Stony Man pilot studied them. “The 249 is a country code, so forty-one is the city and the rest a local number. Off the top, I couldn’t tell you where it is. Sorry.”
Bolan got out his smartphone, thankful that the restaurant offered free Wi-Fi. He went online to check the foreign phone codes, found what he was looking fo, and told Grimaldi, “Two forty-nine is Sudan. The city code’s Kassala.”
“Never heard of it.”
“More homework for the Farm. I’ll send the numbers through.”
He switched to email on the smartphone, typed an address that would eventually allow the message to reach Stony Man Farm in Virginia without pinpointing his or Stony Man’s location and sent two phone numbers with a request for a speedy response. It was a relatively easy job for Aaron Kurtzman’s cyber-team, hopefully landing some pointers for Bolan within the half hour.
“When we get the local number—” Grimaldi began.
“We check it out.”
“Hoping Khamis is there, assuming that he even knows where there is.”
“Hoping,” Bolan granted. “If he’s not around, smart money says we’ll find another Hezbollah hangout.”
“Small favors.” Grimaldi was working on his last few fries. He washed them down with coffee, pushing back his tray. “Ready when you are, kemo sabe.”
Zermatt, Switzerland
SALEH KABEER WAS dining when Mohammed Sanea interrupted, bringing him a sat phone.
“My apologies,” Sanea said. “A call from Paraguay.”
Kabeer frowned at his second in command. “Rajhid?”
Sanea shook his head. “One of the Hezbollah men. Ashraf Tannous, he says.”
The frown became a scowl. Kabeer set down his fork and took the phone, waving Sanea toward the nearest exit from the dining room.
“Greetings.”
“And greeting be unto you,” the caller replied. “I hope I have not reached you at an inconvenient time.”
Kabeer glanced at his cooling dinner, likely ruined by the interruption. “Not at all,” he lied.
“We have a problem,” the man said. “Is this line secure?”
“It is, if you are.”
“Very good. I’m sorry to report that there has been...an incident.”
“Explain.” Kabeer was not the most patient of men, nor the most courteous.
“Crusaders have attacked a safe house here. It’s possible they came for your men.”
“Possible?”
The caller’s shrug was nearly audible. “Your three fled from the building. They were followed. Two of them are dead now.”
“Followed.” He was sounding like an echo chamber. “Do you mean pursued?”
“It seems so.”
“You say two are dead,” Kabeer stated.
“We have the third one here, Walid Khamis. He claims it was coincidence.”
“You disagree?”
“The evidence—” the caller began.
“I understand. Is he available to speak with me?”
“One moment.”
It took longer, but Kabeer tried not to grind his teeth. When Khamis came on the line at last, his tone was cautious, worried.
“Sir, have they explained what happened?”
“Not in any great detail. We’ve lost two friends, I understand?”
“Yes, sir. I can’t explain it, but—”
“Another time, perhaps,” Kabeer said, cutting off the man’s inept apology. “When we can speak more privately.”
“Of course, sir...if there is another time.”
“Why should there not be?”
“They...um...are considering a ransom.”
“Are they?”
“I’ve discouraged it, of course, but—”
“Pass me back to Tannous, if you’d be so kind.”
“Yes, sir.”
Another moment’s silence, then Tannous came on the line again. “You’ve finished with your man, then?”
Kabeer ignored the question, asking, “What is this about a ransom?”
He had spoiled Tannous’s lead-up to the pitch. The Hezbollah cell leader took time to clear his throat, then said, “Housing your men has cost us more than we anticipated. Twelve men dead, and our best safe house lost for good. I feel we should be compensated.”
“You feel?” Kabeer challenged. “Have you discussed this plan with your superiors?”
“They have received a tabulation of the damages,” Tannous replied, rather evasively.
“And their response?”
“I’m waiting for it now.”
“Do you imply that my men are responsible for the attack on yours? And if so, what do you present as evidence?”
“They were pursued by two Crusaders from the scene. Why them, if they were not the targets?”
“Ask the two Crusaders,” Kabeer told him.
“I would, and gladly, if we had them here.”
“So, you don’t know who sent them? Whether they’re Americans, Israelis? Nothing?”
“At the moment—”
“I thought not. But since you seek to profit from a tragedy we share, here is my offer—nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Tell Walid our prayers are with him. We shall miss him—and we shall remember you.”
Smiling at last, Kabeer cut off the call and turned back to his veal.
Barrio San Blas, Ciudad del Este
THE CALL CAME in twenty minutes, not a record for the Farm, but close. Kurtzman—called “Bear” by anyone who knew him well—read off two addresses, the first on Avenida San José in Ciudad del Este,
