Don Pendleton - Hostile Dawn

“Meaning he gets around, same as Ahmet,” Delahunt said.

“See what you can find on Kassem’s Pac-Rim dealings and run them through the Caymans mix,” Brognola suggested.

“Will do,” Delahunt responded.

Tokaido interrupted again. “Before we go there, can we stay focused on Lebanon for a minute?”

“You have something else?” Brognola asked.

“I’ve got nothing on Ahmet’s movements for a week prior to his arrest,” Tokaido responded, referring to one of the tracking files he’d just called up. “But I’ve got a blip from CIA putting him in Lebanon last Tuesday. Baalbek to be exact.”

“His old training ground,” Delahunt murmured.

“Right,” Tokaido said. “And I’m guessing Kassem has a home in the city there. Or at least some kind of office.”

“Easy enough to find out,” Delahunt said.

“Let’s do that,” Brognola suggested.

“I don’t know what the game plan is for Phoenix now that they’ve wrapped up in Damascus,” Tokaido said, “but Baalbek’s just on the other side of the mountains.”

“I hear you,” Brognola said. As the big Fed wandered over to the far wall, Price glanced at Tokaido and offered a taunting smile.

“What, you’re after my job, Akira?” she teased.

“No way,” Tokaido said, grinning back. “I’m just after some brownie points and a little something extra in my Christmas stocking.”

By the time Brognola had reached the monitor depicting a world map, Kurtzman had already read the SOG director’s mind and zoomed the graphic to focus on a large, detailed view of the border linking Lebanon with Syria. Brognola studied the map a moment, then turned back to the others.

“Okay,” he began, “we’ve got Ahmet in Baalbek a week ago and in La Paz a few days later. It stands to reason he flew out of Lebanon and stopped off in the Caymans to pick up the cash for the arms deal. Carmen, go ahead and run with that. Factor in Kassem but try to find who Ahmet’s contact there was. Airline checks, hotels, cab logs…the whole nine yards.”

“Got it,” Delahunt said.

Brognola turned to Tokaido. “I heard you and, yes, you’ll get your brownie points and stocking stuffers. Sending Phoenix into Lebanon is definitely the way to go.”

Tokaido grinned and pumped a fist. “Yo! The kid rocks!”

“Have McCarter packet any hard copy intel over to Fisk at the CIA branch in Damascus,” Brognola told Price. “Apprise them on what we’ve come up with, then put them on the move, ASAP. If word’s gotten out about us taking out that Hamas team, there are going to be a lot of shredders working overtime trying to destroy evidence. Hopefully, Phoenix can get there quick enough to find us something.”

“Where do you want them to focus first?” Price asked. “Kassem or the training camp?”

“The camp,” Brognola said. “It’s probably a reach, but with any luck, Kassem will be there and we can kill two birds with one stone.”

“It’ll give them a chance to try out Cowboy’s Gopher Snake, too,” Kurtzman suggested. “They didn’t use it in Damascus, right?”

“Now that you mention it, no, they didn’t,” Brognola said.

“The camp’s definitely the way to go,” Tokaido called, staring at his monitor. “Kassem will have to wait for another day. According to what I’ve got here, he’s out of the country on business.”

“Any idea where?” Brognola asked.

Tokaido nodded. “He’s in the Orient.”

Hong Kong

Nasrallah Kassem was in his midsixties but felt twenty years younger and had doled out a fortune on plastic surgery in hopes of proving it. The results were dubious. Yes, he’d rid himself of a few worry lines as well as some flab below his chin, but one too many facelifts had drawn his olive skin so taut that it looked almost as if the next time he shaved he’d find himself scraping raw bone. Skull-faced beneath a crop of thick, well-coiffed hair dyed the color of charcoal, the vain financier cradled a snifter of cognac in his manicured hand as he held court with the two men seated across from him on the terrace of his high-rise penthouse overlooking the maritime bustle of Victoria Harbour. The lavish quarters was just one of eight furnished residences Kassem maintained around the globe. All but two were in the Middle East or along the Pacific Rim; another was in Libya and the last, a twenty-two-million dollar ocean-view estate overseen by his daughter, Sana, was in the Cayman Islands.

The two men with Kassem were Gohn Len, a tall, lanky Intelligence Bureau chief for the People’s Liberation Army, and Pasha Yarad, Iran’s balding, stoop-shouldered Deputy Minister of Defense. The three men had all been in proximity to Hong Kong when they’d received the news regarding Ahmet’s escape during his extradition to California and had agreed to meet on short notice to discuss the ramifications. They were speaking in French, the one language with which they all had at least a passing familiarity.

“While it’s fortunate that Ahmet eluded the Americans, the fact that he’s in the States empty-handed is a setback, without question,” Kassem said. “I’m confident, however, that we can secure alternative firepower for the mission in Los Angeles. We have other sources, after all.”

“I have no doubt that we have the connections to get other weapons,” Yarad told the Lebanese businessman as he helped himself to another few grapes from a sumptuous fruit platter set on the table along with a basket of fresh-baked pastries and croissants. The fifty-year-old Iranian was in his element on the topic of munitions and glad for the chance to speak from a position of authority. “And while the Blindicides were convenient enough, any number of LAWs would serve our purposes just as well. AT-4s, RPGs—”

“Agreed,” Kassem said, tactfully cutting off Yarad. “But the thought was that it would be more expedient than other options to smuggle LAWs into the States from Mexico.”

“Somebody obviously thought wrong,” Len retorted, his sallow face contorted into a look that lay somewhere between contempt and annoyance.

“Yes,” Kassem conceded, “obviously Ahmet’s connections in La Paz should have been better scrutinized. He relied on the wrong people. But you know his track record. Dozens of missions, all carried out like clockwork.”

“Perhaps,” Len said, “but apparently this time he did a poor job of setting his clock.”

Kassem knew Len was baiting him. Of the nineteen leaders comprising the New Dawn Rising coalition, the Chinese officer was, hands-down, the most contentious and uncompromising, and Kassem wasn’t the only member concerned that Len’s positions were dictated by Beijing’s conceit that, given time, they would be able to achieve most of their objectives without the help of others. Kassem was determined not to allow Len’s recalcitrance govern the impromptu meeting. Rather than rise to the PLA officer’s bait, the elderly businessman paused and quietly sipped his cognac, savoring its cloying warmth on his tongue before swallowing. Then, reaching into the pocket of a tailored silk suit he’d purchased just days before in Hong Kong’s garment district, Kassem casually withdrew a filigreed silver cigarette case and helped himself to an unfiltered Pall Mall. When he held out the case to his colleagues, both Len and Yarad shook their heads. Kassem shrugged and lit his cigarette. When he spoke, it was with a nonchalance as calculated as the way in which he’d convinced the others to meet on his home turf.

“What’s done is done,” he told Len simply.

“Placing Ahmet in charge of this operation was your idea,” the intelligence chief persisted.

“I accept responsibility,” Kassem countered evenly. “Does that satisfy you?”