Vulcan's Fire [SSI 03] Read online

  The two men were within three years of one another’s age, both in their mid-forties, both dedicated and competent. But few Hezbollah operatives possessed Ahmad Esmaili’s depth of experience. From the revolution onward, through the nightmare of the Iraq war of the 1980s and what the Zionist lackeys called the present “terror” war, the Iranian liaison officer had been constantly engaged. His masters in Tehran knew his worth—and so did his acolytes in The Lebanon.

  The messenger was called Fida, and while he surely had sacrificed much of his earthly life to the service of God, it had been a willing sacrifice. This night, he knew what the Teacher wanted to know without being asked.

  “We were to meet Malik and his team this morning for a joint reconnaissance. When they did not appear, we searched for them.” Fida sipped more tea but did not taste it. “We probably arrived two or three hours after . . . after the Jews.”

  Esmaili’s obsidian eyes locked on to the courier’s face. “You are certain it was Israelis?”

  Fida reached into his vest pocket and produced a metal object. From across the table, Esmaili recognized an IDF identification disk. Neither man read Hebrew but both recognized the characters.

  The Iranian’s mind churned through various options. “This might be a ruse to mislead us. The killers could be local militia trying to drive us from the area.” He thought for an additional moment. “Was there expended brass?”

  “Yes. It was unmarked—no head stamps.”

  So it was the Jews.

  “In any case, Malik and his men are dead,” Fida continued. “We buried them properly and came here. I thought it best to avoid the radio. We are almost certain that the Jews have learned our frequencies again. We will have to change . . .”

  “You did well, my friend. Now rest here. I have much to do this night.”

  * * * *

  SSI OFFICES

  The intercom buzzed on Derringer’s desk. “Admiral, there’s a message for you at the front desk.”

  Derringer turned from his copy of Naval History. There wasn’t much else to occupy him that morning, and besides, as an admiral himself, he often sympathized with Takeo Kurita’s dilemma at Leyte Gulf. “What is it?”

  Mrs. Singer’s contralto voice crackled over the line. “Cheryl said it’s just a calling card in an envelope addressed to you. She can bring it up.”

  “No, I should stretch my legs. Tell her I’ll be right down.”

  In the lobby fronting on Courthouse Road, Derringer greeted the receptionist. “Hello, Miss Dungan. I understand there’s a message for me.”

  “Here it is, Admiral.” With her Peach Street drawl, Cheryl Dungan pronounced it “hee-yer.” She handed over the envelope and beamed a heartbreaking smile. Office gossip said that she had been engaged twice but was having too much fun to change her marital status after just twenty-six years.

  Suppressing his sixty-something male hormones, Derringer forced himself to concentrate on the message. It was a plain white envelope with the recipient’s name and “PERSONAL” typed on the front. The CEO opened the envelope to find a business card.

  Mordecai Baram, Minister for Agriculture and Scientific Affairs, Embassy of Israel, 3514 International Drive Northwest.

  There was also a handwritten note that Derringer read in a glance. He turned to the receptionist again. “Who delivered this?”

  “Oh, a man who spoke with an accent. Maybe thirty, thirty-two. Kinda cute.” She said “kee-yute.”

  Minutes later Derringer walked into Wilmont’s office and closed the door. “Marsh, take a look at this.”

  Wilmont looked up with a furrowed brow. “Agriculture and science? That’s got to be some kind of cover.”

  “Concur. If I’m not interested, I’m to leave a phone message. Otherwise the note says to meet him at Natural History, 1100 tomorrow. At the evolution exhibit.”

  The SSI president slid the card across his desk. “What do you plan to do?”

  “I see no reason to pass this up. I admit that I’m curious.”

  Wilmont’s paunch bulged beneath his vest as he leaned back. “Obviously that’s what Mr. Baram intended. But I wonder why he didn’t just call or send an e-mail.” He thought for a moment. “Have you ever met him? I’ve never heard the name.”

  Derringer shook his head. “Me neither. But that’s probably the way he wants things.”

  “So you’re going to keep the appointment?”

  “Affirm. But I’m not going alone.”

  * * * *

  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 ma
ke 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.