"The others are waiting," Ahamed told Powell, his arm around his American friend's shoulders.
"I don't work for the Agency anymore."
"What? They..."
"They fired me."
"They take this killing of Clayton so seriously? Why?"
Powell stopped outside the door to the conference room. He glanced at the guards standing in the corridor of the blasted hotel. They would not hear. Cold wind blew through a shell hole at the far end of the corridor as Powell talked quietly in English to the Shia officer.
"There is something I cannot talk about in there. I need your help. The Libyan that Clayton was following had something to do with an Iranian named Rouhani. Rouhani's with a gang of Revolutionary Guards out in the Bekaa. The Libyan has an organization and millions of dollars to give away and Rouhani wanted in on it. They're planning something and I want to find out what it is."
"Another attack on Americans? Perhaps Europeans?"
"Would I care..." Powell faked shock "... if the Iranians killed some French or English? I would contribute to the cause of killing pacifists and hypocrites. Kill the queen, kill the head of the European Common Farce, I mean kill them all! Seriously, I doubt if the Iranians would need the organization or money to hit a target in Lebanon."
"Israel?"
"They could get the money from the Syrians or Palestinians. I think the Iranians want to hit a target outside of Lebanon, maybe in the United States."
"But you are no longer with your government."
"If I break up a gang trying to hit the United States, maybe I'll get my job back."
"We cannot allow uncontrolled elements to operate from our country," Ahamed said. "You know I'll give you whatever help you need."
"Knew you'd say that. Let's go in."
The leaders of the several Amal militias stationed in Beirut faced Powell. They did not waste time on greetings or polite conversation.
"What do the clowns think now?"
"Do they accuse us in the murders?"
"What was the report you sent to Washington?"
"Does this mean more weapons and dollars for the Fascist warlords?"
Powell waited until all the chieftains had asked a question, then calmly responded. "It means that Clayton's dead and you've got one less clown in the Agency. It also means that I am now a private citizen, persona non grata with the United States government. They don't care what my report said, they don't care what the truth is."
"Do they believe it is the work of our people?"
"Of course," Powell answered. "All Shias are terrorists. Don't you read the newspapers?"
"We don't need the United States."
"Yes, you do. And the United States needs your friendship. That is why I will disregard the orders from my superiors. I will not return to the United States until I know who the killers of that dog Clayton are. Because I will not have the support of my government, I am here now to ask for your help."
Sayed Ahamed spoke to the others. "Powell has always told the truth."
"Unlike his despicable President and diplomats," one chieftain declared.
Powell stared past the table where the chieftains sat. The plate-glass windows of the hotel conference room overlooked the gray Mediterranean. Wind-whipped whitecaps flecked the surface.
Again Sayed Ahamed took Powell's side. "He has nothing to do with his President. Will we help him in his search? It was not our people who killed the American agent. It can only be to our benefit if my friend discovers the truth."
The militia chieftains nodded.
5
Lyons guided the rental car through the maze of streets in the industrial park. He circled around parked diesels and inched through groups of workers crowding around catering trucks. Finally he found the address of the workshop.
Parking in a space marked For Clients Only, the tall, square-shouldered ex-LAPD detective took two cases — one long and flat, the other the size of an airline flight bag — from the back seat. He pushed through a plate-glass door to a tiny reception room.
A secretary looked up from a stack of order forms. Almost sixty, with brilliant false teeth and white hair, she glanced to the cases he held and then pressed an intercom button. "They're expecting you, sir."
"If I get a call, can you switch it to a phone in there?" Lyons asked.
"Yes, sir. Certainly."
Lyons started to say something else to the woman when a strong deep voice cut across the room.
"So! You're the one Andrzej always talked about." Lyons turned to see a wiry black man standing in the doorway. He wore a denim shop apron, and his chest pocket had a plastic liner holding pens and pencils and a micrometer. He motioned for Lyons to enter. "I'm Randall. I'll introduce you to the others."
As if to free his right hand for a handshake, Lyons transferred the flight bag to his left hand. He carried both cases with one hand as he paused in the doorway.
Lyons did not trust anyone associated with the Central Intelligence Agency. Though these technicians had been friends of Andrzej Konzaki, he expected the worst. His eyes scanned the workshop before he entered. His right hand remained free and ready to grab the Colt Python he wore under his sports coat.
Steel cabinets dominated two walls. Machines and workbenches took the other walls. On the opposite wall, an open door revealed a dimly lit corridor. He saw a beer-bellied technician standing up from a drill press. Another man looked up from a workbench covered with tools and the components of a Kalashnikov rifle. Lyons saw no one else.
He finally entered.
The beer belly approached, smiling, his hand out in greeting. "Hi, Carl. I'm Lloyd. Konzaki and I were in the Corps together."
"And I'm Bob," the other technician said. "Andy called me the jeweler. He ever mention me?"
"Yeah, he did." Lyons shook hands with the three men.
"There was some work even Andy couldn't do," Bob said. "I was his specialist. A specialist for the specialists, that's what he called me. In fact, I did some of the work on your Colt Frankenstein."
In four quick strides, Lyons crossed the workshop and glanced through the open door leading to what he assumed to be a corridor. He saw a fifty-foot-long firing lane with mechanical targets at the far end.
"That's where we test-fire our work," Randall told him. "Saves us driving out to a rifle range."
"So, how can we help you?" Bob asked.
"I need my weapons checked. Maybe they need some work, maybe not. Can't take them to a gunsmith."
"Konzaki's creations!" Bob looked like a kid invited to a party. "They've been out there a year. Let's see how they look. They hold up okay?"
"No problems," Lyons said, snapping open the larger case. "This is preventive maintenance. The Atchisson." He zipped open the flight bag. "Here's the Colt."
Randall picked up the heavy selective-fire assault shotgun. "Why do you call this an Atchisson? It isn't, you know."
"Because that's what Konzaki told me."
With the confidence of expertise and long familiarity, Randall explained the differences. "My man, what you have here is a redesigned and reengineered Armalite rifle incorporating components of other weapon designs. Notice the receiver and the handle and the grip and all that. This is not an Atchisson. Bob, could you please get me a for-real Atchisson while I set this man straight?"
The technician went to a set of the steel cabinets and opened a door to reveal a rack of shotguns. He took three shotguns out. Randall continued his explanation.