Inauguration Day

by Claude Salhani

  The officer removed a pack of cigarettes from his tunic pocket and handed one to Kifah Kassar, which the Palestinian happily accepted. The officer pressed a buzzer and a soldier brought in a large glass of water, which Kifah Kassar drank to the last drop.

  No more words were exchanged until the door swung open as a short man wearing a colonel’s uniform strode in. The colonel was an evil-looking man, with thick, yellow-tinted eyeglasses partially hiding toady eyes. In a flash, the other officer rose, darted around the desk, and grabbed the cigarette out of Kifah Kassar’s mouth, throwing it to the ground.

  “The colonel does not like people to smoke in front of him,” he said. He handed the file to the colonel, who sat himself at the desk. Nothing was said for several long, agonizing minutes as the colonel studied the file. Finally, the colonel spoke, addressing Kifah Kassar in a soft but threatening voice.

  “You are being held by the Lebanese security forces in a prison in Beirut, near the racetrack. We regret the inconvenience but knew that if we did not bring you here you would not have come on your own,” said the colonel. “I am a very busy man. I have several important questions to ask you and I don’t have time to play games. If you answer me quickly, and correctly, you will be released. However, if you choose to fuck with me, this will be our last interview. And I will hand you back to this lot,” he motioned towards the guards who had brought him to the interrogation room. “And if that were to happen, you will regret the day that the whore you call mother gave birth to you. I am a civilized man and don’t like to hurt people, but my friends do. So help me help you. I will say only this to you: think very carefully what you say before you say it, because I know when you lie and if you lie, I will be very angry.”

  The colonel leaned back, allowing his words to sink in before continuing. The colonel had done this before and was good at it. He could see his words had the desired effect on Kifah Kassar. “I want to know who ordered the killing of the American agent and of the Lebanese man with him, and why. We know your group was involved, so please don’t insult my intelligence by denying it. We don’t particularly care about an American spy dying but we had spent a lot of time training our man to infiltrate the US spy network, only for you to kill him. I am not happy. So quickly, who and why?”

  “We did—”

  “Remember,” said the man in the Lebanese colonel’s uniform, “no lies.”

  “We did not know he was an American, and we did not know the other was Lebanese and working for you,” said the Palestinian. “In all honesty.”

  The officer ignored Kifah Kassar’s last remark. “We have reason to believe that our agent was killed because of something you did not want him to know. What could be so important that it merits killing someone for?”

  “I would like to find out how my wife is doing first. She had a bad accident last night . . . yesterday,” he said, looking at his watch and suddenly remembering the reason for his sudden departure from the safety of the training camp in south Lebanon. God Almighty, how could he have forgotten about her? He also had no idea what time it was. His watch said 6:10, but with no windows to look out, he could not tell if it was morning or night.

  “Tell us what we want to know and you can go home to her this afternoon,” said the colonel. “Otherwise, we have somewhat perfected the trick the Americans used at Abu Ghraib and in Guantanamo. You know, the waterboarding. Well, we found that if you add certain unpleasant elements to the water it tends to make people talk faster. And my friend, you know that no one resists. All end up talking. You understand? It does not matter how strong you are or how loyal you are. In the end, everyone talks. It’s just a matter of how much pain you can take before you break. You know the French in Algeria had developed this device they called the bicycle. It was, as the name indicates, part of a bicycle that powered a small generator onto which the prisoners were attached through car jumper cables and with their feet in a basin of water. Extremely uncomfortable and painful. Many could not support the pain, and died. You know what the Front de Libération National asked of their cadres? To try and hold out from twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Just twenty-four hours, to give the cell members enough time to escape and change their locations. And you know why the FLN asked their militants to hold only that long? Because they were realists. They knew that in the end, everyone talks. For them it was just a matter of saving other members of the revolution. In your case, my dear Kifah Kassar, you have no one to protect but yourself. So save yourself the trouble.”

  14

  BEIRUT, LEBANON

  Chris Clayborne did not want to admit it, but he was rapidly falling in love with Laura. He had not been in love for many years—since his marriage broke up five years earlier, and his wife of fifteen years left him for some seedy pseudo-sailor living in Portsmouth, Virginia. Laura was young, beautiful, intelligent, witty, and seemed exceptionally different from most other women hacks he had known. Laura seemed to understand the Middle East situation far better than some so-called old hands.

  Clayborne could see the candlelight reflected in Laura’s bright green eyes as she sipped her wine. Laura allowed a tiny drop of Bordeaux to drip down the side of her mouth, like a red teardrop. She let Clayborne wipe it away with a gentle stroke of the back of his hand. Laura’s eyes also revealed a deep, hidden pain, a burden from her past that seemed to have affected her, to sadden her; yet she never wanted to talk about it. Maybe it was a love affair gone sour? Laura avoided talking about herself and although he felt she liked him too, she somehow always managed to keep him at bay, to keep her distance. She didn’t want to get involved. Well, maybe that was a good thing. Beirut was not the kind of place one should start something like that, Chris told himself. But why not? Nothing made him want to love more than all this hatred around him.

  Clayborne’s thoughts were interrupted by the waiter offering to take their order. Yes, they were ready, said Laura, sensing Clayborne’s sadness. They were also famished. Chris ordered for the two of them: fettuccine alfredo for a starter and then fish, the rouget, a specialty of the house. Both the pasta and the fish were always perfectly served at La Plage, a cozy restaurant sitting so close to the water’s edge that sometimes the waves would actually touch your feet. They also ordered a bottle of Château Musar, a delicious white Lebanese wine.

  Clayborne took Laura’s hand across the table, gently squeezing it. At times Laura reminded him of a frightened and confused little girl, while at other times she seemed hard and dedicated to her work. “So, what’s this terribly important story that forces you to leave so suddenly?” asked Clayborne.

  “Can’t say. You know,” she smiled at him, shrugging her shoulders, and placed her other hand on top of his, “exclusive stuff and all that. We can’t have the wires go after it, now can we? It would hardly be an exclusive, would it?”

  “Laura, you know I don’t care about that. I care about you.”

  “No, Chris, stop. Please, I can’t get involved at this time. I really can’t. I can’t explain, but the timing is just not right. I like you very much, I really do. But things are kind of crazy at the moment.”

  “Then why are you fighting it?”

  “I have to concentrate on my career. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, and now I have the opportunity to do that. Tell you what: when I get back from Europe, let’s go spend a weekend in Cyprus. Okay?”

  “Fine, it’s a plan.” Chris lowered his voice and leaned closer to Laura. “Don’t turn around now, but see that man at the third table by the stairs with the woman in a lilac dress? He is one of Dr. Hawali’s closest advisers. He never lets anyone take his picture and no one knows what he looks like. In fact, not many people even know of his existence.”

  “So how come you know him?”

  “I saw him briefly in Baghdad, years ago, at a conference. He had his bodyguards grab my camera and confiscate my film. But I never forget a face. No one even knows his real name. Outside of the Doctor’s circle, people refer to him as ‘the Thinker.’
”

  “Charming man. Just what does he think about?”

  “Mostly second options.”

  “Second options?”

  “Yes. He is the counterblow to the Front’s policies and strategies. He will think up ways to make use of a situation and milk it to greater potential.”

  Laura looked perplexed. “What exactly do you mean?” she asked.

  “It’s really very simple. For example, the Doctor will go to the Iranians and ask for money to finance his operation. Well, the Thinker is the man who dreams up reasons why the Iranians should pay the money. He will tell the Doctor that they can take care of a bothersome dissident for them. Naturally, the price doubles and all sides walk away content.”

  “Except for the dead dissidents,” interjected Laura.

  “Details,” said Chris. “Zeid, the Doctor’s number two man, once confided that the Thinker believes there are two sides to every opportunity. Both sides can be made to work in his favor.” Chris took a sip of his wine before continuing. “For example, by instigating an attack on a kibbutz in Israel, the Thinker knew that the Israeli Army would retaliate. That’s exactly what he wanted. The peace talks were going too smoothly, and he needed to put the other Arab leaders on notice that the Palestinian conflict is far from over. It gave him leverage at the last Arab summit. It really matters little to him that innocent people will die. What counts is that Israeli planes bombing civilian targets in Beirut always make front-page news.”

  “And even you don’t have a picture of him?”

  “No one does. He is rarely seen in public. The only reason he is here tonight is probably because he wants to impress the woman he is with and take her to bed. She is very likely to be the wife of some Arab diplomat who has been recalled back to his country for consultation.”

  After dinner, Laura went back to Chris Clayborne’s apartment. Chris had moved out of the Commodore Hotel and into a furnished apartment facing the Mediterranean. Washington insisted he cut back on expenses. The flat was situated on the waterfront about a mile from the restaurant. They sat close to each other on a comfortable sofa on Clayborne’s balcony, overlooking the sea. Plagued by electricity shortages, the city was in total darkness. The only sound came from waves crashing on the shore across the street, or an occasional car driving by.

  Clayborne went inside and returned with two very large tumblers of cognac and a cigarette filled with first-grade Lebanese hashish. Chris and Laura sat in silence listening to the waves, drinking cognac and getting stoned. Occasionally, a short burst of machine gun fire could be heard in the distance, interrupting the silence of the night, a reminder that this was still Beirut, after all, and that the war was never too far away. Clayborne placed his arm around Laura and she snuggled closer to him.

  “Make love to me,” she whispered in his ear. Laura felt she needed Chris’s comfort. He brought her a certain amount of safety that temporarily made her forget why she was here and what would happen to her if she ever got caught. Langley had instructed her to use him, and right now this was what she needed him for.

  Clayborne started to get up. “No, here. Make love to me here,” said Laura. She slowly unbuttoned her blouse and removed her bra, revealing perfect, firm breasts. Clayborne reached over and unzipped her skirt, which she let drop gently to the floor. Very slowly, she removed her white silk panties without taking her eyes off Chris. She let Chris run his warm hands over her body. It felt good. She started undressing him, caressing the thick hair on his chest. She reached for the tumbler and took a sip of cognac, placed her lips on Chris’s, and offered him some from her warm mouth. They kissed passionately, touching each other, feeling one another, caressing, and holding tightly, giving one another much needed comfort. Laura felt Chris’s warmth as he entered her. They savored each other for the longest time, now totally drenched in perspiration. The cognac and hashish made their heads swim to the cadence of the waves crashing on the nearby rocks.

  They continued to hold on to each other long after their lovemaking was over. There was something very special about making love in a war zone that brought out the most tender of feelings in a person. Maybe it was to make up for the hatred around them that people loved so passionately in war.

  They remained clasped together for a long time, both lost in their thoughts. It was a near-perfect moment, and both Chris and Laura wanted to prolong their pleasure as much as possible, to make the moment last, to escape the violent reality that surrounded them.

  A distant explosion brought them back to earth. “I could stay like this forever,” whispered Laura.

  “Yes, so could I.”

  “I bet you bring all your women up here and make love to them like this.”

  “A gentleman never tells,” replied Clayborne, laughing. “The truth, Laura, is you’re the first one I’ve made love to out here.” Clayborne rose to fetch more cognac, hashish, and a blanket. With dawn nearing, it was starting to get chilly. He also brought out a transistor radio.

  “When are you coming back?”

  Laura had that melancholy look again, abruptly reminded of the real reason for her presence in Beirut. “Don’t really know,” she said kissing Clayborne on the nose. “Probably not too long. A week at the most.”

  “I shall wait for thee, my love.”

  “What time is it, anyway?” asked Laura.

  “Almost time for the news,” replied Clayborne, turning on the radio, which was pre-tuned to the BBC, in time to hear the announcer say, “And that’s it from Sports Roundup. Next on the BBC World Service is a bulletin of world news.”

  “Damn, it’s late. I must get home,” exclaimed Laura.

  “Too late now,” laughed Clayborne. “It’s almost four. No one walks around Beirut at this time of night. Looks like you’ll have to spend what’s left of the night here.” He hugged her tightly.

  “Love me again,” said Laura, curling her legs around his waist.

  “Wait, let’s listen to the news first,” replied Clayborne. “It’s only seven minutes long.” But neither of them could wait that long.

  15

  BEIRUT, LEBANON

  In the end, Kifah Kassar ended up spilling more than the Americans expected, or even hoped for, but once he started to talk there was no stopping him. He was so sleep deprived and so mentally and physically exhausted and had so many drugs pumped into him that he just wanted to sleep and rest for at least an hour. Hell, he would have even been happy to sleep for fifteen minutes. He was so exhausted from the waterboarding that he became delirious and started to talk about the “special young man who would avenge the Arab and Muslim world.” He described “Omar” so well that the former Lebanese Forces commando hired by Laura Atwood and driving a battered gray Mercedes taxi had no trouble identifying him when he emerged from the address also graciously provided by the Palestinian resistance leader.

  When Omar left his apartment building near the Arab University, he failed to notice the gray Mercedes taxi waiting by the corner of the street. Traffic was always heavy around the university and lingering taxicabs were a common sight. Even the small dent on the taxi’s front right side did not seem out of place with the rest of Beirut’s battered fleet of services, or collective taxis. Carrying a shoulder bag, the young Iraqi-Palestinian walked a few paces to the corner and hailed a cab. The driver of the gray Mercedes waved to Omar, signaling he would pick him up, but was beaten to the fare by another taxi that suddenly swerved in front of the gray Mercedes. The driver of the gray Mercedes honked his horn, cursing at the other taxi for stealing his fare, but there was little he could do. The driver cursed his bad luck and followed Omar at a safe distance, keeping the automatic gun he kept hidden under his seat within easy reach.

  The Armenian called Laura on her cell phone. She answered on the second ring. “Miss Laura, marhaba,” said the driver.

  “Marhaba,” replied Laura.

  “Miss Laura,” said the Armenian, “we found your package. Tony and Elie are already on their way; I just
called them. What you want I do?”

  “Just stay with him. And keep me informed. Where do I hook up with you?”

  “I don’t know where they are going but one possible destination is the Front’s headquarters on Mazraa. Just guessing.”

  “Okay, I will head your way and see where we can connect.”

  “Trés bien,” said the Armenian, switching to French.

  It was a good guess. Omar headed to the Front’s headquarters off Avenue Mazraa. The driver of the gray Mercedes parked two blocks away, not wanting to be noticed by the guards. He was furious, knowing he had blown his one chance to pick up the terrorist Washington was so eager to get its hands on. Miss Laura had promised him a huge bonus if he managed to pick him up. A Navy SEAL commando unit waiting off the coast would sweep in and help ferry out the terrorist, once the driver or Laura gave them the signal by calling a number on their cell phones. Now the plan was derailed. Out of frustration, the driver bit off the filter of his American cigarette and spat it out the window.

  Dr. Ibrahim Hawali greeted Omar warmly and explained what was expected of him now that his training was completed. Omar would have a chance to prove himself and once again repay the Americans for the injustice committed against his people. The Doctor left Omar with Zeid, who filled him in on last-minute details and handed him his new identity: a Jordanian passport in the name of Issam Abdelrazzak Haidar, given to the Palestinians through the good graces of the Syrian intelligence service bureau in Beirut in exchange for ten thousand dollars—peanuts when compared to the sixty million dollars the Mexican drug cartel would pay him. And even if they reneged on the full amount, the Doctor had already pocketed thirty million dollars. Omar was then left with Zeid, the Doctor’s trusted deputy. He made Omar/Issam go over the procedures of the plans forward and backward. Zeid then gave Issam ten thousand dollars in cash and two credit cards in the same name, along with a Jordanian and an international driver’s license. Zeid stressed the importance of the mission and repeated how paramount it was that Issam be certain that he was not being followed.