Chapter 63
Sitting in the back seat of their small SUV, the Ghost could see the security line stretching out the door of the Jewish center.
The security was multilayered, with the first step being a blockade on the street a hundred meters away from the center. They’d
only had to show their press passes, and they managed that successfully before being directed to another checkpoint right
outside the center itself.
As they approached at a crawl down Pasteur Street, the Ghost saw the AMIA center for the first time. There was no sign announcing
its presence. It was sandwiched between buildings, with a wall that stretched from the building on the left to the one on
the right, with bollards and concrete blocks lining the street to its front. Scribbled on the wall in multiple different fonts—white
lettering on black paint—were the names of everyone who had been killed in the 1994 bombings. The listing of the dead and
the date of the bombing was the only indication of what was behind the wall. On the north end, behind concrete barricades,
was a nondescript overhang with gray double doors beneath it. On the south end was an entryway of bulletproof glass, a platoon
of security milling around it.
An armed man with a heavy Hebrew accent stopped their vehicle, forcing them to present their press passes once again. He let
them exit the car and directed them to the glass enclosure. The Ghost said, “We have our camera equipment too. It needs to
come in with us.”
The man pointed to the north end and said, “All equipment gets screened up there.” He then pointed to the glass enclosure and said, “All personnel are checked here.”
The Ghost nodded and said, “So should we go in and get checked and come back out for the cameras?”
“No, no. Once you’re inside, you can’t come back out without repeating the entire security process. Are you all attending?”
“No. Just me and Ramzi here. Omar is just the driver. He’ll pick us back up when it’s over.”
“Okay, no problem. You two go to the personnel entrance. Have your guy drive to the equipment check. Someone will help him
with the cameras, and you can meet it on the inside.”
The Ghost saw Omar’s face and thought he was beginning to panic, the realization sinking in that—instead of driving away—he
would have to be standing by the X-ray machine while the equipment was scanned. The Ghost glared at him, then turned to the
security guard and said, “That would be fine. Thank you.”
Without another word, he pulled Ramzi with him and entered the small line of people waiting to be admitted. They inched forward,
the Ghost surreptitiously watching as Omar and two armed men removed the Pelican cases and duffel bag from the trunk, carrying
them through the double doors and out of sight.
He leaned into Ramzi and said, “Get ready. If there is any alarm raised, we will run away from Omar.”
Ramzi nodded, a bead of sweat popping on his brow. They reached the window just as Omar returned to the car. The Ghost watched
him drive away, slightly surprised he didn’t hear alarms, having been mentally prepared to run like a wild animal.
The man behind the counter asked for their identification and they presented their press credentials and forged passports.
Looking through the window, the Ghost was surprised to see his name and picture on a clipboard. The man compared what they’d
presented with the information he had, and he said, “I have three coming in on the list. Is that correct? Where is the third?”
The Ghost saw Khalil’s picture on the clipboard and said, “He didn’t make it. He has food poisoning. It’s just us.”
The man passed their credentials back through the window slot and said, “So you’re the Lebanese crew that’s willing to savage
Hezbollah on the news? I was told you were coming, but didn’t believe it.”
The Ghost smiled and said, “Well, it’s true. Not everyone in Lebanon has ill will against Israel. My news channel is trying
to change all of that to create prosperity for both.”
The man said, “Good luck with that,” and waved them through.
The next stop was a magnetometer, forcing them to empty their pockets, followed by another stop with a security wand doing
the same thing. Finally, they were let into the grounds proper, passing through a last set of double doors.
The Ghost watched the doors close and exhaled. He felt like he had been underwater, the panic of drowning blotting out rational
thought, and he’d just made it to the surface.
Now he just had to swim to shore.
He wiped the sweat from the back of his neck and looked at Ramzi, who was clearly feeling the same way.
With a tight smile, Ramzi whispered, “The Pasdaran never fail.”
The Ghost grinned back with little mirth, saying, “Is that why you’re sweating like you’ve just left a sauna? Come on. Let’s
go get the equipment.”
They were in a courtyard hidden from the street, with gardens on the left and right and the multistoried AMIA building behind
it. At the base of the building was a stage with a podium, three chairs on both the left and right. In front of the stage
were rows upon rows of folding chairs for the audience. At the rear, where they were standing, were three groups of news crews
setting up their tripods and cameras.
The Ghost ignored them, not wanting to get in any conversations involving videography equipment, news coverage, TV stations,
or anything else that might destroy their cover, dragging Ramzi to the north entrance. He saw their two Pelican cases and
the duffel bag sitting outside a set of double doors, a man standing next to them.
He said, “This is ours. Can we go set up?”
The man simply nodded, not saying a word.
The Ghost slung the duffel over his shoulder and picked up one Pelican case, telling Ramzi to get the other. He studied the
layout of the courtyard, finding it didn’t matter where he set up, the distance and view of the target at the podium would
be the same, with clear fields of fire.
He said, “Follow me,” and returned to the double doors of the personnel entrance. He set the Pelican case on the ground as
a marker, blocking out territory that would make him the left-most camera crew and the closest to the exit.
He pulled a tripod out of the duffel bag and began setting it up. Ramzi opened the Pelican case and pulled out the camera,
whispering, “How will you load it here?”
The Ghost set the camera on the tripod, tightened the screw holding it in place, and whispered back, “It’s already loaded.
Just not cocked.”
He looked through the viewfinder, focusing on the podium in the center. He pulled his eye away and said, “Okay. So far, so
good. Now you go give your speech. Take the wireless microphone and pretend like you’re setting up a segment. Get as close
to the podium as you can.”
Ramzi reached back into the Pelican case, withdrew a wireless handheld microphone. He started to walk away and the Ghost said,
“Be sure it’s in Arabic and not Farsi.”
Ramzi scowled and said, “Of course. I’m not an idiot.”
The Ghost said, “It had better be coherent, because I promise some of these Israeli security speak Arabic.”
Ramzi said, “It is, it is,” and walked down the aisle in the middle of the chairs. He reached the stage, turned around, and
said, “Can you hear me?”
The Ghost said, “Give me a countdown.”
Ramzi spoke into the microphone, the numbers mostly lost to the Ghost by the distance. When he was done, the Ghost raised
his thumb, saying, “Good to go. Ready when you are.”
Ramzi proceeded to speak for thirty seconds, waving his arms and pointing at the building—clearly having rehearsed what he
was going to say, and giving the Ghost confidence in his professionalism.
The Ghost used the time to practice with the viewfinder, using Ramzi’s height to judge how far away the podium was and adjusting the reticle to compensate for the drop the bolt would make.
Ramzi finished and came back, saying, “Did you get it?”
“All set. I’m dead on.”
Ramzi smiled and said, “So we’re ready?”
“Not quite. Put on your vest.”
Ramzi remembered what that meant and went rigid for a second. The Ghost said, “Are you okay?”
Ramzi nodded and opened the second case, withdrawing two separate equipment carriers with what looked like spare batteries
in pockets looped around them. Shaped more like a medical back support than an actual vest, they had suspenders instead of
arm holes, with elastic and Velcro to cinch onto the waist.
Ramzi handed one to the Ghost, then took off his suit jacket. He cinched the elastic tight, closed the Velcro, then pulled
out what looked like the end of an oversized push-button ballpoint pen, big enough to fit in the palm of his hand, two wires
leading from it to one of the battery packs. He tucked it into his shirt pocket, hiding the wires with his suit jacket, and
then said, “I’m ready.”
The Ghost finished with his belt, leaving the detonator in place. He said, “Same here.”
Ramzi wiped his brow and said, “Now what?”
“Now we wait.”