“The chopper, I’m afraid, is still smoldering,” said Bolin. “We, of course, will do everything we can to find the remains and ensure they are returned to the United States.”
“Field Marshal Bolin—” Jessica said.
But before she could get her words out, the phone clicked out.
The Situation Room was silent for more than half a minute.
Jessica walked to the screen and stared at the shot of the chopper, sitting on the dim tarmac.
“Is there any way we tracked the wrong helicopter?” asked Jessica.
“That’s the only chopper to or from Aiwan-e-Sadr in the past twenty-four hours,” said Corrado.
Jessica stared at the screen. “What do we do?” she asked, a hint of helplessness in her voice.
“Why would he lie?” asked Helm from CIA.
Jessica stared back blankly at him.
“At the very least, we should get a team in there,” said Balter. “I’ve got Rangers we can send in from Kabul.”
Jessica’s face showed a stoned, shocked look. She turned from the screen. She leaned forward and pressed the speakerphone, which started ringing.
“This is Calibrisi. What is it?”
“We have a big problem,” said Jessica. “According to Bolin, the chopper crashed. Dewey, the others, they’re all dead.”
“My God,” said Calibrisi.
“NSA tracked the chopper,” said Jessica. “It didn’t crash.”
Corrado raised his finger. “I have something,” he said.
“What?” asked Jessica.
“The same UAV. Check it.”
The screen showed the chopper lights, then the screen went black.
“This is five minutes later, same aerial view.”
The screen showed a line of yellow lights in the exact spot where the chopper lights had been.
“That’s a plane,” said Corrado. “Hercules.”
On the speakerphone at the center of the table, the sound of Calibrisi clearing his throat.
“It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it, everybody?” asked Calibrisi.
“What’s obvious?” asked Jessica.
“You’ve got a plane taking off?” asked Calibrisi. “Right after they’re flown to Chaklala by chopper? You can track it all you want, but you’re wasting your time.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Corrado.
Jessica stared at the plasma screen. “Beirut,” she said, finally.
“That’s right,” said Calibrisi on speaker. “Run the financials on Bolin. I want to know how much Fortuna paid him.”
“On it,” said Revere.
“The question is not, did Bolin sell Andreas,” said Calibrisi. “The question is, how much did he get.”
“How did Fortuna find out he was there?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Calibrisi. “We need to figure out a way to divert that plane.”
“I don’t have the flight path,” said Corrado. “We weren’t tracking it. Looking at the satellite feed, there are about a dozen planes now heading toward Beirut. I don’t know how we pick out our plane from the others.”
“What kind of plane was it?” asked Jessica. “Can we at least determine that?”
“It’s a cargo plane,” said Balter. “C-130.”
“How long do we have?” asked Jessica.
“The plane took off an hour ago,” said Corrado. “Assuming it was a C-130, that means it will land in Beirut in approximately five hours.”
“I’ve got something,” said Revere, slapping his hand down on the table.
“What?” said Jessica.
“Holy Toledo,” said Revere. “I looked at the Fortuna funds we have a track on. Half an hour ago, he transferred two hundred and fifty million to an account at the Bank of Zurich.”
“Can we get into that account?” asked Brubaker.
“Not if we’re going to stay within the boundaries of international law,” said Corrado.
“Fuck the law,” said Calibrisi. “Hack it!”
“I’m in,” said Corrado. “I should rob banks for a living.”
“I assume there’s no name attached to it,” said Calibrisi. “We’ll have to petition the bank itself.”
“That will take too long,” said Jessica. “It’s Bolin. There’s no other explanation. Josh, get Bolin on the phone.”
“Freeze the money while you’re in there,” said Calibrisi, “if you can.”
“Done,” said Corrado. “There was two-fifty, plus another thirty in a different account. I froze it all.”
Brubaker leaned forward and pressed the speaker button. The phone clicked several times. After a minute, Bolin came on.
“You’re very persistent, Ms. Tanzer,” said Bolin. “What can I do for you now?”
“Stop the plane,” said Jessica sharply. “Order it diverted. Right now.”
“The plane? What plane?”
“The cargo plane that left Chaklala one hour ago headed for Beirut.”
“You’re accusing me of lying to you?” asked Bolin, indignant. “I explained to you: the chopper crashed on its way to Rawalpindi.”
“We watched it from the sky.
The chopper landed
safely
.
”
“How dare you!” barked Bolin.
Corrado held his thumb up, nodding. Jessica leaned in, pressed mute.
“What?”
“I got a link,” Corrado whispered. “I found a way inside one of the bank’s databases. It’s his account.”
Jessica pressed the mute button again.
“Field Marshal Bolin, explain why Aswan Fortuna transferred a quarter billion dollars into your bank account less than two hours ago.”
Bolin was silent.
“This is an act of war,” said Jessica, not making any effort to hide her rage. “You are a corrupt and vile man. These men risked their lives for your country.”
Bolin was quiet.
“We expect you to order that plane diverted,” said Jessica. “Right now.”
“The plane went with the deal,” said Bolin. “The pilots don’t work for me. I have as much control over that plane as you do.”
“So you admit it?”
“Grow up,” said Bolin. “El-Khayab is gone. India and Pakistan have stood down their nuclear arsenals. You have your coup d’état. Isn’t that what this was all about?”
The phone clicked and went silent. Jessica glanced around the table. She sat down and shut her eyes. She reached up and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
Finally, she opened her eyes and looked at Balter.
“How long until they land?”
“Five hours, tops.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” said Jessica, looking at the phone. “They’re going to land. Aswan Fortuna is waiting for them. He’ll … he’ll torture Dewey. He’ll torture him, then kill him. And there’s nothing we can do.”
The room was silent. All eyes were on Jessica. She stared straight ahead, with a look on her face that none of them had ever seen; a pained look, innocent and broken.
Finally, Calibrisi spoke up:
“There is something,” said Calibrisi. “I’m just not sure there’s enough time.”
“What is it?” asked Jessica. Tears were in her eyes, which she made no effort to hide.
“You’ll need the president to make the call, Jess,” said Calibrisi.
“Make the call to who?” asked Jessica.
“Tel Aviv,” said Calibrisi. “The Israelis might be able to save him.”
BEIRUT RAFIC HARIRI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
BEIRUT
Two hours after sunset, Beirut Rafic Hariri International Airport was crowded.
One of the busiest airports in the Middle East, a pair of flights, an MEA flight from Damascus, the other a Lufthansa flight from Munich, had just landed. Hundreds of people packed the main terminal building, greeting the arriving passengers. Meanwhile, people getting ready to board the planes gathered with their families.
The main terminal at Beirut Rafic Hariri spread in a straight rectangle nearly half a mile long. Its soaring, modern white lines showed the country’s effort to try and resurrect a feeling of safety, security, wealth, and beauty that had once been the hallmarks of this troubled city, especially its architecture. Some cracks, chipping paint, and, in one section of the terminal, a partial hole in the roof near the Cedar Lounge, showed the reality of present-day Beirut and its generations of conflict and war.
A few miles from the airport, a white school bus rumbled along through a busy neighborhood in Dahieh, a suburb in southern Beirut.
Inside the bus, Rueq Khalid, a commander in the Al-Muqawama Brigades, the paramilitary wing of Hezbollah, walked down the center aisle of the vehicle.
Khalid wore jeans and a short-sleeved button-down khaki shirt. A thick nylon ammunition belt was wrapped around his waist. Khalid had a thick black beard and mustache, short-cropped black hair, thick eyebrows. His eyes were blank, cold, as he walked the line of soldiers, who, like him, all wore jeans and a khaki shirt. They sat upright, staring out the window at the passing neighborhoods of southern Beirut.
In Khalid’s right hand, aimed at the ceiling, a Kalashnikov, its gray steel chipped and scratched, the weapon’s half-moon magazine clutched tightly in his right hand.
He walked to the back of the bus and tapped the glass of the back door with the toe of his boot, then turned and walked forward to the front of the bus.
He counted forty-two men in all, plus himself.
The bus passed the entrance gate to Beirut Rafic Hariri. At Rue Farid, the driver took a right, then a quick left onto a service road. After more than a mile, the driver took another right onto a small, unnamed service road along the south edge of the airport. The bus moved down the quiet, dark road. It passed several small office buildings, a large lot filled with parked bulldozers and forklifts, and a few warehouses. At the last building, the driver took a right and drove past a darkened corrugated steel warehouse to an empty parking lot in back. He parked at the back of the lot, the front of the bus a few feet from a chain-link fence, at the southern perimeter.
Behind the fence, the runway spread out in a gray plain in front of the bus. Wide and flat, the tarmac moved in a straight line for more than two miles, from the unlit end, where they were now parked, to the brightly lit main landing area at the far end of the runway. The lights of the main terminal building twinkled in the distance.
Khalid stepped down the bus stairs. He was followed by two similarly dressed Hezbollah soldiers; plainclothed, neatly attired. One of the soldiers carried a set of long-handled wire cutters. In near darkness, he began to cut through the links of the fence, starting at the ground and working his way up. Soon, he had cut a line six feet high. Then he cut to the right. He took the fence and pushed forward. He stepped through, dropped the wire cutters, then with both hands yanked the fence toward himself. The section of fence fell to the dirt.
Khalid stepped through the opening. He nodded at the young Palestinian who had just cut the fence.
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one, then lit it.
“That will do,” he said.
* * *
A few miles away, in a busy, densely populated industrial area in northern Beirut called Bourj Hammoud, Aswan Fortuna entered a plain, run-down six-story cement and glass building through the front door. Nebuchar followed behind him. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. They swept past a pair of young Palestinians who stood guard, glancing about nervously. The guards’ weapons were not visible but their leather coats bulged at the sides.
Aswan and Nebuchar stepped quickly inside the lobby of the building.
Inside the door, they were met by a stocky man in his late twenties. He was bald and olive-skinned. He had a thin mustache. His left ear was noticeable because half of it was missing, severed in a jagged line across the top, as if it had been cut by a saw. His skin was badly pockmarked with acne. He had a look, a demeanor, that could only be described as vicious. His black eyes were like pools of raw anger. He gripped a weapon, a sawed-off Beretta 12-gauge shotgun, in his right hand, aimed down at the floor.
“Hello, Muamar,” said Nebuchar.
“Nebuchar, Aswan,” said Muamar, nodding. “Come in. Quickly now.”
He waved then inside.
Muamar nodded to one of the two men, who quickly shut the door.
“Bless Al-Muqawama,” said Nebuchar. “Thank you for your help on such short notice.”
“I received the call from Na’im Qasim himself,” said Muamar. “We’re happy to help. But we must be quiet. Lebanese Armed Forces does not know we’re here. Even the airport operation; it will be tricky.”
“How tricky?” asked Nebuchar, concern in his voice.
“Don’t worry,” said Muamar. “It will be difficult, but we will get it done. LAF is very, very disorganized. Getting him off the plane will be easy. Getting away, that will be more difficult.”
Aswan and Nebuchar followed Muamar back through the darkened lobby of what had been an office building, now empty.
At the back of the lobby was a door. Muamar stopped, glanced at Nebuchar and Aswan. He held up a finger.
“Listen,” he said. “Do you hear anything?”
“Nothing,” said Nebuchar. “Why?”
Muamar did not answer. He turned, went through the door, then flipped a light switch on the wall. It was a dark, musty-smelling stairwell. The three men descended two flights of stairs. They went through a doorway, into a long hallway that was lit up by a single bulb dangling from a wire in the ceiling. The floor of the hallway looked derelict; it was littered with empty bottles, soda cans, and old newspapers. It was a squalid place; abandoned, as if it hadn’t had visitors, occupants, anyone for years. There was no sound, save for the footsteps of the three men walking quickly across the cracked cement.
Aswan and Nebuchar followed Muamar down the long, dim hallway. At the end of the hallway they took a left. They walked down another long, littered corridor, beneath another lightbulb that dangled from a wire. At the end of the second hallway, Muamar turned.
“Can you hear it now?”
Aswan glanced at Nebuchar, then at Muamar. He heard nothing. Then, after several seconds, he heard something. Barely above a whisper, someone’s voice. Or perhaps a radio playing somewhere far away.
“A radio?” asked Aswan.
Muamar turned the knob on a large steel door. As it cracked open the silence was replaced by music, a rap song, blaring at full volume.
Muamar pushed the door completely open. The room was large and windowless. In the middle of the room stood a long steel table. To the right was a wooden chair. Both were empty. Against the right side wall, chains hung from hooks in the ceiling and dangled down to a machine on the floor with a large steel wheel and handle. He walked to the radio and turned it off.