Worse, the United States sent billions of dollars to Israel every year, money the Jews used to buy jets and tanks to invade Lebanon. Worst of all, the United States fed the carnage in Syria.
“Why do you think the Americans have done this?” Ayoub said.
“Isn’t it obvious? They want an excuse to attack us. We have too much power for them. They’re angry about Iraq, how we outsmarted them. They fight a war to overthrow Saddam Hussein, replace him with their friends. Instead, the Shia take over.” Meaning one who did what Iran wanted. “They see now in Syria their choices are Assad or the Islamic State, and they hate that they must work with us to help Assad. So they make this up.”
“To go to so much trouble—”
“They know their people are tired of war. They need a reason to send their soldiers against us.”
The explanation made sense to Ayoub. Which didn’t mean it was true.
“And you can’t open your doors, prove to the world it’s a lie.”
“Ayoub, if the Jews said that Hezbollah was making bombs to blow up the Qubbat al-Sakhrah”—the Dome of the Rock, the holy shrine that sat atop the Temple Mount in Jerusalem—
“I understand.”
“That they would blow up your camps unless you let them in—”
“We would never agree.”
“Just so. We’ll fill the streets with martyrs before we do what they ask.” Ali leaned close enough for Ayoub to smell the mint tea on his breath.
“What, then?”
“They must know the price they’ll pay if they keep on this path.”
Now they reached the heart of the matter. Ali explained what he wanted, and where. He would provide the surface-to-air missiles in Mumbai, Ayoub the men. Hezbollah had no shortage of soldiers trained to use SAMs. Missiles were its best defense against the Israeli air force.
The mission disturbed Ayoub, though not for the obvious reason. He didn’t question the morality of blowing up this plane. A couple hundred innocents would die. So be it. The Syrian war killed more civilians than that every week. No, Ayoub’s concern was tactical. He didn’t see why Ali didn’t just use his own men. But he couldn’t ask directly. Ali was polite enough to phrase his orders as requests, but he was the master in this room. Hezbollah depended on Iranian support to survive.
Instead of asking Ali directly, Ayoub tried a different tack. “You’re sure my men can do this? Without advance training.”
“Did you have training when you walked up to those Jews in Tyre?”
“I knew their post. I’d watched them all night. These men, they’ve never been to India, much less Mumbai. The airport must have security.”
“The airport, yes. But the slums are around it, and police there, they’re too lazy to go inside. Not even for bribes. Trust me. I’ve been there. Your men come tonight. My officer meets them. Walks them through the slum, shows them where to set up. No missiles. Tomorrow afternoon, they come back in daylight to see for themselves. Then, tomorrow night, they bring the missiles, they aim—” Ali raised his hands, hoisting an imaginary surface-to-air missile launcher. He cocked his head to look through the sight, squeezed the trigger. “Just like you and those Jews, Ayoub. Only a bigger explosion at the end.”
Ali sounded almost wistful.
“And your man can’t do it?”
“Better if he’s not there.”
So he wouldn’t be caught when the Americans went crazy afterward. “And my men? Do you get them out after? Or is that up to me?”
“Neither.”
Ayoub needed a few seconds to realize what Ali meant.
“You want them caught? But when the Americans see they’re Lebanese—” Then Ayoub understood the game. Ali was playing both sides. He wanted the United States to know that Iran had ordered the shooting. But he didn’t want to give it proof. He, or his boss Suleimani, wanted the flexibility to deny Iran’s involvement. The Iranians used proxies whenever they could. Though puppets might be a better word.
Ayoub remembered a saying of his father’s: When a mouse mocks a cat, you can be sure there’s a hole nearby. For this mission the Iranians had chosen Hezbollah as the hole. But Ayoub wouldn’t waste his breath protesting. “My friend, if this is what you want, my men will be proud to help.”
“You have someone in mind.”
“Yes.” Two cousins who ran a truck-repair shop in Baalbek. Jafar and Haider. Late twenties and fearless. Ayoub wondered what to tell them. Only bare outlines, and nothing about Ali, of course. They were smart enough to figure out for themselves that Iran was behind the mission.
But he would have to make sure they knew they wouldn’t be coming home.
“I think through Dubai is the shortest route,” Ali said. “MEA”—Middle East Airlines, the national Lebanese carrier—“has a flight at two p.m. Then Emirates to Mumbai.”
Telling, not asking.
“Done. Once they land in Mumbai, they’re yours.”
“And clean phones, of course.”
“I’ll get your courier the numbers. Anything more, my brother?”
“Later this week. Five more teams.”
Five more pairs of soldiers? Five more planes? Ayoub’s mask of civility must have dropped for half a second. Ali grabbed Ayoub’s wrist. “All right?”
“Of course. Will these be”—Ayoub hesitated—“active missions?”
“Not yet.”
Ninety minutes later, at a supermarket two kilometers from Hariri International Airport, Ayoub met Jafar and Haider. As he’d expected, they came without question when he called. And they didn’t flinch when he described the mission.
“An American jet,” Jafar, the older cousin, said. His meaning was clear enough. The Americans have this coming.
Ayoub didn’t expect the cousins to escape capture for long, but he gave them six thousand dollars and told them to hide, come back to the Bekaa Valley once the pressure lifted. They laughed.
“When they find us, do we tell them that this was a Hezbollah action?” Jafar asked.
“Yes.” The Americans would know the truth anyway.
“Good.”
The next night, the reports came in from India. They’d lit the sky with United 49.
Ayoub sent a third man to Mumbai, too, a truly clean operative who could travel on a Turkish passport. Not to help the other two, just to walk the streets and watch the local television channels so Ayoub might have a few minutes of advance word when they were caught. But the cousins managed better than he’d expected. A week passed with no word of their arrest. Ayoub wondered if the Americans had snatched them in secret.
He heard nothing from Ali, either. Probably the man wasn’t even in Lebanon.
Meanwhile, he had other concerns. That morning, the Syrian Minister of Defense had called to tell him that the Sunnis were preparing a major offensive. No surprise, they figured a potential war with the United States might distract Iran from helping the Syrian government. The minister asked Ayoub to send another two thousand men. Ayoub put him off, spent the day debating with his deputies what course to recommend to Sayyed Nasrallah, Hezbollah’s ultimate leader. If America invaded Iran, Hezbollah would be on its own. Maybe this wasn’t the moment to risk fighters he might need to defend Hezbollah’s own territory from the IDF.