Bride of a Bygone War (Beriut Trilogy 2)

by Fleming, Preston

  The clack of heels on the marble floor announced the approach of the Filipino steward and his wife. Each carried two large shopping bags, and from one of them protruded the baking sheets they had used to heat canapés.

  “Good night, Fernando. Good night, Felisa. I left an envelope for you on the table by the door. Will I see you again next Friday? I’m expecting sixteen for a buffet dinner, plus or minus one or two.”

  “Friday at two, Missy,” the steward replied. “We do marketing first, then come here. Cook for twenty.”

  “Excellent. Now, have a good weekend, both of you.”

  From somewhere behind him, Prosser heard the snap of a deadbolt being opened and a door slamming shut. “Are they finished cleaning up already?” he asked with surprise. “I was rather expecting to roll up my sleeves and pitch in with the dishes. Lorraine said the two of you expected to be in the kitchen for hours after the guests had gone.”

  “Lorraine said that? I can’t imagine why. She left with the first wave right after coffee so that she could pack her things tonight. Tomorrow she’s checking out of the hotel and staying with me for a few days until she’s able to move back in with Walter.”

  Prosser considered the full meaning of this before continuing. “When did you meet Lorraine? Back when you were posted to Jeddah?”

  “Yes, three or four years ago she volunteered to help with a charity fashion show the embassy women were organizing. She was quite a lot of fun, and seemed to have plenty of time on her hands, so I invited her to play some mixed-doubles tennis and come swim in the embassy pool from time to time. When I was transferred to Rabat, it didn’t seem likely I would ever see her again. So when she wrote me from Amman to say that her beau was being sent to the American embassy in Beirut for two months of temporary duty, you could have knocked me over with a feather.”

  “Did the letter mention who her beau was?”

  “No, but it didn’t take very long to figure out. As soon as she found out he was coming to Beirut, she flew straight to London and arranged a job with MEA so that she could be with him. When it comes to Walter, Lorraine is hopelessly lost.”

  “How did she take it when she found out that his assignment was extended to a full two-year tour?”

  “This morning she seemed rather upset. Of course, that may all change again by tomorrow.”

  When Muriel saw the confused look on his face, her cheeks reddened. “Oh, I thought you knew…the ambassador is considering sending Walter back to Washington early after all. I believe he told Mr. Pirelli this afternoon. I just assumed you knew, since apparently you’re the one who carries messages back and forth to Walter.”

  “I was away all afternoon.”

  “You won’t let anyone know I told you, will you?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Muriel,” he answered easily, touching her hand where it played idly with the hem of her dress just above the knee. “You don’t plan on sharing the news with Lorraine just yet, do you?”

  “Absolutely not,” she insisted, taking his hand between hers and stroking it softly. “It’s confidential, and, besides, I think she’d be far better off if she stopped being so patient with him.” Now she shifted his hand to a place farther up her thigh.

  He felt the firmness of her flesh and sensed something stirring where he sat as well. “What makes you think the ambassador would let him go so soon?” Prosser asked, doing his best to ignore momentarily the sensations she was arousing in him. “He’s scarcely been here forty-eight hours. What could he possibly have done wrong?”

  “I doubt if it’s anything he’s done. The ambassador’s primary concern is not to provoke the Syrians. If they find out that we’ve been aiding the Phalangists, they may do something to the embassy in retaliation. Look at what happened in Tehran when we helped the shah.”

  “Well, if that’s what is bothering him, then I don’t imagine he’ll want anything to do with the proposition I sent up to him this afternoon,” he said, more to himself than to Muriel. “So much for that day’s work.”

  “Oh, you mean the Syrian dissident fellow? The ambassador spoke with Mr. Pirelli about him this afternoon. He was very worried that the Phalangists and the Israelis are looking for some means of dragging the United States into Lebanon to settle their old scores. He was really quite adamant about it: ‘No American is to have any contact whatsoever with the Syrian Free Officers,’ or whatever they call themselves.”

  “We’ll never know what they can offer us unless we feel them out.”

  Muriel looked across at the bulge in his trousers and giggled. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. What are you thinking?”

  “You’ll never know unless...”

  Prosser freed his hand from hers and drew his palm along the side of her thigh and over the curve of her hip to her waist. She closed her eyes, leaned against the back of the sofa, and smiled contentedly. His right hand reached behind her back.

  “You’ve had something in mind all along, haven’t you, Muriel?”

  “Maybe,” she teased him. “If you’re in the mood.”

  He leaned toward her and she fell backward. She was underneath him now, arching her back and wrapping her legs around his hips. Her fingers deftly unfastened the buttons of his shirt, then she went to work on his belt and drew off his trousers. No sooner had she finished doing so than she raised herself from the sofa, grasped the waistband of her pantyhose with both hands, and pulled them to the floor with one uninterrupted motion.

  Prosser knelt in front of her, took hold of the hem of her dress, and gradually rose to lift it inch by inch up her hips, above her waist, and then over her head. In an instant she released her brassiere and let it fall to the floor. Prosser now held the full length of her soft fullness against him and felt the desire in him grow as she pressed her mouth against his.

  “Slowly,” she whispered in his ear as she lowered herself to the floor, welcoming and warm, with Prosser close upon her.

  Chapter 9

  “So, Elie, what is your opinion of our new American?” the Phalangist intelligence chief asked his deputy when the tea boy left the office.

  “A sympathetic fellow, and intelligent as well. But he has big eyes, one might say, and they take everything in at once.” Major Elie sat uncomfortably in an armless metal chair opposite the director’s desk.

  “That is to be expected. He was sent to spy on us, was he not? The question is, will he help us?”

  “It is too early to know,” Elie replied. “He states few opinions, and none about our politics.”

  “They said he studied Arabic in Beirut before the Events. If so, he must have a reasonable understanding of our situation—enough to hold an opinion.”

  “According to Monsieur Pirelli, he rented a furnished apartment in a Christian neighborhood in those days, but whether it had any influence upon his political views remains to be seen.”

  “You have taken him to dinner and the show at the casino? What did he say after you poured the wine and the brandy?”

  “He behaves with caution, as one would expect from a man in his situation.”

  “And was he as cautious with the women?”

  Elie shook his head. “We were alone. Muna and a woman who works with her were to join us Saturday at Farayya for skiing, but the American called to say he was ill. I sensed that perhaps he was lying, but...”

  “Are you still pursuing the daughter of the Chamounist Khalifé?”

  “Muna belongs to no political party. As for her father, he was a friend of my father even before I was born. He is no longer a young man fit to bear arms against the party.”

  “No, but you are, and you fought alongside him. Tell me, what am I supposed to conclude from that and from your continued ties to Chamounists like Khalifé?”

  “You know my record. I renounced any loyalty to the NLP years ago when I joined the Phalange.”

  “Yes, I know all that. Still, I shall give you a sound piece of
advice: stay away from Khalifé and the rest of the Chamounists—far away. Ask me no more about it; just heed what I say. Now, one more thing: I want you to contact the young Syrian who came to see us last Wednesday. You know the one. Tell him we will have the equipment he wants by the end of the week…all of it.”

  “Including the radios from the Americans?” Major Elie asked incredulously.

  “Everything,” the director replied. “Arrange another meeting with him as quickly as possible, and tell him that delivery will be made in the mountains, near Zahlé, one night very soon. You yourself will be delivering it, Major. You and your new American friend.”

  * * *

  The sign was written in three languages: Hagop Hagopian & Fils, with the same in Arabic and in an odd indecipherable script that Lukash recognized as Armenian. The shop was in Burj Hammoud, one block south of the rue du Fleuve, and sold all manner of electrical household appliances, from Italian-made refrigerators and washing machines to Japanese coffee grinders and juice extractors. Lukash held up a Braun portable mixer as if to inspect it, then he looked out the window at the pushcart vendors lined up along the curb. A single line of traffic moved slowly along the one-way street.

  “German? English?” came a voice from behind him.

  An insistent young man of about twenty whose coal black hair hung in ringlets over his forehead blocked his exit.

  “American,” Lukash answered automatically. The word came out of his mouth before he could stop it. Now it would take that much longer to escape the store. He wondered how long Prosser would be willing to wait for him if he was late.

  “You like this mixer, American? I make special price, just for you. One hundred seventy lira. Special just for you.”

  “No, thanks,” Lukash replied with a shake of the head. “I don’t cook.”

  “For your wife,” the youth countered. “I make you very special price: one hundred fifty lira. Best price in Burj Hammoud.”

  “I’m not married,” Lukash snapped. “Perhaps another time.”

  “Another time maybe mixer not here. I give you mixer for one hundred Lebanese lira. Last word. Khalas.”

  Lukash handed the mixer back to the young Armenian, quickly sidestepped him, and then slipped out the front door. He turned right, facing the one-way traffic, and peered intently through the windshield of each automobile for the face of Conrad Prosser. He had covered two blocks and had nearly reached Ecole Mesrobian, the Armenian grammar school, when he spotted Prosser’s silver Renault in the distance. As soon as it came within reach, Lukash stepped off the curb and took his place in the car’s passenger seat.

  “I was beginning to think I’d missed you,” Lukash began. “Traffic hold you up?”

  “Traffic, hell. I’ve been around the block twice already waiting for you. And don’t think these people don’t notice a palefaced stranger in their neighborhood. What time do you set that watch of yours by, anyway?”

  “Radio Moscow. Doesn’t everybody?” Lukash gave his wristwatch a rapid shake and then gaped at it as if it had stopped. “Listen, Con, I spent half an hour trying to find a parking spot in this rat’s nest. If we’re going to be meeting like this once a week, we’ve got to find some meeting places that are a bit more convenient.”

  “We can have convenience if you want it,” Prosser replied icily, “but I thought you’d be more concerned about security. Since Armenians tend to keep their distance from the Phalange, I thought you’d find the Armenian Quarter a good place for picking out Phalangist surveillance.”

  “I don’t think I have to worry about surveillance quite yet. I just arrived, for heaven’s sake. This isn’t exactly Moscow or East Berlin.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Some people around here move faster than you’d think. The night after you arrived, for instance, Lorraine Ellis had me up against the wall, pumping me about where to find you. She said you told her all about your new assignment here. I had no way of judging whether she was bullshitting me or not.”

  “Lorraine told me about your giving her my phone number. It’s cool by me,” Lukash answered wearily.

  “I know I shouldn’t have done it,” Prosser conceded, “but I thought it might be better if you two worked things out between yourselves before Ed comes and wades into the middle.”

  “Oh, God, don’t tell me Ed knows she’s here.”

  Prosser winced. “They ran into each other at Muriel Benson’s dinner party last night. Ed had already downed a few drinks, so her name may not have fully registered, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Well, I suppose it was just a matter of time. Now that she’s here, it’s just as well that she found me. I told her before I left Amman that I wouldn’t be able to see her for at least two months—I thought that would buy me some time, and that we could meet up afterward in the States. It never occurred to me that she could turn up so damned fast.”

  “Walt, it’s really none of my business,” Prosser went on. “But Lorraine said you two were living together in Amman. In fact, she made it sound as if you were taking her back to the States to get married. Is that really—?”

  “For a while it was. Before they sent me here, at least. But things have a way of changing in this business.”

  Prosser was aghast. The chances of Lukash keeping his security clearance, and thus his job, if he married Lorraine Ellis were next to zero. Even cohabiting with a foreign national was sufficiently against the rules to draw an official reprimand, and Lorraine was not just any random foreigner. Her former marriage to a notorious Islamic extremist had made her persona non grata with Headquarters and virtually every other Western intelligence service.

  “Last-minute assignment changes are something you come to expect from Headquarters. But luring you to Beirut for a two-month TDY assignment and then telling you the day you arrive that it’s been converted into a full tour of duty is pretty rotten, even for them,” Prosser added sympathetically. “What do you intend to do, Walt? Knuckle under or find a way out?”

  “I don’t know,” Lukash replied with a shrug. “Right now I can’t think of any way out.”

  “What about Lorraine? I mean, you haven’t proposed to her, have you?”

  “Of course not,” Lukash retorted. “Lorraine’s a foreign national; I’d have to get it cleared first. And there’s no goddamned way Headquarters is going to clear Lorraine, at least not while I’m posted out here. For Christ’s sake, for six years she was married to a guy who plotted to kill the king of Saudi Arabia.”

  Prosser was relieved to hear that Lukash at least seemed sensible about the predicament he was in. “So then what’s the point of taking her to the States at all? What would it accomplish?”

  “Once she’s within the FBI’s reach, the security types at Headquarters may feel more at ease that she can’t do any mischief without being caught at it,” Lukash explained. “And once people in the division get to meet her under more relaxed circumstances in Washington, they may stop thinking of her as the ex-wife of an Islamic radical. There’s no guarantee, of course, but I hear the clearance process for foreign marriages is getting more lenient these days. In time we may be able to turn things around.”

  “Wouldn’t you still be required to submit your resignation along with the clearance request?”

  Lukash nodded. “That’s still the rule, which is why I’m in no hurry to propose. Once we’re back in the States, I expect I’ll be able to get an idea of whether it will fly or not. If it looks hopeless, we may have to wait a bit longer.”

  “Does Lorraine know anything about the clearance process?”

  “She knows that all prospective Agency spouses have to get a security clearance. What she doesn’t know is that if they were to turn her down I’d be out of a job. I didn’t want to lay a guilt trip on her.”

  “Some outfit we’re in, eh?” Prosser observed drily.

  Lukash grinned with unexpected cheerfulness. “It has its drawbacks, sure, but can you honestly think of anything else in the world you’d ra
ther do for a living?”

  The Renault entered the traffic circle and dodged the swarms of Polish Fiats, Suzuki three-wheel delivery wagons, and white Mercedes taxis that seemed to be constantly accelerating in order to pass the cars in the outside lanes and escape the circle.

  “Okay, we don’t have a lot of business to cover together this morning, so I’ll try to keep it short,” Prosser said. “As Ed told you before, he wants you to concentrate on getting the Phalange to be comfortable with you. Meet as many of them as you can, and try to spend social time with them in the evenings and on weekends to find out which of them might be recruitment prospects down the road. Don’t worry about picking up reportable intelligence in the first few weeks. Once they get to know you and trust you, the reports ought to be there for the taking.

  “There is one thing Ed wanted to alert you to, though. Yesterday we had a walk-in who claimed to represent a dissident faction within the Syrian military. He says the faction calls itself the Syrian Free Officers’ Movement and it wants help from the U.S. to overthrow the al-Asad regime—radios and medical supplies, in particular. I talked to the fellow myself; he claimed to be a first lieutenant in the Syrian air force and seemed quite clever. Too clever, maybe. I’m not sure.

  “Anyway,” Prosser continued, “Ed suspects he’s a fabricator, and the ambassador is scared witless that he’s a provocation sent by Damascus to find out whether we’re aiding the Syrian opposition so that they’ll have an excuse to shell the embassy to smithereens. At any rate, Ed and the ambassador have decided to turn the guy down, and they want you to let us know if he turns up on the Phalange’s doorstep. If he does, find out as much as you can about the group and what the Phalange plans to do with them. Just in case he might be a ringer from Syrian intelligence, though, don’t attend any meetings with him. Or if you do, don’t say anything that will give him the idea that you’re an American. We don’t want to risk tipping off the Syrians that we’ve got an American working full-time at Phalange headquarters. At any rate, as soon as you hear that these Syrian Free Officers are in contact with the Phalange, give me a buzz and I’ll get a list of requirements out to you.