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  They had failed somehow and suffered losses in the bargain. It was not disaster yet, but there was danger in the air, a scent Moheden had been quick to learn in childhood, running with the street gangs in Beirut. Someone, somewhere, had tampered with their operation, throwing it off track, and that meant danger for them all unless they found the problem and corrected it at once.

  He didn't mind the loss of life so much — they were Iranians, in any case — but it was troubling that their emissaries had been killed so easily. Three dead, according to reports, and not an enemy among them. He expected better from a pair of men who had been schooled in taking human life. They should at least have left their mark on the opposition as they died.

  It would be touchy, briefing his Iranian associates about the problem. They were steeped in paranoia at the best of times, and while the loss of two commandos would mean little to their precious revolution overall, they would at once suspect Moheden or the other cartel members of some treachery. The personal suspicion might not be expressed in words, but he would see it in their eyes; it would be audible when they began to speak with slow, deliberate words.

  He would refuse to take the bait, of course, but what about Halaby? Could the Palestinian restrain himself if accusations were implied? He was notoriously quick to anger, and his rage, unchecked, could lead to violence that would tear their little group apart.

  Moheden made a mental note to brief his guards before the others came. If bloodshed seemed inevitable, he would throw his weight to the Iranians who managed his supply of drugs. Halaby was a friend, of sorts — albeit an unstable one — but he could be replaced. There was a young lieutenant in the Palestinian's command who might be useful if a change of leadership was indicated by events.

  It never crossed Moheden's mind to strike at the Iranians. Aside from being his suppliers, they were backed by thousands of fanatics who would gladly dedicate their lives — and deaths — to seeking vengeance on their enemies. No matter that their thinly veiled suspicions might be groundless. If it came to choices, he would opt to save his business and preserve the status quo as much as possible.

  In time Moheden thought he might be able to eliminate his Teheran associates by indirection, planting rumors of disloyalty with the revolutionary guard or speaking to the new president, but it would have to be a last resort. A hasty move, instead of solving problems, might reduce his life to chaos. It might even get him killed.

  Moheden was familiar with the face of death. It had a hungry look, as if the appetite for fresh red meat was never satisfied. In younger days he had occasionally smelled the Reaper's breath — a cold draft from the charnel house — when danger came too close for comfort, but he always managed to survive. It was a specialty he had developed over time.

  Together, if they kept their heads, they could determine what had happened in New York, and they could put it right. If the Iranians insisted on a scapegoat, he would find them one and supervise the sacrifice himself. It would be strictly business, after all.

  Moheden drained his goblet, setting it aside, and shed the final vestiges of apprehension as he rose. He had an hour left, and there were final preparations to be made, precautions to be taken. Everything must be in readiness before his guests arrived, with no mistakes among the servants or the guards about their several cues.

  Ideally they would meet and talk, agree upon a strategy for future operations and disperse in peace. If things went badly, though, Moheden was determined to survive.

  As always.

  * * *

  Reza Bakhtiar was terrified of flying. He concealed his fear behind excuses, daring anyone to challenge him and risk his anger, but the fact remained that he had only twice set foot inside an airplane. On the first occasion, fleeing from his homeland to escape the Shah's police, he had been ill throughout the flight, humiliated by the weakness that betrayed him in the face of strangers. Twelve years later, when the hand of God smote his enemy and he returned to help Khomeini lead the Shiite revolution, Bakhtiar had fortified himself with tranquilizers prior to boarding. On arrival in Teheran, he kissed the ground and swore that he would never fly again.

  So far that promise had been scrupulously kept. When he was sent to tame the Bekaa Valley for Khomeini, Bakhtiar had traveled overland through Turkey and along the coast of Syria. Iraqi gunmen made two separate attempts upon his life, but he'd grown accustomed to the danger of assassination. Anything was better than the panic he experienced while airborne.

  For the meetings with Moheden, he inevitably drove to Tripoli and waited for Hussein Razmara to arrive by boat or plane from Cyprus. They would always visit the Lebanese together, showing him a strong, united front, though Bakhtiar had reason to suspect Razmara's personal commitment to the revolution. Lately, when he spoke about their operations with Moheden, there was an avaricious air about Razmara, prompting Bakhtiar to think he might have been seduced by gold. It was a shame, if true, but he was still a useful pawn. Elimination wasn't indicated yet.

  This trip the car was smaller than his usual, the latter sidelined by an engine failure, and he welcomed the announcement of arrival at their destination. Though Moheden was an infidel, he set a proper table for his guests, and Bakhtiar felt more or less at ease within the villa's walls. His guard wasn't relaxed, precisely, but he understood the man's greed and knew the Lebanese wasn't prepared to risk his life, his fortune, on a bit of cheap intrigue.

  Outside the Bekaa Valley, Bakhtiar didn't employ a troop of bodyguards. His driver was a member of the revolutionary guard and was always armed, but Bakhtiar — aside from staying clear of airplanes — made no fetish of his personal security. He trusted in God for protection, balancing the odds with half a dozen riflemen when he was forced to travel in the Bekaa. Only there, with enemies on every side, did he suspect that God might need a helping hand.

  They passed through wrought iron gates and rolled along the curving drive. Moheden waited on the marble steps, his smile solicitous, a servant at his elbow. Was he worried? There was something in his eyes, around his mouth, but Bakhtiar refrained from asking any questions as he left the car and greetings were exchanged. His host would provide them with the details of the problem in his own good time, when they were all assembled.

  Bakhtiar and his companion trailed Moheden's servant over parquet floors to the familiar conference room. He spent several moments at the picture window, studying the garden just outside. The Lebanese would have no time for flowers, but he paid a gardener to keep the grounds immaculate. It was a symptom of his personal compulsion to succeed, divorce himself completely from the poverty of childhood.

  The Iranian took care to seat himself directly opposite their host, where he could view the others comfortably, never being forced to crane his neck or otherwise reveal a trace of special interest. It was better if they had to guess what he was thinking, search for hidden meaning in his words.

  He knew the proper way of dealing with an infidel. You kept him guessing, doled out promises when necessary, conscious of the fact that God recognized no obligation to an unbeliever. If the faith demanded treachery, so be it. God and the Prophet owned his first allegiance, followed closely by the holy revolution. Nothing else held true significance.

  He waited for the others, knowing that, if necessary, he could manage to destroy them all.

  * * *

  The armored limousine was crowded, and Ahmad Halaby was relieved to stretch his legs on their arrival at Bashir Moheden's villa. Leaving his commandos to their own devices, trusting them to be alert at need, the new arrival shook hands with his host and followed him into the conference room. The others were in place before him, but Halaby took the time to pour himself a glass of iced tea before he took the only empty chair.

  A glance around the table showed him five stern faces, and he wondered what was going on. The summons from Moheden had been urgent, with the passing mention of a problem in New York, but there had been no explanation. Privacy, in Lebanon, didn't extend to telephones or rad
io transmissions, and Moheden had been wise to spare the details. But his very secrecy allowed Halaby's own imagination to run riot.

  Had their emissaries been arrested? Were the Western powers girding their loins for yet another fruitless war on drugs? Would they be forced to change procedures and discover brand-new outlets?

  Moheden leaned forward in his chair, both elbows on the table, to address them in a confidential tone. "I thank you all," he said, "for rearranging busy schedules to accommodate our small emergency. I trust you were not greatly inconvenienced, but the matter is, as I suggested earlier, of some importance."

  Pausing for effect, the Lebanese examined each of his guests in turn before continuing.

  "It grieves me to inform you that our representatives in the United States, Saddam Kassim and Abdel Bazargan, have both been killed. I have no details yet, but it appears their contact — Anthony Silvestri, of the New York Mafia — was also murdered. The investigation is continuing."

  Halaby bit his tongue and glanced at the Iranians, impressed that neither of them registered a visible emotion. Such men would couch their fury in quotations from the Prophet and avenge themselves at leisure. He admired their style, but had no patience for such games himself.

  "I have anticipated certain questions from the floor," Moheden said, "and I will try to put your minds at ease, if possible. My contacts in New York are keeping track of the police investigation from a distance, and I hope to be informed within a day or two if any suspects are identified. So far the relevant authorities haven't identified our people. I believe they never will. Silvestri's murder is regarded as a consequence of friction in the local underworld, related to the traffic in narcotics. There appears to be no intimation of an overseas connection."

  "So much for the notions of American policemen." Under stress Mir Reza Bakhtiar retained a tone of measured courtesy. "What are the facts?"

  Moheden didn't flinch from Bakhtiar's examination. "I can tell you that our people made connections with Silvestri as arranged. A hostile force of unknown strength surprised them, murdering Silvestri and a bodyguard, along with Abdel Bazargan. Kassim escaped the trap and was pursued. More shots were fired, and several bystanders were injured. Two policemen are reported dead. Kassim was killed while running from the scene. Apparently a traffic accident."

  "Apparently?"

  "A taxi driver was involved. I have no reason to believe he was involved, except by sheer coincidence."

  Halaby saw an opening. "How badly are we damaged in regard to traffic with America?"

  Moheden seemed relieved to hear from someone other than the stern Iranian. "In theory," he replied, "our losses have been minimal. No cargo was involved, and our connections on the European continent haven't been jeopardized. The plans for a direct approach should be delayed, in my opinion, while we reassess our friends and enemies. In any case, Silvestri's syndicate will need some time to nominate a suitable replacement and evaluate security procedures. It's possible that they suspect us of duplicity."

  "And if they do?" Halaby thought he knew the answer in advance, but he was interested in hearing it confirmed before the others. He wasn't prepared to waste his time on stagnant schemes.

  "We forge ahead," Moheden told him, hesitating long enough to add, "with the consensus of you all. Silvestri's syndicate isn't the only outlet in America, or even in New York. If we proceed with caution, I'm confident that we can find associates who meet our several needs."

  Halaby sat back, satisfied. As he had hoped, Moheden wasn't frightened by the sight of blood.

  "My countrymen have given up their lives," Bakhtiar said, his voice and manner solemn. "I'm interested in seeing them avenged."

  "As are we all." Moheden glanced around the table, waiting for a voice of opposition to be raised. "It may be wise, however, to forgo that vengeance in the interests of our common goal."

  "My goal is furtherance of the Islamic revolution," Bakhtiar replied. "Our list of martyrs has grown long enough already. When an enemy confronts the revolutionary guard, our uniform response is total war."

  "With all respect, may I remind you of our common purpose? None of us assembled here has any love for the United States. Our motives vary, granted, but we have agreed upon a common course of action. Risks and setbacks were anticipated from the first. It does no good for us to fall apart the first time we encounter obstacles."

  Halaby watched the two Iranians, deciding which way he should jump if things began to fall apart. The meeting wouldn't come to blows — Moheden had too many guards outside for that — but bitterness engendered by a major quarrel could rebound in violence later. He'd seen it happen in the councils of the Palestinian resistance, when the traitor Arafat began to whisper of accommodation with the hated Zionists. Sometimes Halaby still regretted his defection from the PLO. It would have been more manly in the long run if he had assassinated Arafat and seized the operation for himself, but he had been successful in his way. He wouldn't let an argument across the conference table ruin everything when he had worked so hard to come this far.

  Makarios, the Cypriot, had risen from his chair, the move evoking memories of proper school boys asking for permission to relieve themselves. Moheden and Bakhtiar fell silent, swiveling around to face Makarios.

  "May I suggest," the Cypriot began, "that we postpone discussion of revenge until the common enemy has been identified? Meanwhile it would be advantageous to secure new contacts in America, perhaps employing them to isolate our opposition while our plan proceeds."

  Halaby smiled. The young man had a good head on his shoulders, even if his face was too effeminate and soft. A beard might help, if he could cultivate a darker growth than the existing peach fuzz on his cheeks and upper lip.

  Moheden favored his associate from Cyprus with a smile. "Makarios is right, of course," he said. "Our fellowship was organized for mutual advantage. We must not allow a private grievance to defeat our purpose, thereby wounding everyone at once."

  Across the table Bakhtiar appeared to reconsider, but Halaby didn't trust his smile. "We shall defer our vengeance," the Iranian declared, "but we do not forget. In time, when circumstances have revealed our enemies, the proper action must be taken."

  "As you say," Moheden answered. "Every man among us will be proud to lend a hand when that day comes. In death, Kassim and Bazargan have warned us of potential danger, and they will not be forgotten."

  They observed a moment's silence in respect for men Halaby hadn't known or even seen in life. When everyone was satisfied — except, perhaps, for the inscrutable Iranians — the Lebanese raised his voice again.

  "With the permission of the group, I will initiate new contacts in America as soon as possible. If suspects are identified in the assassination of Silvestri and our representatives, you will be notified at once. There is a possibility, in that event, that the employers of Silvestri may proceed to mete out justice on their own, before we have an opportunity to strike. Such men are volatile, and violence in America isn't unusual."

  Halaby nodded solemnly with the others, as if Beirut and Lebanon in general hadn't become an open killing pit in modern times. It would have been amusing, ail this talk of dignity and honor, if Halaby hadn't grown accustomed to it from his youth. The Palestinians were no less prone to speeches, declarations of their love for God and their homeland. In the end, it all came down to justifying actions that were calculated to enrage the world at large.

  For his part, it would be enough to turn a profit on the drugs and strike a telling blow against America. He didn't share the Shiite's personal obsession with jihad, but nine American administrations had identified themselves with Israel, lavishing their gifts of arms and money on the Zionists who had usurped Halaby's native soil. While the United States continued its support for Israel, there could be no hope for liberation of his people. Only when the war became too costly would Americans be moved to reconsider their established policies. There was a striking justice in allowing the Americans, through sale of d
rugs, to help raise money for defeat of the oppressive Zionist regime they had so long supported.

  And if Ahmad Halaby should, perchance, become a wealthy man while waging war against his mortal enemies, so much the better.

  * * *

  Bashir Moheden saw Halaby settled with the woman of his choice before retreating to his den. This time, instead of wine, he poured himself a double whiskey. It was sustenance and celebration all at once, relieving nerves stretched taut by confrontation with Mir Reza Bakhtiar, and celebrating his success at heading off a split in the cartel.

  It had been close, and the Iranians might still decide to take some action on their own, but he'd managed to extract for the record a promise of cooperation. If they later changed their minds and went in search of private vengeance, Moheden couldn't be held responsible.

  Establishing new contacts in Manhattan might be difficult, but he would have to try without delay. His leadership of the cartel had been approved primarily because of his extensive foreign ties. The Bekaa Valley militants had managed to support themselves through his connections up to now, but phasing out his European contacts was a ticklish matter. The elimination of the middleman increased Moheden's profits, even with the discount Bakhtiar demanded, but it also might make enemies.

  He wondered, briefly, if his long-time partners — Corsicans, perhaps, or the Sicilian Mafia — had taken steps to queer the meeting with Silvestri in New York. They all had ways of gaining «secret» information, and the cartel's more direct approach to dealing with America might threaten some of those with whom Moheden had done business in the past. Retaliation was a possibility, displeasure couched in graphic terms that anyone could understand.