by Colin Smith
The tea arrived, brought in by a youth who carried it on a little grey aluminium tray which he held by a short chain. To Fitchett's horror it was served in glasses and without milk.
'Any milk?' he enquired.
'Milk?' The Lebanese looked puzzled.
'For the tea.'
'Ah, le anglais!' The Lebanese said something to the youth, who had been waiting for payment. When he had gone he placed a large, uneven lump of sugar in his mouth and proceeded to dissolve it with sips of tea.
'Why did he beat up the girl?' he asked when his mouth was free.
Fitchett told him. In the course of his explanation the youth returned bearing a whole glass of milk, most of which Fitchett managed to pour over the carpet.
'No matter,' said his host sadly.
'No wonder this place is such a shit-hole,' thought the Special Branchman. 'They can't even make tea.'
'But surely there is no problem,' said the Lebanese when Fitchett had finished with the milk. 'If this unfortunate man has been seeking Koller among the Palestinians here then he is almost certainly dead. That is your explanation. They killed him and then came back to examine his papers.'
'If that's the case,' said Fitchett, 'we'd like to find his body.'
'Why? There are so many bodies here.'
'Well, there's a lot of interest in this case in London and now the press are sniffing around, although so far they've got it wrong - they think he's a spy.'
'Naturally, he isn't?'
'I think we could do a bit better than that,' said Fitchett stiffly, although privately he had his doubts.
'Forgive me - it's the national paranoia.'
'Anyway, we'd like to clear it up one way or the other. If the papers find out who he really is they'll make a hero out of him.'
'You don't approve of what he tried to do?' As far as the Lebanese was concerned Dove was undoubtedly in the past tense.
'We're policemen. We don't have a point of view. It isn't allowed.'
'Of course.'
There was an awkward silence. 'Let's say I have some sympathy for the bloody fool,' said Fitchett.
The Lebanese smiled one of his sad smiles. 'Monsieur,' he said. 'You realise the situation here. This isn't your Scotland Yard. Oh, don't misunderstand me. Once, before the events, we were quite good and criminals got arrested. Now it's different. Perhaps the civil war is over, officially they say it's over at least, but nobody could pretend that things are back to normal.'
As if to emphasize his point the Syrians chose that moment to lob another rocket salvo into East Beirut and the explosions floated in above the traffic noise outside. The Lebanese didn't appear to hear them. 'Sometimes one of my policemen might hand out a traffic ticket,' he continued. 'But only if the unfortunate motorist doesn't have enough money to bribe him. Occasionally, we may even arrest someone for a crime - providing he is poor and inoffensive, which means that he is not connected in any way with any of the militias, whether Christian, Leftist or Palestinian. In the meantime, people like myself send our families abroad, come into the office, pretend to work, and pray for better days.'
Fitchett sat back and fished in his pockets for another cigarette, uncomfortable with such honesty from a stranger. 'But even if you can't do anything about it you might be able to find out what happened to him?'
'It's possible. We still have our informers – if the price is right.' This was more like it, thought Fitchett; he was expecting this.
The Funny at the embassy had even rehearsed him for it. 'And don't ask for a receipt,' he had concluded. Patronizing bastard. 'Of course, there'll be expenses,' said Fitchett. 'And we realise that there's no reason why the Lebanese police should pay for them. What we thought we might do is make an ex-gratia payment of say, five hundred pounds sterling to cover payment to the informers, etcetera. It's a very unofficial payment.'
'Well,' said the Lebanese, shrugging and turning both palms upwards, 'it would help. There is no doubt it would help.'
'Good,' said Fitchett. He pulled out a bulging wallet and began to count out fifty twenty-pound notes. There had been a lot of aggravation back at the Yard about taking the money in cash rather than travellers' cheques. Accounts kept twittering on about Bank of England regulations. In the end, the man at the top had had to take responsibility, and they had given Fitchett a thousand pounds. He was wondering whether he should help himself to a drink out of the rest. It was tempting.
'I'll get you a receipt,' said the Lebanese. It was almost as if he was reading his thoughts. 'It's not necessary.'
'I insist. If you're one of the last honest policemen left in Beirut then you must have proof,' he laughed.
He called for a secretary and the receipt was prepared on paper letter-headed in Arabic and French. The document was completed with a large rubber stamp under his signature. Fitchett folded it carefully into his inside pocket and thought - just my luck. But he was relieved that the temptation was over.
'How long will you be in the Lebanon, Inspector?'
'I was hoping no more than a week.'
'Give me two or three days. Perhaps I will have something for you.'
'Extraordinary - an honest copper,' the Funny said when he heard the story about the receipt. Fitchett didn't like that. His tone implied that all coppers, from Lithuanians to Lebanese and not excluding Scotland Yard, were bent.
'It's been known,' said Fitchett. 'Cheers.'
The Funny raised his whisky glass to his lips in silence. 'Damn,' thought Fitchett, 'Funnies don't say Cheers. Too pleb.' Then his embarrassment annoyed him. 'Bottoms up,' he added aggressively, and drained his glass.
He wondered when his dislike of Funnies began. Partly the Philby affair he supposed- a bunch of Oxbridge pansies shielding one of their own. But there was something else. Something Fitchett found even more difficult to stomach. They were above the law, licensed criminals accountable only to remote tribal chiefs who made their own rules. Even blackmail and murder could be sanctified.
This particular product of Century House was under embassy cover, a Second Secretary whose official duties included being the mission's press officer. He annoyed Fitchett by punctuating his conversation with a silly, humourless grin which lit up an otherwise immobile face like a candle in a Hallowe'en turnip. He was also infuriatingly relaxed. While Fitchett sat on the edge of his chair, dapper but proper in a lightweight suit and tie, the Funny, wearing jeans and a striped shirt, lounged on a huge suede pouffe against the wall. He reminded Fitchett of a sneering con-man he had once arrested for flogging dud real estate to old ladies. His prejudice was confirmed by the fact that, despite the gathering dusk, his host wore canvas yachting-shoes without socks.
They were sitting in the Funny's flat near the American University. On the walls were photographs of College sports teams. Fitchett noted that the dates on them made the Funny slightly older than he had thought. They took their drinks to the balcony and watched, through the conifers below, the night swallowing up the Mediterranean. Syrian shelling had started something burning near the port.
'It's terrorism, you know,' said the Funny quietly.
'What is?'
'Shelling civilians. They won't go after the gunmen. They're too well dug in and the Israelis have given them some good antitank stuff. It's as if the British Army blasted the Falls Road every time they're sniped at. It's always the civilians who cop it. They want to turn them against the militias.'
'Hmm,' said Fitchett. Sometimes he could see little wrong with shelling the Falls Road.
'I know one or two people,' the Funny said, suddenly business-like. 'I'll make some enquiries myself. But your policeman friend is probably right - he's almost certainly dead.'
'Poor bugger.'
'Yes, it would have been interesting to see how the amateur fared against the player. "A hero perish, or a sparrow fall".'
'What?'
'Pope. Alexander Pope. Not that Koller's much of a sparrow. More like a hawk.'
'Yes,' said Fitchett,
thoroughly irritated.
At the door the Funny said: 'I'll try and keep the press off your back.'
Neither of them had broken the official fiction that he was the press officer.
It was three days before the Lebanese detective called Fitchett, at the three-quarters-empty hotel he had chosen because the Beirut press corps seemed unaware of its existence. He sounded excited. Fitchett wanted to see him right away, but he said it was 'difficult'. They agreed to meet for dinner and the Lebanese named a French restaurant. 'I think it is the best one,' he said. 'It was robbed last night so it probably won't be robbed again tonight.'
When they had placed their orders and the wine had arrived, the Lebanese policeman said: 'The first thing I have to tell you is that he is alive.'
He looked at Fitchett, expecting some reaction, but the Yardman was too old a hand for that. Disappointed, he went on, slapping down his ace long before he meant to. 'He's more than alive. He's free-and training with the Front.'
At first Fitchett's only reaction was to search his pockets for cigarettes and flame-thrower. When he had taken a deep drag he said: 'I suppose you're going to tell me that they've turned him that he's England's answer to Patty Heart.'
The Lebanese looked hurt and assured him it was the truth. 'My God. Why?'
'I don't know. If I knew I would be a clever man. It's the craziest thing I've ever heard.'
'Where is he?'
'Somewhere in the south. If I had to guess I would say probably around Beaufort Castle.'
'Can we get to him?'
'No, not there. It's fedayeen territory. Our only chance is if he tries to leave the country through the airport. We still have some control there - an army unit which is supposed to be loyal.'
'I see. What sort of training are they giving him? Do you know?'
'The way I understand it they are teaching him to shoot. I'm hoping to find out more.'
But it was the Funny who came up with the rest of the story. 'It's quite sexy stuff,' he said. Fitchett winced. They were standing on the Funny's balcony again, sipping watery whiskies. The night smelled of blossom and there was hardly any shelling.
'The Front have cried pax. They want to make it up with the other lot. Claim that they were infiltrated - that Koller wasn't obeying their orders when he started exploding things in London. But the Realists want their pound of flesh - Koller. He's to be the sacrificial lamb and Dove the executioner.'
'Why don't they kill him themselves?'
'Bad for the morale of the rank and file. He's not the only Kraut working for them. There are other foreigners as well. This deal is strictly between the sheikhs. Much better if some crazy Englishman does the dirty work.'
'But surely there's a danger that Dove might talk one day. Tell somebody that Koller's own organisation betrayed him, led him to the man who murdered his wife?'
'Not at the moment. Don't you see? That's the beauty of it. Dove thinks he's being run by the Realists - by your publishing friend from London. Abu Kamal is keeping his head down. I wouldn't like to be his insurance man afterwards, though. I don't think he'll be allowed to just toddle off back to his classroom.'
'What do you mean?'
'I think they'll kill him - just in case he ever learns the truth. Much too embarrassing.' He sounded pleased with himself.
What a devious little bastard you are, thought Fitchett. 'What about the infiltration story?' he asked. 'Any truth?'
'Could be the Israelis. I believe they're quite good at finding out who the cut-outs are and moving in. Anyway, they're the obvious choice. A few years ago the Agency might have done it - not now. All the gung-ho boys are busy having nervous breakdowns. Somebody might decide it's unethical and tell the Washington Post or publish their diary.'
'Hmm,' said Fitchett, 'what a well-informed press officer you are.'
The Funny hardly faltered. 'How are the press treating you by the way? Leaving you alone I hope?'
'We haven't been formally introduced,' said Fitchett.
'Good.'
'Yet,' thought the policeman.
At the end of the week Fitchett had another meeting with the Lebanese detective. The Branch man was waiting for him in a cafe in Hamra Street, where he was trying hard not to double up and groan like a wrestler at the periodic colic pains he was suffering, a sensation he imagined distinctly similar to being bayonetted in the guts with a rusty corkscrew. He blamed this state of affairs on the Turkish coffee he had substituted for tea. Even now he was trying to take his mind off the battle raging in his lower colon by watching a fly fandango, one wing fanning madly for balance, around the rim of yet en other little cup of the addictive sweet black stuff.
When the Lebanese policeman arrived he looked sad. 'He's gone,' he said.
'You told me you controlled the airport.'
'We do. He went by boat from Sidon to Cyprus. I hear they are expecting Koller to go there. He's in Athens at the moment.'
'I see,' said Fitchett through pursed lips. The lull in the intestinal hostilities was over. Cold steel again.
That night, business in the Admiral bar was slack. While Fitchett packed his bags in the hotel he had originally patronized to avoid the press, the staff correspondents of most of the British dailies in Beirut were trying to concentrate their minds on Stephen Dove.
Despite the different by-lines all the stories were remarkably similar in that none of the reporters seemed aware of the schoolteacher's liaison with a Palestinian organisation and, as promised, none mentioned Fitchett by name. But they all wrote that a vengeful, grief-crazed schoolmaster, whom Scotland Yard were anxious to interview about the assault on the cabinet minister's daughter, was running around the Middle East looking for Koller. That he had disappeared from his hotel and there were fears for his safety.
Since their foreign editors, even on the unpopular newspapers, had become bored with tales of Arab fratricide, they welcomed the story as good 'human interest' and gave it space.
One of them, as Fitchett had hoped, despatched a man to Emma's parents who persuaded them to part with a wedding photograph of Dove. 'These creeps who don't want the rope back forget about the families of the victims,' the reporter said piously - it was not until he left that they remembered he represented a newspaper long opposed to capital punishment.
Beirut's one English language daily carried a news agency report on Dove the following day. The overseas editions of British newspapers arrived twenty-four hours later. Fitchett hoped that when Dove saw them he would realise he had lost his only advantage – surprise - and give up.
10. Just Fade Away
During his first week there, three important things happened to Fouche-Larimand in the clinic in Athens. The first was that he was told by his friend the surgeon that this time there was nothing he could do and it was unlikely that he had more than a few, painful months to live. In the meantime, because of the fuss in Paris over the death of this waiter fellow, he was welcome to remain at the clinic and the surgeon quite willing to fend off unwelcome callers, whatever their credentials.
Since Fouche-Larimand essentially saw himself as a character out of a Dumas novel his romanticism scored its usual victory over harsh reality and at first he took the prognosis with great equanimity. All he said was that he thought it a little unfair that a man who had had as many bullets in him as himself should die in bed.
This first news induced a certain rational perspective that enabled him to treat the second event, which ordinarily he might have regarded as a disaster, in a positive light. An enterprising young French reporter working for a news magazine conned his way into the clinic in Kolanaki by the simple ruse of buying a stethoscope and a white coat, whereupon he assumed a mien of such a daunting mixture of determination and concern that none of the staff dared challenge him.
When he entered Fouche-Larimand's room and, without preliminaries, produced a motor-drive Olympus from beneath his overall and began snapping away, the patient's first reaction was to have him thrown out. He
even reached for the swordstick next to his bed with the intention of doing it himself if at all possible. Then, quite suddenly, he changed his mind. He ordered the journalist to stop taking his damn pictures, to sit down, and to listen.
For it had occurred to Fouche-Larimand that this was his opportunity to make a statement, leave behind a political testament.
For the next three hours he went through thirty years of recent French history from the Third Republic to the death of de Gaulle as seen through the eyes of an anglophobic, anti-semitic, minor and impoverished member of the aristocracy who was not ashamed to have fought in the uniform of his country's old enemy.
Fouche-Larimand's hatred of the English, it seemed, started with the British attack, after the surrender in 1940, on the unsuspecting French fleet at Mers-el-Kebir. A cousin of his died when the Bretagne was blown out of the water: 'twelve hundred Frenchmen murdered by those pigs.' From there he went on to explain his own concept of the Occupation - 'a civil war between Vichy and the communists in the so-called Resistance' - and his activities in the counter-espionage section of the Milice. He went into some detail about his almost permanent loan to the Gestapo in Paris - 'not the ogres they're painted to be' - and the network he ran there, in which the wretched Le Poidevin was a very small cog. Later, shortly before the Allied landing in Normandy, he had tired of these activities and wanted to go back to some real soldiering (he had been a newlycommissioned lieutenant in an armoured regiment when the war started). Since the Vichy government had recently given permission for Frenchmen to enlist in the Waffen SS he decided to participate in the international struggle against Bolshevism on the Eastern front. After training he arrived at the front just in time to take part in the last eight months of slaughter. 'There were seven thousand Frenchmen in the Charlemagne Division. Two hundred of us returned.'
Afterwards, there was the Legion, in which he enlisted under the name of a Danish comrade from the Viking Division whose papers came his way when he expired in the cot next to FoucheLarimand in a field hospital somewhere in East Prussia. He retained his nom de guerre until, emboldened by a decoration awarded for an action near Diem Bien Phu, relatives at home made discreet enquiries and discovered he was not wanted for any war crimes. He served in Algeria - 'another stab in the back for France from the same man' - and then the OAS, in which he enormously exaggerated the role he played; this was followed by another amnesty.