Ransom Page 5

  As always, Mustafa hid his face beneath a camouflage baseball cap. Not a single photo existed of him. There were no records of his birth. Multiple photos of his brother existed, and now his brother was dead. Whenever he looked in a mirror, he locked the image in his mind. It was his way of holding on to the years of his life. There would be no photos to recall his youth or the passage of time.

  As was his habit whenever out in public he averted his gaze avoiding any possibility of a camera catching him unawares and disappeared inside a newly built concrete building in the Beirut suburb of Dahieh. The southern tip of Beirut was Hezbollah’s stronghold and headquarters. The newly built Dahieh like a phoenix had risen from the ashes of the 2006 conflict with Israel.

  Mustafa had just returned from Syria, where he’d met with his mentor General Qasem Soleimani who was helping Bashar al-Assad in his fight against insurgents. Hezbollah was fighting alongside its sponsor the Quds force. Mustafa had recently read several articles by a female writer for Le Figaro who questioned the wisdom of the Lebanese fighting in Syria. Most Lebanese wanted nothing to do with the Syrian civil war bloodbath and genocide. Mustafa, struck by the authoress’s criticism, in many ways agreed with her. Wasting his warrior's lives for a corrupt regime turned his stomach. Unfortunately, Hezbollah was dependent on the largess of the Islamic Republic of Iran and its Quds force. Iran’s strategic plans to rule the Middle East were in line with controlling Syria. But soon things would change. Mustafa was working on a plan that would free Hezbollah to throw off the yoke of Iran and control their destiny. No more would the mullahs dictate the military strategy to be taken. His view was simple. Leave the military to the military. Let the mullahs command what pertains to Islamic devotion and practice.

  Mustafa and his men took the elevator to the third floor. He was greeted by Hassan Nasrallah the Secretary General of Hezbollah. The burly leader of Hezbollah resembled Santa Claus with his broad face, white beard, and jolly demeanor rather than the stalwart, soft-spoken, revered leader, who had fought the Israelis to a standstill in 2006. Hassan enjoyed acclaim throughout the Middle East for leading the first Arab militia to have ever beaten Israel.

  “As-salamu alaykum, Mustafa.”

  “Wa alaikum salam, Hassan.” When he was in the presence of the old guard, he always felt a stab of pain. By right his father, Imad, murdered in a car bombing in Damascus, and his uncle Mustafa who’d just recently been assassinated, along with his brother, Jihad, killed in an Israeli convoy strike should be standing in this room with him. All three had died as martyrs. He would be their revenge.

  He’d been groomed for greatness. It was Allah’s will. He lived and breathed the glory of fulfilling the dreams of those who had come before him. The destruction of Israel and bringing the United States to its knees was what he was born to do and now the moment had arrived. He would be God’s instrument.

  Mustafa looked around the room. Most of the Jihad Council was present. His eyebrows rose in surprise when he saw that even Talal Hamia, head of Unit 910, Hezbollah’s most elite and secretive force was in attendance. In fact, one of the reasons for today’s gathering of the Jihad council was to hand over control of Unit 910 to Mustafa. His martyred uncle, Mustafa Badr al-Din had served as the commander of Unit 910 and the unit bore special allegiance to his family. Through the unit, he would administer attacks on Israel and America in their homeland, taking the fight to the enemy.

  Taking his place among Hezbollah’s elite, he was aware of the curious glances he received. He rarely attended the meetings of Hezbollah, preferring to be away from those who curried favor and sought power at these types of gatherings. The slapping on the back and bragging meant nothing to him. His reason for being here entirely different from the others. Later he would attend a secret meeting with Nasrallah and two nuclear scientists and a team of rocket physicists and engineers from North Korea. Tomorrow night the first shipment from North Korea would arrive, and he would take possession of the precious cargo. If he succeeded with his plan, he would change the world forever.

  Shortly before the conclusion of the meeting, Mustafa watched as one of Nasrallah’s aides approached him and whispered in his ear. Whatever was said had placed him on hold. The aide informed him it was Nasrallah’s wish to delay the meeting. He suggested Mustafa take his meal before. It was curious this impromptu change of plans, not at all like the indefatigable man who allowed nothing to dissuade him from the task at hand. Perhaps he didn’t want to draw any attention from prying eyes. Patience, Mustafa. All will be known in good time.

  »»•««

  Zara had dressed modestly in a long jacketed gray suit. Her only adornment was a jade green scarf she favored because it matched her eyes. She wore it loosely over her hair. One of her contacts had made the call to Hezbollah requesting a meeting concerning the kidnapped Israeli soldier, Gideon Riese, and a fifty million dollar ransom offer.

  Zara knew her worth. As a Le Figaro journalist, she managed to walk a narrow line between criticism of Hezbollah’s military wing and terrorist activities and their political and social welfare outreach. Good propaganda was worth its weight in gold. Zara held the goodwill and the ear of the terrorist organization. Nonetheless, she’d drawn their attention, and she knew they often put a tail on her, keeping track of her whereabouts. In spite of or because of her meeting today with Nasrallah the tail had been in place. She’d noticed the two men immediately in a car tailing her and Faiz.

  She waited, her hands modestly resting in her lap. Hassan Nasrallah entered the room alone. He’d left his bodyguards outside. He seated himself across from her. He combed his fingers through his beard, his eyes raking over her. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Anissa Zayani. Would you care for some tea?”

  “No, Sayyid, I know how busy you must be with all of these notable visitors.”

  Nasrallah waved his hand dismissively. “Nothing more than a gathering to celebrate our accomplishments. This gathering of policymakers is to assure our constituents. Now tell me about this offer you’ve brought.”

  “I am simply the messenger, Sayyid. It came through a third party.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” He leaned forward studying her. “Journalists are often used as carrier pigeons.”

  “As I’m sure you know,” she said, “a Mossad agent is the uncle of the Israeli soldier you kidnapped on the Golan Heights in October. The only thing I know about the man who asked me to arrange this meeting is that he stole fifty million in diamonds from Mossad and he is hiding here in Beirut. He wants to free his nephew in exchange for the diamonds.”

  “A Mossad agent willing to betray his country? Interesting.”

  “I have no idea where his loyalties lie.”

  Nasrallah again fingered his beard. “And then what? Surely, he doesn’t believe he can return to Israel.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t speak for him. I know that his knowledge is worth as much if not more than the stones.”

  Nasrallah fingered his beard. “Why would I trust this agent? He could be a plant.”

  “Trust, never. However, it is possible the man could be used and manipulated.”

  “I will consider what you’ve told me and deliver my decision to you in a day or two.” Nasrallah rose.

  “Sayyid Nasrallah. What should I tell my contact?”

  “Tell him a bargain might be struck between us. You will hear from me.”

  Zara bowed and left the room. The hallway teemed with bodyguards and officials, most of whom she recognized. She wondered what the real reason for this meeting of Hezbollah’s Jihad council could be? It did not appear to be an ordinary gathering to reassure constituents. Hezbollah’s highest ranking officials had come from around the country. Such a consortium of power under one roof was an anomaly.

  She dropped her eyes modestly and walked slowly toward the exit where her car waited. She could sense every head turn her way. She found it easier not to meet the transparent hunger in men’s eyes when they gazed at her. It was
the reason she bumped into the young man and fell against him. She lifted her eyes. She had no idea who he was, but there could be no mistaking the amusement in his gaze.

  “I apologize, Sayed. Sameheni,” she murmured.

  “And if I don’t forgive you? What then?”

  Zara stared into his eyes, feigning incomprehension. She felt the warning signal of anger, pulsing in the pale blue vein of her temple. The man is audacious. “I shall have to live with it, as will you.” She nodded and walked past him, ignoring the sensation of his gaze following her down the hallway.

  Once she’d exited the building, she drew in a breath of relief. She’d managed to navigate her way clear of the unsavory characters in attendance. The man she’d nearly knocked over was her age, and his impolite remark had made an impression on her. She knew every face in Hezbollah’s elite, but this man was a mystery to her. The crowded hallway filled with only the most trusted meant he held status. She recalled the haughty look in the young man’s eyes, the look of entitlement and confidence he exuded. Her first reaction had been to slap the smug look off his face. Her curiosity awakened, she knew she wouldn’t rest until she discovered his identity.

  When she opened the door to the car waiting for her, she could see in the reflection of the window glass a man she’d spied following her earlier. He stopped to look into a storefront window when she stopped at the car. She was being tailed, which meant she’d have to change her rendezvous with Aryeh.

  “Faiz, we’re being followed.” She smiled. “Let’s take them on a joyride and give them their money’s worth. I believe I haven’t had my fill of animals today. Take me to Zazoo.” Her writing for La Figaro covered politics in Lebanon. Mostly she focused on the transformation of Hezbollah from a paramilitary group into a rising political power. Her journalistic angle managed to walk a fine line between praise and rebuke of the organization. She needed to remain in good standing, or she’d lose access to the powerful men who controlled most of Lebanon. Occasionally she wrote freelance articles about other issues. Recently she’d heard about inhumane conditions at the Beirut zoo. She wanted to write an expose about the plight of animals, hoping that she might improve the living conditions for the animals. “Having spent the morning with murderers and unsavory characters, I might as well spend the rest of the day writing about animal cruelty.”

  The Mercedes slowly pulled away from the curb. Zara looked back and saw the man who’d been tailing her jump into a car following them. She smiled. Such idiots.

  »»•««

  Mustafa watched the petite woman exit the building. When their eyes had met, he’d felt as if lightning had struck him. Without even knowing she’d opened a door and then slammed it in his face. With just the meeting of eyes, his world had shifted. He’d never met a woman who dared to stand tall in a man’s world. He felt compelled to know more about the fascinating foreigner.

  A friend of his father interrupted, kissing him on both cheeks. “I am very sorry about your loss, Mustafa. To lose a child and wife together is an overwhelming tragedy. Allah works in strange ways, my son.”

  Dasia and his young son had been lost in an Israeli attack. The two were being transported in an armed convoy to visit him. The target was a high ranking Hezbollah General. His wife and son were collateral damage. “Thank you for your kind words.” How could he tell this man that his marriage had been less than satisfactory? It was only at his father’s insistence that he’d married Dasia. And now she was dead, and he was burdened with guilt that he hadn’t loved her.

  “You will find love again, God willing. You must marry again and have many children. It is almost good that your father didn’t live to see the loss of a first born grandson.”

  “My father was an extraordinary man. We mourn his loss.” Even as his father’s friend spoke to him about his family and his wife, all he could think about was the woman who’d bumped into him.

  He shook his head, trying to clear away the image of her from his mind. How was it possible that she’d dared to dismiss him without ever looking back? He knew nothing of addictions, but he felt like an addict in search of his next fix. He had to find her. He needed to know who she was. He needed to rid himself of this strange attraction.

  “Mustafa, Hassan will see you now.” He bowed his head to his father’s friend and turned. The bodyguard led him toward the door from which the woman had entered the hallway. An unfamiliar sensation of jealousy blinded him. His blood coursed angrily in his veins and a burning hatred spread through his nervous system. He clenched his fists into tight balls of steel. Over and over in his mind, the thought repeated. What does she have to do with Nasrallah? Inside of him, a storm raged, however on the outside he seemed in a trance. He froze, his feet refusing to move. The words of his father came to him. Do not follow the path of others, create your life’s destiny. Only by action and careful planning can you achieve your goals. Mustafa knew that his father had referenced his mission to destroy Israel, but did not this wisdom apply to all facets of his life? Even love and conquering the heart of another required the same recipe to succeed. He reminded himself to adhere to his father’s formula of careful planning and action. His father understood what it took to realize the impossible, and so did he.

  “Mustafa,” the bodyguard asked again. “Sayyid Hassan is ready for you. Please…” his hand indicating the room where Nasrallah waited.

  Mustafa, nodded, acknowledging the man. First, he would get Nasrallah to answer the burning question in his mind. Who was the mysterious woman?

  “Abney, everything is proceeding as planned.” Nasrallah stood to greet his young protégé, kissing him on both cheeks. “The shipment from North Korea has safely arrived in Chabahar port and is on its way to Baalbek. It should arrive in three days.” Nasrallah patted Mustafa on the back. “Please, come and sit with me, ragaa.”

  After taking their seats, Nasrallah continued. “Kim Jong Un’s scientists and engineers have arrived and are in a safe house. The factory you requested is finished, situated in a valley difficult to observe from the skies. The perfect foil, a cannabis farm in the Beqaa Valley. It is well guarded and will serve your purpose. Everything you asked for this operation is yours.”

  “Thank you, Hassan. What about the enriched uranium for the bombs?”

  “Already on site and in storage. None but a small cadre of my most trusted aides know of this operation. Only the Ayatollah, General Soleimani, and Bashar know your plan. Our leaders have the utmost confidence that the son of Imad and the nephew of Dhu al-Fiqar will bring glory to Allah and once and for all destroy the enemies of Islam.”

  Mustafa smiled, recalling his uncle’s nickname of honor, Dhu al-Fiqar, the magical sword wielded by Ali, the prophet Muhammad’s cousin and son-in-law that the Shi’a believed Muhammad named as his successor. “This is the only way we’ll succeed. There can be no leaks and no communication once we begin at Baalbek.”

  “Shaa alla.” A knock on the door interrupted. “I have ordered some tea.” He directed his words toward the door. “Taal.” The door opened, and a woman dressed in a hijab entered carrying a tray. “Shakira,” Nasrallah thanked her, and the woman bowed deferentially and left the room.

  Mustafa sipped his tea. “Sayyid Hassan, I noticed a young woman leaving your office when I arrived. I’m curious as to who she is.”

  “A journalist. She works for Le Figaro.”

  “Was she here for an interview or a favor?”

  “Neither. The journalist delivered a ransom offer for a captured Israeli soldier.”

  “Is she to be trusted?”

  Nasrallah smiled. “We’ve long suspected her of being involved with the Israelis. However, there is no proof she is.”

  “Interesting. If you believe the woman is a spy, why do you allow her access?”

  “It is better to keep your enemies close.”

  Mustafa nodded. “A wise decision.” He sipped his tea. “By the way, what did you say her name is?”

  “Zara Zayani.�
�� Nasrallah grinned. “That one will submit to no man, but Allah blessed her with rare beauty. I pity the poor man foolish enough to try to tame her.”

  “Yes, too much pride, I would say—but a prize to be certain.”

  Chapter Five

  Charles de Gaulle Airport

  Paris, France

  Yitzak, with his arms around Nira, stood in line to check in for their flight from Paris to Beirut. They appeared to be lovers who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Each time they moved forward, he whispered in her ear, and she laughed. She looked up at Yitzak and planted a kiss on his mouth. Around them people smiled; love was something the French revered. With a nod of approval and a “Bon voyage,” from the customs officer, the two swept through security.

  They boarded their Air France flight with new identities provided to them by the Mossad’s travel department. For the mission, each member of the team had received an authentic passport held by sayanim. Sayanim were volunteer Jews from around the world who supplied cover for Mossad agents when Israel called on them.

  Yitzak’s French passport profiled him as Andre Chaput, a divorced bicycle shop owner. Nira had assumed the identity of Anick Fortier, who worked as a sales representative for the art glass firm of Lalique. Andre and Anick were taking a vacation together and left Paris for Beirut on a nine a.m. direct flight from Charles de Gaulle to Rafic-Hariri. Together they would hastily convert the rented six bedroom duplex located in Ramlet Al Bayda into a base of operations for the team.

  At approximately the same time, Daniel, posing as Alberto Giacometti, a wine salesman, sat at a bar with his trainee Ben, whose passport read Bernardo Orvieto. The two men were drinking a bottle of wine before their flight from Florence to Beirut.

  “Boss,” Ben spoke loud enough in flawless Italian for those around them to hear. “Tell me about Beirut. Are the women as beautiful as I’ve heard?”