End of Enemies Read Online Free PDF Page A

he carried her back to bed and lay beside her until she fell asleep, then returned to the fire. On the floor, the album had flipped open to a photograph he hadn’t seen in years.
    It showed him and another man, a Westerner with coffee-brown hair and laugh-lined, ocean-blue eyes, at a dinner table. Their arms were draped around one another’s shoulders, and they were smiling. The man wore one of those silly hats with the flat top and the tassel … What was it called? Such a ridiculous hat. The scene seemed so familiar, yet so distant, as though he were enjoying someone else’s well-told story. Who was he? Why couldn’t he remember this? Why ?
    Azhar closed the album and laid it aside. It didn’t matter. None of it. Only one thing mattered anymore, and before long, that, too, would be over.
    He was awakened by a tapping on the door. He picked up the Makarov pistol from the table and crept to the door. “Yes?”
    â€œIt is Mustafa.”
    Azhar opened the door a crack, saw the man was alone, and let him enter.
    Mustafa al-Baz had been Azhar’s closest friend and ally for four years. A dedicated soldier, al-Baz wore many hats as Azhar’s second-in-command: operations officer, intelligence officer, and chief enforcer.
    â€œ Shu fi ?” asked Azhar. What’s going on?
    â€œHe was watching the building in Basta,” said al-Baz. “We caught him near al-Mataf. He was trying to slip across.”
    â€œGoing where?”
    â€œWe don’t know. We searched his apartment but found nothing of use.”
    â€œWhere is he now?”
    â€œWe took him to the warehouse.”
    â€œGood. We must vacate Basta—”
    â€œI’ve already ordered it.”
    â€œHave you gotten his name yet?”
    â€œWe’ve just started on him. He claims his name is Marcus.” Al-Baz hesitated. “Abu, I think he’s American.”
    â€œAmerican!”
    â€œOr their agent. Also, after we started questioning him, he mentioned a ship.”
    Azhar bolted forward. His teacup clattered to the floor. “What!”
    â€œWe could not get any more; he lost consciousness.”
    â€œFind out what he knows—quickly. We must know before the final phase.”
    â€œWe may get what we need from him, and we may not. He may have only a small view of his operation. This is common; it is what the Westerners call ‘compartmentalization.’”
    â€œThen we may need to go to the source.”
    â€œMy thinking as well. For that, I have a thought.”
    â€œTell me.”
    Al-Baz did so, briefly outlining his idea.
    Azhar was silent for several minutes. “It is risky.”
    â€œSo is going ahead with the operation blindly. When I was in Khartoum last year, I saw a training transcript from a former KGB officer who specialized in this kind of operation. He is retired but does contract work, I believe. And from what I have heard, he is in Damascus.”
    â€œAnd the man on the ground? Who do you have in mind?”
    Al-Baz told him.
    â€œThe timing would be difficult,” said Azhar.
    â€œPerhaps,” al-Baz said. “But the information we require is simple. Either they know, or they do not. We, too, can play the compartmentalization game. Once we know why this Marcus has come here, we can make the decision. Better to know now, while we can stop it. Once the operation has reached a certain point, it cannot—”
    â€œYes, yes, I know.”
    â€œBesides, I grow tired of being the target. Always Al-mu ammara ! Always it is American agents, Mossad—they all think Lebanon is their playground. Perhaps it is time to play our own games.”
    Azhar nodded, sharing his deputy’s feelings. Al-mu ammara was a distinctly Lebanese term meaning “the conspiracy.” For decades Lebanon had been the world’s chosen surrogate battlefield. Superpowers played their spy games, tested their weapons, exercised their tactics and