Bride of a Bygone War (Beriut Trilogy 2)
Page 30
But no sooner did the thought enter his head than the queue advanced, leaving Lukash face-to-face at last with the passport control officer. The young Lebanese took Lukash’s blue tourist passport and leafed through it, looking first at his name, date, place of birth, and photo, and then at the pages containing entry and exit stamps. He stopped at the page containing the only Lebanese entry stamp, dated January 1975, and no corresponding exit stamp.
“You are William Conklin?” the officer asked.
“Yes,” Lukash replied.
“You come here first time in 1975?”
“That is correct,” Lukash replied.
“You stay here five years, no leaving?”
“Yes,” Lukash lied.
“You are brave man, I think, no? You stay here through all our Events—five years shooting and bombing! Very brave man,” the officer affirmed. “May Allah preserve and keep you, my friend. This is your home—you are Lebanese!” The officer returned his passport with a respectful nod and waved the next passenger forward.
Lukash heaved a sigh of relief as he recovered his passport and stepped through the turnstile into the security zone. The moment he reached the other side, however, he remembered Muna and wheeled around to wish her farewell. But it was too late. He could not even catch a glimpse of her slender figure retreating through the crowd.
* * *
Lukash dreaded boarding commercial passenger flights in the Middle East. Though all seats were assigned, the boarding of most any flight at a Middle Eastern airport turned into a brawl, with as much jostling and elbow-throwing as a rugby scrum. Since the first-class section of today’s flight to Rome had checked in full, Lukash was relegated to coach, despite having paid a first-class fare. But rather than jeopardize his seat by complaining, he had reluctantly agreed to apply for a refund for the extra fare upon arriving at his destination.
The seat assigned to Lukash was located in the smoking section at the rear of the plane. The news came to him as no surprise, as his was the last ticket sold, but all the same it put him into a foul mood for the trip. Even worse, it was a middle seat, and when Lukash arrived at his assigned row, he found that his fellow passengers had already stuffed their excess carry-on baggage into the space at his feet. After repeated requests, ignored at first on the pretext of a language barrier, the parcels were eventually withdrawn and Lukash was able to take his seat.
No sooner had he done so, however, than the Italian youth in the window seat to his right lit up a cigarette. Rather than remonstrate with him and risk escalating hostilities as the flight wore on, Lukash turned his face toward the corpulent grandmother on his left and timed his breathing so as not to inhale when the smoke floated past his face.
While the boarding continued, Lukash examined carefully each of the passengers who entered the rear of the plane, still wary of suspected Syrian or Phalange agents. But few travelers came close to fitting the suspect profile. After what seemed like an hour, the chief steward announced that the aircraft door was closed, and a few moments later the plane was backing away from the gate.
As the airliner taxied across the tarmac and down the runway in preparation for takeoff, Lukash felt the accumulated tension in his neck, back, and limbs relax by degrees, leaving only the residual pain of his injuries. The likelihood of any further intrusion or interruption, he calculated, was becoming more and more remote. As soon as the jet was airborne, Lukash would be able to close his eyes and keep the pain at bay until the first round of drinks was served.
But to Lukash’s alarm, the airplane soon braked to a halt. A minute passed without forward movement, then two, then five. A murmur rose among the passengers, but no announcement came over the loudspeaker. Toward the front of the plane, Lukash noticed an air hostess and a male steward enter the coach section through the curtain that separated first class from coach and made their way toward the rear, curtly deflecting all questions from impatient passengers along the way. To Lukash’s surprise, they stopped at his row and seemed to be checking his seat number against a list.
“Monsieur Conklin?” the steward asked with a serious mien. “May I ask you to please find your cabin luggage and come with us?”
“And may I ask you what this is all about?” Lukash responded uneasily. “Isn’t this something we could straighten out once we arrive in Rome?”
“If you would please come with us, monsieur,” the steward replied with an unctuous smile, “everything will be quite in order.”
“Listen, I paid a fortune for this seat,” Lukash protested. “Unless you can tell me what the fuss is about, I’m not inclined to give it up until we land in Rome.”
“But of course, monsieur,” the air hostess chimed in with a reassuring smile. “Indeed, our records show you have paid for a first-class ticket. Though we had no first-class seat for you at check-in, it is your good fortune that one passenger has failed to appear. So if you would please accompany us, we will escort you to your new seat in the first-class cabin.”
Lukash let out a self-conscious laugh. “Oh, I see,” he replied with a smile. “In that case, I’ll be right with you.”
He pulled his duffel out from under the seat before him and made his way to the aisle, attracting envious looks from everyone around him. “Thank God,” he muttered under his breath. “Now, if we’d only get moving...” And no sooner did he pass through the curtain into the first-class cabin than the airplane lurched forward again.
The air hostess led him to the second row on the right, where the aisle seat was vacant. Next to it, the window seat was occupied by a young woman with tousled hair whose face was pressed against the window, as if exploring the distant hills with intense concentration. He tossed his zippered duffel under the seat ahead and leaned back in the soft leather recliner. For the first time in days, he felt at ease. Soon the craft would be in the air and he would be safe for the first time since he had come here. Safe to walk the streets, safe to talk to strangers, safe to tell Headquarters the truth of what had happened to him, safe to start his life over—if he could only figure out how.
Lukash turned again toward his fellow passenger and realized that something about her looked oddly familiar. He took a deep breath and inhaled the woman’s fragrance. Then, leaning against her and speaking softly so that only she could hear, he spoke to her in a thick Saudi accent. “Miss, I like you too much. I offer you one thousand dollars to join me for champagne in my suite. Will you come for me?”
Lorraine Ellis turned around to face him. Upon seeing Lukash, her eyes lit up and her face broke into a mischievous smile. “Never mind the suite,” she purred. “Come sit closer.”
Noticing a hostess passing by with a bottle of Lanson champagne on a silver tray, Lorraine called out to her. “Kate, my dear, would you please pour Mr. Conklin a glass?”
The hostess poured two glasses and held them out on the tray. Lukash and Lorraine each took one, clinked to each other’s health, and drank.
“So how did you do it?” Lukash asked when each had taken a sip.
“Do what?”
“All this,” he replied, waving expansively with his free hand. “How did you arrange for us to be together, on this flight?”
“Oh, I didn’t. When I missed the flight to London, this was the only one available. They had no seat in standby, so I bought a seat in first at the employee discount. I had no idea you were on board until Kate told me you were the bloke being upgraded from coach.”
“Unbelievable,” Lukash replied, shaking his head.
“I should say so. As of this morning, I had quite given up on you,” she declared.
“Then let’s not blow our second chance. Will you spend the week with me in Rome, Lorraine? Really, I mean it.”
“A week and then…?” she asked cautiously.
“A week and then Washington. Come with me. I don’t know if I’ll have a job when I get there, but we’ll figure out something. What do you say? Shall we drink to it?”
Lorraine Ellis raised her
glass. “The French say a great love affair starts with champagne,” she answered, looking into Lukash’s eyes.
“As I recall, ours started that way some time ago,” he replied, returning her gaze.
“Then it’s only sensible to keep it going with another glass,” she proposed, catching Kate’s eye to refresh their drinks.
“Lorraine, at this moment, I couldn’t possibly agree more.”
Author’s Biographical Note
I wrote Dynamite Fishermen and Bride of a Bygone War to clear my head after eleven years of government service in places like Beirut, Cairo, Tunis, Jeddah, and Amman. I had already decided to write novels at age fourteen, during my first year as a boarding student at Exeter. My English instructor, a World War II combat veteran, advised those of us who wanted to follow the path of Melville, Conrad and Hemingway to first go out and live some adventures so that we would have stories that people might want to read. My adventures started in the Middle East and continued in Washington, Europe, the Russian Far East, Maui, Utah, New York and Boston. Particularly in the Middle East and Russia, I saw failed states and failed societies but was often surprised at how much their people had in common with Americans. This made me think about whether America might someday suffer its own sort of failure. During the 1930’s, Americans watched Germany, Italy and Russia and asked, “Could it happen here?” Today, one might look around and ask the same. In writing Forty Days at Kamas and Star Chamber Brotherhood, my greatest concern has been that the novels gain a readership before the events they describe come to pass.
A Final Word: When you turn the page, Kindle’s “Before You Go” feature will give you the opportunity to rate this book and share your rating and comments on Facebook and Twitter. If you enjoyed the book, please take a moment to let your friends know about it. Better yet, post a Reader Review on Amazon.com, Goodreads.com or LibraryThing.com. If the book gives others a few evenings of enjoyment, they’ll be grateful that you reached out to them. And so will I.
With best wishes, Preston Fleming
Questions for the Author?
Email me at preston@prestonfleming.com
Other Books by Preston Fleming
Dynamite Fishermen
Classic Espionage. “Civil disorder in 1980s Beirut. An extraordinary novel, each page as eruptive as the city providing the setting.” KIRKUS REVIEWS
http://www.prestonfleming.com/novel-dynamite-fishermen.html
Bride of a Bygone War
Realist Spy Thriller. “CIA agent in Beirut fears his past has caught up to him. An intelligent thriller teeming with vigor. KIRKUS REVIEWS
http://www.prestonfleming.com/novel-bride-of-a-bygone-war.html
Forty Days at Kamas
Dystopian Political Thriller. “Moves at a solid clip. An overtly political story that succeeds as entertainment.” PACIFIC BOOK REVIEW
http://www.prestonfleming.com/novel-forty-days-at-kamas.html
Star Chamber Brotherhood
Dystopian Assassination Thriller. "An engaging fast-paced thriller. Readers will spend pleasant hours rooting for a team of assassins." BOOKPLEASURES.COM
http://www.prestonfleming.com/novel-star-chamber-brotherhood.html
Table of Contents
Copyright
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part II
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Author's Biographical Note
Other Books by Preston Fleming