Throw Down. Don Pendleton
Читать онлайн книгу.
him that Hezbollah knew Ahmad had turned on them and even tipped the authorities off about Saint Michael’s. So the swarthy little man had a price on his head. In fact, he was probably number one on the Islamic hit list.
O’Melton took the frightened man’s arm and guided him toward the desk, pulling out the chair and turning it around so he could sit down. Ahmad did so, then leaned forward with his hands folded and his arms between his legs, looking as if he was trying to further shrink his already diminutive size.
Bolan had seen such behavior thousands of times in the past. Even when the subject wasn’t obsessing on it, his subconscious mind always held the knowledge that he might already be marked for death. In this case, Ahmad’s body language suggested that he was trying to make himself the smallest target he possibly could.
Of course, there was another viable answer to the man’s nervous demeanor. He might just be one heck of a good actor.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” Bolan said. “What do you want me to call you?”
“Zaid is my first name. Ahmad my second. Please choose whichever one you like.”
“Okay, Zaid,” Bolan said. “Father O’Melton tells me you’ve turned to Christianity.”
For a second, the informant’s eyes lit up. “Yes,” he said. “I have accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior.”
Bolan continued to stare into the man’s face. “What caused this drastic change?’ he asked.
“In addition to the Koran,” Ahmad said. “I began to read the Bible. Especially the New Testament. I cannot explain it to you any more than I was able to explain it to Father O’Melton, but a change came over me. And I recognized the writings of Paul the Apostle and the other writers as the word of God.”
Bolan waited while the man in the desk chair caught his breath. Then he said, “Who all knows about your conversion? Your Hezbollah buddies?”
“I have heard that they do,” Ahmad said. “At least the Hezbollah men here in the U.S., on assignment with me. I have even heard that there is a bounty out on my head. I fear I would be killed immediately if they find me.”
“So how is it you were allowed to stay away from Saint Michael’s during the attack?” Bolan asked.
“I wasn’t,” Ahmad replied. “I was dressed and ready. I even entered the chapel with the other men. But in the confusion that followed, I was able to sneak back out and get away.”
Bolan’s eyebrows lowered. The story had holes in it big enough to ride a camel through. “So explain to me how it was that, if they knew you’d changed sides, they allowed you to come along on this strike. And tell me how you got away.” He stared deeply into the man’s dark eyes, looking for any sign of deception. “I’m assuming you had on the BDUs you’re still wearing, and were armed.”
“I had a pistol belt, extra ammo and an AK-47,” Ahmad said.
“And you’re telling me that with all the hoopla going down at the chapel, nobody—not just your own Hezbollah team—”
“My former Hezbollah team,” Ahmad interrupted.
“Okay, former team. How is it that none of them, or any of the cops who’d already arrived at the scene, saw you sneak back out of the chapel in full terrorist battle gear?”
Father O’Melton cleared his throat. “I can answer that,” he said. “I was waiting for him a block away in my car.”
That statement made Ahmad’s story a lot more plausible. Not a lot. But some.
“So you think you can still help us with future Hezbollah strikes?” Bolan asked.
“I do,” the man in the green BDUs said. “That is, if the suspicions the Hezbollah men had about me died here, with them. If they didn’t pass them on before the gunfight.”
“I’m assuming you mean other Hezbollah cells back in Lebanon and Syria,” Bolan said. “But even if word never left the men who died here today, how are you going to explain to your people back home that you survived the attack on the chapel when all the other men died?”
“By telling the truth,” Ahmad said. “Or at least part of it.”
Bolan’s eyebrows furrowed even deeper. “I think you’d better explain a little more, Zaid.”
“I will contact another Hezbollah cell and tell them I pretended to convert to Christianity to further the jihad,” he said. “And that a priest helped me escape.” For the first time, a smile crossed the man’s face. “They will think it’s hilarious.”
“That sounds like it might just work,” Bolan said. “But I’ve got one more question for you.”
“Please ask it,” Ahmad prompted.
“How am I supposed to know which side you’re really on?”
A long and uneasy silence filled the room. It was clear that Ahmad knew as well as Bolan did that it was impossible to be certain of where his true loyalties lay. Finally, the little man cleared his throat and said, “All I can do is tell you that I believe Jesus, born to a virgin, was God on earth,” he said. “But he was also a man—a man who resisted all temptation from Satan and lived a sinless life. I believe he was crucified to pay for the sins of all who accept him, and that on the third day he arose from the dead.”
Bolan continued to stare at the man. He knew no more than he had before Ahmad’s last speech. The little Hezbollah man could have read the New Testament, just as Bolan and O’Melton had read the Koran, and learned exactly what he was supposed to say if he was pretending to be a Christian.
It could all be a ruse. And only time, and Ahmad’s actions in the operation they were about to undertake, would prove he was telling the truth or lying.
“Okay,” Bolan said. “Assuming you’re on the level, what can you tell me about upcoming Hezbollah activities?”
Ahmad seemed to shrink even smaller in his chair and his eyes flittered around the room once more, as if he was afraid someone besides Bolan and the priest might hear. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “Ever since the death of Osama bin Laden, all Islamic jihad organizations have been aching to hit the U.S. with a strike that exceeds the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks.”
“Has Hezbollah united with al Qaeda?” Bolan asked.
“No,” Ahmad said. “There are too many philosophical differences between the two groups.” He paused, then took in a deep breath. “The fact is, the two hate each other.”
“They just hate America more,” Father O’Melton interjected.
“‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend,’” Bolan quoted.
“Precisely,” Ahmad said. “But as far as I know, there are no joint operations currently being planned.”
“So just tell us what you do know,” Bolan said.
“I cannot tell you the details of any small future strikes such as the chapel,” he said. “We were never given details until the last minute. But I do have information that I believe will help America, and Christians and Jews throughout the world.” When he drew in a breath this time, the long shaggy tails of his mustache were sucked into his mouth along with the air. Carefully, he pulled them back out with a thumb and forefinger. “There are things being planned that are far bigger and more destructive than the attack on the chapel. Things that will make the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks pale in comparison.”
“Give them to me in a sentence or two,” Bolan said. “Then I want you to go down to the barbershop in the lobby. I want your hair cropped short and your beard gone.” He stood up and stretched his back. “If you’re going to be running with us, you need to look like us. And while all the Hezbollah men in your cell are now dead, there’s always a chance we’ll run into some other terrorist