After I hang up with Capuana, I sit for another fifteen minutes waiting for a call from JD, who is back in Maine. Nothing like the sound of a lonely pay phone ringing in the night. More than anything else, this moment in time, this picture—as I sit in the Cadillac Eldorado listening to Willie Nelson sing “You Were Always on My Mind” on the radio, thinking of my wife and how I miss her, waiting for the pay phone to ring—this picture from my outlaw life strikes me as iconic. Inter me in a phone booth with a bag of quarters, and I will make my calls from the other side.
“It’s fuckin’ hot up here, boss,” JD tells me. “And I don’t mean the weather.” He says cops and guys who are unmistakably federal dope agents have the farm, the airstrip, and the lodge under surveillance. The plane, the crashed DC-6, however, has disappeared. JD says he heard from the locals that some scrap metal dealers from Lewiston took it apart and carted it off in a tractor trailer. Good riddance. So much for Yogi’s disco. I tell him to wait until things cool down and then go ahead and move the weight we have stashed from Chagra’s freighter trip, as it appears that is the only way we’ll get paid for the off-load. As for the spoiled tonnage, no clue what to do with that. JD gives me a number for Val.
“Call her. She’s flipping out.”
“How are you?” I ask when she answers.
“I’m okay,” she says.
But I don’t like the way she sounds: distant, groggy, evasive when I ask her whom she’s with.
“Nobody. Just me. You need to call Maria. She’s stressed,” Val tells me and gives me the number of a restaurant in Miami. “She’s there right now.”
“Everything all right?”
“No… you?”
“Things are a little intense right now.”
“Hello… what do you expect? This is fucked, Richard. Fred can hurt a lot of people.”
“I know.”
“When am I going to see you?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you have to—Oh, never mind.”
I hear her crying quietly. “I have a couple more things to finish up, then I’m going home,” she says, muffling her sobs. And she hangs up.
Maria, when I reach her, is no less concerned. “Are you certain, Ricardo?”
“Yes.”
“This is bad… very bad. He knows my brother. And my uncle. They will not be happy.”
I decide it would do no good to remind Maria that I warned her against giving Fred cocaine. That would be like reminding myself not to do business with people who are in the coke trade. The fallout is hitting everyone.
Then there are the crates in the garage: M-16s, Mac-10s, enough ammunition to supply a small army, all destined for Houston, where they will be shipped to Lebanon. The Captain appears at the ranch and tells me not to worry, so long as he is in the area and the weapons are in the garage, no agents of the law will trouble us.
“How can you be so sure?” I ask.
In a hushed conversation out by the pool, the Captain tells me this weapons venture is “authorized,” whatever that means. He has arranged the shipment at the direction of his superiors. He is, he says, “untouchable.”
He’s a wiry, short guy, the Captain, a registered pharmacist, speaks several languages. He’s a pilot and martial arts expert, Lebanese by birth. His father is Abu Ali, boss of the Bekaa Valley hashish growers. It was Abu Ali and Mohammed who arranged for me to meet the Captain a couple of years ago. He’s stationed at Fort Hood, still on active duty, though he always dresses in civilian clothes and his military function seems to be confined to dealing weapons. He once told me that he was on Operation Eagle Claw, the failed attempt to rescue American hostages in Teheran. He claimed they deliberately sabotaged the effort to disgrace Jimmy Carter and assure the election of Ronald Regan. There is a certain authority to everything the Captain says.
“I told you,” the Captain says and heaves a deep sigh. “You should have let me get rid of that drug addict Fred when we had him out on the road. Now… it’s not so simple.”
Only one thing will soothe my frazzled nerves. I make a run into Austin to say good-bye to the women at the florist shop. Nifirg, the black girl who does the flower arrangements, and I have dinner, then she spends the night with me in a hotel. When I ask about her name, she says it is Grifin spelled backwards. “My father wanted a boy.”
“Tell him I’m glad he had a girl.”
“How long will you be away?” she asks after we make love.
“I don’t know… could be a while.”
“That’s no fun. I’m gonna miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.”
Yes, it’s this outlaw life. Always on the run. Never in one place long enough to really get to know someone. And she’s fine, Nifirg. She likes to wrestle, likes to close her legs together in the missionary position. She likes to get up on her knees and stick her hard, round ass in my face. I love the smell of her body. She’s a cyclist and a gymnast. Got six-pack abs and thighs that could break my ribs in a scissors hold. She loves it when I rub her feet. In the morning, as we sit having breakfast, Nifirg says, “You’re a criminal, aren’t you?”
“You could say that.”
When I return to the ranch, Sherry, the ranch foreman’s wife, is weirded out by the Captain. He has moved into the guest room with his pet giant python. He (the Captain, not the snake) sleeps on the floor, under his bed. None of that would bother Sherry. But the Captain invited a few of his military friends from Fort Hood over for a barbecue. He took one of the M-16s from the crates in the garage and shot a Brahman cow. Then he cut her open and ate her still quivering heart.
7
FLOWER OF BEKAA
THE MIDDLE EAST Airlines flight from Paris to Abu Dhabi makes a scheduled stop in Beirut. Once the plane taxis to the terminal, I glance out the window and see an official-looking Mercedes sedan idling on the tarmac. Little red, white, and green Cedars of Lebanon flags flutter from the front fenders. The flight attendant makes an announcement in Arabic, French, and English: “Please remain seated.”
No one moves. The Mercedes approaches slowly. I figure there has to be some VIP or high level government minister on board they want to disembark first. Two men in military uniforms get out of the Mercedes, climb up the stairs into the plane. In a moment they are standing at the head of the aisle, where they confer briefly with the flight attendant. Now they are marching down the aisle toward me. When they stop at my seat I think, Shit… I’m under arrest.
“Mr. Paul Quinlan?” one of the men asks, using the alias I am traveling under.
“Yes.”
“Come… please.”
They don’t touch me, they simply escort me from the plane. I am reminded of the first and only other time I was arrested in Beirut, which is how I met Mohammed in the first place. Late one evening, I checked into the Commodore Hotel after meeting with a hashish merchant in the Christian village of Zahale. I was holding a baseball-size sample chunk of blond Bekaa Valley hashish. As I was getting undressed for bed, there came a loud, imperious knocking at the door. I sensed it was the Heat before they identified themselves. Two plainclothes inspectors from the drug squad showed me their IDs and said I was to go with them.
“Where?”
“To see the judge.”
By then it was nearly midnight. We visited the judge at his home. He invited me in for Turkish coffee, cognac, and baklava. “I know you are a big hashish smuggler from America,” the judge said when we were settled in his study.
“No,” I protested. “Just a tourist. I smoke a little, that’s all.”
At the time, mid-seventies, we were doing small and midsize loads, a few kilos per trip using couriers with false-bottom suitcases, and a sailboat load of 400 kilos we landed on Long Island. Hardly a big hashish smuggler, though there were larger loads in the works. The judge nodded. The door opened, and in walked Mohammed. His bulky figure loomed over the frail, older judge. Mohammed’s ample jowls were blue with four o’clock shad
ow. He was dressed in a custom-made silk suit. He smiled a Cheshire cat grin and offered his meaty hand.
“From now on you will do business only with this man,” said the judge. Mohammed and I smiled and nodded to each other. “He is chief of customs in Beirut. Nothing leaves Lebanon without this man’s approval. Do you understand?”
I said I did. Mohammed proved to be an industrious, well-organized if obstinate partner. Over the next few years, as airfreight catches opened in New York, LA, and Boston, and with Uncle George’s people facilitating movement of the product within Lebanon, we increased the payload of our shipments from multiple kilos to multiple tons. Mohammed retired from his official position as chief of customs. Retaining his contacts, he devoted all his energies to helping me acquire ever-bigger loads of the best hashish available in Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley. Supply was never the problem. Lebanon produces thousands of tons of hash each year. The challenge has always been finding ways to smuggle the hash out of Beirut and into North America without getting caught.
Mohammed is seated in the rear of the Mercedes sedan. He has that same sly smile on his face and looks even fatter and more prosperous from the years of our partnership. He knows I am pissed—tired, hungry, feeling betrayed. “Mr. Richard… welcome to Beirut,” he greets me in his broken English. We kiss on both cheeks. Mohammed smells faintly of French cologne and Turkish coffee.
The Mercedes pulls up to the terminal. Men in military fatigues and armed with machine guns escort us inside. The place looks more like an army encampment than an airport. Heavily armed troops standing around outnumber the travelers. I have no visa for Lebanon. My ticket says I am booked through to Abu Dhabi, as is my luggage. None of that proves to be a problem. Mohammed speaks to the immigration officials at the airport, I show them my Paul Quinlan passport, they nod their approval and hand it back without the telltale stamps in the back pages that could be cause for concern when I return to America. We shake hands. A representative from the airlines who speaks English explains that my suitcase will be delivered to my residence after it has been removed from the plane. Mohammed gives them an address. He hands out baksheesh—bribes and tips. We walk out, get back into the Mercedes, and drive off.
“Nasif?” I ask after Mohammed’s oldest son, who speaks fluent English and acts as our interpreter. I want to get right to the subject of the Wizard and suspect Mohammed has not brought Nasif along so he can delay the confrontation he knows is coming.
Mohammed nods. “Nasif later,” he says. “No problem.”
“Pierre—”
He cuts me off, waves a hand. “Maalesh. Never mind. No problem.”
But it is a problem, and I want him to know it. So I brood. Mohammed has his worry beads in his fleshy hand. His thick, manicured fingers work the delicate beads, clicking them one against the other, sounding like a random timepiece as he gazes out the window and ignores me. The military men in front talk quietly to each other. All around us is devastation. The drive along the airport road takes us from a military base gagged with sandbags and occupied by troops into a war zone of ever-shifting alliances. We pass the Shatila and Sabra refugee camps, teeming with displaced Palestinians. Ragged children play in the rubble. The Hippodrome racetrack appears as yet unscathed, a monument to better times. And then we enter the besieged heart of the city. Wreckage and debris litter the streets. Bombed-out hulks of buildings, jagged steles of inscribed masonry, and pale heaps of concrete stand like tombstones and burial mounds beside the pocked roadway. Ragtag militias, heavily armed teenage boys with red-rimmed eyes and vacant stares, man impromptu roadblocks. They gape at us as the sedan slows and slides past. It troubles me to think that the weapons in the crates the Captain stored in my garage at the ranch could end up in the hands of these feckless boys.
Such is the curious confluence of the Drug War and wars of insurgence. Money from illegal drugs funds the purchase of weapons. America buys the drugs; America manufactures and sells the arms. The Captain is a walking embodiment of this paradox: an officer in the
United States armed forces ostensibly seeking to promote peace in the world in the service of a nation dedicated to eradicating the production and distribution of illegal drugs. Yet he acts as a go-between for American matériel destined to and paid for by warlords who make their money in the illegal drug trade. And he does it all with Uncle Sam’s sanction and blessing.
“War bad,” Mohammed says. His jowls wag as he shakes his head. “Beirut, no good,” he remarks with sadness, seeing how I am fixated on the destruction of this once magnificent city. The irony, however, is that for our particular business war is good. There is virtually no law enforcement in Lebanon, no central government with authority, and no unified military forces capable of keeping order. No DEA, no FBI, and certainly no IRS. CENTAC? Perhaps. The country is crawling with CIA agents and military spooks of all cast—like the Captain—who are more likely to facilitate and have a hand in the dope business than to seek to bust me. Anarchy reigns. A good venue for a fugitive hash smuggler. Surrounded by chaos and death, with Western hostages being snatched off street corners like dustbins by the derelict armies of the jihad, I feel safer here than I do on the avenues of my homeland.
We arrive at a small apartment building on a narrow side street off rue Bachir al-Kassar in West Beirut. I stay in the car while our military escorts get out to check the street. Mohammed hands me a pair of Arafat-style sunglasses and a checkered kaffiyeh to wrap around my pale head. Saad, Mohammed’s right-hand man, who serves as my bodyguard and factotum while I am in Beirut, steps from the apartment building foyer carrying his ugly black Uzi. Mohammed and I enter, followed by Saad. The three of us take the elevator to the penthouse. Saad nods and disappears down the stairs. A short, compact man and former soldier, Saad speaks even less English than Mohammed.
The front room of the apartment makes me uneasy. It is walled with hand-carved mahogany panels inlaid with ivory depicting jungle scenes—tigers and exotic birds, intricate floral designs, elephants, monkeys, and giraffes. The shelves are cluttered with carved ivory figures. Two huge elephant tusks frame a miniature African village carved from ivory. It’s like walking into an elephant’s graveyard. I feel the ghosts of a herd of magnificent bull elephants haunting the room, and immediately I want to leave.
Mohammed leads me into a large living room with sliding-glass doors opening onto a wide, empty patio. He wags his finger at me, indicating the doors to the patio. “No good,” he says, warning me away from the outside. The bedroom at the rear of the apartment is dark and cool. There are splayed gray gouges in the concrete walls from stray machine gun fire. Mohammed’s other instruction besides avoiding the patio is not to flush soiled toilet tissue down the commode. The shit wads are to be deposited in the plastic bucket beside the toilet so as not to clog the septic system.
We return to the front rooms. Saad, his wife, and four daughters, ranging in ages from seven to sixteen, stand before a dining table laden with platters of food. The Saad family lives in the apartment below the penthouse, connected by a stairway reached through the kitchen. They will serve as my personal household staff during my stay and prepare copious amounts of delicious Lebanese dishes, providing a continuous feast as though fattening me up for the kill.
For the next couple of days I am a virtual prisoner in my penthouse suite. I have been traveling for days. My mind and body are numb, depleted by jetlag and tension, so I welcome this respite and embrace the solitude even as I worry that the Wizard is hatching his schemes while I rest. I lay in my bed in the dark bedroom meditating, listening to the sounds of war. It all seems so unreal, like a soundtrack playing over giant speakers outside the apartment walls: artillery rumbling like a distant storm, sometimes getting closer; the occasional loud crack and rat-a-tat-tat strafing racket of machine gun fire; sonic booms as Israeli fighter jets streak across the endless blue sky, flexing their supreme military muscle. In the morning I wake to the melodious chant of the muezzin from the minarets summoning the faithf
ul to prayer. All throughout the day and into the evening, the Saad females wait on me as though I were a caliph.
Outside my precarious sanctum, Lebanon writhes in the death throes of civil war. Yasser Arafat’s PLO occupies the land like an unwanted guest. Factions and tribes as old as this land kill, maim, slaughter, and plunder in a struggle that is at once impersonal and mindless and as near and heartfelt as blood vengeance. Bombs, mortars, and rockets strike indiscriminately. You kill me and my whole family, or I wipe out your village and every member of your clan. The Syrian army with their Soviet ally; the Army of God backed by Iran; America and her sister Israel: these forces stand behind the barricades, rooting, cheering, sniping, and jeering, lending their dubious support. Through it all, life and death in this caldron simmer and boil, and the hashish and heroin trade boom.
Officially, I am a fugitive from justice. When I failed to appear for a pretrial hearing in Maine, a warrant was issued for my arrest. With Fearful Fred ratting, there is no way I was going to beat that case. So I split, hid in the trunk of the Eldorado. The Captain drove the car down the long driveway and away from the ranch to a local airstrip. He flew me in his Piper Aztec to Love Field in Houston. There I caught an airport bus to Houston Intercontinental and fled the country on a flight to Mexico City. From Mexico I flew to London, spent a day traveling by train to Paris, and flew out on the Middle East Airlines flight to Abu Dhabi. One thing I am certain of: no one followed me.
I toss and turn in restless sleep. I have left everything and everyone behind—the farm in Maine, faithful Karamazov; the ranch in Texas with the horses and cattle and dogs; family, friends, employees, and loved ones; agents of the law, indictments, IRS investigations—to come to this ancient land beset by civil war, and to let it all ride on yet another toss of the dice. Mohammed and Nasif have been instructed to purchase as much of the highest-quality hashish as he and Abu Ali can gather together in one manageable load. All finest grade, nothing but the best—the mother lode. Tons and more tons. No more shilly-shallying with these airfreight shipments. No bucking the high seas in sailboats. A freighter load, brother. This will be the biggest shipment Toranaga and I have ever attempted—a trip to end all smuggles. The only thing that satisfies a degenerate gambler is to risk it all.
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