2
MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY WASHINGTON, D.C.
The Hall of Human Origins was a well-attended exhibit, partly because it generated such fervent debate on both sides of the Darwinian fault line. As Michael Derringer paced down the millennia of human evolution, he found himself more interested than he had expected. From arboreal hominids to fire starters and Homo erectus tool crafters; from hunter-gatherers to the incredible spurt of the last 150,000 years.
“It makes you wonder about intelligent design, doesn’t it?”
Derringer was caught off guard by the voice. It seldom happened to the SSI founder, who prided himself on his situational awareness. But the man had seemingly materialized beside the former naval officer.
“Mr. Baram?”
The Israeli extended a hand. “Mordecai.”
They shook, openly regarding one another. Derringer saw a slender man in his mid to late fifties, slightly taller than himself with a close-cropped beard showing traces of gray.
“Mike.” They released their mutual grip. “How’d you recognize me?”
Baram smiled tightly. “I did a Google image search. Do you know that your name produces 447 hits? Of course, not all are actually photos of you, and you share a name with a well-regarded artist. But there were enough likenesses that I could pick you out.”
It was Derringer’s turn to smile. “That’s odd. I couldn’t find any images of you.”
The diplomat spread his hands in a deceptively helpless gesture. “Alas, the result of an obscure career in an obscure field.”
For the first time Derringer wondered if the man’s name actually was Mordecai Baram.
“Mordecai, why do I doubt that you’re approaching me about agriculture? If that actually is your area of expertise.”
Baram seemingly reacted to the American’s skepticism by rocking back on his heels. “Oh, my, yes. It truly is. I was a kibbutznik, you know. I grew up with dirt beneath my nails—hands and feet—so I come by my earthy trade quite honestly.” The ironic grin was back. “But I deal in other areas as well.”
Turning away from Australopithicus, Derringer asked, “Should we talk here or go somewhere else?”
“I suggest the cafeteria. It’s on the lower level and we can find a quiet corner there.”
The American nodded. “Very well.” He glanced at his Rolex. “Ah, how long do you want to talk?”
The Israeli shrugged. “As long as it takes, Adm . . . er, Mike. If you have another appointment... or need to meet somebody else . . .”
“Oh, no. I’m alone.”
Baram, who knew about a good many things besides agriculture, had already made Derringer’s close escort. The athletic young man known as Breezy was fairly discreet, but spent too much time watching his principal. However, the hefty black woman was the more accomplished at tradecraft. Martha Whitney had logged time with the agency in some interesting venues, having long since mastered the ability to fade into a crowd.
“I too am alone,” Baram responded. “So we’re both footloose and free.” He stepped back, allowing the American to precede him toward the lower level. Baram’s chauffeur maintained visual contact but mingled with a group of schoolchildren. Breezy missed the mark; Whitney did not.
Braced with coffee and tea, the two professionals selected the farthest two-seat table from the serving line. Derringer noted that the Israeli sat facing the entrance, back to the wall.
“Mike, I am here to make you an offer. More exactly, I can make SSI an offer.”
Derringer sipped his coffee. “I guess it doesn’t involve farming.”
“No, it does not involve agriculture.”
Derringer nodded. “Go on. Please.”
The diplomat allowed some girls from a Catholic school to pass, herded by two nuns. When the giggling crowd had moved on, he resumed his pitch.
“You follow the news, Admir ... ah, Mike. You know that Israel’s 2006 incursion into Lebanon stirred up a hornet’s nest. In fact, the heavy resistance we met from Hezbollah was described as a defeat in some quarters.”
“Including inside Israel, I hear.”
Baram closed his eyes briefly, nodded, and seemed to choke down something in his mouth, and refocused his concentration on the American. “We cannot afford to allow Hezbollah and its Iranian sponsors to gain more strength and influence in southern Lebanon. The outcome could only bring greater conflict, possibly disaster. But neither can we provide open support to the Druze communities that oppose those factions. It’s just not a political possibility, no matter the prospects on the ground.”
“So how does this involve SSI?”
Baram leaned closer. “We want to hire you both as an operational asset and as a cutout—a cover, if you will.”
The American sat back, trying to formulate a response. “SSI in Lebanon? Why us?”
“Well, Mike, at risk of seeming flippant, I’ll say that apparently SSI has no other business at present.” He allowed that intelligence to sink in. Then he smiled. “I believe the timing is fortunate for you. Isn’t it?”
Derringer was careful to keep a level gaze with his new colleague. “Well, as somebody once said, the devil is in the details. Tell me more.”
Mordecai Baram told him.
* * * *
SOUTH GOVERNATE, LEBANON
“It’s your call, Avri.”
The pudgy, balding man in his late fifties wore regulation green fatigues devoid of rank or emblems. His relationship with the thirtyish officer in working clothes and Israeli military boots was part professional, part personal. The younger man was the son of the elder man’s sister.
Captain Avrim Edrim slumped against a cedar and mussed his hair. Ordinarily thick and curly, it was matted with sweat and dust. “We’re short three men now. One dead, two wounded.”
Colonel Yakov Livni studied his nephew. The senior officer wanted to reach out and touch the youngster’s arm, but people were watching from a respectful distance. “That’s why it’s your decision, boy. We can’t get any replacements for two or three days. They’ll be good men, well qualified, but of course they won’t be fully integrated into your team.”
Edrim raised his chin and locked eyes with Livni. “The briefing stressed that we need to keep up the pressure here. We don’t have enough teams to cover the area adequately, even with our Druze contacts. At least not yet.”
“My information is that nothing has changed.”
Edrim could not keep the irony from his voice. “No, nothing’s changed. The information was wrong, Yakov. There was no sign of ‘the package’ that we were sent to find. I’m not convinced it even exists.”
Livni ignored the gibe. “You know that any such ‘package’ is too important to ignore. I cannot reveal sources, of course, but there have been persistent reports that Hezbollah is working to deploy tactical weapons.”
“Well then . . .” Edrim’s mind was set. “If Mossad believes it’s worth the risk to keep understrength teams in the field, I have to accept that assessment.”
The older man felt a twinge of guilt. “Avri, you know I asked Mossad’s special operations division for some help. Twice, in fact.”
“Yes, I know. They’re more involved in assassination and kidnapping and sabotage than . . .”
“Well, yes. But with the current political climate in Tel Aviv, our friends in the Metsada are, well, gun-shy, as the Americans would say.” Livni thought for a moment, resting an elbow on his paunch. “Of course, we could try some bureaucratic tricks. We used to call it ‘shuffling the deck.’ You know, transfers from one agency to another on a ‘temporary’ or ‘liaison’ basis. The trouble is, when we try that, anybody who looks closely sees through it right away.”
Edrim squinted at his uncle in a parody of the colonel’s nearsightedness. Yakov Livni was too vain to wear glasses for anything but reading. “So you’re telling me that headquarters has tried shuffling the deck before?”
A blink and a smirk. “Youngster, I am not telling you anything.”
“Aah ... I see.” The familiar grin was back on the captain’s tanned face.
“Look here, enough bantering. Hezbollah is trying hard to establish a larger operating area here and in Nabatiyeh Governate. We don’t think they expect to control both regions simultaneously—at least not yet. But they keep probing, keep pushing to gain a secure base of operations. The indications are for a bigger effort than before. What form it might take, we can only guess.” Livni wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. “In any case, we cannot let them consolidate more than they already have.”
Edrim leaned forward, away from the tree. Standing upright, he replied, “Well, Uncle, that’s clear. You said it’s my choice, and I choose to continue. I have some really good boys; we’ll be all right.”
Mentally, Livni berated himself. Damn it! I was speaking of the large picture, not Avri’s team.
But there was no turning back: Edrim would not permit it of himself. “All right, then. Where do we go next?”
Livni pulled a topographical map from his satchel and spread it so they both could see the area. A pudgy finger stabbed the grid north of Bint Jubayl. “Right here.”
* * * *
SSI OFFICES
Frank Leopole lost his patented leatherneck cool. “Work with the Israelis again? Admiral, you gotta be shitting me!”
Milliseconds later the erstwhile O-5 realized his gaffe. His face reddened beneath his tan and he murmured, “Ah, I’m sorry, sir. That kinda slipped out. But. . .”
The three grades between the two retired officers had long since melted in the warmth of their professional relationship. Derringer continued, his aplomb largely intact.
“Gentlemen—and ladies—you should understand something. We’re not here to debate the issue. The board has already approved it, and much as I’d rather work for somebody else, we really have no choice. I hate to sound like a bean counter, but with our accounts receivable problems, and accounts payable only accumulating, we have to take this contract.”
Sandra Carmichael, an Army lieutenant colonel in a previous existence, approached the situation from an operational perspective. Foreign ops were, after all, within her realm. “Sir, I have two questions. One: I agree with Frank. How do we know we can trust the Israelis? And two: what happens when DoD and the rest of the administration hears about this?”
Though Marshall Wilmont was present, the firm’s chief operating officer deferred to the CEO and founder. Having fought the battle for approval with the board of directors, he nodded to Derringer, who accepted the conn for the current meeting.
“After the previous mission, it’s certainly understandable that many of us are wary of the Israelis. Yes, they stiffed us before and they’re capable of doing it again. But to what end? They’re in a bind, which is exactly why they offered us this contract. In fact, they’re not even trying to lowball us. So if Tel Aviv hangs us out to dry, the government will be exposed not only to its political opposition, but to the world at large.” He shook his head. “So no, I don’t think we’re taking any unwarranted risks. But I agree that we should proceed with caution. We’ll get to that later.
“Now, as to your second question, that’s problematic. Believe it or not, we still have friends in the Pentagon and on the hill. There’s also the matter of practicality to consider. Some of the suits around town may not care to be seen in our company, but they know what’s at stake in South Lebanon. If Hezbollah gains a permanent foothold, it’ll certainly lead to a bigger, wider conflict. That’s in nobody’s interest, except Iran’s. So like us or not, we’re probably going to get a pass from the administration.”
Carmichael sat back, drumming her manicured fingers on the table. “I see your point, Admiral. But I’d like to start planning right now for a way to extract our people on short notice. In fact, I want to develop a primary plan and an alternate.”
Leopole took up the sentiment. “Concur with Sandy. Once we know how many operators we’ll need, and how they’ll be deployed, we should have our own assets in place. This looks like another potential job for Terry Keegan. After all, he’s the resident expert in dustoffs on hot LZs.” The former Marine grinned self-consciously. In recent years the dedicated leatherneck had bought a few rounds for Mr. Keegan, erstwhile squid and dedicated rotorhead.
“Very well,” Derringer interjected. “However, I’ll arrange for Frank and Sandy to meet with our Israeli liaison. He’s the one who contacted me, and in fact he expects to coordinate with our operations officers in drafting a presentation for the people we’ll use. It will probably be a few days.”
“Sir, who is the contact?” Leopold asked.
“Mordecai Baram. Officially he’s their embassy rep for science and agriculture but obviously he does other things as well.”
Sandy Carmichael leaned her elbows on the table. “Frankly, sir, that makes me nervous. We relied on one major contact with the yellow cake mission and we got hammered as a result. I’d feel better if we had broader support, from their embassy and maybe some military folks. Later we’ll need more . . .”
“Yes, that’s been arranged,” Derringer replied. He looked around the room. “Remember, everyone, this is a fairly large operation, requiring detailed coordination as well as secrecy. If you’re thinking that’s a tall order, you’re right. There are multiple layers with multiple players, including third-party nationals. But we are not—I repeat not—going into this project with our eyes half open. I’ve had a couple of frank discussions with Mr. Baram, who seems to understand our concerns. He’ll be here in person in a few days and I think you’ll find him open and knowledgeable.” He paused, sensing the mood in the room. It came to him as a mixture of anticipation leavened with skepticism.
“All right, then. Sandy, Frank, you’re authorized to start compiling a preliminary list of operators. Matt Finch already has a heads-up, combing the data bank for those with instructor backgrounds, Mideast experience, and Arabic language. As usual, we’ll go with Omar on a training program.”
As the meeting broke up, Leopole and Carmichael retreated to a far corner. “Whatchutink?” he asked.
“I think, better the devil you know than the one you don’t.”
“Well, we know this one,” Leopole replied, “and that’s the devil we’re dancing with.”
* * * *
SOUTH GOVERNATE, LEBANON
“There they are.”
The Hezbollah scout was twenty-two years old and had nearly seven years of experience. He knew the area intimately, from the days he played hide-and-seek with his two brothers and five cousins.
Of those seven playmates, two cousins were still living; one remained addled after a miraculous survival from an Israeli shelling several years ago.
The scout had noticed the Israeli-Druze team taking a night defensive position just below the crest of a hummock. It was well chosen, for though the position was only about eight meters above the surrounding terrain, it afforded an excellent view of most approaches. If not for a metallic glint in the slanting light, the Zionists might have gone undetected.
Ahmad Esmaili squatted beside his Lebanese colleague and squinted into the sunset. He detected nothing—no reflection, no movement. “You are certain?”
Tawfiq merely nodded, keeping his eyes on the rock pile that was his reference point.
“What is on the reverse slope?”
“More rocks, a little steeper. They will have one or two men watching that side.”
Esmaili thought for a moment. This was a rare opportunity and he wanted to optimize it. “Do you think these are the ones who have been hunting us?”
Another nod. Tawfiq was a man of deeds, not words.
Esmaili patted the scout on the shoulder. “Keep looking.” Then the Iranian slid sideways, rejoining the rest of his patrol in the brush. Gathering his fighters around him, he sketched the situation in the dirt. “The Jews are on this small hill about seventy meters ahead. They are positioned to watch all approaches so we will wait.”
“How long, Teacher?” Sarif was new; devout beyond all question and eager to learn but also too eager to act.
An orange-yellow wolf’s grin shone on the evening’s face. “Until they come to us.”
“Why will they do that?”
“Because they must.”
* * * *