As a radical Christian Lebanese sect secretly plans an act of terrorism, Colin Gordon begins his next assignment at the American Embassy in Germany. Masquerading as a Foreign Service reserve officer, Gordon is in fact a senior CIA case officer with a specialty in obtaining unauthorized views of foreign governments. But when he receives a postcard from his operational contact Ganymede, everything around him begins to change. As the militia launches a series of attacks against United States interests that reach far beyond the mayhem of war-torn Lebanon, Gordon's dangerous journey to the truth leads him through the streets of Beirut and Athens, to a terrorist training camp in North Africa, and finally to New York and Washington, where the Secretary of State faces a perilous fight for his life. In this fast-paced tale of international intrigue, tensions between truth and spin rise as a spy with unmatched instincts is immersed in a dangerous and bold strategy to lure the United States into a conflict like no other.

Ganymede

a novelBy Terrence Douglas

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Terrence Douglas
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-6208-9

Chapter One

The scrape of the leather boots as they pushed aside the metal debris on the street could be heard in the stillness that precedes the dawn. Once a dark chocolate brown, they were now so deeply scuffed at the toes and along the sides that they had become a sandpaper tan. The original laces had been replaced with a garish red variety, since the boots had been pulled off the body of a soldier who had fallen in some nameless firefight in the middle of the city.

The young man wearing the boots was as anonymous as the battles in which he had fought. He was slight of build and gangly. His erect posture made him appear taller than his height. He was no more than sixteen years old. The dark hair above his lip and the occasional blemish of an adolescent were all that marred his smooth olive-complexioned face. His stride was even and purposeful. Yet one noticed that there was a weariness about him, or maybe it was caution in the almost indistinguishable pause as he brought forward one foot to replace the other.

Every fifteen steps or so he stopped in place and shifted his head slightly to gather in any sound around him—it was not light enough to detect much with his eyes. Still erect, he moved forward again, staying close to the pockmarked building line on his right. From time to time he brushed against the crushed concrete of a building front, creating a chalk-like smudge on his dull green fatigue jacket. It was zipped up against the early morning chill. The sleeves of an oversized gray sweatshirt were visible. He had pulled them down over his hands in place of gloves. He wore nothing on his head so as not to impair his hearing.

Slung over his left shoulder on a thick black leather strap was a rifle. It looked oversized for one so young. He had rescued it from a companion who was mortally wounded six months earlier. The weapon was a precision instrument that he had learned to care for as he once cared for a guitar in a more peaceful time. He recognized early that while the guitar promoted popularity with friends, the rifle gained respect from his elders.

Reaching the top of the hill, lined on either side by abandoned buildings, the young man paused again. With the suddenness and surprise of a mountain cat, he crouched and turned silently into the entrance of what was once a prosperous ten-story office building. The decorative wooden doors had long since been carted off for firewood. He walked up the marble steps into the lobby littered with pieces of furniture that had not survived the frenzied looters. He could not avoid the broken glass that crunched beneath each step. He proceeded directly to the stairwell on the right and began his ascent to the top floor. Gray light filtered through the window frames, shattered in rage by competing factions who alternately occupied the building.

He was not winded when he reached the top floor. Before he ascended further up the service staircase to the roof, he urinated against the wall. He then mounted the last twenty steps, dropping to his knees before he reached the top. The metal door had been pulled from its hinges long ago to allow easy access to the roof. He swung the rifle smoothly off his shoulder. The cold metal awakened his hands, which still bore stains from the cleaning oil. He removed the protective cloth from the sniper scope and snapped a single round into the firing chamber. On his stomach, knees, and elbows he crawled across the rooftop to a gargoyle decorating the edge of the parapet. He brought the rifle forward and into position in his left arm, and with his right hand he delicately released the safety. He spread his legs wide to allow as much comfort and stability as possible on the cold, hard surface of the roof.

The sun was beginning to inch above the horizon formed by the sea behind him. With the light, an expanse—the equivalent of six square city blocks—of shattered buildings stretched before and below him. All of this area was just across the Green Line in enemy territory. In an hour or so, the rising sun would bring warmth, but he would barely notice the difference. The gray of the false dawn slowly receded, and a clearer source of light crept over the rooftops and touched the crevasses of the city. He had selected at random an intersection below upon which to train his rifle that morning. Unhurriedly he moved the rifle into position and waited.

Three hours passed. In that time, the sun emerged, and with it a hazy blue sky became visible. The squawk of gulls could be heard faintly, the sound lifted as if it were on the strong breeze from the sea. A growl sounded in the distance as a generator started. Life was beginning to stir in the tortured terrain before him, though he yet perceived no movement. He waited. His right eye looked through the high-powered scope, which made it possible for him to select targets over a thousand yards downrange. From time to time he closed his eyes gently for a moment to avoid eyestrain. His shoulders and the rest of his body remained in position. Hours could and often did go by, yet he never experienced a muscle cramp or spasm.

In the fourth hour the furrows on his forehead deepened. Two dark-clad individuals negotiated their way cautiously through his preselected intersection. They were both dressed in long, loose-fitting overcoats. It was impossible to determine their age or gender. Without hesitation, he focused his sight on the individual trailing and squeezed the trigger purposely. The recoil jolted into his shoulder but did not interrupt his concentration or follow-through. The report from the rifle resounded in the cavern of cement and steel.

The intended victim fell. The second doubled back to assist and became a similarly inviting target, but the shooter on the roof was not greedy. Tomorrow was soon enough. He watched as the individual struck by the burst of metal was pulled out of the line of fire. At that moment he turned his eyes to the right, to that familiar, faded sign with the huge unintelligible letters painted on the side of the neighboring building.

Welcome to Beirut

Chapter Two

It was late November as four elderly men sat huddled in the rear of the Bacchus Restaurant in East Beirut. They were there to share the grief of one of their number whose wife had been slain by a sniper three weeks earlier. Against his advice, Pierre Kettaneh, known as Kalenti, accompanied his wife to place flowers at the site on the Green Line where their son was slain in combat on that date the previous year. They were crossing a street in the abandoned section of the city when Kalenti heard the whine of the bullet. His worst fears were confirmed as he whirled around to see his wife of forty years drop to the pavement. Deep red blood poured through her overcoat from the gaping wound in her chest.

Anger and the desire for revenge permeated the silence that engulfed these old friends and comrades. But against whom would they strike? The assassin and his group, if he was not working independently, were as nameless as the victim to the person who pulled the trigger. No group had claimed responsibility—not that it mattered. This was the depth to which the barbarity had descended. No longer was the violence directed against one faction to right a real or imagined slight. Now, random acts of violence became evidence to the moral corruption and the disintegration of the society's fabric.

The murder of another unarmed civilian on the street—and this was by no means an isolated incident—kept constant the level of fear under which a whole generation of Lebanese citizens existed. These senseless killings sustained a feeling of despair within a population held hostage. They were unable to comprehend how their once-sophisticated society had descended into such depravity. The feeling was not unlike the sadness and helplessness one feels about victims of mob violence.

There in the Bacchus four old men sat—a confraternity of elders—in a conversation of silence while they witnessed the destruction of their cherished city. Prior to the outbreak of fighting on the streets, they used to meet each Thursday afternoon at the Café Suisse in West Beirut. There Lebanese bankers and financial traders from London, Geneva, New York, Tokyo, Dusseldorf, and Amsterdam nurtured their contacts. Those were the days when one could hear above the bustle of a late-afternoon meal the harmony of French, Arabic, and English acclaiming an appreciation of the good life.

Now, in the waning days of The Lebanon, few public dining rooms remained open, and then only when the fighting subsided for the litter to be cleared from the streets, produce delivered, and the owners emboldened sufficiently to return to their establishments. Before the war beautiful women were distinguished by haute couture; now in West Beirut they were subdued in purdah. Now the once-luxurious hotels and those of quiet elegance perched along and above the Mediterranean Sea—at least those that were still standing—provided shelter to impoverished Arab refugees.

In the Bacchus, its walls painted a garish yellow, the old men were safely ensconced in a Christian enclave. The smell of stale cooking oil from the kitchen lingered in the air. There they pondered the fate of their country, faith, and heritage. In a shared feeling of helplessness and despair, they discounted the present and lived in the past. During these desperate years, they had become like a chorus on stage, witnessing aloud the disintegration of their country.

"My brothers, without your presence and support I would be reduced to despair." Kalenti was the first to speak. He reached across the table and rested his hands on theirs.

"You were present as we greeted the birth of my son, as well as his burial, and now the murder of my wife, the mother of my son." Again, no words interrupted the deep emotions experienced. With all the sorrow of the last years, they had become skilled in the art of listening.

Kalenti was the informal leader of this group. His family had once been a prominent influence in the local business community and was equally well recognized among the Gulf State Arab sheikhs and members of the Saudi royal family who had once sought to invest their income from oil revenues. A patrician, Western-educated, Kalenti was greatly respected among the Lebanese Christians, both those who remained as well as those who fled the country following the outbreak of the civil war when brutal fighting erupted between Christian and Moslem factions. His family's home in the mountains was said to have been constructed over the foundation of their ancestral home, whose origin dated back to the time of the Crusades. They were equally respected for the influence the family held within the Maronite Catholic Church and the support provided even to the present time.

"Enough grieving." Kalenti released their hands.

"We go forward with our plan. There is no turning back. The torture of The Lebanon must cease."

"Are we agreed?" He looked around slowly, allowing his deepset eyes to rest on each of his companions separately, deliberately, before moving to the next. They solemnly nodded their consent. The men were dressed in dark, European-cut suits that appeared worn and almost threadbare. Each man was protected by heavily armed bodyguards who sat in close proximity at a nearby table. Together they were the only occupants of the restaurant.

"We can no longer limit our response to retaliation and revenge. Such a strategy is leading nowhere except to impoverishment as we are besieged by illiterate infidels. They are sucking our lifeblood as each day passes, as they copulate within our borders." Kalenti breathed deeply before continuing. "We must expel them, and we need help if we are to achieve this goal. The life blood of our nation is being swept along as my wife's was on the city pavement."

In the next hour, Kalenti lowered his head and outlined in a whisper, so as not to be overheard, a strategy he had devised during his period of mourning. What distinguished the plan was its simplicity—the level of detail Kalenti had been able to develop. They were hesitant, even cautious at first, but as Kalenti spoke so did their confidence seem to grow. He recognized it in eyes that burned in intensity. Their shoulders, once stiff and rigid, loosened. When he concluded, he knew that he had won their allegiance.

"If you were alone on a parapet facing Saladin and his Moslem army, I would join you," Haddad spoke out. He was affectionately named Kuban for the years he spent as a youth attending university in Cuba during Batista's dictatorship prior to Castro's entrance onto the world scene. He smiled broadly and looked around the table at his comrades.

As Kalenti raised his glass of French Bordeaux, he was joined by the banker Shamir, as well as Zaquod, whose family name was Khoury and who had once served as a colonel in the Lebanese Red Beret paramilitary force.

"To our success and to that of our beloved Lebanon," Kalenti said through thin, icy lips that lingered at the edge of his wine glass. The glare from a naked light bulb reflected in his half-closed eyes. He placed the glass down softly on the once-elegant table cloth, recently patched to cover a cigarette burn. He pushed back the high-backed wooden chair to give himself room to stretch an arthritic leg, shifting his weight for comfort.

"Let me review our responsibilities. It is my job to get the team to the target. I'll be responsible on the ground."

"Zaquod ..."

"Yes?" a deeply tanned, squat individual asked. He was bald except for short clipped gray hair on the sides. His large, still-powerful hands were folded before him on the table and appeared to throb.

"Zaquod, you must find, recruit, and train the team. You will need at least twelve young ones for the attack abroad to succeed. I leave it to you to decide how many you will need for the operation here."

Zaquod reached into a silver-embossed case for another long black Turkish cigarette. He nodded his agreement as he lit the cigarette from the candle on the table, which he pulled toward him, careful to avoid the hot wax that had accumulated on the sides.

"Shamir—" Kalenti looked to his right at the small, frail man. His family name was Saad. He had a bluish, bulbous nose and thinning, dirty-gray hair. Shamir looked up from his hands and drew his lips together. His skin had a paste-like texture, and his eyes were clouded with cataracts.

"We need financing to support the operation. You must cover the travel expenses for our team. My brother, without you the operation would be doomed." Shamir acknowledged the praise with only a shift of his eyes.

"Kuban, my dear, you are to protect our gladiators. You must care for them. Do it well. We depend upon you."

Kalenti abruptly looked at his watch. The war had also affected this Christian redoubt in East Beirut. It was time to conclude the meeting so as to avoid being on the street after dusk. They rose simultaneously in their chairs, causing them to screech on the bare floor. Each of them followed his team of protectors out of the restaurant to their waiting vehicles.

* * *

The next day, Saad, or Shamir, arranged the transfer of the equivalent of one million dollars to a numbered account in Switzerland. Shamir was a nickname given to him because in business he was as skilled as a Jew. He could always be depended upon to find a solution to any challenge that had proved insurmountable to his business partners. His energy was boundless and undiminished despite the passing years and his failing health. The enterprise that Kalenti described would receive his full attention.

That same day, Shamir confirmed that the account in Switzerland had been established. He recorded the information in a handwritten note, a copy of which he filed among his personal letters. He used this method to record his money-laundering activities over the course of his banking career. Each advance of funds was followed by a more exact accounting that was contained in a subsequent copy of a fictitious letter, since the original ostensibly was mailed to the intended recipient. True to his spirit of privacy and intrigue, only Shamir could break the code. He picked up what he had just penned and smiled.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Ganymedeby Terrence Douglas Copyright © 2011 by Terrence Douglas. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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