Don Pendleton: Beirut Payback

"Chaim is dead." Bolan expected her reaction. He had not missed her reference to the Israeli agent by his first name.

She took it like a bayonet in the gut, a gasp of shock. Bolan could tell by the fleeting look of pain on her face that part of the mind wanted to reject what it heard even as the hurt exploded through her. Then she pulled herself together in a visible effort, holding in everything that wanted to burst out.

"We were lovers," she told Bolan. Her voice quavered.

"I understand. I'm sorry." Bolan told her how Chaim died trying to cover Bolan as he rescued the boy.

"It... was an honorable way to die," Zoraya said softly when she heard it all. "I am no stranger to death."

"I'm moving fast," he told her. "You've sot to tell me. Chaim said you knew something about why Strakhov is in Beirut."

"Strakhov. We will all die because of him."

"Why were you informing to Chaim?" Bolan asked. "Because you loved him?"

"Not at first. Love... came later. I had two brothers. I am Druse. I can see by your eyes that you did not know this. My brothers volunteered for the militia to fight the Israelis and the Lebanese army. Do you know the injustices we Druse have suffered at the hands of this government, and yours?"

"And yet you inform for Mossad. You fell in love with one of their agents."

"Aziz and Adli were slain not by the Israelis or the army," the woman told him. "A Maronite spy was discovered in the squad in which my brothers fought. My brother's officers suspected someone in the squad had arranged it. A ridiculous charge. My brothers were devout servants of Allah and the Druse cause. They were summarily executed, as were the others in the squad. At first, I informed out of anger. Then I began to understand Chaim and what he believed. I understood there were other ways to bring peace. I do not inform to hinder the Druse cause, but to further it. I have never passed information that would result in the wholesale death of my people. I only want to help diffuse this tension. Chaim understood."

"I understand, too. But from what I've seen tonight, Zoraya, you're not doing too well."

"There is no hope," she said with quiet desperation. "Chaim is dead. The dogs of war run wild."

"Strakhov," Bolan prodded gently. "What have you learned about him?"

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry. It is something very high level. Security makes it all very vague. The major general is billeted with the Syrian army at Zahle, less than thirty miles from here. This knowledge in itself is enough to get one killed."

"Chaim mentioned an assassination."

"He told you that? I had not made the connection."

"Zoraya, if it's supposed to happen tonight, perhaps I can stop it."

"I know none of the details. It has all come to me in a very roundabout way, you understand. Something overheard in a crowd, repeated many times before it reached me. You know of the Disciples of Allah?"

"Shiite fanatics," Bolan growled.

"Broke off from the militia because the Amal weren't killing Christians fast enough." The Disciples had been one of two Shiite groups to claim responsibility for the truck-bomb massacre of U.S. Marines at the airport.

"The Disciples of Allah operate from Biskinta, about twenty miles northeast of Beirut," said Zoraya.

Bolan recalled intel from his briefing by an Israeli army officer at the airfield across the border five hours before Bolan penetrated Lebanon.

"Biskinta. The Iranians control that area."

Zoraya nodded.

"The Iranian Revolutionary Guards. Volunteers in the war against Israel. The Iranians are sworn to fight and die for their oppressed Shiite brethren around the world. Fanatics, yes. The Iranians supplied the Disciples with the explosives that killed your Marines."

The little Arab boy had finished wolfing down his meal.

Bolan crossed the room for another look out the window while Zoraya got a blanket from a closet and wrapped the child in it.

Nothing moved in the darkness of the street.

Bolan heard Zoraya ask the boy some questions in Arabic in a tender, motherly tone, but the little guy's eyelids drooped shut before his tousled head touched the arm of the couch.

Zoraya returned to the man in the blacksuit.

"I fear our little one is still too afraid to speak. I cannot get him to tell me his name. But he should sleep for hours."

"Thanks for your help."

"I could not do otherwise. But now... there is your mission." Bolan found himself pacing, itching for action.

"I've got Shiite fanatics, Biskinta and an assassination. What else, Zoraya? Whose assassination? The president of Lebanon?"

"I do not know. I am sorry."

The warrior forced himself to stop pacing. He thought aloud, trying pieces of the puzzle for size.

"I can see why you didn't make a connection between Strakhov and the Disciples of Allah or the Revolutionary Guards. The Russians and the Iranians don't get along. But something big could change that. A common interest. An assassination. You said Strakhov is at Zahle now with the Syrians?"

"Yes, the major general left the base early this evening with a detachment of Syrian troops. My contact in Zahle is my sister, who cooks for the Syrians."

"It's happening tonight," Bolan decided, "and Strakhov has to be tied in one way or another, whatever it is. I've got to get to Biskinta. I'll need transportation. Can you help me again?"

"I have a car. May I come with you? I do not want to be like my neighbors, hiding with the lights off, waiting to die. I must be doing something. I know the way to Biskinta. I can drive."

"You're on," Bolan returned, and he looked at the sleeping child on the couch. "Is there a hospital on the way?"

"No, but it would not matter if there were. The hospitals, those that have not been destroyed... their personnel work around the clock. No one would have time to take in another lost soul."

"Then he's safer with us. Okay, lady. Let's take that drive."

She gathered car keys, tossed them into a purse and Bolan saw a 9mm Browning Hi-Power before she snapped the purse shut. Then she gently picked up the blanket-wrapped bundle without waking the little boy.

Bolan motioned her to the side when they were ready to leave her apartment.

He flicked off the light switch, drew the AutoMag and prepared to open the door a crack to check the hallway before they left.

Zoraya touched him on the arm in the darkness before he unlatched the door, her fingertips graceful, transmitting deep emotion.

"May I know your name?

"Does it matter?"

"To me, yes." He told her.

She repeated it in the stillness.

"Mack. It is a strong name. I know much about you, you see, from the short time we have spent together. You use your strength to build a better world, not to tear it down in ruin as those all about us tonight would. Chaim was like that. I could not bear to think of two such men dying in one night. Promise me, Mack, do not risk your life for me. Please."

He unlatched the door, pulled it inward a crack and peered out.

No one lurked in the hallway.

"Let's go!" said the Executioner.

The mission.

Strakhov.

And one word: assassination.

And a war about to blow wide open again at any second, engulfing them all.

They traveled a circuitous route out of Beirut. Bolan's blacksuit, weapons and gear were hidden beneath a blanket that covered him to the neck.

Zoraya steered her Volvo through the labyrinth of streets she knew so well. The Arab child snoozed in the back seat as the Volvo bumped along the crater-scarred road.

Bolan wished he could fully trust this woman.

Chaim had vouched for her, sure. Bolan had seen her ID, right. But The Executioner had kept breathing all these years, all these miles through blood, by not taking one damn thing as it appeared.