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  Both travelers looked like they belonged in Los Angeles. It was a city of a multiracial population, so their relatively dark complexions were not in the least uncommon. In fact, to the casual observer, they could easily be mistaken for Hispanic. They were dressed like many of the young people here: worn denim jeans, college sweatshirts, and old tennis shoes. They each had two full days’ growth of dark, black beard, making them absolutely indistinguishable from roughly 30 percent of the population.

  They had a reservation for a compact sedan, which was ready for them. Aram, as the older of the two, had an internationally accepted driver’s license; he would be the only driver. He purchased the minimal amount of insurance and, as instructed, accepted maps of the state and local roads. They had long since memorized and discarded the maps given to them back in Beirut. But it would have been unusual for foreign visitors to refuse maps.

  They easily found their vehicle, put their bags in the trunk, and before heading out, turned off the power to the navigation unit that was standard in rental cars. They wanted to leave no trail; instead, they powered up the GPS they had brought with them. It had no preset destination; they were to use it only if necessary, once on their way.

  It was already dark when the two jihadis drove out of the airport toward the interstate, leading north. They did not look for and did not see any of the other teams aiming for the same target that coming morning. As one of the first teams to reach the bridge at about 2:15 a.m., they would not see any of the others until reaching their lodgings in the small town of Chatsworth. A family of friendly Syrian refugees would house them until it was clear for them to return to Lebanon.

  As they now had several hours to themselves, they searched for inviting places to eat. Along the highway through the San Fernando Valley, they saw many casual fast-food restaurants, many of them chains they had seen advertised on television. While in Beirut, they had been encouraged to watch American programs, even though most of them were well acquainted with the brutal action shows so popular around the world.

  They spotted a restaurant they recognized with a large number of cars in the parking lot and pulled in. Televisions were blaring in every section of the large diner, and they had to wait in line for half an hour to get served. Aram paid for both of them with cash—American money, of course. They then found a small table, sat down, and casually ate the calorie-rich fried food. The usual Islamic rules for food had been waived for this junket, and they actually enjoyed the unfamiliar tastes. The American soft drinks were especially enticing; they were discouraged from buying anything American-made back home. It was a delightful treat.

  The pair lingered in the restaurant, watching the various sports on all the screens until after midnight. The noise was endless as was the parade of young people, yelling at each other and the television sets, urging their teams to victory. No one spoke to them or asked them to leave; they felt reasonably at ease. But as midnight came, the task at hand grew paramount, and they carried their trash to the bins, as did the other customers. They did not see any of the other teams, which was just fine with them.

  As they walked back to their rental car, the noise and harsh light became more oppressive. The sky was completely devoid of stars under the intense street lighting. Cars and trucks whizzed by from all directions. Neither man had felt so surrounded by humanity, even in downtown Beirut. Reaching the car, they felt the need to take a look at the maps, although that had been strictly against the rules. Even Aram was uncomfortable setting out into the unknown surroundings without at least a comforting glance at a map. They recognized where they were immediately: near State Road 14 north of Sylmar.

  The two terrorists drove out of the parking lot and back onto the freeway. It was exactly 12:15 a.m. They had a full tank of gasoline; the small car had used less than one-quarter tank. Just after they saw the first signs for Sylmar, they reached the turnoff for State Route 14. This far north, the lights of the city diminished rapidly; they passed through suburbs and into stark rural country. In the moonlight, they saw the rolling hills of pasture and farmland, an enormous change from the big city.

  In less than an hour, the sign announcing the exit for the town of Mojave appeared. They were close now. No words were spoken; they used only hand signals. This had been part of their instructions. It seemed unnecessary, but no one was certain as to the Americans’ ability to listen in. When they saw the town of Mojave, however, the jihadis smiled broadly. They had arrived ahead of schedule. Memories of the scene from tapes they had watched in Beirut clicked in; all this was familiar. The dark, barren landscape; the low hills barely visible in the moonlight—all was just as expected. They cruised along, waiting to see the expected road signs that would lead them to the aqueduct.

  At 1:45 a.m. they saw the sign for the road that would take them across the waterway. With a nod of recognition to Jamal, Aram drove on by. They saw no other vehicles in either direction. After five minutes, Aram stopped the car and, after checking again for the lights of any traffic, turned the car around and headed back to the turnoff. They wanted to reach the bridge at 2:00 a.m.

  State Route 14 was still empty as far as they could see as Aram eased onto the road that led to the bridge. Their hearts were beating at a mad pace as they watched for any sign of the waterway. There was none. The videotape they had seen of the roadway had ended at the turnoff, so this was all new to them. But in ten minutes, they saw the unmarked metal structure that spanned the aqueduct. Aram brought the car to a halt at the side of the road; there were no markings designating the stream below. It was, in fact, not visible from the car; it could easily be mistaken for a ditch or ravine. What was visible however, was a chain-link fence that covered the bridge from one side to the other.

  The two jihadis looked at each other, recognizing the task that lay ahead. Jamal got out of the car, went to the trunk, and pulled out the white athletic sock that held the precious poison: 80 grams of polonium chloride. Without a word to his partner, he walked out to the bridge but did not stay on the road. Instead, he instinctively grabbed a hold of the steel fencing and crawled along the outside, his feet barely gripping the base of the pavement beneath. He felt reassured by the sound of the water gurgling loudly eight feet below. With both hands on the fencing, the sock held in his mouth, he did not have time to worry about his own safety. The only thing on his mind was dropping the poison into the water. He silently prayed to Allah that not a speck, not a nanogram of poison had touched the cotton sock. They had been assured that the polymer bag holding the polonium had been perfectly sealed and scrupulously cleaned before it even touched the fabric.

  It seemed to take only a minute for him to reach the middle of the bridge, which was only fifteen feet across. Then, holding on to the bridge with one hand, he used the other to grab the sock and shake the polymer bag into the rushing water. He heard the splash as the bag hit the fast-flowing stream and realized he had done his job. In his exultation, however, he released the sock from his grip. Soundlessly, it was carried downstream. It was too late to worry about it, he realized; he made his way carefully back to the edge of the bridge and the waiting car.

  It was 2:20 a.m. when Jamal climbed back into the vehicle. Aram looked for some signal that he had been successful. In the dim overhead light from the open door, Jamal smiled sheepishly and nodded. The polonium was in the water. Instinctively, though, Aram could tell something was wrong. Tensely, he turned the car around and headed back to the highway. Once they were headed safely south toward civilization, he turned on the car radio. It was against the rules, he realized, but he had to know what had happened. Over the noise of the pop music, he glanced over at his partner and gestured for him to speak. Aram was the leader of this two-person team, so he gave the orders.

  Reluctantly, Jamal told him the truth. “The bag is in the stream,” he said. “I heard it hit the water.” Aram waited for more detail. “But you see, I could only use one hand, so the sock . . .”

  Aram absorbed this information slowly
as he continued to drive, trying to assess the damage to the mission that might have occurred. “Well,” he concluded, after a minute or so, “I’m sure clothing gets thrown into the aqueduct all the time. Kids, you know . . .”

  Jamal breathed a sigh of relief as Aram switched off the radio, and they proceeded in silence. Only once along the way back south did they see another car, headed north. Silently wondering if this might be the next jihadi team, Aram grinned as the headlights blinked twice. It was their silent signal. He blinked his headlights once in response. All was going well, sort of. Aram saw Jamal looking at him for some sort of reassurance after his clumsiness on the bridge. The signal from the other car had in fact given Aram some ease; perhaps everything would be all right. He smiled at the youngster and patted him on the arm.

  Their next stop was at the safe house in the little suburb of Chatsworth in the northern reaches of the Valley. It was a low-income town mainly known for its adult-film industry. Residents were used to seeing strangers entering and leaving homes at all hours; the jihadis were not fearful of police interference. It was nearly 4:00 a.m. when they pulled up to the curb in the quiet tree-lined neighborhood. Across the street and down the block, two young women dressed in less clothing than ever would be seen in a Muslim country were casually leaving one of the modest-looking houses. Seeing Jamal’s avid interest, Aram gave him a gentle shove to remind him of their mission. They grabbed their simple luggage from the trunk and went up to the door of the house.

  Someone was waiting for them; the door silently opened before they could even ring the bell. Jamal was pleasantly surprised to see one of Nasrallah’s men from Beirut, who greeted the two warriors warmly, shutting the door behind them. Jamal recognized the gray-haired lieutenant known as Mustafa, who shook both men’s hands, kissing them on each cheek. “Assalamu alaikum,” Mustafa said happily.

  “Wa-Alaikum Salaam,” eagerly responded the two jihadis, who were now able to relax a bit; they felt at home.

  “Come in and sit down; you are the first ones back. Please, tell me how it went.” He spoke in a low, moderated voice. No sense taking chances on suspicious neighbors, even here.

  Aram sat first, in a comfortable easy chair. Jamal then did the same in a hard-backed dining-room chair near him. He casually looked around the room, which looked like something out of a 1940s American movie. The furniture was old and well worn, in keeping with the rest of the surroundings. The room itself was rather large with high ceilings, typical for the days before air-conditioning. An elderly woman dressed in black, complete with head scarf covering most of her face, silently brought the two newcomers small cups of tea. She turned and left the room without a word. Only after she left did Aram tell Mustafa of their adventure. He did not leave out any detail, especially noting the unexpected fencing over the bridge. Finally, he mentioned Jamal’s unfortunate dropping of the sock into the channel.

  Mustafa listened carefully to every word, stroking his chin at each and every item. He was deep in silent thought as Jamal felt slightly ill. What was to be the penalty for his clumsiness? Finally, the grizzled old Arab addressed the young jihadi: “You did just fine, considering the unpleasant surprise you had to deal with. Our scout mentioned nothing of the chain-link fence. Perhaps it has been added in the last few weeks. I only hope the others handle the situation as adroitly as you.” He smiled at the youngster, who was able to breathe for the first time.

  Though there was no audible sound, Mustafa leaped to his feet and opened the front door. Two more jihadis appeared, smiling as they entered the old-style living room. Hamid and Khatib immediately recognized Jamal and Aram from the training camp in Beirut. The four eagerly hugged and kissed each other on both cheeks. “It went well, my soldiers?” Mustafa cordially greeted the new arrivals.

  “Oh yes,” Hamid, the older of the two replied quickly. The tall, dark-skinned Syrian had a quizzical look on his face. “Although we were surprised to find the bridge guarded by a fence.”

  There was a pause as Jamal started to respond: “Yes, we also . . .”

  Mustafa held up a hand to stop him. He wanted to hear from this new team first. “Go ahead, Hamid, what did you do?”

  Hamid looked to Khatib, as if to say, Did we do the right thing? Khatib, a small, light-skinned young Lebanese, waited for Hamid to continue.

  “Well, I knew that Khatib is quite athletic, so I asked him if he could reach the edge of the river by holding my hand. I turned the parking lights of our car on for just a minute, and he was able to reach out and toss the bag into the stream. We heard it splash!”

  Khatib vigorously nodded his head in agreement.

  There was a strained silence as the two newcomers waited for the dreaded penalty for a wrong decision. But Mustafa merely smiled and said to them: “Good thinking, my friends; well done! Come, have tea with us.” He clapped his hands twice, and the old woman came silently into the room with their beverages. Wordlessly, she turned and left. So, that was nearly two hundred grams that had poisoned the Los Angeles drinking water supply. Two more teams should be arriving shortly, Mustafa thought. Things were going well. Soon, he would communicate with the host, waiting in San Fernando for the other four teams. With this marvelous start, the sinful city of Los Angeles would soon be feeling the wrath of Allah.

  Chapter 5

  Lara Edmond stepped through the double doors into the crowd at the busy mall. Her lovely blonde hair looked much the same as most of the other women’s; hers, though, was totally natural. She wore heavily tinted sunglasses, even though the mall was enclosed, mainly to keep from being recognized; her face was known to many of her country’s enemies.

  She had not yet officially taken the name of her husband, Uri Levin. That was to wait until their first child came along. Until then, she did not want to hassle with the legal details involved. They had been married just under two years, and although the union was blessed by all other markers, they had no children yet.

  Uri wanted to be a parent, as did Lara and her family. But Lara was not yet pregnant. They had completed all the testing; both were normal, though a little older than most parents-to-be. That was not an issue, Dr. Finkel, their OB/GYN in Tel Aviv, assured them. What might be, she said, were their grueling schedules. Both worked hard, long hours with Mossad, and their schedules did not often match. “This is not how nature wants it,” Dr. Finkel, the graying, middle-aged spinster told them. “She likes it better when you are both at ease. Take a vacation. You deserve it.”

  So, they had gotten approval for a continuation of their last, abbreviated holiday trip that had coincided with an attack on this very mall in Beverly Hills just over a year ago. The pair had been diverted into an extended sojourn into Iran and a battle with determined terrorists. This trip to Los Angeles now was meant to heal the wounds of the last one. And perhaps lead to a blessed event.

  Lara caught up with Uri, and the two held hands like honeymooners as they made their way past the chic shops; every imaginable piece of clothing and appliance in the world was on display. They had no need of any of it, but it was fun to see all the happy people going about their shopping with not a care in the world, apparently. The only shrieks were those of joy, mainly from teenagers who were spending their parents’ money. Uri glanced at Lara, smiling knowingly.

  Suddenly, both their phones squealed simultaneously. The last time that had happened was all too clear in their memories. Their current surroundings made it flash into their immediate consciousness. Couldn’t be . . . they looked at each other fearfully. The noise of the crowd disappeared, as though time had stopped, a blanket over everything but the insistent sound of their cell phones.

  They ducked into an open doorway, each turning away to answer the dreaded instruments. “Levin,” Uri muttered.

  “Where are you?” It was a familiar voice, but he could not place it immediately.

  “Beverly Center, with Lara.”

  “This is Williams, at headquarters. Get down here as fast as you can. We’ve got a p
roblem.”

  It was Bret Williams at the FBI office in Los Angeles. They had worked together before; he had greeted them at LAX when they arrived this time.

  The line went dead. Uri turned to Lara; her face told everything. They had to find a taxi right now.

  * * *

  Bret Williams, the Homeland Security agent attached to the FBI office in Los Angeles, was brief with his greetings to the visitors from Israel. He was familiar with both: Lara, a former FBI agent, had met Uri when she’d worked a nuclear bomb threat five years ago; Uri had been on loan from Mossad. The two had worked other cases together as well; they had married soon afterward. Now they both worked for Mossad but were available at any time when the FBI needed them.

  “We’ve got a scary situation on our hands,” Bret started abruptly. “It may be nothing, but we have to be extremely cautious.” The two visitors sat up in their chairs at full attention. They were caught completely off-guard at this turn of events in what was to be a vacation. “We got notice from the LAPD this morning of an upset at the water filtration plant up in Sylmar.”

  Uri turned to Lara, mystified. He knew nothing about this plant. She returned his gaze with a blank stare. Williams was expecting this; few people outside the city government were at all familiar with the city’s water supply. Most knew, at least casually, of the enormous aqueducts that had been built in the twentieth century to bring clean water from the Sierra Nevada mountains to the populous but parched desert city of Los Angeles and its environs. The gigantic project had had plenty of detractors back in the day. Now, most of the population was not aware of the staggering volume of water involved: nearly five hundred million gallons a day flowed through the network of streams and aqueducts.