Ghost (13 page)

“You know I will.”

We wrap things up for the night. I want to tell Fred how grateful I am for this diversion. I just don’t know how. Instead, all I manage to do is say good-bye.

Thanksgiving comes and goes. Christmas approaches. The country has been rocked to the core by the Iran-contra revelation. President Reagan’s popularity is plummeting. A congressional commission, led by John Tower, is picking through the wreckage, trying to figure out who knew what and when. The special prosecutors are lining up. This one is sure to get ugly.

And the main problem remains. Hezbollah still holds five Americans hostage. We must find a way to get them out—that is, if Mugniyah doesn’t decide to quit the game entirely and summarily execute his captives. Given what’s happening, I wouldn’t put it past him.

January proves me wrong.

fourteen

THE BEER HALL ENCOUNTER

February 1987
Wiesbaden, Germany

Terry Waite has vanished. Against all advice, he returned to Beirut last month to try and salvage something of his honor—and to assure his own network in the city that he had nothing to do with the hostage-for-arms dealings. Last seen on January 20, Waite was en route to a meeting with his Hezbollah contacts.

I shudder to think what’s happened to him. Either he’s dead and buried in a shallow grave in the Bekáa Valley, or his good intentions earned him a shackle and a slumside prison cell.

I’d like to be surprised by this development, but I can’t be, not after what’s happened in the past year. I feel myself growing cynical, a state of mind that is required if you intend to survive long in the Dark World. And I intend to survive. I intend to thrive. I have things to do. Wrongs to right. Mass murderers to catch.

Terry Waite is only one new disappearance in Beirut. All month long, Hezbollah has declared open season on Westerners in the city. The situation is so out of hand that the American government issued a flat ultimatum to its own citizens: Get out of Lebanon, we can’t protect you. And, if you get kidnapped, you’re on your own. After Iran-contra, there’s no way the Reagan administration can negotiate with terrorists now. Exactly why Hezbollah’s gone on an abduction spree is anyone’s guess, but from the American perspective it doesn’t make much sense. The time when our citizens were used as currency and bargaining chips is over. The Tower Commission and the special prosecutors have seen to that.

The universities and their apparently oblivious staff of ivory tower types are the easiest hunting ground for Hezbollah snatch squads. In one haul on January 24, they grabbed three professors from American University in Beirut. That operation also netted Hezbollah an Indian academic. He must be lonely among all the Westerners.

Another Frenchman has been taken as well. He disappeared on January 13, just before things got ugly with the West Germans. That’s one reason why I’m here, back in Wiesbaden. The Germans are now caught up in the hostage crisis, too.

Last month, the West Germans arrested Muhammad Ali Hamadi, a Shiite leader and terrorist who worked with Imad Mugniyah to plan the TWA Flight 847 hijacking. In apparent retaliation for his arrest, the so-called Strugglers for Freedom bagged two West Germans in Beirut. Rudoph Cordes and Alfred Schmidt are now prisoners of Hezbollah. The Strugglers for Freedom is just another front name for Iran’s puppet terror organization in Lebanon.

Which brings me to this snowy German night in February. I’m alone on a street within the U.S. Air Force base at Wiesbaden. The weather has driven most folks indoors. I pad along atop the freshly fallen snow, pulling my Barbour Beaufort’s collar tight to my neck to ward off the cold. The snow is quite lovely tonight. It is still pure white, untrampled by passing cars and people.

The air force base is one of those places that has come to symbolize the enduring American occupation of West Germany. Thousands of U.S. airmen and aviators are stationed here at this ex-Luftwaffe airfield, and on weekends they flood into town to fill the beer halls with American voices. The locals have come to accept, if not enjoy, the company of their conquerors turned allies.

Tonight, I have a meeting in one of the local beer halls. It is a small place and poorly lit, but the food is supposed to be excellent and the beer plentiful and cheap. That makes it a perfect spot for two spooks to talk.

I make my way to the beer hall, walking past an enormous Luftwaffe eagle painted on the side of a building. Why nobody has bothered to paint over that symbol of Germany’s darkest age is puzzling. The paint is flecked in places, but from a distance, it still looks almost fresh, as if this is 1943 and the local
Nachtjäger Geschwader
was just waiting to scramble off the runway and intercept an incoming British bombing raid. A different age, a different war. Who knew that the victory in 1945 would lay the foundations for the chaos we face today: a cold war between superpowers overlayed atop a growing struggle between the Christian world and radical Islam?

I reach the beer hall’s door and plunge inside. The place is noisy, with lots of small groups of airmen clustered around tables. Toward the back, in a shadowy corner, I see my contact. He’s about my age, twenty-eight, and looks totally out of place among the buzz-cut military types taking up the other tables. His blond hair is long and bushy. He sports a droopy, poorly groomed mustache. He wears a brown corduroy jacket with a paisley tie that does not match his shirt. He looks like a cross between Frank Serpico and Sergeant Schultz.

I slip into the chair across from him and say, “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” comes the reply. His voice is gravelly, but his English is so good I can hardly detect an accent.

I notice he has a leather-bound folder sitting on the table in front of him. I wonder what’s inside. He notices me looking at it. Unconsciously, he puts one arm protectively across the folder.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Agent Burton.”

“We face the same enemy. We’re allies. It is the least I can do.”

“Allies, yes,” the German says, “unlike the French.” He leans back in his chair and awaits my reaction. He is searching for some common ground here.

I can’t help but agree with him. “They chart their own course.”

“And it has bitten them in their arrogant ass. Again.”

That’s true. In September, a radical group called the Lebanese Armed Revolutionary Faction launched a series of five bombings in Paris that killed or wounded almost two hundred people. Instead of retaliating, we think the French government negotiated some sort of truce with LARF.

“Do you think they will find the courage to convict Abdallah?” the German asks me.

“I hope so. He killed two diplomats.” Georges Abdallah is the heart and soul of LARF. He was caught and sentenced by a French court to four years in prison for weapons and explosives charges. In just a few days, the French will put him on trial for the murder of Lieutenant Colonel Charles Ray, the American military attaché in Paris, and an Israeli diplomat. Both were gunned down in 1982 by Abdallah and his men. The bombings in Paris coincided with the news that Abdallah would stand trial for murder.

“I will tell you something about that,” the German begins. He leans forward across the table and starts to say something in a very low voice.

“Hamadi has been talking,” he says. The news is tantalizing. I find myself on the edge of my chair.

“He and his brothers all have senior positions in Hezbollah. His brother Abdul Hadi is the chief of security.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. He’s also told us that Hezbollah’s behind the Paris bombings. Their agents cooperated with some Iranians working out of the embassy in Paris.”

This will be news to Foggy Bottom. The German has given me a nugget. Two months after the bombings, the French released three hundred million dollars of a billion-dollar loan to Iran that had been frozen. Shortly after that, three French hostages were released in Beirut. The French have their own contacts with Hezbollah. But they overpaid for their people, at least if our own thirty-million-dollar deal is any indication.

Every nation says they don’t negotiate with terrorists. That’s just a farce.

I think this news over. “We have all been affected by Hezbollah.”

“That is true. It is too bad that your country failed to kill Fadlallah.”

I’m caught off guard by that comment. He’s referring to the 1985 bombing of Sheikh Fadlallah’s motorcade in Beirut. The blast killed about eighty civilians but failed to take out the spiritual head and founder of Hezbollah. He survived, and accusations that the CIA was behind the attempted hit have floated around the Dark World ever since.

I make no reply. We sit in awkward silence for a minute until the waitress shows up with our food and drink. The German clutches the pitcher of beer and pours me a frothy glass. Then he fills his own glass and offers a perfunctory toast. We clink glasses and set to work on our schnitzel.

Through a full mouth, the German changes the subject. “We want our people in Beirut back. But we are constrained by our own laws.”

I want to say, “So are we.” But after Iran-contra, such a comment has no credibility. Instead, I stick another forkful of schnitzel in my mouth and avert my eyes.

“Sometimes I wish we could handle this like the Soviets did.”

I swallow and smile ruefully. “If only.”

In 1985, four Soviet diplomats were kidnapped in Lebanon. Dark World gossip held that the Soviets responded by tracking down the families of the abductors and kidnapping them in retaliation. Then they started sending Hezbollah body parts—fingers mainly. Whether this was true or not, I don’t know. The fact is one of the diplomats turned up dead, but the rest were released in a matter of weeks. It certainly didn’t hurt the KGB’s hard-core reputation for playing dirty.

I take a long pull from the glass he’s poured for me. The beer is a delicious and rare indulgence for me. Since seeing how the pressure-cooker atmosphere affects my fellow agents at the DSS, I’ve been very careful. The fact is, we are agents first, family men second. The DSS demands that; it is a sacrifice too many fail to understand until they’re already caught up in the Dark World. By then, it is too late.

I ask, “Anything new on the La Belle bombing?”

The German polishes off his mug of beer and reaches for the pitcher. “No. Nothing except that we think the Stasi was involved.”

This is news to me. “How?”

“They supplied intelligence to the Libyans. They might have had a hand in the preoperational target surveillance, too. Maybe even in the target selection.”

The East German secret police helped kill American servicemen. The revelation drives home a key point about the Dark World: Justice is ever elusive. The East German agents involved in La Belle will get away, just like the Libyan hit teams that tried to kill Calkins and Pollick. After almost a year in this business, it is hard not to feel resigned about this. It’s just the way things work.

Finally, just as I feel my belt constricting my stomach, we scour the last morsels off our plates and sit back, stuffed and satisfied by the wonderful meal. The German hands me the leather-bound folder.

“These are the men we want. Some we have names for, others we don’t. Would you show them to the hostages who have come out? Perhaps they might recognize some of them.”

I open the book and see a page full of mug shots. The very first one is Imad Mugniyah.

I look the spook right in the eye. “Of course I will.”

Noticing my reaction, he asks, “You know that man?”

“Yes. Mugniyah.” I spit his name like a curse.

“He is top on our list.”

“On ours, too,” I say.

“Why do you think the French let him go last year?” the German asks me. This is true. The French actually caught Mugniyah, but after we requested that they hold him, they let him go. They set free the mastermind behind the deaths of 241 marines. That same operation killed 58 French paratroopers. Mugniyah walked and justice was betrayed. Those in power deemed politics more prudent.

What about his victims? Who will speak for them?

The Italians did the same thing with Abu Nidal in 1985. A U.S. Air Force officer actually chased Nidal’s flight halfway across the Med, trying to get permission to divert it to an American base. He never got it, and Nidal escaped—again. If the West could ever get serious about Islamic terrorism, we’d be able to stop it. Right now, we all have divergent interests in the Middle East.

“They play their own game.”

“Yes. Yes, they do,” the German says as he slaps a few marks onto the table to cover the meal. “I hope you get him.”

“I hope we get him, too.”

Twenty minutes and a walk through the snow later, I’m back in my hotel room. I start to pack my things, as I have another C-141 to catch later tonight. I reach for my briefcase and pop it open, intending to put a few things into it.

The small black Italian moleskin journal I recently purchased sits inside. It catches my eye, and I stare at it for a long moment as an idea hits me. I reach down and withdraw the journal. It feels smooth and cold to my touch.

This will be my legacy. I got into this business because I wanted to make a difference in the world. I wanted to help make it a safer place for Americans. For anyone, really, who respects the rule of law. Someday, if Sharon and I ever have children, I will be able to open this journal and show them what I have accomplished for them. The world they will inherit will be minus these blights. At least, that is my goal.

And blight number one is Imad Mugniyah.

I move to the small, hotel-room desk and sit down. I open the journal and stare at its empty pages. Right now, it is a blank slate, just like my career. From my shirt pocket, I produce my black Parker rollerball pen. The tip hovers over the virgin paper. It is time to commit.

With great care, I begin to write.

1. The Fox.

Mugniyah, Imad Fayez.

Imad Mugniyah is believed to have been born in Lebanon in 1962 to a prominent Shiite cleric. A member of Hezbollah, Mugniyah has been linked to nearly every major terrorist operation the group has executed; however, his exact role within the group is unclear. Mugniyah has variously been reported to be Hezbollah’s chief of operations, security chief, director of intelligence, chief of international operations, and the overall commander of Hezbollah’s armed wing. He also allegedly possesses close links with the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps and Iranian intelligence, as he appears to act as a bridge between Hezbollah and the Iranian government.

He has proven extremely elusive because of his sound operational security and reliance on individuals he explicitly trusts. Mugniyah’s whereabouts are unknown.

Mugniyah is the first. There will be others. Before I leave the Dark World, I will do whatever I can to see each name crossed off this list. Justice will be served and the victims will have peace.