Bin Laden smiled a little, though his gaze was keen. “You have an excellent memory, Marwan. I’m told you also have a gift for planning—the residue, perhaps, of your training as an architect. This talent could serve us well.” His tone became prophetic. “Islam faces an existential threat. The crusaders seek to destroy our religion and seize our lands, using the Zionists as their vanguard. The ultimate battle is foretold in the Koran. But we will achieve Judgment Day only by inflicting such horror and carnage that those who survive it will envy the dead.”
Marwan felt his skin tingle. “I am yours, Renewer.”
“Then you must be ours alone.” Bin Laden’s eyes locked on Marwan’s. “You must change your name, becoming someone new. You can have no home to help our enemies find and kill you. We will send word to your family that you’ve died here.” The Renewer leaned forward, voice softening. “I’m sorry, Marwan. Perhaps your father is no loss to you. But you can never see your mother or sister again, or anyone from the life you’ve led before. Can you do this?”
At first, Marwan could not speak. The thought of losing his beloved mother and sister was too painful to acknowledge. Instead he steeled himself by thinking of his father, and how pitiful he was compared to the man in front of him, offering to embrace Marwan as his own. “Yes,” he said at last. “I can do this. I will trust no one, kill anyone who opposes me, and die before betraying our cause.”
Bin Laden had placed a hand on his shoulder, sealing their bond—
Alone in Pakistan, Al Zaroor still gazed at the moon, so round and large it seemed he could touch it.
He must prepare himself. Five miles away, a man who did not know him would soon be waiting with a truck. Facing a cracked mirror, Al Zaroor used a straight razor to shave his head and beard, leaving only a mustache. Then he removed his contact lenses and put on gold-rimmed glasses. Save for his clothes, he resembled a lawyer or banker, a semblance of the man his father had wished him to become.
Once again, Al Zaroor thought, he had become a shadow.
As night fell, Brooke and Carter Grey met with Terri Young in Grey’s borrowed office.
Blond and pretty, Terri still had the well-scrubbed look of the student body president she once had been. One of her specialties as an analyst was the study of al Qaeda operatives; at times, she could discern who had planned an operation by the intricacy of its details. Now she spread three photographs on Carter’s desk.
“If your theory is close to right,” Terri said, “the man behind this would need connections to the Taliban and al Qaeda; a web of contacts within Pakistan; a decent understanding of nuclear weapons; and a superior grounding in military tactics. All in the service of a first-rate mind.” She looked over at Grey. “Considering the stakes, he’d also have to have had Bin Laden and Zawahiri’s absolute trust. Maybe we’ve never heard of him. But my guess is that he’s one of these guys.”
“Tell us about them,” Grey requested.
She placed a finger beside the face of a heavyset man with a stubbly beard. “Abu Nemir is Jordanian. He has the requisite contacts, and his credits include multiple bombings of embassies and hotels. But sub-Saharan Africa seems to be his specialty, and our most recent information puts Nemir in Somalia.”
Grey gazed at the second photograph. “Mahmoud Farhat,” he said grimly. “I met him in Afghanistan when all of us were killing Russians. Smart and mean as a snake. He’s also Pakistani, which would fit.”
“And maybe dead,” Terri answered. “Our people in Pakistan think we’ve gotten him with a drone. They’re trying to confirm that.”
“Don’t wait up for it,” Brooke said. “Who’s the third?”
“This one’s worth a closer look.” Using her computer, Terri summoned the grainy profile of a man who appeared to be in his early thirties, his body like a blade of tempered steel, his ridged nose in perfect proportion to a sculpted face. “Looks like a film star,” Grey remarked. “What’s his name?”
“Amer Al Zaroor. At least that’s the name he uses.”
“What do we know about him?”
Gazing at their quarry, Terri’s brow knit. “Regarding his origins, nothing. No past, no family, no country. He seems to have been born as an adult.”
Grey grunted. “Adam without Eve. How old is this photograph?”
“Twelve years, at least. Al Zaroor is elusive; according to one of our prisoners, some within al Qaeda call him ‘the shadow of God on earth.’ The only Amer Al Zaroor we can trace was a friend of Bin Laden’s who died in childhood—”
“In other words,” Brooke said, “Bin Laden christened him.”
“So it seems. His operational fingerprints are rumored to be on some of Osama’s greatest hits.” She looked up from the screen at Brooke. “We believe he helped plan the attack on the USS Cole. We also think that he persuaded Bin Laden to scale down the plan for 9/11, perhaps enabling its success. That speaks to a very cold mind.”
Grey studied the two photographs. “What are his connections to Pakistan?”
“Impressive. The last two operations attributed to him were the bombings in 2009 of an army garrison in Rawalpindi, and of a hotel in Peshawar frequented by foreigners—both with massive casualties. There’s no doubt he can work on Pakistani soil.”
“Those operations were two years ago,” Brooke pointed out.
Terri nodded. “No one claims to have seen him since. He could be dead, in hiding, or working on something very deep. With this guy you just don’t know.”
“What do the Israelis know?” Grey asked.
“According to them, zip. I actually believe that. They’ve got no resources in Pakistan.” She flicked back her bangs. “According to the Indians, who do, they received a vague description of an al Qaeda operative spotted last year in Peshawar—a dark, slender man with a dark beard, perhaps dyed. But no one knows his name.
“Even the descriptions of men sharing Al Zaroor’s voice and manner vary markedly in appearance—beard, no beard; glasses, no glasses; dark hair, gray hair. The only thing he’s never been is fat.” Terri resumed studying the picture. “Somewhere in the world there are multiple images of this same man on security cameras. But no one has any idea they’re looking at Amer Al Zaroor.”
“What do we know?” Brooke asked in frustration.
“We think he’s a Saudi, fluent in English. That suggests he may have studied in England or America. But he’s completely erased his past.” Terri shut off the computer. “My best guess is that the people he fought with in Afghanistan knew him by another name, and that most of them think he’s dead. That makes him a needle in the haystack of deceased Saudi jihadists. Assuming that his former family ever knew he was one.”
It struck Brooke again that he had no family other than his parents, and lied to both of them. “Like a lot of us,” he remarked.
Before leaving, Brooke printed out the photograph of Amer Al Zaroor, wondering if he were adversary or illusion.
FIVE
A little after 5:00 A.M. in the Bekaa Valley of Lebanon, Dr. Laura Reynolds knelt in a Maronite Catholic church, seeking peace before resuming her life of secrets.
The church was shadowy and still, candles dimly illuminating its stone walls and worn wooden pews, the tormented Christ set below a stained-glass window. Though new to Laura, this church in Anjar afforded her a fleeting refuge of the soul. On some days, as now, she was accompanied by an intern on the dig, Maureen Strafford, who retained the faith of her Boston Irish childhood. Crossing herself, Laura rose, emerging with Maureen into the first light of morning.
Maureen drew a deep breath of air, too cool at this hour to burn her lungs. “It’s so beautiful here,” she said.
Though only ten years separated them, the eagerness radiating from Maureen’s open face made Laura feel old. The town had lovely aspects, she acknowledged, such as leafy trees and stone houses left by Armenian immigrants. But the quarters they shared with other archaeologists were drab, save for the courtyard where they sometimes ate dinn
er. Nor could either woman indulge her femininity—in loose cotton pants and long-sleeved shirts, they were as androgynous as clothes could make them, Laura more so because of her slightness compared to Maureen’s buxom form. Even their hair—Maureen’s bright red, Laura’s black and straight—was covered to honor the mores of Islam. Among the Shia, females in pants were suspect.
The two women were part of a dig team financed by a compendium of Polish universities. Altogether they numbered twenty-five, augmented by cooks and housekeepers from Anjar. Maureen had arrived two weeks before, a student from the program at the American University of Beirut that had granted Laura Reynolds her doctorate. Delighted, as Maureen put it, to find herself in the company of an American woman on the right side of menopause, she had appointed herself Laura’s friend. For reasons of her own, Laura concealed how little they had in common.
Among the dig team, Maureen was a welcome pair of hands, learning as she worked. All the rest but Laura specialized in the Umayyad period, a highlight in the archaeological history of the Arab peoples: experts in pottery, geology, botany, and the reading of script; a photographer and a draftsman; and the director, Dr. Jan Krupanski, a man as good-hearted as he was accomplished. As the newest Ph.D., Laura ran the dig house—the nerve center of the project and the source of its supplies—doubling as a member of the survey team. Given Laura’s interests, the otherwise mundane assignment was a stroke of luck.
Managing the dig house involved organizing the objects removed from the site while keeping them secure. But among Laura’s other duties was ensuring that the dig was well supplied, requiring drives around the Bekaa Valley and sometimes to Beirut. The job, she had assured Jan Krupanski, was perfect for her.
Leaving the church, Laura and Maureen drove toward the site. One hand on the wheel, Laura put on her aviator’s sunglasses, a shield against the brightening dawn. “How do you like running the dig house?” Maureen asked.
Implied in the question, Laura knew, was that she must find it menial. “Pretty well,” Laura answered. “For an archaeologist, I’m restless by nature. Instead of being nailed to the site, I’m getting to know the Bekaa.”
Turning, Maureen gave her a look of concern so sisterly that Laura fought to repress a smile. “Isn’t this a dangerous place for a woman to travel alone?”
“Not really. As a professional and a Ph.D., I’m mostly perceived as a neuter. Even the fundamentalist guys from Hezbollah don’t object to me, as long as I don’t shake their hand.” Laura’s tone became rueful. “I’ve become an honorary man. Given my social life, it’s far too easy to maintain the fiction.”
Arriving at the site, Laura reflected that one use of fiction involved concealing the fictions that lay beneath.
Two weeks before, Laura had taken Maureen on her first tour of the ruins.
The others were already dispersing through the site, talking in twos and threes. The searing heat defined their schedule. To stay ahead of it they arrived before sunrise. To lessen its impact, they broke for breakfast and lunch in the shade of canvas tents before taking an afternoon siesta, resuming work in early evening until the light of sunset failed. But for Laura, Anjar at dawn had a pensive beauty.
Standing with Maureen, she felt no need to explain this. The site stood in eerie but evocative contrast to the distant mass of the Anti-Lebanon Mountains, the territory of smugglers and Hezbollah fighters. Bordering the ruins, stands of pines and cypress and eucalyptus softened their starkness. The marble arches and fluted columns were gray-white in early light; the Great Palace at their center was made of sandstone, its varied colors richening as they watched. At times Laura could hear the whisper of history. The remnants of once-imposing towers rose from the rubble of walls, reminding her that the Umayyad’s fleeting century of dominance, the eighth, had been marked by war and bloodshed. In the foothills beyond was another reminder of the transience of power and the permanence of strife—a graceful mosque of the Shia, whose rise within Lebanon had empowered Hezbollah, helping to fuel the wars with Israel so tragic for so many. The thought made Laura briefly bow her head.
But Laura’s thoughts were not Maureen’s. In a husky voice, the young woman said, “No photograph could capture this, and no book could describe it. To be here is so uplifting.”
Laura made herself refocus. “I only hope we can stay. The Poles have a great tradition of archaeology, and absolutely no money. I’m helping them look for grants.” Looking around them, she finished, “For however long, we’re lucky to be part of this.”
Entering the site, Laura led her to where Segolene Ardant, a birdlike Frenchwoman who specialized in pottery, knelt among a team of diggers gathering fragments to inspect. “We wash these by hand,” Segolene told Maureen, “and lay them out for a day. Then we try to piece them together, using the profiles of known Umayyad pottery.”
“How do you do that?”
“In part by color, and by the nature of the earth in which they’re found. The color variations are often subtle; archaeologically they can be profound.” She smiled up at them. “As Laura can tell you, the profiles can take years to assimilate. But she’s proving a quick study. Her memory and eye for detail are the envy of us all.”
Thanking her, Laura and Maureen continued on their tour.
Toward its end, they encountered Dr. Antoine Abboud, a representative of Lebanon’s Department of Antiquities. Greeting him warmly, Laura saw that Maureen was hanging back. Including Abboud in her smile, she said, “You can shake Tony’s hand, Maureen. As a Christian, he’s used to such familiarities.”
Abboud chuckled, his eyes merry. “I also bring Laura whisky from Beirut, in the hope it will lead to greater liberties. I trust my failure reflects an unreasonable prejudice against the married.”
“It’s nothing personal,” Laura said with mock solemnity. “When I donned these clothes, I took an oath of chastity. I have no life but archaeology.”
Abboud rolled his eyes in resignation. “I’ve tried to imagine you in makeup and a dress, Laura, but the fantasy is driving me insane. Even in camouflage I can still discern your beauty.”
Smiling, Laura said, “You’ve been too long in the sun,” and took Maureen on their way.
“What a character,” the young woman said. “Does he come here often?”
Laura gestured for Maureen to sit with her on a wall. “Quite often, but not to see me. It’s not that Tony doesn’t trust us, but antiquities can be priceless. If you can believe the Lebanese, the Israelis looted sites like this whenever they invaded.”
“Do you think that’s true?”
Laura shrugged. “Probably. To be sure, there’s a rich history of hatred between Israel and the Lebanese—especially Hezbollah—exacerbated by civilian casualties from Israeli carpet bombing. But the Israelis never joined the UN’s feeble effort to fight antiquities smuggling. So the Lebanese suspect the worst.”
“That’s hard to accept,” Maureen objected. “Israel has some of the finest archaeologists in the world, dedicated to preservation.”
“Not all Israelis are created equal. As one example, Israel’s greatest military hero, Moshe Dayan, was an accomplished antiquities thief.” Laura dabbed her brow with a handkerchief. “To be fair, it’s also rumored that Hezbollah sells antiquities to help buy the rockets they lob at Israel from the Bekaa. There’s enough greed and bloody-mindedness to go around.”
Maureen considered this. “Where is Hezbollah? I keep expecting to see masked men in jeeps driving around with submachine guns.”
Laura shook her head. “Until the next war with Israel, you won’t. The core Hezbollah fighters are hidden; others are civilians waiting for the call. But Tony Abboud aside, the Lebanese government is a minimal presence here. When I take you to Baalbek, you’ll see that Hezbollah runs the valley.”
“I’m not so sure I’ll go with you. Call me sheltered, but terrorists scare me.”
“No need for that, as long as we don’t offend them.” Restless, Laura stood to leave. “Fortunately
, we’re devotees of the eighth century. We have nothing to do with wars between Arabs and Jews.”
Later that week, Laura and Maureen traveled to Baalbek with a shopping list from Segolene Ardant.
As they drove, Maureen marveled at the richness of the valley, fertile farmland between two mountain ranges, one marking the border with Syria. Pointing out a swath of green, Maureen asked, “What crop is that?”
Laura grinned. “Do you smoke hashish? If so, your evenings will start looking up.”
“They just grow it in the open? I thought that Hezbollah was Shia. The Shia forbid the use of drugs and alcohol.”
“In general they do. But as the great Boston politician Tip O’Neill once said, ‘All politics is local.’ In the valley, good politics means arming yourself against Israel with profits from the drug trade. So sit back and smoke the benefit.”
Maureen glanced at her. “You’ve learned a lot about this place, haven’t you?”
“We’re here,” Laura answered. “Curiosity helps kill time.”
Entering Baalbek, they were greeted by posters of Hassan Nasrallah, the leader of Hezbollah, hanging from telephone poles and streetlamps. As they neared the center of the city, Maureen stared at the wooden replica of a bearded man in combat fatigues, twenty feet high, standing atop the ruined shell of an Israeli tank. “Who’s that?”
“The late Imad Moughniyeh, assassinated several years ago by an Israeli hit team in Damascus. Back in the 1980s, he planned the bombing of our embassy in Beirut, as well as the barracks filled with our marines.” Laura’s voice turned cold. “Several hundred died. As an American, and a New Yorker, the lionization of butchers like Moughniyeh challenges my powers of detachment—on 9/11 we saw where that can lead. But Hezbollah is sentimental, so Moughniyeh iconography is huge here. If you like, you can buy a keychain with his picture and send it to your mom.”
Devil's Light, The Page 8
