assan appeared, looking as sleek and put together as always in her black dress, hose, and shoes, but she wore that shocked, vulnerable look Liz had seen before on the faces of surviving family and loved ones.

  Dr. Assan rose and went to her, taking her arm and leading her to a chair. Her movements were slow and uncertain, and Liz knew she was on heavy tranquilizers.

  After a few more awkward moments Charles rose. Annabelle and Liz jumped to their feet, too. The hasty farewells made Liz realize that her parents were as anxious to leave as she was.

  Dr. Assan accompanied them to the door. “May you find Julie. May it please Allah to return her to you.”

  As she walked to the car with Annabelle and Charles, Liz knew that the Fairchilds would not see the Assans again except at Khalil’s memorial service next week. The families had nothing in common except their children. If Julie was spared—please, Lord, please—the Assans’ devastation at their loss while Julie survived would taint any contact. If Julie didn’t come home, there would be no reason to seek each other out. Either way, Liz felt wretched.

  “You two go ahead,” she said when they reached the car. “I’m going to take a walk.” To the hotel. The Assans’ home was only a matter of blocks from the Corniche.

  “Liz.” Her mother rested a hand against Liz’s cheek. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

  Liz made believe she didn’t understand. “I’m just taking a walk.”

  Annabelle smiled sadly. “Oh. Of course.”

  “You think you can find her, don’t you?” Charles asked, his expression fierce. Liz flinched as she felt the sting of his anger, even though she knew the anger wasn’t with her. Poor Charles. Where could he go for comfort?

  “I want to find her. We all want to find her. Or have her found.”

  “Obviously. But for some reason you seem to think you can do what the U. S. Embassy and the Lebanese police can’t.”

  Liz shook her head at his accusation, but deep inside, that was how she felt. Somehow, because of her love for Julie, she could find her where others couldn’t. “I want a Big Mac.” Comfort food. The words just popped out.

  Charles opened the car door, ignoring her inappropriate comment. “Come on, Annabelle.”

  “I keep picturing her wandering around, lost, confused, in terrible pain,” Annabelle said through a new rain of tears. She looked at the sky. “Oh, God, please keep her safe, wherever she is. And please let her be alive!”

  Liz looked at her mother, moved by her fear and grief while cynical about the sudden ca
lling on God for help. “Or maybe a Whopper.”

  “I’d gladly give my whole trust fund to get her back,” Charles whispered.

  Liz shuddered. “With a supersized shake.”

  “Liz!” Charles pointed at her. “Stop acting like an American!” With that ultimate insult, he slammed his door.

  “Or maybe an extra crispy meal at Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

  Annabelle sighed. “At least that’s better for you than the burger.”

  “I’m so scared for her, Annabelle. Why haven’t we heard anything? What is Captain Habib doing? Sitting on his hands? Why can’t they find one blond woman?”

  “Oh, sweetie, I wish I knew.” She kissed Liz’s cheek. “Just don’t stay too long at that terrible place.”

  Blinking back tears, Liz walked to the Corniche, where she stood for a moment staring out at the two great monoliths that were Pigeon Rocks. Why had God dropped them here? It was like He was on His way to put the Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon ranges in place, and when He reached in His pocket to pull the mountains out, two emerged prematurely and fell into the sea, sort of like a pair of pennies falling from a man’s trouser pocket. God liked them where they fell so much, giant stony anomalies rising from the blue waters, that He left them there, knowing people would enjoy them as He did.

  She smiled to herself. A theologian would probably tell her such an idea was heresy, but she liked it. It gave God a sense of whimsy and joy, and today she needed all the whimsy and joy she could find.

  She turned and walked north toward the tourist area and the hotels facing the Mediterranean. She offered her face to the breeze that seemed always to blow over the broad walk beside the sea. Maybe it would blow away some of her mental cobwebs and grief.

  She passed the Riveria Hotel and came to what she now thought of as Julie’s hotel. She crossed the busy Avenue du General de Gaulle that paralleled the Corniche. She got as close to the hotel as the yellow police tape allowed. Most of the evidence of the disaster was gone. By the end of the week, clean up should be finished. Too bad shattered lives didn’t clean up so easily.