6

SSI OFFICES

“In your American phrase, I’m not going to blow smoke at you,” Mordecai Baram began. “This will be hard, dangerous work. You can expect to take casualties.”

Baram’s words had the desired effect. His audience—mainly composed of SSI operators—was focused, quiet, attentive. The Israeli had their full attention in the first of a series of Lebanon briefings.

“What’s the opposition really like, sir?” Chris Nissen spoke the question on each American’s mind.

“You have all heard about Hezbollah, the main Islamic force in Lebanon. Well, that’s what you’re up against. It’s a Shiite organization with strong ties to Iran, which is almost ninety percent Shiite itself. There’s also significant logistic support from Syria, which is mainly Sunni.”

Breezy squirmed in his seat. “Sir, I gotta admit I don’t understand the whole Sunni and Shiite thing. What’s the story?”

Baram knew the answer, chapter and verse. But he did not want to be distracted from his main topic. “I will be glad to explain that after the briefing, Mr. . . .”

“Brezyinski. But just call me Breezy.”

Baram grinned in appreciation. “Thank you, Mr. Breezy. For the moment I will just say that to you gentlemen, the difference is largely irrelevant. It has to do with the leadership of Islam, whether by bloodline from Mohammad or by popular acclaim. Not unlike the difference between Protestant and Catholic, with the role of the pope. But in some cases, it assumes so much relevance that people kill each other over relatively minor differences.”

“Oh. Gotcha.” Mark Brezyinski was very much a lapsed Catholic, to the lasting consternation of his Polish family. By his grandmother’s reckoning, young Mark Casimir had broken at least five Commandments (depending upon one’s distinction between killing and murder], as he was blatantly guilty on Honoring Thy Parents, Keeping the Sabbath, Blasphemy, and what he called the “Coveting Thing.” Though he did not care to discuss Adultery, he felt safe on the matters of Other Gods, Graven Images, Stealing, and False Witness.

Baram resumed his briefing, focusing on SSI’s major concerns. “Hezbollah is wholly of Lebanese origin, formed in response to the Israeli invasion in ‘82. The name means ‘Party of God’ and that can be taken literally. Besides its terrorist and paramilitary activities, it’s increasingly involved in the Lebanese government as a political party. In 2005 Hezbollah won fourteen seats in parliament, and there are some cabinet ministers, too.

“Now, Hezbollah has gained battlefield credibility as well. In the 2006 fight it surprised a lot of people in the region and impressed others around the world.” The diplomat gave an eloquent shrug. “Some were ready to be impressed, I admit, but still it pays to be objective. My advice is, don’t take anything for granted.”

Baram thought for a moment, barely referencing his notes. “Another thing to consider. Though it’s heavily Lebanese and Iranian, Hezbollah recruits internationally. There have been reports as far afield as Singapore, and of course Indonesia is the world’s largest Muslim nation.” He looked at Frank Leopole in the front row. “Your linguists will, of course, have to speak Arabic but you might plan on Farsi as well.”

Leopole shot a sideways glance at Omar Mohammed. SSI’s training officer caught the motion and chose to ignore it. Having been operationally involved in Pakistan and Afghanistan, the Iranian-born Mohammed had seen quite enough of fieldwork, thank you very much.

Sandy Carmichael generally was a low-key presence but as one of two senior operations officers she had an iron in the fire. “Mr. Baram, could you maybe bring in somebody who’s operated in Lebanon recently?”

The Israeli had anticipated the question. “Officially, no. Besides, none of our attachés have been on the ground there. However . . .”

“Unofficially?”

The shrug again. “Maybe I know somebody who knows somebody.”

“Well, for the present, how about a general perspective?”

Baram thought carefully, wondering how much to reveal. Finally he decided to open up. “Frankly, we’re lost a lot of good men in South Lebanon in recent weeks. Not so much in actual numbers, which have to be kept pretty small, but in terms of percentages. One team was wiped out and a couple of others were badly hurt. I shouldn’t be too specific, you understand, but I think it’s only fair that you know something of what you’re up against.”

Baram acknowledged to himself that he was gilding the Lebanese lily. One team had two survivors, only one of whom would ever return to duty. He had seen some of the classified debriefings and recognized a few names.

“It’s not just our own people who are taking hits. We work with some Druze militias because we just don’t have the strength to conduct such operations ourselves. Actually, the whole situation turns on the Druze. It’s their territory, and many of them are fighting for their homes, their own land. They’ve been badly mauled in several actions but they keep fighting.” A frown. “They have no choice, really. Fight or leave.”

* * * *

APPROACHING TEHRAN

The flight from Damascus to Tehran covered fifteen hundred kilometers and a little over two hours. Finally Esmaili decided to risk a question of his escort.

“You have not said why Dr. Momen wants to see me.”

Azizi kept his face turned toward the window of the Airbus A320. The Syrianair flight was on schedule, descending toward Mehrabad International, and Esmaili’s curiosity finally had overcome his usual caution. He did not want to learn the reason for his trek at the last moment, when it might be difficult or impossible to decline whatever honor was headed his way.

Mohammad Azizi spoke in a subdued voice, even though he had requested two seats well removed from other passengers. “That is correct. I have not said.” He finally turned from the window, a wry smile on his face.

Before Esmaili could respond, Azizi interjected. “It speaks well of you that you have not pressed for more information until now. The doctor will be pleased at your patience.” The smile vanished. “But in truth, it would speak better for you had you not asked at all.”

The Hezbollah leader had not survived decades in the field without developing mental agility. Without blinking he replied, “The doctor knows my record, brother. Otherwise he would not have requested me. And he knew that I would not refuse him. Therefore, I believe that my time over the past few days could have been well spent in considering whatever he has in mind.”

Azizi regarded his new companion through objective eyes. He is much as the doctor said. After a moment he said, “When you meet the doctor day after tomorrow, much will be revealed. For now, I can say that patience remains a virtue, brother.” The grim smile was back. “As it always has been.”

While Azizi dealt with customs—there was precious little baggage—Esmaili looked around the terminal. He had not been in Tehran for almost three years, but the sights and smells came rushing back at him. A city of more than seven million residents, home of half of the nation’s industry including military, textiles, chemical, construction, and electronics.

But the expansion brought problems. Esmaili had seen the most evident example during the landing approach—a heavy layer of dirty air. The pollution was inescapable—it was said that two dozen people died there every day from respiratory diseases.

On the other hand, Tehran had a large cultural community with mosques, museums, art galleries—and even synagogues. There’s an irony for you, Esmaili thought.

Taking a taxi from the airport, Esmaili saw the Azadi Tower’s formidable bulk. There was no ignoring it. Built in 1971 to honor the 2,500th anniversary of the Persian empire, its fifty meters of gleaming white marble had originally been dubbed the king’s tower, but the Islamic revolution led to renaming it Azadi—freedom.

Pondering the drastic changes in Iranian life since 1979, Esmaili reflected on yet another irony: how much freedom ensued from toppling the despot who called himself Shah?

He kept such thoughts strictly to himself.

The cab turned onto the Ashrafi Esfahani Highway, then north to Iran Pars Highway. There the driver made a right turn, heading east. It was apparent that he knew the address Azizi had given, as he asked no questions en route.

At length the cab stopped at an undistinguished building in the Evin district in the north of town. Azizi paid the driver and led Esmaili into the entrance. It proved to be an apartment complex with a dining area, evidently at one time for upscale patrons. Now, based on Azizi’s easy mastery of the layout, it seemed to be owned or at least controlled by Dr. Momen’s organization.

Esmaili was quickly shown to a small, well-appointed room with a bath and was instructed to make himself comfortable. Azizi said, “I will call for you tomorrow after lunch. We will see the doctor then. Meanwhile, talk to no one about your work. No one. But other than that, enjoy the area.” He indicated the view from the window.

The Evin district was composed of the older section featuring orchards and gardens and the newer section with modern skyscrapers. Esmaili already knew that it lay near Shahid Beheshti University and Evin Prison with its notorious political prisoner’s wing. SAVAK used it before 1979 and the Ayatollah’s minions ever since.

After his guide left, Esmaili took a walk to familiarize himself with the building and the area. It was an acquired habit of long standing: he was unable to relax until he felt comfortable with his surroundings.

Strolling in the afternoon sunlight filtered through the perpetual smog, Ahmad Esmaili allowed himself to wonder what one of his nation’s most prominent scientists wanted with him.

* * * *