Chapter 28
The Ghost loitered near a souvenir stand, studying a map of the Iguazú Falls Park while the two Quds Force men purchased entry
tickets. They seemed competent enough, but he was having reservations about the viability of the mission. It seemed inconceivable
to him that Sardar had the operational capability to coordinate with a biker gang in the land of the Great Satan to break
him out of one of the most secure prisons on earth, and yet he hadn’t been able to convince the men from Hezbollah—his ostensible
allies—to support the planned operation. If they didn’t trust Sardar to succeed, why should he?
He believed Sardar was telling the truth about his membership in the Pasdaran, especially after meeting the other men on his
team this morning, it just gave him pause. Made him wonder if something was being hidden.
The Ghost had reflected on Sardar’s last words the entire night, tossing and turning in the darkness, thinking through his
options. Deciding on his commitment. He knew the Pasdaran had chosen him as much for his ability to deflect blame as his skills
at killing. Yes, they needed an assassin of his caliber, but more importantly, after the pummeling Iran had taken in the recent
past, they needed to strike a blow that wouldn’t reflect more punishment back onto them.
The Ghost’s past—or lack thereof—provided that cover, but him being selected because of it didn’t alter the righteousness of the strike.
The largest destroyer of Palestinian lives, pride, and dignity was the state of Israel, and the face of that state was its prime minister—the man more responsible for Palestinian pain than any other single human being.
Killing him would be a greater blow for the Palestinian cause than all the Ghost’s other missions combined.
He’d decided to do it, committing fully to the operation. If the Pasdaran could prove they had the means, he would provide
the will, one last time.
He’d come down to breakfast and found Sardar sitting with three other gentlemen. Two looked like construction workers, wearing
rough jeans, a half-day’s growth of beard and scarred knuckles. One had black hair down to his collar and a gap in his front
teeth big enough to slide in a toothpick; the other’s hair was close-cropped to his skull, with a nose bent slightly to one
side, as if it had been broken at one time and never set back correctly. The third man resembled a door-to-door salesman,
sporting a balding head and dressed in a cheap suit with worn leather shoes.
After pleasantries, Sardar had introduced the men as Pasdaran members of his unit, each with a specialty. The man with the
gap tooth was named Cyrus, the one with the broken nose, Omar. The salesman in the suit was called Ramzi. The Ghost was sure
the names were fake but was more concerned with whether their skill was also make-believe and had been pleasantly surprised
with their first impressions.
Unlike some Hezbollah toughs the Ghost had worked with in the past, the men were professional and courteous, showing deference
to his reputation—even failing to make the usual jokes about his rail-thin stature and Coke-bottle glasses.
He’d learned that they were all traveling under the flag of Qatar, as oil businessmen on holiday. Supposedly working in Brazil
on a phantom oil deal, they were ostensibly taking a short sightseeing trip to Argentina before heading home. The cover was
solid, complete with business cards that were backstopped in Brazil by a Pasdaran support team. He was surprised by the scope
of the infrastructure Sardar had created, and it made him question Hezbollah’s reluctance even more.
He’d asked about why he had a Lebanese passport instead of Qatari and Sardar had said, “Yours is needed for the mission.”
When he’d pressed on what that meant, Sardar had said, “Later. There’s no reason for you to know the particulars if the men you’re meeting don’t agree to join us. Consider that incentive.” He’d then given him an envelope, telling him to deliver it to the men he was meeting.
The three men had then taken him to a vehicle, leaving Sardar behind in the restaurant. They’d headed back in the direction
of the airport for a few kilometers, then taken a left, driving deeper into the jungle, eventually ending at the entrance
to the Iguazú Falls Park. The man in the suit had dropped them off, saying, “Call when you’re done.”
Omar and Cyrus had exited from the back, the Ghost from the passenger seat. Omar said, “We’ll get the tickets. Wait here.”
He’d stood next to a souvenir stand, shifting from one foot to the other as he studied the park map. It was large, much larger
than he’d imagined, with a train running from one end to the other. There were three separate footpaths to see the falls,
and a myriad of different platforms for viewing. He found the one called the Devil’s Throat—his meeting site—and saw it was
the farthest away, in the middle of the Iguazú River and right up against the border of Brazil.
The men returned and Omar handed him a ticket, saying, “You have your hat?”
“Yes. I have it.”
“And remember the words.”
A little exasperated, the Ghost said, “I know how to conduct a clandestine meeting. I’m the stationary element, they’re the
moving element.”
“Correct. We’ll take the train to the northern stop, but that’s as far as we can go. You’ll be alone out to the Devil’s Throat.
If you have any issues, return down the walkway to the train station.”
The Ghost smiled, saying, “From the map, that’s a long way out into the middle of the river.”
Cyrus said, “I know, but believe me, they’re more afraid of you than you are of them. It’s why they picked the location, and
why they stipulated you come alone. If you fail the vetting, they aren’t going to attack you. They’re simply going to leave.”
They walked down the stone path to the small train station, the park beginning to fill up with tourists from all over the world.
When they reached the platform, the Ghost saw the train was more of a tourist tram than an actual locomotive, with bench seats and cabins open to the air.
They boarded and within minutes were on the way, reaching the end of the line a half hour later.
After exiting, Omar pointed to a gravel walkway snaking into the jungle, saying, “That’s the way to the Devil’s Throat. ”
He pointed in the other direction, towards a covered area next to a shop selling sodas and ice cream, saying, “We’ll be waiting
at the picnic tables.”
The Ghost nodded and followed groups of tourists to the entrance path, all of them coalescing onto a steel walkway like they
were being sucked up by the falls themselves.
The walkway snaked through the foliage about three feet off the jungle floor and then began crossing the open water of the
Iguazú River. In the distance he could hear a low hum, like a fan in a warehouse. The boardwalk crossed little hillocks, some
with trees, others just rock outcroppings, and the sound grew louder. They reached a larger island in the middle of the river,
exited onto another gravel path, and the sound grew into a roar. The metal walkway started again on the far side of the island,
this time straight out into the river. He could see a platform about a hundred meters away, the tourists on it appearing ghostlike
from the mist created by the crashing water.
He thought, That must be the Devil’s Throat, then, How are we going to have a conversation out there?
He began walking to the viewing platform, seeing it packed with tourists, complete with professional photographers taking
digital pictures for a price, the noise from the falls overpowering everything. One thing was for sure, the Hezbollah people
had chosen a secure location. There was no way anyone was going to attempt anything nefarious out here. If any hostile action
was attempted, the police would simply be waiting at the far end of the walkway.
Looking for his own escape route, should he need it, he saw the power of the falls unfold beneath him, thinking, Trying to swim will be a death sentence.
He passed people on the exit walkway headed back, some with cheap plastic ponchos, others simply wet, and felt the first bit
of mist hit him, the wind bringing it from the churning water. He reached the viewing platform and began to inch along with
everyone else, the throngs making a circle like an undulating animal around the platform.
The Devil’s Throat spilled out just beyond, a foaming, churning boil of water spilling hundreds of feet below, the fury of
it almost overwhelming. He paused, transfixed, momentarily forgetting why he was there. He inched along, footstep by footstep,
pausing to let families and couples take selfies, until he reached the official photographer’s stand.
He saw a separate line waiting and went to it, pulling Sardar’s hat from inside his jacket and straightening it out. A simple
baseball cap, it had an American flag on the front and nothing else. He put it on his head, the line for the photographer
moving much slower than the line around the platform.
A man and a woman queued up behind him, and he ignored them, patiently inching forward. In English, the man said, “Are you
from the United States?”
The comment sent an electric current through the Ghost, but he revealed nothing in his expression.
It was the initiation phrase of the bona fides.