End of Days, page 25
In the end, Garrett knew they would have to accomplish this one by themselves, because there was no way Keta’ib Hezbollah—or any Muslim group—would agree to attack what they were targeting.
“Yes, I have them. Four shaped charges daisy-chained together. They’ll get the job done. If they’re not confiscated when we land.”
“They won’t be. We’re representing the Vatican and are almost a sovereign nation in our own right. They’ll treat the entire group as diplomats.”
“Any contact with Leonardo and Raphael?”
“They told me they’d landed, and that’s it. They’ll be fine.”
“How are you going to give them the trigger from Israel? You can’t count on a cell network for Zello out in the middle of the Syrian desert.”
“Sat phone. We both have one.”
“Those can be tracked. It’s how most of the terrorists were found that we helped kill.”
“Only if someone is looking for a suspicious number. This isn’t that. We’ll be good. We’re not talking on them daily. Just to trigger. By then it’ll be too late.”
Garrett saw Lieutenant Marco Bianchi coming down the aisle and quit talking. He reached them and said, “The Grand Master would like a word.”
Garrett stood up, saying, “Of course.”
He followed Bianchi to the front of the aircraft, seeing the Grand Master, Geoffrey Chaucer, seated in a beige leather captain’s chair and, like Lieutenant Bianchi, wearing the Knights’ military uniform instead of the more formal robes.
A simple black jacket with epaulets, each man wore two rows of ribbons above the left breast pocket and a red patch with the Maltese cross on the left shoulder, the only distinction between the Grand Master and the lieutenant being a large Maltese cross pin below the Grand Master’s right breast pocket.
Looking to be about seventy years old, Chaucer was British, as was the Grand Master he’d replaced—a man sacked by the pontiff from an internal dispute over the distribution of condoms in the developing world, a power struggle that had created schisms within the order unlike any that had been seen since the seventeenth century, pitting allies and enemies inside the Vatican against each other.
Once again, the order learned the lesson they’d seen with the Knights Templar. It didn’t pay to become too powerful, and picking a fight with the leader of the Holy Roman Church was not a good way to succeed.
After his election, unlike the previous Grand Master, Chaucer didn’t wear the ostentatious uniforms prescribed by the order. Garrett always thought they were ridiculous—something from the Napoleonic era, the jacket bright red and festooned with sashes, ribbons, brush epaulets, and medals all over the place. Garrett always thought they looked like something a dictator in a third-world country would wear.
When Geoffrey had been ordained as the Grand Master, his first order had been to tone down the pageantry and to return to its roots of charity and chivalry. In other words, bend the knee to the Holy Roman Catholic Church.
It was something Garrett saw through completely, but he knew Geoffrey Chaucer had little humility. He might attempt to show it through a minimalist uniform, but he was as egotistical as the man he’d replaced.
Chaucer said, “Garrett, please, take a seat,” pointing to the one across from him.
Garrett did, saying, “How can I help you, sir?”
Chaucer fiddled with a pen in his hands, then said, “Garrett, I knew we needed your skills in Syria, and I appreciate you coming with us here in Israel for the same reason, but this is a very delicate visit.”
Unsure of where the conversation was headed, Garrett said, “Yes, sir. Of course. My only reason for being here is the same reason I was in Syria. To protect members of the order. You know that the majority of my protection in Syria involved negotiating between factions, right? I didn’t fire a shot in anger unless one was fired against someone from the order.”
Chaucer said, “Yes, yes. I know. And I’ve heard about the death of the one everyone seems to call a ‘turtle’ in Bahrain. That has caused significant repercussions with the United States, and now you’ve brought another ‘turtle’ with you here. I was told it would be only you.”
“Sir, he is not coming to Megiddo with you. That will be only me. He’s remaining behind in Tel Aviv purely for support. Protection requires more than the five feet around you. He’s going to coordinate with level three trauma centers, find evacuation routes, everything I used to do when I did emergency evacuation site surveys for United States embassies. It’s just prudent.”
“And so that’s why you’ve leveraged the diplomatic passports to also travel to Lebanon?”
And now Garrett knew why this was happening. Someone in the Lebanese Knights of Malta consular office had reported.
He said, “Precisely, sir. Since Megiddo is so far north, I’ve taken the liberty of moving two ‘turtles’ as you call them to our consulate in Lebanon. All I’m doing is covering our bases. Protecting the order.”
Chaucer leaned forward and said, “This visit is very important. It’s much more than listening to a speech from the Israeli prime minister. We have diplomatic relationships with countries all over the world, but not here, in the land of our birth. This trip could do that for us.”
Garrett said, “I understand, sir.”
“We don’t need to jeopardize this with any overt security protocols, as if we’re afraid that the entire Israeli security system cannot protect us.”
“Sir, it’ll be just me, I promise. The rest will be invisible. I’ll be invisible. I’ll just be in the background, coordinating with the Israeli security services. That’s it.”
Chaucer leaned back and said, “The prime minister of Israel will be the man speaking. There will be delegations from multiple evangelical churches in the United States, not to mention a representative from the United States State Department. I highly doubt you alone will be able to contribute. It’s going to be blanketed with security. Nothing is going to jeopardize this.”
Garrett thought, How naïve.
Chapter 54
Raphael and Leonardo clomped down the stairwell a little after ten in the morning, heading to a café for the linkup and hoping to get a little breakfast along the way. They exited onto the street warily, as if they expected a suicide bomber to come running up at any minute.
That didn’t happen. What they saw was a cloistered street not unlike Rome, but a little filthier, with bits of trash caught by the breeze floating around. People were walking about normally, not acting as if they feared for their lives or scuttling for cover like Raphael had seen before. He expected some shock from people seeing them exit the building, two Caucasian strangers on the street, but everyone completely ignored them.
Leonardo had never been to Beirut, and Raphael had told him how bad it could be, with bombs flying through the air and shooting all over the place—but Raphael had only been here for a brief stint, during the 2006 war with Israel.
After a moment, he laughed and said, “Looks like things have changed since I was here.”
Leonardo shook his head and said, “It’s like you described our childhood during the Bosnian war, and then we entered Croatia today. What the hell, man? I thought it was going to be a mess here.”
Raphael said, “You were the one who was here with Donatello. You should have known.”
“That was Tripoli, and honestly, that place looks a lot like this one. I thought you had some secret knowledge of Beirut.”
They gained confidence, shouldering their backpacks and walking up the street, following the directions they’d been given. Eventually, they found the shop, a little street corner café serving espresso and scones.
They took a seat at an outdoor table, as instructed, and ordered from an attractive Lebanese waitress with a flawless understanding of English.
She left and Leonardo said, “I could come back here, afterward. Just for the vacation.”
Raph said, “Me, too.”
A car pulled up across the street and a man exited. He stood for a moment, looked both ways, and the car drove away. Raph studied him. He had what Raph would call a “Taliban beard,” with it shaved into a spike, and was dressed in rough pants, a button-up shirt, and a jacket. He had no skullcap or Kaffiya, his head bare.
He approached the café as if he wanted to enter it, then at the last minute veered to their table, taking the one remaining seat. He said, “My name is Tariq Bazzi, and I understand you need some help.”
Startled at his brazen approach, Raph slid his chair back, putting a hand on his backpack, all of his fears coming true.
Tariq said, “Don’t touch that bag. I’m not the only one here. You won’t live to open it.”
Raph released the zipper but kept his hand on the top, saying, “We won’t go quietly.”
Leonardo put his hand on Raph’s wrist and said, “This is our contact.”
Tariq said, “Leonardo, correct? I remember you from before. The moneyman, right? Tripoli?”
Leonardo nodded and Tariq said, “I’m sorry about Donatello. He was a good man. I hope he died in a good fight.”
Raph said, “He did. Now, what do we do from here?”
“It’s a long trip to where you want to go, with multiple checkpoints and rough terrain. I can get you there, but it’s going to be expensive.”
“It’s a four-hour drive from here.”
“It’s a four-hour drive on a highway in Italy or the United States. It’s a twelve-hour drive for you two. Do you think we’re going through official border crossings? We’re going to have to traverse the Bekaa Valley, go through the mountains, and then enter Syria through checkpoints that we control.”
“Twelve hours?”
“Yes. As I said, expensive. You’re paying me for my skill, and I’m the one that’s going to get you to your contacts on the other side. I have no idea what they want you for, or your area of expertise, and I don’t want to know, but it’s going to cost money.”
Raph bristled and said, “We have the money, if you are who you say you are. I’m not paying just to get rolled up by Hezbollah thugs in the valley, or Assad regime forces in Syria.”
Tariq laughed and said, “Then you’ve come to the right man, because I deal with all of them. Smuggling is what I do. On this side of the border, I’m Hezbollah. On that side, I’m regime. Nobody touches me because I’m too important to all of them.”
Raph said, “We have whatever money you require.”
“Then let’s get that out of the way first. You guys have Venmo? That’s kind of a thing now for the Assad regime.”
Leonardo said, “No. We have prepaid debit cards.”
“That’ll work. Half now.”
Leonardo reached into a thigh pocket and pulled out four cards, handing them over. Tariq took them, then said, “Is this your gear?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have to inspect it before we leave. No offense.”
Raph said, “That’s not going to happen. Just assume we have weapons. We have no explosives, but we do have weapons.”
“No inspection will cost more.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m bringing security with me if you won’t let me check the bags. Check them, and it’s me and one other guy. Don’t check them, and it’s an entire car following with my men. I don’t like surprises.”
Raph shook his head, then kicked his bag over, a large frameless backpack. Tariq opened the top compartment and saw a pistol and what looked like a shortened bolt-action rifle with a large cylinder underneath it. He said, “What’s this?”
“An air gun. A silent weapon.”
Tariq laughed, continuing to search. He said, “You ever hear of silencers for your pistol? We even have them here, and I can get you one.”
“I’ll live with what I packed.”
Tariq went to the lower compartment, finding clothes, cliff bars, and a Thuraya satellite phone. He said, “Thuraya. Should have gone with Inmarsat like I have. Thuraya is compromised by the intelligence agencies.”
Raph said, “Only if someone is hunting you. Nobody is hunting us.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. What you’re doing is secretive, and who you’re meeting is important to my business. You will not turn that phone on while we’re together. Agreed?”
Raph nodded. Satisfied, Tariq zipped it up. He looked at Leonardo and said, “Yours?”
Leonardo slid it over. Five minutes later, Tariq was finished. He said, “The pistols are fine, but they stay in the bags until we reach our destination. The sat phone is not, but if it stays in the bag during the trip, you can keep it. The air gun is just stupid, but you can keep it as well.”
He pulled out an ordinary cell phone and made a call. While waiting on it to connect, he said, “Two it is, but you leave with the bags here. No stories about having to go back to your hotel for something you forgot. Agreed?”
Raph nodded and a white Toyota Land Cruiser with a snorkel snaking across the hood came around the corner, its paint scarred and dirty from trips far away from Beirut. A burly man with dark skin was behind the wheel wearing sunglasses above a thick beard. Tariq said, “Load up. Let’s go.”
Surprised, Raph said, “Now? Just like that?”
“Yes. Just like that.”
Leonardo said, “We have to pay the bill.”
“You’re already paying the bill. Everyone in that place, from the waitress you want to bed to the man making the espressos, works for me.”
They hesitated and Tariq said, “I’m not going to put a hood on your head. Quit being such babies. You’re the ones paying for this.”
They grabbed their bags and loaded the Cruiser. In short order, they were out of the city, driving south past the airport on Highway 51, the four-lane road that traversed the entire country along the Mediterranean coast. Eventually, the driver took a left on another major road and began heading east, into the Lebanon Mountains chain.
The road dropped down to two lanes, and then began winding back and forth following the contours of the ridges and switchbacks, getting higher and higher. Eventually, they crested the top of the range and began dropping down the other side. They entered a town called Jezzine, the Bekaa Valley spilling out below them. The driver pulled the SUV into a small gas station and stopped. Tariq turned around with a SIG Sauer P229 pistol in his hands. Startled, Raphael raised his hands and said, “What’s going on?”
The driver brandished his own pistol.
Tariq said, “I’m sorry about this.”
Tariq tossed two black hoods into their laps. “Don’t worry, this isn’t a kidnapping. You’re going to have to trust me. I can’t have you knowing where the start of my smuggling route begins.”
And Raphael realized why he’d made them leave their own guns in their bags. He said, “We’re not putting those on, and you’ve put your life in jeopardy by suggesting it. We’ve paid you well.”
Tariq laughed and said, “Don’t be so dramatic. I’m not going to shoot you if you don’t, and you’ve only paid me half. I’ll just take the rest of those prepaid debit cards and leave you here. I won’t force you to put them on. Once again, this isn’t a kidnapping, but just as you have your secrets, I must have mine.”
Leonardo said, “Let’s do it.”
Raphael said, “Fuck that. Why?”
“Donatello and I had to do the same thing once before. In Tripoli. It worked out.”
Raphael reluctantly shoved his head into the bag, glaring at Tariq as he did so. He felt the vehicle leave the gas station, then leave the paved road, bouncing for the next hour down the slope and into the valley, the roads coarse and rustic, the shocks on the vehicle groaning in defiance as the frame of the vehicle traversed the pitted trail.
Eventually, the vehicle stopped and Tariq said, “You may remove the hoods.”
They did so, seeing a small compound around them, cinder-block buildings without siding, sheet metal roofs, and naked power lines going from building to building.
Tariq said, “We can eat here while we wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“We can’t attempt to cross the next mountain range until dusk, reaching the top in the darkness, then crossing the other side right before dawn. To do otherwise is dangerous.”
Tariq opened the door and said, “Come on. I have fruit and cheese for you. I’m like a Lebanese tour guide. No matter how much you pay, I promise a grand dinner but give you only snacks.”
He laughed at his joke, and Raphael heard gunfire no more than a hundred meters away. A lot of gunfire. He reached inside for his backpack, saying, “Enough of this shit.”
The driver stopped him with a hand, shaking his head. Tariq said, “You’re safe here in my care.”
“What the hell is the gunfire? Rebel troops fighting the government or something?”
Tariq’s eyes widened in surprise, then he began laughing, saying, “No, no, no. That’s not fighting. That’s training.”
“Who the hell is training out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“The same people you’re going to meet on the other side of this mountain chain in Syria. Hezbollah. The Party of God.”
Chapter 55
Walking toward the Oval Office, Alexander Palmer whispered, “Can I ask why there’s a priest with you?”
George Wolffe said, “Just in case I need last rites.”
They reached a couch about twenty feet away from the door and Wolffe turned, saying, “Father, if you could sit out here until I call you, I’d appreciate it.”
The priest nodded, taking a seat, and, like everyone else in the modern world, pulled out his phone and began scrolling.
Wolffe and Palmer kept walking, and Palmer said, “Seriously, why’s he here?”
Wolffe said, “Because I’m about to tell a story involving the belief in the end of the world, a Catholic organization from the Crusades, and a serial killer. He’s here for backup for questions I can’t answer.”
