Easy Day for the Dead

by Howard E. Wasdin

  Khan realized he was reaching for his gun when the door to the restaurant banged open. A large man walked in. He wore an expensive blue sport coat over a white T-shirt and designer jeans. He didn’t wait to be seated, but walked right over to Pistachio and Saeedi.

  “You dishonor our family by associating with these pigs,” the man said. He was at least six foot two and well over two hundred pounds. Khan figured most likely a brother of one of the women.

  The curly-haired woman stood up. “You do not own me, Talal! I can do what I want.”

  “Filthy whore!” Talal shouted, slapping her face and knocking her down. Saeedi jumped up with his pistol drawn and swung it at Talal, but for a big man he moved quickly and easily dodged the blow. Someone screamed.

  Talal cocked his right arm, ready to land a haymaker against Saeedi, but Pistachio stepped in and dropped him with a punch to his temple.

  The door opened and a man charged in. He looked the spitting image of Talal. Khan got up from his chair and went to intercept him, but before he got to him the waiter darted between them.

  “Please, no fi—” Khan brought up an elbow and slammed it into the waiter’s temple. The man went down like a sack of rice. The twin threw a punch at Khan, but Saeedi got there first, hooking the man’s arm and pulling him down to the floor. A crack like a shot from a small-caliber pistol meant Saeedi had just broken the twin’s arm.

  Pistachio grabbed Saeedi and pulled him up. “We’re out of here.”

  Saeedi started to resist and whipped his pistol out. “We’ll finish them.”

  The rage in Khan dissipated and he realized the danger they’d just fallen into. “He’s right. We have to go now!” Khan barked.

  Saeedi holstered his pistol.

  They hurried out of the restaurant and into the night.

  When they were far enough away Khan led them into an alley. When he was sure no one had followed them he rounded on Saeedi.

  “You will not derail this mission.”

  Saeedi opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Me? I was just defending myself. What about you? You hit that waiter like you were trying to kill him. What the hell was that about? The only one that’ll screw this up will be you.”

  Khan saw Pistachio start to open his mouth to speak. Before he could say anything, Khan pulled his own pistol out of its holster and pushed the barrel into Saeedi’s chest. “Say that again,” he said quietly. Saeedi looked at Pistachio. Pistachio shook his head. Saeedi lowered his head like a wounded puppy dog.

  Khan lowered his pistol. “Let’s go back to the hotel. Tomorrow will be a big day.”

  22

  * * *

  Alex awoke just after 0630 to the sound of Cat’s and Leila’s voices. After dressing, he stepped out of his room and saw them sitting on the couch talking. Alex rubbed his eyes and asked, “Were you two talking the whole night?”

  They glanced at him then giggled. At least they seemed happy.

  An hour later, Pancho and John arrived with the team’s weapons, ammo, and other goodies. All five armed themselves with concealed Zoaf 9mm pistols.

  For breakfast, they sucked on cold energy gel tubes.

  Cat called for a taxi, then she went downstairs with Alex to wait for it in the parking lot. “You and Leila seemed to have a lot to talk about,” Alex said.

  “Does that bother you?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “Just curious.”

  “Girl stuff,” she said, dismissing his curiosity.

  Alex was still curious, but he let it go.

  The taxi arrived and they both sat in the back while the cabbie took them down snowy streets past unfinished buildings, charred and bullet-riddled walls, and a partially destroyed house. They continued to a spot a block away from their rendezvous place at the Café Paris. Alex and Cat put on their sunglasses and zipped up their jackets while they walked around the perimeter checking for surveillance, or worse, a sniper. When they were sure the area was clean, they moved in closer and checked again: buildings, vehicles, and pedestrians.

  Inside the café they briefly studied the people, mostly women, except for a man with a briefcase. Alex and Cat removed their sunglasses. Alex chose a table away from the windows, so any outside explosion wouldn’t hit them with fragments through the glass. They sat down with their backs to the wall and a view of the front entrance and kitchen exit—Alex noted the entrance and exit as escape routes. If he needed an additional route, he could throw a chair through the window and jump through it.

  They were nearly an hour early for the 1030 rendezvous with their agent. This made it more challenging for their contact if he was planning to set up an ambush. While waiting, they ordered Lebanese coffee. Their waitress brought two empty demitasses and poured the coffee at their table from a long-handled coffeepot. Alex took a sip. The coffee was thick and had a strong, bitter taste.

  At 1030, there was no sign of their contact—he was late. Maybe he wouldn’t show. A few minutes later, Omar Bisharia arrived, a handsome young Lebanese man wearing a tight black T-shirt and blue jeans. His eyes were piercing—something the intel pictures hadn’t conveyed. He was a leader in the Arab Spring against Syrian domination of Lebanon. He recruited for his militia from a poor area of Tripoli called Bab-al-Tabbaneh. With Omar came a heavyweight who had massive biceps and forearms, a thick neck, and a small head with a little cap on top of it. His scraggly beard made him look like Brutus in the Popeye comic.

  Alex and Omar exchanged bona fides and chitchatted in English before Omar switched to Arabic. Cat translated.

  “I mean no offense, but our strongest supporters, the ones who will bear arms in this battle, don’t like Americans,” Omar said.

  “I understand,” Alex said. “Two Palestinians are being held hostage in the Sheikh Abdallah Barracks in Baalbek. There is another man being held there, an Iranian named Hassan Khamenei.”

  “The Farsi instructor. Who are the Palestinians?”

  Alex showed them pictures of two men. “The Palestinians are Youssef Rahbanni and Dalal Haddad.”

  Omar’s and Brutus’s eyes widened. Brutus became tense like he was about to eat the table. “Youssef,” he mumbled.

  Omar leaned forward. “Where did you get this information?”

  The waitress came to their table, and they became quiet. Alex ordered drinks for Omar and Brutus. The waitress left with their order.

  “I can’t say,” Alex said.

  Cat resumed translating.

  “You can’t say, or you won’t say?” Omar asked.

  “Both,” Alex replied.

  “And what do you get out of rescuing this man?”

  “Khamenei’s wife wants him rescued. If we help her, she’ll help us in a separate matter with Iran,” Alex whispered.

  When Alex said “Iran,” the edges of Omar’s lips rose. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. “What do you need from us?” Omar asked.

  “I need your help assaulting Hezbollah so we can rescue the hostages.”

  “Why don’t you do it yourself?”

  “I don’t have enough men.”

  “Why not?”

  The waitress brought their drinks. They became quiet again. After the waitress left, Alex and Omar continued talking while Cat translated.

  “My guess is that if anyone finds out the United States is supporting you, it might lead us to war,” Alex said.

  Omar took a leisurely sip of his drink. “War is nothing new to us.”

  “Americans don’t know war at home like you. They don’t want to.”

  “Maybe they should. Then they wouldn’t be so quick to send their soldiers to kill and be killed.”

  “I haven’t experienced war in my own country, but I have experienced war.”

  “Then why risk it for your people?”

  “If we don’t stop Iran, we face a destruction as great as, or greater than, war. We need to rescue Khamenei as soon as possible.”

  “Some people say I have a gift for seeing the true natur
e of people.” Omar examined Alex’s face.

  “I wish I had that gift.”

  “Is there anything you’re not telling me that I should know? I’m not fond of surprises.”

  “Hezbollah might be expecting us.”

  Omar smiled. “They’re always expecting us. They just don’t know when. How many men do you need?”

  “How many men do you have?”

  “Forty-two. That’s including us.” He looked at Brutus.

  “That’ll have to do. If you have a bank account, I’ll wire twenty-five thousand U.S. dollars to help pay for weapons and ammunition.”

  “We don’t do this for money.”

  “I would’ve brought weapons and ammo, but the best I can do now is cash.”

  Omar shook his head.

  “It’s not for you. It’s for your men. I imagine many of them will be using personal weapons.”

  “Yes.”

  “If the mission is a success, I’ll wire twenty-five thousand more. For your men.”

  “Okay.”

  Alex and Omar made plans for attacking Hezbollah and rescuing Hassan Khamenei and the two Palestinians. When the two finished, they shook hands. Omar and Brutus left.

  Before Alex paid the bill, Cat pointed to the counter display next to the cash register. “These Lebanese pickles look so good.”

  “What?”

  “Pickles.”

  “Can we do takeout?” Alex asked.

  “I’ll ask.” She spoke with the woman behind the counter.

  Alex was nervous. They’d already spent enough time in this café, but it would be good not to be seen leaving with Omar. The cashier put Cat’s pickles in a plastic box and wrapped a rubber band around it. Cat paid the bill and asked the cashier to call a taxi. A scattering of light snowflakes drifted to the ground as the cab pulled up to the curb. Alex and Cat walked out of the Café Paris and hopped into the cab.

  Cat sat in the backseat and spoke Arabic to the cabbie. Alex forgot about the mission as he flashed back to an evening with Cat in the backseat of a limousine in Paris. The chauffeur drove through Paris while he and Cat made love. Now Alex sat close to her in the taxi. Cat scooted away from him. Alex scooted closer. She moved away until there was no more space left. Her back pressed against the taxi. Alex closed the gap between them. She had nowhere to go except out, and the taxi had already picked up speed. The snowflakes became bigger and came down en masse.

  “Do you remember Paris?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to forget,” Cat answered.

  “I can’t forget.”

  His face moved closer to hers.

  “You can’t do that here,” Cat said.

  Alex noticed that she didn’t pull away.

  “I can kiss you here.”

  “It’s illegal.”

  “Not in Lebanon.”

  “It’s illegal.”

  “You already said that. It’s not true.”

  “They’ll arrest you.”

  “I can kiss you in Tripoli.” His eyes feasted slowly from her eyes to her lips and down to her hips. “I can kiss you in Beirut.”

  “Oh, no, you can’t kiss me in Beirut!” she said, breathing heavily. “Not in a taxicab in broad daylight.” She ran out of breath and had to inhale.

  His gaze returned to her lips. “Then I’ll kiss you in Tripoli.”

  Cat hurriedly opened her plastic box, put a Lebanese pickle in her mouth, and closed the box. The Lebanese pickle was smaller and smoother than American pickles. Alex took the pickle out of her mouth. She grabbed the pickle and put it back in her mouth. Alex pulled it out again.

  “If you kiss me, I’ll scream.” She put the pickle in her mouth.

  “You can scream easier without this in your mouth.” He took the pickle and kissed her. Soon she closed her eyes and he closed his. Cat wrapped her arms around him. Alex felt the world disappear as he immersed himself in rediscovering her lips. The breath through her nose raced in and out, blowing warm against his face. Alex pulled away from Cat for a moment and opened his eyes. The rear windows were fogging.

  She opened her eyes. “I can’t breathe.”

  “Stop breathing.” The rate of her breathing picked up speed, faster than the beating of the windshield wipers. She sounded like she was about to hyperventilate. He kissed her and closed his eyes. He couldn’t hear her breathing, so he started to pull away, but she pulled him back in.

  Alex stopped kissing her and took a bite of the Lebanese pickle in his hand. It had a mellow taste. Cat breathed calmly, and he gave her a bite. He finished chewing and swallowed. After she swallowed, she kissed him. He tasted vinegar, salt, and sugar on her lips and tongue.

  “It’s so hot in here, I’m burning up,” Cat whispered.

  Alex put the last piece of pickle in his mouth and transferred it to hers. He unzipped Cat’s jacket and helped her out of it. Starting to feel hot himself, Alex took off his own jacket.

  The driver stopped the cab. Alex looked around. They had reached the destination near the apartment. Bad timing. “Can you drive in a circle around town?” Alex asked the driver.

  “Circle town?” the driver asked.

  Alex finished chewing the pickle, swallowed, leaned forward, and gestured in a circle with his hand. “Can you drive in a circle around town?”

  “Go Beirut?” the driver asked.

  “If you say so,” Alex answered.

  “What?”

  “Yes. Go to Beirut. Please.”

  “Beirut,” the driver confirmed.

  “Yes, Beirut.” Alex placed an advance of forty thousand Lebanese pounds on the console next to the driver’s seat. Then Alex moved the rearview mirror so the driver couldn’t see the backseat.

  The driver appeared puzzled for a moment. He took the money, shifted into gear, and drove south. The snow came down harder and heavier.

  23

  * * *

  Alex and Cat returned to the apartment, where they found Pancho alone. Minutes later, John and Leila returned with some groceries. Although John wasn’t a conversationalist, he was talking—and laughing that freakish laugh of his. Leila was laughing, too. Alex smiled. Maybe his matchmaking was working.

  “What kind of wheels you get?” Pancho asked.

  “A black Hummer H2 with seven seats and a white van,” John replied. “I took out the dome lights so we can slip in and out of the vehicles without getting lit up.”

  “Sweet.”

  John approached Alex and quietly asked, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure,” Alex answered.

  John led Alex into his bedroom and closed the door. John rarely beat around the bush and this time was no different. “So you and Leila . . .”

  “The road is clear, my friend,” Alex said.

  “That’s what she said, but I wanted to hear it from you.” John smiled and walked out the door.

  “You’re welcome,” Alex said aloud in the empty room.

  Later, the Outcasts ate a late lunch and cleaned up. Next, Alex spread a map out on the floor, briefed them, and discussed the mission. After their discussion, they took the white van an hour and a half east to the Al Assi River, near the city of Hermel. There they checked out the river and its location. The Outcasts drove south of Hermel and examined the cold blue river near its source. The river was wide, deep, and fast enough to use rubber rafts.

  Cat drove farther south and passed posters of Hezbollah’s leader, Hassan Nasrallah, displayed on walls and in windows. Mounted to houses and shops, green and yellow Hezbollah flags flapped in the wind. There were posters of people Alex didn’t recognize. “Who are the pictures on the posters?” Alex asked.

  “Hezbollah martyrs,” Cat answered.

  The Outcasts continued to Baalbek to do some filming so if later someone became curious, they would have something to show for their visit. During the Roman period, part of the Roman Empire included the city of Baalbek, which was called Heliopolis. In 1984, the city’s ruins became a World
Heritage Site. Now it was home to thousands of Hezbollah supporters.

  Cat parked near the temple complex ruins. The Outcasts passed two Hezbollah militia in their green uniforms. The militiamen gabbed with each other while smoking cigarettes.

  A street vendor carrying his goods in bags on his shoulders approached the Outcasts waving his green and yellow flags. “You like Hezbollah flag, sir? Many people buy Hezbollah flag.”

  “I don’t think so,” Alex said in German and waved him off.

  “I don’t understand.” The vendor turned to Cat and Leila and pushed forward a green and yellow magnet. “You like Hezbollah refrigerator magnet?”

  Leila pushed it away and Cat said something in Arabic.

  The man frowned. Next he showed John a yellow T-shirt designed with green Arabic writing and a green AK-47 over a green globe. “One-size-fits-all Hezbollah T-shirt.”

  John ignored him.

  The vendor turned to Pancho and pulled out a baseball cap with a picture of two smiling men: Hezbollah’s leader, Hassan Nasrallah, and the previous Iranian president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. “Would you like Lebanese baseball hat?”

  Pancho smiled. “Would you like to besa mi juevos?”

  The vendor responded with a puzzled grin. Alex smiled. He’d heard the Spanish version of “kiss my nuts” more than once.

  John punched Pancho in the shoulder.

  The Outcasts passed the vendor and proceeded to the site of the temples and their ruins. At the entrance, a man collected admission. “How much?” Alex asked.

  “Twelve thousand Lebanese pounds each,” the man said in broken English.

  Alex started to pay the man, but Cat stopped Alex. “Don’t pay that,” she said. “Twelve thousand is too much.” She haggled with the man in Arabic until he agreed to two thousand Lebanese pounds each.

  Alex paid.

  Inside the site, John and Leila filmed the remains of the Temple of Jupiter, with its six seventy-five-foot-high Corinthian pillars standing atop twenty-seven enormous limestone blocks.

  Next they examined the Temple of Bacchus. Although the Temple of Jupiter was taller, much of the Temple of Bacchus remained intact, and Alex still felt like he was the size of an ant as they hiked up thirty stairs to the entrance of a hundred-foot-high building. Nineteen unfluted Corinthian columns supported an entablature carved with bulls and lions. Inside, nature reclaimed the floor—weeds poked up through uneven ground covered with broken columns and scattered rubble. On the ceiling were scenes of a god with a cornucopia, a god with a hammer, and one with arrows. The Outcasts passed smaller columns and hiked up another flight of stairs to the dark worship room.