Numbered Account

Joseph had been in charge of the labor pool for the southern division of the refugee camp that lay twenty miles southeast of Beirut, a bloody stain on Israel's northern doormat. Fifteen years after the Jews' invasion, the camp still stood, even thrived. Thousands of Palestinians crowded the camp's narrow alleyways, fighting daily over meager rations and squalid quarters. A job that creased a man's hands and crooked his back was the camp's most valued commodity. Cutting slabs of concrete under a merciless sun for ten hours brought two American dollars, enough to purchase a loaf of bread, three strips of lamb, and two cigarettes. Filling craters dug by countless mortars and car bombs, a twelve-hour shift spent under constant threat of hostile fire, brought the princely sum of four dollars. Two men were killed each week while repairing the city's roads. Two hundred clamored to take their places.

Joseph had been brought to Mevlevi's attention by a godless man, a thorny Syrian, Abu Abu by name, slaver by trade. Abu Abu had a sharp and discerning eye for the ruthless and cunning among the camp's inhabitants. Most refugees were arrogant; many were strong. Few were intelligent. Fewer still, clever. At the top of this pile of refuse sat Joseph.

"He is mean as a cobra, yet wise as an owl," said Abu Abu, before telling with glee of the last aspirant to Joseph's position. Eyes gouged out, thumbs severed, and tongue spit into a neighbor's cooking pot, the interloper spent his every day seated on an immaculate Syrian quilt, ten steps from the entrance to Joseph's tent.

"This one is special," whispered Abu Abu. "He has pride."

Joseph had been polite in his refusal to leave, but Mevlevi had convinced him. It had taken time, and, in truth, he had revealed more of his plans than he had thought prudent. He spoke of a new praetorian guard; this time they, not the Romans, would be conquerors. He spoke of a new Jerusalem returned to its sole and rightful possessors, and of a world where devotion to God came first, and to man, second.

Finally, Joseph agreed to join him.

"Were our esteemed instructors able to keep to their course plan?" Mevlevi demanded, after Joseph had completed his summary. "We cannot afford to lose any more days."

"Yes, Al-Mevlevi. All instruction specified for day fifty-seven was carried out. Sergeant Rodenko instructed the men on the proper use of Katyusha rockets in the morning. Emphasis was placed on rapid setup, firing, and deconstruction of the base firing units. So far we have received twenty-one firing platforms. Each assault squadron was able to have a go at it. Unfortunately we were unable to fire live ammunition. Rodenko insisted the heat signature of the rockets would be visible to satellites overhead."

Mevlevi said he understood. Heat signatures, satellite overflies, microwave fences- they were all part of his new vocabulary. The lexicon of Khamsin.

Joseph continued. "In the afternoon, Lieutenant Ivlov delivered a lecture on target selection and the arming of the laser proximity fuses. The men grew bored quickly. They are more comfortable with their Kalashnikovs. They are all anxious to know what use they will put their training to. Ivlov demanded to know once more whether our target would be civilian or military."

"Did he?" asked Mevlevi. Lieutenant Boris Ivlov and Sergeant Mikhail Rodenko had arrived along with the equipment two months ago. Both were burned-out veterans of the Afghan war. Trainers for hire supplied in a package deal brokered by General Dimitri Marchenko, late of the Kazakhstani Armed Forces, now president of the quasi-governmental Surplus Arms Warehouse. One of the new breed of post-cold war entrepreneurs. Like many of his country's wares, Marchenko's trainers were second-rate, prone to breaking down at inconvenient moments. A vodka-induced stupor had already cost two days of training. And now they were asking questions. Not good.

"Your target will be made known to you in due time," Mevlevi said coldly. "We will not be firing blanks much longer. You can be certain of that."

Joseph nodded his head respectfully.

"I am reluctant to inquire about the final matter," said Mevlevi.

"Unfortunately, true. Another hornet buzzing in our nest."

"It's been seven months since Mong's raid. Will the oriental bastard never let up? Not a month has passed when a traitor hasn't been uncloaked, not a week when we haven't had to tighten security." Mevlevi sighed. And not a night when the promise of restful sleep wasn't dashed by the recollection of the Asian's aggressive gambit.