“She’s my cousin, and I wasn’t expecting a scrawny man with thick glasses. I was expectingAsh’abah.The Ghost.”
“That’s me.”
The man looked out over the falls, clearly unimpressed. He said, “Tellme, there was a Phalange militia leader who had a heart attack in a restaurant in Beirut. October of 2012.”
He returned to the Ghost and said, “How did he really die?”
The Ghost knew exactly who he was referring to. Comprised of Maronite Christians, the Phalange militia had been feared during the civil wars of Lebanon. One of many sects fighting, they had the support of the Americans and the Zionists, but, like all the others, had turned in their weapons after the peace accords. All the others, that is, except Hezbollah.
The Party of God simply grew stronger and stronger, never bothering to disarm, and the Phalange grew irritated with the power they wielded. In 2010 they began to rumble about arming themselves and starting the fighting anew, something Hezbollah couldn’t allow. In 2012, Hezbollah had hired the Ghost to remove the nascent leader, and he had. The official story had been he’d had a heart attack in a bathroom of a restaurant. Nobody knew the truth other than Hezbollah and the man who’d done it.
The Ghost said, “He died by an ice pick to the brain, inserted just behind his left ear.”
The man apprised him anew, looking him up and down. His face split into a grin and he stuck out his hand, saying, “Ash’abah. It is good to finally meet you.”
The Ghost shook his hand and the man said, “I’m Khalil and this is Fatima. Come. We have much to discuss.”
They walked back down the metal path and the Ghost handed him the envelope Sardar had given him, saying, “This is from the Pasdaran.”
Khalil took it and put it in a pocket without a word. He saw the Ghost was about to ask a question and pointed to the tourists in front and behind, saying, “Wait. Not here.”
The Ghost said, “Nobody can hear us.”
Khalil said, “Nobody you can see. Since the Zionists pager attack I’m no longer lulled by a false sense of security. Let us get away from the crowds.”
They moved at a brisk pace back down the metal walkway, entering the forest before breaking into the clearing of the train stop. The Ghost glancedat the picnic tables next to the snack shop, but didn’t see Omar or Cyrus. He said, “Over there? Nobody’s about.”
“No. Follow me.”
Khalil led him to a shack next to the water, a sign out front proclaiming riverboat tours. He turned to the Ghost and said, “Can you swim?”
The Ghost nodded, and Khalil said, “We’ll take a boat back down instead of the train. It’ll allow us to talk.”
A worker came out, handing the Ghost a life jacket, then passing one to Khalil and Fatima. The Ghost took it and was led to a yellow rubber raft with seating for about eight, a man sitting in the back holding an oar in the water. The Ghost looked at Khalil with a question, and Khalil said, “Don’t worry. He’s with us. Works here, and knows the river here better than anyone. We’ll be using him later too.”
Fatima and Khalil climbed aboard just as another man and woman appeared. The man asked to buy a ticket on the raft, and the Ghost knew this idea had been a mistake. The attendant that had given him the life vest said, “I’m sorry, but the next raft leaves in fifteen minutes.”
The woman looked at the Ghost with piercing eyes, and he ducked his head, pretending to work his life vest. The man with her said, “There’s room for us. Come on, we don’t want to take the train.”
The attendant said, “They paid for the entire raft. I’m sorry.”
The Ghost boarded the raft and saw Khalil wink. The raft broke from the dock and they headed downstream, leaving the tourists behind.
Khalil waited until they were in the middle of the tributary before saying, “You have met this Sardar, correct?”
The Ghost realized that because of his past, Khalil trusted him more than anyone from Iran. He said, “Yes, I have, and he’s Pasdaran. He seems competent.”
“That’s what I thought, right up until October seventh. After that, ‘competent’ isn’t a word I would use for the Pasdaran. More like cowardly. What gives you this confidence?”
Without preamble, but knowing his next words held weight, the Ghost said, “For the last decade I’ve been held in a secret prison inside the UnitedStates, a prisoner of the Great Satan’s version of the Quds Force. Sardar not only managed to break me out of prison cleanly, but get me here with passports and identities. Trust me, he’s competent.”
Khalil glanced at Fatima, then said, “That’s good to hear. He told me that story, but I half thought it was a myth. And so you think he can do this mission?”
The Ghost considered his answer, and then decided on the truth. “I don’t know, because I don’t know the mission. I know the target, and that’s all.”
Showing surprise, Fatima spoke for the first time, saying, “You don’t know how he intends to attack?”
Khalil gave her a stern look and she said, “What? This was supposed to be where we decided, andhedoesn’t even know.”
