Omar and Cyrus had exited from the back, the Ghost from the passenger seat. Omar said, “We’ll get the tickets. Wait here.”
He’d stood next to a souvenir stand, shifting from one foot to the other as he studied the park map. It was large, much larger than he’d imagined, with a train running from one end to the other. There were three separate footpaths to see the falls, and a myriad of different platforms for viewing. He found the one called the Devil’s Throat—his meeting site—and saw it was the farthest away, in the middle of the Iguazú River and right up against the border of Brazil.
The men returned and Omar handed him a ticket, saying, “You have your hat?”
“Yes. I have it.”
“And remember the words.”
A little exasperated, the Ghost said, “I know how to conduct a clandestine meeting. I’m the stationary element, they’re the moving element.”
“Correct. We’ll take the train to the northern stop, but that’s as far as we can go. You’ll be alone out to the Devil’s Throat. If you have any issues, return down the walkway to the train station.”
The Ghost smiled, saying, “From the map, that’s a long way out into the middle of the river.”
Cyrus said, “I know, but believe me, they’re more afraid of you than you are of them. It’s why they picked the location, and why they stipulated you come alone. If you fail the vetting, they aren’t going to attack you. They’re simply going to leave.”
They walked down the stone path to the small train station, the parkbeginning to fill up with tourists from all over the world. When they reached the platform, the Ghost saw the train was more of a tourist tram than an actual locomotive, with bench seats and cabins open to the air. They boarded and within minutes were on the way, reaching the end of the line a half hour later. After exiting, Omar pointed to a gravel walkway snaking into the jungle, saying, “That’s the way to the Devil’s Throat.”
He pointed in the other direction, towards a covered area next to a shop selling sodas and ice cream, saying, “We’ll be waiting at the picnic tables.”
The Ghost nodded and followed groups of tourists to the entrance path, all of them coalescing onto a steel walkway like they were being sucked up by the falls themselves.
The walkway snaked through the foliage about three feet off the jungle floor and then began crossing the open water of the Iguazú River. In the distance he could hear a low hum, like a fan in a warehouse. The boardwalk crossed little hillocks, some with trees, others just rock outcroppings, and the sound grew louder. They reached a larger island in the middle of the river, exited onto another gravel path, and the sound grew into a roar. The metal walkway started again on the far side of the island, this time straight out into the river. He could see a platform about a hundred meters away, the tourists on it appearing ghostlike from the mist created by the crashing water.
He thought,That must be the Devil’s Throat, then,How are we going to have a conversation out there?
He began walking to the viewing platform, seeing it packed with tourists, complete with professional photographers taking digital pictures for a price, the noise from the falls overpowering everything. One thing was for sure, the Hezbollah people had chosen a secure location. There was no way anyone was going to attempt anything nefarious out here. If any hostile action was attempted, the police would simply be waiting at the far end of the walkway.
Looking for his own escape route, should he need it, he saw the power of the falls unfold beneath him, thinking,Trying to swim will be a death sentence.
He passed people on the exit walkway headed back, some with cheap plastic ponchos, others simply wet, and felt the first bit of mist hit him, the wind bringing it from the churning water. He reached the viewing platform and began to inch along with everyone else, the throngs making a circle like an undulating animal around the platform.
The Devil’s Throat spilled out just beyond, a foaming, churning boil of water spilling hundreds of feet below, the fury of it almost overwhelming. He paused, transfixed, momentarily forgetting why he was there. He inched along, footstep by footstep, pausing to let families and couples take selfies, until he reached the official photographer’s stand.
He saw a separate line waiting and went to it, pulling Sardar’s hat from inside his jacket and straightening it out. A simple baseball cap, it had an American flag on the front and nothing else. He put it on his head, the line for the photographer moving much slower than the line around the platform.
A man and a woman queued up behind him, and he ignored them, patiently inching forward. In English, the man said, “Are you from the United States?”
The comment sent an electric current through the Ghost, but he revealed nothing in his expression.
It was the initiation phrase of the bona fides.
Chapter 29
The Ghost turned and saw a tall man of about thirty, with a sharp, narrow face, the skin stretched taut across a long nose, a full mustache under it growing past the corners of his lips. He had a set of eyebrows as thick as his mustache, and was wearing Western clothes that gave no indication of his heritage. He could have been Argentinian, Lebanese, or from any number of other countries. Next to him was a smallish woman with a round, cherub face and shoulder-length black hair.
The Ghost said, “No, no. Why would you think that?”
“The hat you’re wearing.”
“My friend from Lebanon bought this for me as a souvenir when he was visiting America.”
The bona fides complete, the man switched to Arabic and said, “Follow me.”
They walked to the exit path, went down it for about fifty meters until they reached an outcropping with a bench. The man pointed to the seat and the Ghost moved that way. The man stopped him and said, “Not you. That’s for her.”
She sat down and the Ghost said, “I wasn’t expecting a woman. You startled me.”
