Chapter 33
After twenty minutes winding through the cloistered streets of Foz do Iguacu, the Ghost thought he saw a minaret in the distance.
A minute later, and he was surprised when the SUV pulled abreast of a large mosque.
He said, “A mosque with a minaret here, in Brazil?”
Sardar said, “You look surprised. You don’t think there are Muslims here?”
“I knew there’d be Muslims, but I would have thought they’d be forced to pray in garages in this Christian country.”
“The country may be Christian, but this city is Muslim. There are more Lebanese Muslims here than in any country besides Lebanon.
In fact, if you counted descendants who have never lived in the Middle East, there are more Lebanese in Brazil than in Lebanon
itself.”
Cyrus drove past a line of people outside a modern building, a fence stretching from it and surrounding the mosque. He continued
to a gate farther down.
Sardar said, “Trust me, Hezbollah is strong here.”
The Ghost flicked his head to the crowd down the road and said, “I can see that. People are gathering and it’s not even prayer
time.”
Sardar opened the door with a chuckle, saying, “Those are tourists. The Foz mosque makes money with them paying to dress up
in an abaya and hijab.”
They followed Sardar out of the vehicle, waiting expectantly by the gate. Sardar walked to the driver’s seat, shaking Cyrus’s hand and saying, “Inshallah, the next time we meet, it will be under a new world.”
Cyrus nodded, backed the vehicle up, and in seconds was gone, lost in the traffic. The Ghost heard footsteps and turned back
to the gate of the mosque, watching the man he knew as Khalil approach. He used a key card on a pad next to the gate and it
buzzed. Sardar pushed it open.
Khalil looked at the Ghost, and he realized the introductions were up to him. He said, “Khalil, this is Sardar, Omar, and
Ramzi. Representatives of the Pasdaran.”
Khalil shook their hands, saying, “As-salamu alaykum,” then simply, “Follow me. We have a room in the back.”
They walked down a narrow path, circling the dome of the mosque, until they reached a storage shed. Khalil led them inside,
and the Ghost saw Fatima, the man who’d paddled the raft, and one other he didn’t recognize.
Khalil said, “This is Fatima, Adnan, and Yassir,” each person raising a hand as their name was called. With that completed,
he said, “Adnan will pilot the boat you requested back across the river to Argentina. He knows the smuggling routes. The others
have been trained in the Bekaa Valley. None are amateurs. We expect the same level of training from you and your team, so
tell us who you’ve brought.”
Sardar said, “You’ve met Ash’abah, and his reputation speaks for itself. The others are Ramzi and Omar, and they are both Pasdaran like myself. I have no amateurs
either, and I’ve spent a great deal of time setting up this mission. An epic one.”
Khalil nodded and said, “We agreed to meet, and know the target, but we haven’t yet decided if we will participate. What are
you proposing?”
“We’re going to strike a blow at the heart of the Zionist regime. We will repay them for martyring the cleric Hassan Nasrallah
and the great general Qasam Soleimani by committing a similar attack. We are a patient people, but they will finally reap
what they have sowed. You in Hezbollah have felt their sting, as we in the Pasdaran have, and now it is our turn.”
The Ghost could see the words having their intended effect.
Sardar was a good orator, and the Hezbollah members were rapt at his words.
As for him, he felt some cognitive dissonance.
Nowhere was the tragedy of Gaza mentioned.
Nothing was said about the abuses in the West Bank, or the dismal conditions in the refugee camps outside of his historical homeland.
He cared not a whit about Nasrallah or Soleimani. What about the Palestinians?
Sardar continued, saying, “Last night, I learned that the Great Satan’s secretary of state will be with the Zionist son of
a pig when we attack. We will slash them both with a single strike of our sword. That is what I propose.”
The men murmured in assent, and the Ghost finally spoke, saying, “What of the people? We do this for them, yes? For Gaza?
For Ramallah and Jenin?”
Taken aback, Sardar said, “Of course, of course. The blow is for them as well. In fact, ultimately, the people of Jenin and
Ramallah will be the means of destruction of the Zionist state. They will be the ultimate martyrs who seal final victory.”
The Ghost saw Omar and Ramzi snap their heads towards Sardar at the words, and he said, “What does that mean? ‘Ultimate martyrs’?”
Sardar’s expression indicated that he’d let slip something he hadn’t intended. Khalil noticed too. “I am interested as well.”
He let out a tiny sliver of sarcasm, saying, “What else is the wily Pasdaran up to?”
Sardar said, “Other Pasdaran operations are not for this venue. Just trust that we are everywhere, striking the Zionists at
every opportunity.”
Khalil looked like he wanted to press, but did not, instead saying, “Then tell us how you intend to strike here. We can discuss
elsewhere after our success.”
The Ghost wanted to explore the issue further, but realized it made no difference. He would absorb the slight of this attack
being about vengeance, because no matter why Sardar set it in motion, it would help his people. Let them believe that it was
solely revenge for the deaths of their revered leaders. He would still swing the sword.
Sardar said, “Our targets are going to be here three days hence. In 1994, the Party of God conducted the most successful attack on the Zionist state since it was formed, blowing up the Israeli cultural center in Buenos Aires. Until October seventh, it was the greatest attack the Zionists had ever felt, and their leadership feels the need to reflect on the loss. There will be a ceremony, and at that ceremony, we will strike again, a poetic attack.”
Khalil said, “That will be impossible. Do you know how much security they will have? How do you propose to do this, with a
rocket fired from a ship?”
The Ghost nodded his head in agreement, saying, “You don’t need my skill for an attack like this. You need a shahid, and even that is asking for failure.”
Sardar said, “True, if we were going to attack the castle from the outside, battering against the walls, but we’re not. Have
you read about the battle of the three hundred at Thermopylae?”
Khalil nodded, saying, “Yes. Three hundred Spartans held off the entire Persian army for a week. Are you saying we’re the
Spartans? Because they all died, and the Persians won.”
“No. Of course we’re not the Spartans. We’re the Persians. Because after failing to win by direct attack, they succeeded by
stealth and guile. They learned of a secret path and used it to go to the Spartans’ rear. That is what we’ll do.”
“How?”
Sardar turned to Ramzi, the one always wearing a threadbare suit, and said, “Tell them.”
Ramzi opened a briefcase at his feet, handing out what appeared to be badges and saying, “As you mentioned, the ceremony itself
will have massive security, so much so that the entire ceremony will be in a courtyard surrounded by walls and security, where
only vetted guests and members of the press will be allowed.”
The Ghost took his badge, surprised to see his photograph already on it. Underneath his name was an official-looking stamp
and the word “cameraman.”
Ramzi said, “We are those vetted members, a Lebanese news crew, and we have secured an invitation to attend.”
The revelation drew a small gasp from Fatima and open mouths from the rest. He said, “Don’t get too excited. We only knew
Khalil. Fatima and Yassir, while we welcome your help, you will have to travel on your Brazilian passports—we don’t have badges
for you.”
Fatima’s smile faded and Sardar said, “It’s actually better this way. We’ll use you for any activities where we need a break
from the cover. It’s necessary. Even if I had the information for all of us to become a Lebanese news crew, I wouldn’t do
it.”
She nodded, accepting the explanation. For his part, while impressive, the Ghost was the only one who didn’t see the cover
as a panacea. He said, “There will still be security. Just because we’re press doesn’t mean we’ll be free from inspection.
We can’t go in there with AKs. How do you propose this will work?”
Sardar said, “Ash’abah that will be up to you. I will give you the means, but you will determine the how. As we speak, a specially
designed video camera is being smuggled into the country. In it is a firearm that will be undetectable by X-ray or casual
inspection. You see your title on the badge. You are the assassin.”
He nodded, then broached something that had been itching in his mind since this had begun, “If it is up to me, then I will
need to be in charge. You understand that, right? I appreciate all you’ve done to get me here, but I make the decisions on
the attack.”
Surprising him, Sardar said, “I understand. You will have Omar, who will get the equipment, Ramzi, who knows the press cover,
and Khalil, Fatima, and Yassir, if they’re willing. You will be in charge of the operation.”
The Ghost looked at Khalil, and he nodded, saying, “This is a good plan. We’re willing.”
Seeing their fervent expressions, the Ghost realized that Sardar had been correct earlier. The Hezbollah members wanted to believe in the mission—any mission—that would give them a chance at redemption against their enemies, and Sardar had adroitly
played on their desires.
He returned to Sardar, saying, “What about you?”
“I will leave you here. I have other matters to attend to. As you say, you are in charge now.”
While he liked the words, he couldn’t fathom why Sardar had said them. “Other matters? What on earth could be more important
than this mission?”
“None of your concern. I have to meet others like you in a different country, for a different strike. As I said, the Pasdaran
is everywhere.”
The Ghost remembered what Khalil had told him on the raft, about a bigger strike, and said, “The Americans? The ones who broke
me free?”
Sardar let out a sly grin and said, “Maybe. Cross the river back to Argentina.”