Chapter 29
The Ghost turned and saw a tall man of about thirty, with a sharp, narrow face, the skin stretched taut across a long nose,
a full mustache under it growing past the corners of his lips. He had a set of eyebrows as thick as his mustache, and was
wearing Western clothes that gave no indication of his heritage. He could have been Argentinian, Lebanese, or from any number
of other countries. Next to him was a smallish woman with a round, cherub face and shoulder-length black hair.
The Ghost said, “No, no. Why would you think that?”
“The hat you’re wearing.”
“My friend from Lebanon bought this for me as a souvenir when he was visiting America.”
The bona fides complete, the man switched to Arabic and said, “Follow me.”
They walked to the exit path, went down it for about fifty meters until they reached an outcropping with a bench. The man
pointed to the seat and the Ghost moved that way. The man stopped him and said, “Not you. That’s for her.”
She sat down and the Ghost said, “I wasn’t expecting a woman. You startled me.”
“She’s my cousin, and I wasn’t expecting a scrawny man with thick glasses. I was expecting Ash’abah. The Ghost.”
“That’s me.”
The man looked out over the falls, clearly unimpressed. He said, “Tell me, there was a Phalange militia leader who had a heart attack in a restaurant in Beirut. October of 2012.”
He returned to the Ghost and said, “How did he really die?”
The Ghost knew exactly who he was referring to. Comprised of Maronite Christians, the Phalange militia had been feared during
the civil wars of Lebanon. One of many sects fighting, they had the support of the Americans and the Zionists, but, like all
the others, had turned in their weapons after the peace accords. All the others, that is, except Hezbollah.
The Party of God simply grew stronger and stronger, never bothering to disarm, and the Phalange grew irritated with the power
they wielded. In 2010 they began to rumble about arming themselves and starting the fighting anew, something Hezbollah couldn’t
allow. In 2012, Hezbollah had hired the Ghost to remove the nascent leader, and he had. The official story had been he’d had
a heart attack in a bathroom of a restaurant. Nobody knew the truth other than Hezbollah and the man who’d done it.
The Ghost said, “He died by an ice pick to the brain, inserted just behind his left ear.”
The man apprised him anew, looking him up and down. His face split into a grin and he stuck out his hand, saying, “Ash’abah. It is good to finally meet you.”
The Ghost shook his hand and the man said, “I’m Khalil and this is Fatima. Come. We have much to discuss.”
They walked back down the metal path and the Ghost handed him the envelope Sardar had given him, saying, “This is from the
Pasdaran.”
Khalil took it and put it in a pocket without a word. He saw the Ghost was about to ask a question and pointed to the tourists
in front and behind, saying, “Wait. Not here.”
The Ghost said, “Nobody can hear us.”
Khalil said, “Nobody you can see. Since the Zionists pager attack I’m no longer lulled by a false sense of security. Let us
get away from the crowds.”
They moved at a brisk pace back down the metal walkway, entering the forest before breaking into the clearing of the train stop. The Ghost glanced at the picnic tables next to the snack shop, but didn’t see Omar or Cyrus. He said, “Over there? Nobody’s about.”
“No. Follow me.”
Khalil led him to a shack next to the water, a sign out front proclaiming riverboat tours. He turned to the Ghost and said,
“Can you swim?”
The Ghost nodded, and Khalil said, “We’ll take a boat back down instead of the train. It’ll allow us to talk.”
A worker came out, handing the Ghost a life jacket, then passing one to Khalil and Fatima. The Ghost took it and was led to
a yellow rubber raft with seating for about eight, a man sitting in the back holding an oar in the water. The Ghost looked
at Khalil with a question, and Khalil said, “Don’t worry. He’s with us. Works here, and knows the river here better than anyone.
We’ll be using him later too.”
Fatima and Khalil climbed aboard just as another man and woman appeared. The man asked to buy a ticket on the raft, and the
Ghost knew this idea had been a mistake. The attendant that had given him the life vest said, “I’m sorry, but the next raft
leaves in fifteen minutes.”
The woman looked at the Ghost with piercing eyes, and he ducked his head, pretending to work his life vest. The man with her
said, “There’s room for us. Come on, we don’t want to take the train.”
The attendant said, “They paid for the entire raft. I’m sorry.”
The Ghost boarded the raft and saw Khalil wink. The raft broke from the dock and they headed downstream, leaving the tourists
behind.
Khalil waited until they were in the middle of the tributary before saying, “You have met this Sardar, correct?”
The Ghost realized that because of his past, Khalil trusted him more than anyone from Iran. He said, “Yes, I have, and he’s
Pasdaran. He seems competent.”
“That’s what I thought, right up until October seventh. After that, ‘competent’ isn’t a word I would use for the Pasdaran.
More like cowardly. What gives you this confidence?”
Without preamble, but knowing his next words held weight, the Ghost said, “For the last decade I’ve been held in a secret prison inside the United States, a prisoner of the Great Satan’s version of the Quds Force.
Sardar not only managed to break me out of prison cleanly, but get me here with passports and identities. Trust me, he’s competent.”
Khalil glanced at Fatima, then said, “That’s good to hear. He told me that story, but I half thought it was a myth. And so
you think he can do this mission?”
The Ghost considered his answer, and then decided on the truth. “I don’t know, because I don’t know the mission. I know the
target, and that’s all.”
Showing surprise, Fatima spoke for the first time, saying, “You don’t know how he intends to attack?”
Khalil gave her a stern look and she said, “What? This was supposed to be where we decided, and he doesn’t even know.”
The Ghost said, “You don’t know either?”
Khalil said, “No. We know more than Sardar thinks, through my leadership in Lebanon. What’s left of it, anyway. But we were
using this meeting to decide our path forward here in Argentina. Why even send you if you can’t discuss the mission?”
The Ghost said, “Maybe it’s in the envelope.”
Khalil looked puzzled for a moment, then remembered. He pulled out the envelope and opened it. The Ghost and Fatima waited
while he read. He folded the letter and placed it in the envelope, then put it back into his pocket. Fatima waited a beat,
then said, “Well?”
“He’s asking for a meeting on our terrain. In Brazil, at the Islamic center. He wants the entire team we propose to use there,
and he’ll explain it all.”
Fatima said, “That’s it? Why did we meet here, then?”
The Ghost said, “He knows you don’t trust him. He sent me to show his sincerity and his capability. I’m to convince you he’s
serious, and that he can be counted on.”
Khalil thought for a moment, then nodded, saying, “Okay. You can tell him we agree. To the next meeting only.”
The Ghost nodded, saying, “Thank you.”
They rode in silence for a moment, then the Ghost said, “What did you mean when you said you know more than Sardar thinks? About your leadership in Lebanon?”
“There are whisps of something else, besides this attack in Argentina. Something big.”
The Ghost said, “There’s more than just this attack?”
“Yes. Something is planned against the Great Satan.”
“They’re going to attack the United States? That’s insane. It will bring about their own destruction.”
“It’s an attack, yes, but it’s subtle. They’ve got some insiders to help them. Men who work for pay.”
The Ghost remembered the biker gang that had gotten him across the border. He said, “What is the target?”
Khalil shook his head, saying, “That I don’t know. It’s something that will paralyze them and allow the Pasdaran to surprise
the Zionists in a final battle.”
The Ghost said, “That makes no sense. What final battle?”
Khalil chuckled and said, “You really do know nothing. The battle they brought you here to start.”