Warren Murphy - Line of Succession

In the middle of the street, he stopped. The air smelled dead. The stench of gunpowder was a permanent understink. He moderated his breathing rhythms to keep his lungs clear.

They came in pairs, clutching their rifles, their faces wrapped in colorful kaffiyehs so that only the dirty patches of skin around their eyes showed. A few stood with rocket-propelled grenade launchers slung carelessly across their shoulders. That was simply to impress him, he knew. They dared not use them at close quarters.

When he was ringed by seven of their number, he asked a question in their native tongue.

"Which one of you is Jalid?"

A man stepped forward. His face was wrapped in a green checkered kaffiyeh. "You are Tulip?"

"Of course."

"I did not expect you to come in your pajamas." And Jalid laughed.

The blond man smiled back at him, a cool insolent smile. If this warlord only knew the power he faced, he would tremble in his scuffed boots.

"Maalesh," Jalid said. "Never mind. You wish to ransom hostages? We have many fine hostages. American, French, German. Or perhaps we will take you hostage instead. If we do not like you."

They were bandits, nothing more. The world thought the Hezbollah were fanatical Moslems loyal only to the rulers of Iran. He knew different. Their ties to Iran were real, but their absolute loyalty was to money. For the right price, they would release their hostages and Iran's rulers be damned. There were always more hostages to be taken, anyway.

They understood only one thing other than money. That was raw power. When they had kidnapped Russian diplomats during the civil war, the Soviets sent in their own agents, kidnapped members of the Hezbollah, and sent them back to the Hezboilah warlords, a finger and an ear at a time, until the Soviet diplomats were unconditionally released. That was the kind of power they understood.

He would show them.

"I wish to hire your skill, Jalid."

Jalid did not ask: For what? He did not care. Instead he asked, "How much will you pay?"

"Something very valuable."

"I like your words. Talk on."

"It is more valuable than gold."

"How much more?"

"It is more precious than the finest rubies you could ever imagine. "

"Tell me more."

"It is more precious to you than your mother's very life."

"My mother was a thief. A good thief." Jalid's eyes crinkled, indicating that he smiled behind his kaffiyeh.

"It is your life."

Jalid's eyes uncrinkled. "Bnik kak!" he swore. "I think you will die here, ya khara. "

The blond man turned his electric-blue eyes upon the man beside Jalid, whose fine rifle indicated that he was second in command.

"Aarrhh!" the man howled suddenly. The others looked at him, their eyes not straying far from the unarmed white man.

"Bahjat! What is it?"

"I am on fire!" Bahjat howled, his rifle clattering to the cratered pavement. "Help me. My arms are burning!"

The others looked. They saw no fire. But then vague blue flames, like a faintly luminous gas, ran down their comrade's arms. His arms browned delicately, then blackened. Bahjat screeched and twisted onto the ground, trying to put the flames out. They would not go out. The others fell to his assistance, but when the first man touched him, he jumped back, staring stupidly at his hands.

Spiders spilled out of his palms as if from a hole in a dead tree. They were large and hairy, with eight reddish eyes each. They scrambled up his arms and swarmed over his face.

"Help me, help me!"

But no help came. The others were busy, each with their own nightmare. One man felt his tongue swell in his mouth, forcing his jaws apart until the hinge muscle strained beyond endurance. He could not breathe. The pain was excruciating. In despair he fell on a dropped grenade launcher and, bringing the warhead to his face, triggered it with the toe of his boot. The explosion obliterated him from the chest up and killed others who were nearby.

Another man thought his legs had become pythons. He slashed off their heads and laughed triumphantly even as he fell to the street, blood pumping from the stumps of his ankles until there was no fluid left in his entire body.

Jalid saw it all. He saw, too, as if in a dream, an old enemy facing him. It was a man he had killed over a gambling dispute years ago. The man was dead. But here he was again, coming at him with his knife held low for a quick disemboweling thrust.

Jalid shot the man to pieces with his rifle. Standing over the man's quivering body, he laughed triumphantly. But the figure shimmered, revealing a face obscured by a twisted kaffiyeh. Jalid undid the kaffiyeh and beheld the face of his younger brother, Fawaz. He sank to his knees beside the boy, tears starting from both eyes.

"I'm sorry, Fawaz, my brother. I'm sorry," he repeated dully.

"Stand up, Jalid," said the white man with the electric-blue eyes. "You and I are alone now."

Jalid came to his feet. He saw the blond man standing there, his hands loose and empty at his sides, unarmed. He exuded an insolent confidence that humbled Jalid, whose belt bristled with knives and pistols and whose cruelty had ruled this part of Ras Beirut ever since the Israelis had retreated across the Awali River.

Jalid raised his hands in defeat. "You did this," he said resignedly.

The blond man nodded quietly. Then he asked a quiet question.

"You have other men than these?"

"Almost as many as I have bullets," Jalid said.

"An empty boast. But however many men you have, let us gather together three of the best. They, and you, will accompany me. I have work for you. And I will pay you with more than your chicken-boned life."

"What kind of work?"

"Killing work. The only kind you are fit for. You will like the work, for it will enable you to kill Americans. You will return to Beirut a hero to your Hezbollahi brothers, Jalid. "

"Where will we kill these Americans?" asked Jalid. "There are none left in Lebanon."

"In America, of course."

Jalid was frightened. He and three of his best men, dressed in Western business suits and without weapons, sat together on the flight to New York City. They whispered fearful words in their native tongue to one another, hanging over the seat headrest to talk to those in the other seats and warily eyeing the stewardess, who was just as warily eyeing them back.

"Sit still," said the blond man who called himself Tulip. "You are attracting attention to yourselves."

The blond man sat alone in the seat behind them. Jalid called back to him in Lebanese.

"My Moslem brothers and I are fearful."

"Did I not get you through the Beirut airport safely? And did you not walk unchallenged through the airport in Madrid when we changed planes?"

"Yes. But American customs will be different."

"No, they will just be American."

"All my life, I am a brave man," said Jalid.

"I do not choose women to do my work for me. Be not a woman, Jalid."

"I have grown up in a city torn by war. I first fired a machine gun when I was nine. Before I was ten I had killed three men. That was many years ago now. There is little I fear."

"Good. You will need your courage."

"One thing I do fear is America," Jalid went on. "I have had nightmares of being taken captive and brought to America for trial. These nightmares have never gone away. And now I am letting you take me to America. How do I know that this is not an American trick to put me and my brothers on trial before the world?"

"Because if I was an American agent," the man called Tulip replied, "I would also bring back with me the American hostages your people are holding prisoner. Tell that to your brothers."

Jalid nodded his understanding and he and his friends huddled again. The stewardess decided, because they were in the back of the plane and away from the other passengers, to neglect to ask them if they wanted something to drink.