Authors: Matthew Dunn
“You know the answer to that. You were at the meeting.”
Mason said, “If I hadn’t been there, I’d still know the answer.”
Bäcklund placed the unlit cigarette in her jacket pocket, her craving for the cigarettes she so used to adore momentarily over. “They’ll have made the obvious point that Israel has no concrete evidence that Hamas killed the ambassador, and in turn they’ll say Israel doesn’t yet have any legitimate ground in international law to start a ground offensive.”
“Correct. Going to war on a hunch.” Mason loosened the knot on his tie. “And what is our beloved president’s stance?” This was to Tanner.
The young man was silent for three seconds. “He’ll be urging Israel to be exercise restraint. But he’ll also be worried that if he can’t persuade Israel to hold fire, he’s going to be in a political quagmire because if he doesn’t show public support for Israeli actions, he’s going to suffer big-time at the domestic ballot box.”
“U.S. voters are not the only issue though I concede it is a relevant one.” Mason looked out of the window at the manicured grounds beside his office and wondered if he’d be able to sneak in some Japanese Salix Hakuro-nishiki miniature trees in one of the flowerbeds. “The only solution for the president is to prove to U.S. voters that his decision to back or not back Israel is undeniably the correct one.” Mason returned his attention to his employees.
Tanner asked, “You got an idea?”
“I do.”
“You gonna share it with the president?”
Mason smiled. “I already have.” His smile vanished. “And to everyone else present at the meeting. It’s bought time. Israel’s given me two months to make the idea work. If it doesn’t, international law be damned as far as Israel’s concerned. It will go to war with our without our blessing. People will have
opinions
about whether it’s the right or wrong thing to do, but no one will know for a
fact
that it’s the correct course of action because no one knows for a fact that Hamas killed the ambassador.”
“And the Middle East will tear itself apart, before looking west.” Bäcklund shook her head. “Anarchy. Bearded crazies foaming at the mouth and turning on us.”
“Yes.” There was a tinge of sadness in Mason’s otherwise piercing cold blue eyes. “If my idea fails, the world should be wishing that I’d been a smarter man.”
Tanner asked, “What is your idea?”
“We must get undeniable proof that Hamas did or did not conduct the Paris assassination.” The admiral added, “My solution’s being enacted right now. It’s called Grey Site.”
M
osques were calling people to pray in Beirut, the amplified sounds nearly drowned out by the noise of traffic on the streets, the buzz of people going about their early-morning business, construction workers building and repairing buildings, and cargo vessels in the adjacent Mediterranean sounding their horns to warn other vessels that they were cruising slowly in and out of port amid a mist that still hadn’t been burned out by the sun.
A tall man called Laith Dia—though that wasn’t the name he’d used to enter Lebanon two days ago—ate a freshly baked za’atar croissant while standing in a doorway and watching not only a large derelict house, underneath which a newly constructed intelligence station had been established, but more importantly everything around the building. He was a paramilitary CIA officer. One of the men in the nearby subterranean complex was a colleague; the three other officers were respectively British MI6, French DGSE, and Israeli Mossad. Right now they were testing the newly installed electronic surveillance and intercept equipment. Laith was there to watch their back for twenty-four hours, trying to establish if there were any indications that people knew they were there. It was his last job for the CIA because, a week ago, he’d resigned from the Agency.
Though he was a big man with a striking visage, Laith blended in just fine. He looked like he was Lebanese, or certainly North African, and he was wearing clothes befitting an entrepreneur who was grabbing a bite to eat before heading off to his car dealership or dockland import and export business. It was a great time of day to do surveillance because people moving past him were bleary-eyed from drinking wine and smoking hookahs last night, and were oblivious to little else beyond getting to work and forcing their minds into gear. It would be easy to spot professional threats to the Western intelligence complex.
Laith sauntered along the street, taking another bite out of his breakfast while casually taking in his surroundings. The street was on the outskirts of Beirut, aligned with buildings that were residential and commercial, and was bustling with traffic and pedestrians. It was very different from how it had been during the preceding night when Laith had been here. Then, it had been almost deserted of people though the sounds of the city had been evident throughout his all-night vigil.
He saw an SUV stop. Two men got out and began walking along the street, one on either side of the route. Clearly, they were looking for something. They didn’t look bleary-eyed. And though the young men looked similar to many of the pedestrians around them, they moved with vigor and purpose, showing no signs of having just dragged themselves out of bed after an evening of overindulging in the fine cuisines on offer in the city. After years of serving in the CIA and prior to that Delta Force, Laith knew the types. Still, they could just be innocents rather than Hamas terrorists who were looking for hostile intelligence officers who were spying on their activities.
Laith quietly spoke into his radio throat mic while watching the men. “May have something. Two men on foot. About one hundred yards from you. They’re walking the street.”
The MI6 officer in the underground intelligence office responded in Laith’s earpiece. “Suspicious?”
“Hard to tell at this point.”
The men were stopping people in the street, speaking briefly to them before moving on. Maybe they were asking directions. Or maybe they were inquiring as to whether the local residents had seen any recent activity wherein strangers had arrived and positioned themselves in their community. Perhaps these men were Hamas, but their intentions were benign. Though it was a terrorist organization, Hamas spent more time acting like Mafiosi—trying to get a grip on the streets of Beirut, policing it, doing business with locals, punishing them sometimes.
The men stopped outside the derelict house containing the intelligence complex.
Laith placed a hand over his concealed handgun, ready to run to the men if they went inside. “They’re right outside your building. At stop.”
“Shit!” The MI6 officer made no effort to conceal his unease. “But just two of them, right?”
“On foot, yeah.” Laith glanced at the vehicle they’d earlier disembarked from. “But there’s another three in the SUV. And that vehicle’s following them at their pace, about fifty yards behind them.”
Five potential terrorists versus five Western intelligence officers. But that wasn’t the sum of it—what worried Laith and his colleagues was that a firefight would not only compromise the newly constructed intelligence station; it would also mean that he and his colleagues would somehow need to escape the Lebanon alive. And there was every probability that if the men he was watching were Hamas, they’d have reinforcements nearby.
“What are they doing?” The British officer sounded professional, yet tense.
“Just standing outside your building, looking around.”
“Can you get to them if they enter?”
“Not sure because I’d have to take out the vehicle first.”
Laith looked in the opposite direction. He saw another SUV at the end of the street. Again, the occupants looked different from locals. “Damn it. Another vehicle. Five more men.”
“Coincidence?”
Laith answered, “I’m thinking not. But that doesn’t mean they know you’re here, or are looking for you.”
The MI6 officer—a man called Edward, whom Laith had briefly met and who’d struck him as a cool-as-cucumber operator—said, “We’re trapped in here! One route in and out. We won’t stand a chance.”
“Hold your nerve.”
“They’ll butcher us! I’d rather we took our own lives than let them get to us!”
888Laith saw the two men on foot get back into their SUV. It drove off at speed. The second SUV turned off the street into another road. They were gone.
Laith repeated, “Hold your nerve.”
R
ob Tanner walked across the vast external parking lot, paused by his vehicle while looking at the nearby Pentagon, and entered his car. It was midafternoon; all of the vehicles around him belonged to people who were still ensconced in the Pentagon, hard at work and wishing it was closer to 6:00
P.M
. He used his vehicle’s key to unlock the glove compartment and took out a cell phone that only one other man knew about. He powered it up and typed in the number that he’d memorized because the phone had no contacts list or anything else compromising within it. While it was ringing, he recalled the man who’d placed the phone in his hand, saying, “This is your first test. I hope I’m not making a mistake.”
The man answered on the fourth ring but didn’t speak.
Spots of rain hit the windshield, making Tanner worry about his hair when he’d walk back to his office. “I have news.”
The man was silent.
“He’s set up something called Grey Site. We need to meet.”
Y
esterday evening, Safa had watched a movie before getting into his new bed—one that contained sheets so lovely they felt as if they were an angel’s hand encapsulating him and gently rocking him to sleep. The movie was made by Hollywood, and for most of the film there was only one actor—a man he’d never heard of. Since Safa’s English was limited, his guardian had put on French subtitles. The American character was a courier man whose flight across the Pacific Ocean had crashed into the sea. He’d had to survive alone on a desert island for five years, his only companion a football on which he’d painted a face. To avoid death or the loss of his sanity, the American had finally decided to throw his life to fate and ventured away from the island on a raft. By pure luck, he was spotted and picked up by a cargo ship. Later, after receiving medical treatment and having his hair and beard cut so that he resembled the man he once was, he was flown back to the States. During that flight, he was given a glass of Coca-Cola with cubes of ice. The American could barely remember ice; it seemed remarkable and otherworldly to him.
Safa knew exactly how that felt.
He’d been on a desert island of sorts for all of his young life. Of course, he’d had glimpses of the outside world and had knowledge of what it contained. But it is not until you gaze upon these things in person, smell them, feel them, drink and eat them that you truly understand their wonder.
Since he’d arrived in France, there’d been so much to wonder at, almost to the point that everything around him was overwhelming. His guardian—the United Nations official who’d rescued him from Gaza—was mindful of this and careful with Safa’s integration into the West. “Little by little,” he’d told him over the preceding weeks. “We don’t want your delicate mind overloaded.”
Safa was educated by the UN man and lived in his home. It was a palace as far as the Palestinian boy was concerned though in truth it was big by the standards of most houses in France, it was no bigger than others that shared the same suburb of the city they were in. The house was tastefully furnished, had open fireplaces, books and oil paintings everywhere, wooden beams, ornate candles that were more often the source of light than electric bulbs, and an overall ambience of love, academia, warmth, and passion for locally sourced and well-cooked food. It was the home of a
seigneur
; a descriptive term that Safa had never heard of before but one that was explained to him by the guardian as a man who harked back to old Napoleonic times. A
seigneur
was privileged yet a true gentleman and leader who had compassion for all those who needed him.
Seigneurs
were not nobles; on the contrary, they desired to destroy the elitism of undeserved royal ascendancy. They were rebels but supremely powerful ones at that.
Safa had to be careful, the UN officer had told him upon arriving in France. Somehow, his guardian had managed to secure false papers for his charge, including a medical history. They were all in the name Safa though they had a different surname. But they were not enough to protect the boy since it was technically illegal for the real Safa to be in France. He needed a cover, his guardian had told him. If anyone asked, Safa’s parents lived in Marseille, were French citizens, and had recently died. His guardian had legally adopted him. The UN official had given Safa many more details about his false background and current circumstances, and had made Safa memorize and recite these details over and over again until he was faultless.
Safa was in his bedroom when the UN man called, in French, from downstairs, “Safa, I need to speak to you.”
Safa entered the open-plan kitchen-cum–living room, his favorite part of the house, and sat at the dining-room table. The UN officer brought him a cup of cocoa, and the smell of roasting chicken and rosemary wafted across the room from the large oven. Today was special. Since Safa had arrived in France, his guardian had taken him back and forth to private medical clinicians, particularly those who specialized in nutrition. Safa had been placed on a strict diet that allowed his body to slowly recover but didn’t cause it to crash. He’d only been permitted small portions of meat and fish. But today, all bets were off. The doctors had given the boy the all clear to eat as much as his slim belly could cope with. And roast chicken was his meal of choice.
He sipped his cocoa, yet another addition into the repertoire of foods he was now permitted. Blessed God, it tasted so good.
His guardian sat opposite him and gently placed his hand on Safa’s arm. “I’ve just received a call from one of my colleagues in Gaza. I’m so sorry, son. Your mother has passed away.”
“Passed away?”
“Died.”
Safa was unable to think clearly. He thought he should be crying, shaking, calling out to his beloved Mama. But the news came as no shock to him. Did this make him a bad boy, one with no heart? It all seemed so confusing because he had a huge heart.
His guardian must have sensed the conflict within him. “Listen carefully. I’ve traveled the world and seen more suffering than any man should. When people are surrounded by death, it has a different meaning. It’s almost as if it’s part of . . .”
“Life.”
“Yes.”
Safa took another sip of his cocoa. It didn’t taste so good now. “How did she die?”
“The phrase
passed away
is apt. Because that’s how she went. Peacefully. In her sleep. No pain.”
“Is she with God now?”
“Yes, and your father is by her side.” The UN official removed his hand from Safa’s arm. “You have no one now. You must face up to that reality.”
“I have you, sir.”
“I am not family. Nor can I be.”
“You look after me.”
“I do, and I will do everything in my power to make sure you’re not sent back to that place.” The guardian had concern written across his face. “Don’t worry, Safa. I have connections. I know what I’m doing. And I will always look after you. But”—he adopted a stern tone though his expression was now one of true warmth—“I am a man of rules and principles, and it is a rule and principle that those in my household always eat a good meal, no matter whether we are elated or full of sorrow.”
The meal was unlike any that Safa had eaten. His tummy was swollen afterward, though he didn’t care. He’d consumed chicken with crispy skin, steamed fresh vegetables that were lightly glazed in unsalted butter, roasted parsnips, stuffing balls, all covered with a homemade gravy. It was food fit for kings, and that was exactly how Safa felt; or maybe he felt like a prince who dwelt with a good king.
They retired to the guardian’s study. This was their evening ritual. Safa would always have a glass of water; the UN official would allow himself a small glass of port.
The guardian picked up a book from one of many on his shelves. It was red and looked old. “Charles Dickens was a very skilled English author. This book is written by him and is called
Hard Times
. I want you to close your eyes and relax. Don’t worry that you can’t understand the English words. Tonight, that’s not what’s important. Instead, I want you to listen to the rhythm of my voice, feel the musical flow of each sentence, and where possible remember how I pronounce some of the words. You are fortunate to speak French and Arabic. In sound, at least, the English tongue falls somewhere between those two languages.”
He read for thirty minutes, regularly glancing at Safa in case he opened his eyes or betrayed signs of not listening. But the boy looked entranced. In a calm and soothing voice, the guardian said, “Now we must turn our attention to your required medication and our daily reflection.”
This was the part that the boy least enjoyed about his days in France, though the guardian was under strict orders from Safa’s doctors to administer their prescriptions every evening. In truth, each day was getting easier and tonight the warm roast chicken in his tummy distracted him from fear.
The guardian opened a plastic box, withdrew from it a bottle of pills, tourniquet, and three syringes. Safa knew what to do. He swallowed the two pills handed to him, using the glass of water to wash them down, rolled up his sleeve, and held out his arm.
“That’s my lad,” said the guardian as he wrapped the tourniquet around Safa’s bicep. He swabbed disinfectant over a prominent vein where upper arm met the underside of Safa’s forearm, and eased the needle of the first syringe into Safa. “The first one’s always the more painful one, isn’t it?”
Safa nodded, his teeth gritted together.
“Just two more; smaller needles; almost no pain.”
The medicine was administered. Many times Safa had asked what was in the pills and syringes; always his guardian had answered, but the names he used to describe the medicines were in Latin and so long that Safa could never remember them. Still, all that mattered was that his doctors and guardian could.
As always, he felt an almost instant tiredness overwhelm him; but there was also a sense that he was looking at himself from the other side of the study.
“It’s the
outside-in
effect
,” the UN official frequently told him after his evening administrations of Safa’s medicines. “It’s the drugs’ way of letting your mind watch your body get stronger each day. And in turn, they make your brain stronger because they give it reassurance that it’s no longer in a weak vessel.”
Safa rolled down his sleeve after Band-Aids were applied over the puncture wounds and the tourniquet removed.
The guardian positioned four mirrors next to each other on his study’s desk. “Remember the drill?”
Safa swiveled in his chair to face the mirrors. “Yes. Though why so many mirrors this time?”
“We shall explore your question together.” The guardian turned off the light so the room was in pitch-darkness, and stood behind Safa’s back. He shined a flashlight at the mirror that was on the left. “Look at the reflection of light while we consider what we have learned and what we must still learn.”
Safa nodded, his eyes transfixed, his body feeling as if it were floating.
“Today, we have a new tragedy to add to the others, do we not?”
“We do, sir.”
“What is that tragedy?”
“The death of my mother.”
“Correct.” The guardian turned off the flashlight. “Is she gone?”
Darkness.
“Yes.”
“Has the tragedy gone?”
“No.”
The guardian illuminated the second mirror. “That’s right. The tragedy does not want to die. Look at the light, Safa. What does it say to you?”
“Burning. Things burning in eternity.”
“Hell?”
“Like Hell, but on Earth.”
The guardian rested the flashlight on a shelf so that its beam remained focused on the mirror. He picked up another flashlight. “The mirror on the left has no light and holds the lives that have been unnecessarily extinguished. Your sister, mother, and father belong there. No light. Their deaths were avoidable.”
“Avoidable.” Safa knew that with certainty. “Avoidable.”
“And the light that you can see reflected by the second mirror is the tragedy that we must allow to singe us with its flames. It must never be forgotten. But maybe one day it can be extinguished. Repeat that for me please.”
“It must never be forgotten. But maybe one day it can be extinguished.”
“Good. I want you to look at the third mirror while allowing the tragic light to continue to wash over you. Can you do this?”
Safa looked at the barely visible third mirror. “Is it bad? I don’t know if I want it to be bad.”
“Oh, no. This is the most wonderful thing in the world. It is a thing that forges a path into the future while correcting the past. The light I will shine on it will be bright and virtuous. But if you’re not ready to see it, then we can do this during one of our subsequent daily sessions.”
“I want to see it.”
The guardian illuminated the third mirror. “Do you know what this is?”
Safa shook his head.
“It is you.”
“Me?”
“The brightest light. Look at the mirror. It holds a reflection of you.”
Safa stared at the mirror; its light would normally hurt his eyes and cause him to blink, but the drugs inside him made him calm, at peace, and dulled his nerves. He felt different though he always did after receiving his medication. And every morning thereafter, he felt his mind was changing into one of greater fortitude and clarity. He was evolving. “Me?” he repeated.
“You.” The guardian’s session was nearly at a close. There was so much more work to be done. Safa was nowhere near ready. But each daily session had to contain cautious little steps. Much like the way Safa’s body had to be step by step carefully coaxed back to normal nutritional balance, so, too, his mind had to be gently manipulated to the place where it would never be the same again. The guardian owed that to the boy in his care; a child who could otherwise be traumatized by the horrors of his young life. “The mirror on the left with no light is beyond the control of you or anyone else. What has happened can never be undone. The mirror next to it burns with unbridled indignation and sorrow because it captures and holds tragedy. Only you can extinguish it, and only when matters have been put to rest. The third mirror is you. The brightest and purest light.” He paused, wondering if he should stop now.
Safa asked, “The fourth mirror. Why does it have no light?”
“It does have light. But it is an evil one. I’m not sure you’re ready to see what the mirror reflects.”
“It reflects the bad in me?”
“There is no bad in you. The fourth mirror is the key to everything—the death of your family; the terrible circumstances of your childhood; the unnecessary deaths of so many others.”
“What is it?”
“Gluttony, power, murder.” The guardian hesitated. “We’ve never given that light a name, have we?”
“Never.”
“Do you think it’s time to do so?”
Safa was silent for a moment. That night, his caring guardian had taken him to a whole new level of well-being. Thank goodness the man had singled Safa out for a better life, where he could recuperate in the West. A child, still, but one receiving a very good education on what it took to be a balanced adult. “Yes, it’s time.”