Dynamite Fishermen (Beriut Trilogy 1)

by Fleming, Preston

  As he conversed with them, tensions gradually subsided, and barely five minutes after he appeared, the neighbors retired indoors. His task finished, the elegantly attired peacemaker now turned to the younger Lebanese guest who had first challenged the gun-toting neighbor. He tossed off a few derisive words, as if to dismiss the younger man from his presence, and then turned his back. The younger man, unruffled, spoke a single word in reply. The peacemaker colored and left the balcony without turning around.

  The younger Lebanese man, now alone at the railing, turned to reenter the apartment while the other guests, careful to avoid his gaze, made studied efforts to resume their earlier conversations. The fellow was physically unimposing. Standing no more than five foot eight—though his frame appeared to possess a wiry strength—he could not have weighed more than 150 pounds. His face was classically handsome, with a Roman nose, square jaw, and a replica of Errol Flynn’s pencil-thin mustache. His clothes were of fashionable French cut. Prosser glanced at the man’s feet, expecting to see white Italian slip-ons, and was startled to see that on one foot he wore a plaster cast tinted a bright neon green. Having noticed Landers and Prosser staring at him, he changed course to join the two Americans, addressing himself to Landers as if Prosser did not exist.

  “Harry, how could you invite a man like Maarouf Zuhayri into your home? Such a man is not fit for decent society. Surely he could not be a friend of yours.”

  “I didn’t invite him,” Landers replied calmly. “A guest brought him. But I’m damned happy he came. If he hadn’t been here to calm down the neighbors, I don’t know what the hell I would have done.”

  “He did nothing but let them save face,” the young Lebanese man replied indignantly. “I was the one who stopped them.”

  “Excuse me, Husayn, but that wasn’t quite how it looked to me,” Landers countered gently. “All you seemed to do was get them hopping mad. Hell, why not let them have their fun? We could have stepped indoors for a while. Hell, gunfire at weddings is as Lebanese as hummus and baba ghannouj.”

  Husayn’s face flushed and he struggled to retain his composure. “In America, would you permit drunken fools to fire automatic weapons from your apartment building? Do you consider us Lebanese such savages that we should tolerate it?”

  When neither American replied, Husayn shrugged and produced a contrite smile. “Forgive me, Harry. Of course, you are right. I am your guest. It was not proper for me to take matters into my own hands without consulting you.”

  Landers laid his hand on his guest’s shoulder.“Forget it, Husayn. What do you say we just relax and have a good time, eh? Here, let me introduce you to a friend of mine from the embassy, Conrad Prosser. Con, meet Husayn al Fayyad. Husayn lives in Germany these days, but he’s back in town for a month or two to settle his father’s estate.“

  Prosser reached out and took Husayn’s small, almost delicate hand and was surprised at the strength of his grip.

  “Con works in the political section at the embassy,” Landers continued. “If you want to complain about guys like Zuhayri, he’s the one to talk to. He’s always interested in hearing what the thugs are up to in this town.”

  In fact, Maarouf Zuhayri was one such thug with whom Prosser was already quite familiar. He had heard some months before that the Jaffa-born businessman made a fortune buying used construction machinery and off-quality building materials in Western Europe and was reselling them at an exorbitant profit in Saudi Arabia and Iraq. By most accounts an ostentatious and vainglorious sort, Zuhayri could be found most nights entertaining friends and clients at West Beirut’s most expensive nightspots.

  According to his file at Headquarters, the Agency’s interest in him began in the late 1970s when he made the first of many large cash contributions to the Fatah organization, most of which were paid directly to individual Fatah officials for special projects. In practice this meant that whatever portion of the money the officials neglected to pocket for their personal use would be earmarked for special operations and terrorism.

  When war broke out between Iraq and Iran in 1980, bribes to Iraqi procurement officials landed Zuhayri one lucrative contract after another to procure machinery, foodstuffs, and chemicals for the Iraqi war effort against Iran. In early 1981, however, the merchant’s bubble burst. A shipment of spoiled meat triggered a series of commercial disputes with the Iraqi war ministry that ended in his being permanently blacklisted from trade with Iraq. At the same time, the Iraqis issued an arrest warrant against him on charges of fraud and bribery should he ever be so foolish as to set foot again in that country.

  Perhaps not entirely by coincidence, soon after the blacklisting Zuhayri’s business in Saudi Arabia also fell on hard times, and, one by one, his former business partners in Jordan and the Gulf began to avoid him. Although he was rumored to have millions stashed in numbered bank accounts in Beirut and Zurich, his deal-making days seemed to be over.

  Prosser considered the poetic justice of Zuhayri’s situation and flashed Husayn an amiable grin. “For the most part, we’re only interested in the political class of thugs,” he said. “But I’d be happy to hear more about Zuhayri. What has he been up to lately? Loan sharking? Drugs? White slavery?”

  Husayn shook his head. “His usual practice is promise to arrange loans from Saudi Arabian merchants to Lebanese companies, collect a finder’s fee in advance, and later refuse to refund his fee when the loans fail to materialize. More recently he has been borrowing money and ordering goods on credit and threatening his creditors with violence if they press him for repayment. My father lent money to Zuhayri two years ago. In March my father died and Zuhayri refused to repay the debt. I came back here two months ago to settle my father’s estate, but because of Zuhayri and several others like him, I have remained much longer than I expected.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How long have you been away?”

  “I went to Germany in 1976 to study engineering. This is the first time I have returned.”

  “You were wise to leave when you did.”

  Husayn did not reply, and for a moment his eyes took on a distant look.

  “Husayn didn’t exactly skip the civil war, Con,” Landers interjected. “He spent nearly a year in a combat unit with the Lebanese National Movement and was on hand for the siege of the Holiday Inn.”

  “Were you there when it was recaptured from the Phalange?”

  Husayn nodded, his hooded eyes briefly taking on a cold and distant aspect.

  “They say it was one of the hardest-fought battles of the war,” Prosser continued.

  “I cannot judge. I can only say that for me it was the last. After we fought our way up to the roof, I had a difference of opinion with other officers over how to, let us say, consolidate our victory. When they sided against me, I decided to leave the war in their hands and return to my parents’ house in Tripoli. A week later, certain events persuaded me that it would be best if I traveled to Europe.”

  “Somebody tried to kill him,” Landers pointed out.

  Disregarding Landers, Prosser asked, “Are any of your old comrades-in-arms still in the National Movement?”

  “Possibly.”

  Prosser nodded politely. Husayn was beginning to look more interesting, but Prosser did not want to appear overeager. If Husayn was a regular drinking companion of Harry, there would be other times to pursue the matter at greater length.

  “Tell me, Husayn, how much longer do you think you’ll be staying here?”

  “A month, perhaps two. Allah only knows. It depends on my father’s debtors. If it were my money alone, I would board the next plane to Frankfurt. But my mother needs the money, and my sister is not yet married. She, too, needs whatever I can preserve for her.”

  “Excuse my asking, Husayn,” Landers put in, “but if Zuhayri hasn’t paid you by now, what makes you think he ever will?”

  “I shall persuade him.”

  Prosser saw determination in Husayn’s eyes, but could not be sure whether it wa
s backed by courage or foolhardiness.

  “Sounds like risky business to me,” Landers answered with mock earnestness.

  “No riskier than denying visas at the American embassy, I think,” Husayn replied, managing an ironic smile.

  Landers caught Prosser’s eye. “I won’t touch that one,” the vice consul volunteered.

  At that moment, Prosser noticed the woman who had been belly dancing when he had arrived now coming toward him with an alluring smile.

  “Are you Harry?” she asked breathlessly.

  “No, but for once I wish I were. My name is Conrad Prosser. And you are?”

  “Layla Said,” she replied perfunctorily before turning abruptly to the other American. “Then you must be Harry.”

  “I cannot tell a lie,” the vice consul answered with a grin.

  She took a leatherette-covered travel document out of her purse, opened it to the last page, and handed it across. “The stamp…it means I have been rejected for a visa by the American embassy. Now that you have marked my passport like this, no European embassy in Beirut will give me a visa. Do you realize how impossible you have made it for me to travel? Why? Why would you do such a thing?”

  Landers thumbed rapidly through the travel document and returned it as if it were something he did not care to touch. Husayn took the opportunity to excuse himself and limped off toward the bar before Landers spoke again. “I would imagine that my colleague at the embassy didn’t give you a visa because he didn’t expect you to come back to Lebanon,” he ventured.

  “But how can he know such a thing from looking at my passport and talking to me for no more than three minutes? It is absolutely not true!”

  “I’m sorry, Layla, but nearly every time we’ve given visas to young women in your situation, they haven’t returned. They go to Detroit or Cleveland or Sacramento, get engaged to nice Arab American boys, and live happily ever after. That’s all very nice, but it’s not what visitor visas are about. For you to get a visitor visa, we need to see evidence of strong ties that will bring you back to Lebanon. The consul you talked to probably wasn’t convinced you have them.”

  “But of course I have ties here! I have lived here all my life. My mother and my three brothers are here. And I have a good job with the United Nations, at ECWA. I have letters proving I am working as an administrator for humanitarian affairs for four years!”

  “If that were all there were to it, Layla, I might be convinced. But let’s face it, you don’t have Lebanese citizenship. You carry a Palestinian identity card from the UN, and when ECWA moves its offices to Baghdad at the end of the year, your job moves with it. All I can say is try again in a year or two, when you’re more established.”

  “You mean when I’m married?” She nearly spat out the word.

  “That might help,” Harry replied without smiling.

  “And if I move to Baghdad when ECWA moves? Would that help?”

  “Possibly, depending on how long you stay there.”

  She heaved a forlorn sigh. “But, Harry,” she began in a sweet, wheedling voice, “I only want to visit America for one month. Just to have a nice holiday in New York, to see friends, to buy some pretty clothes, to have fun just once before I move to Baghdad. Why do you make it so difficult? Surely your government wants tourists to visit America and spend money, n’est-ce pas? I can show you my bank account if you like.”

  “Come on, Layla. You’ve already got a French visa in your passport. If you want to shop, why not fly to Paris? You can buy anything you want there.”

  The young woman lowered her head, discouraged but not defeated. “What would convince you to give me a visa to America for one month?” she said. “Can you show me a list of qualifications I must have?”

  “There’s no checklist, Layla. Every applicant’s case is different. I look at a person’s passport, read his application, talk to him, and either he’s eligible or he’s not. I know qualifications when I see them.”

  “May I bring my qualifications to you?” She had a look of sweet mischief on her face. “Will you look at them and tell me whether I am eligible?”

  “By God, you are persistent,” Landers conceded at last with a genial laugh. “All right, bring your passport and your documents to my office Monday morning and I’ll have another look. But don’t get your hopes up. Reversals don’t happen very often.”

  “Monday! That is too late—I must leave no later than Friday. And I cannot spend another day away from my work to wait in the long lines at your consulate. Can’t I bring my passport to you here? I could come tomorrow evening.” Her look was seductive.

  Landers avoided looking at Prosser, who was struggling to contain a laugh. “Suit yourself,” Landers replied, feigning indifference. “If you don’t want to come to my office, drop by here tomorrow around eight.”

  As soon as the words left Landers’s lips, Layla raised herself onto her toes and kissed him quickly on the cheek. “Thank you, Harry. I knew you would help me,” she blurted out, then hurried off to the living room. Her perfume hung in Prosser’s nostrils, reminding him of how skillfully she had danced, and for a moment he wished he were working under consular cover again.

  “Now you’ve done it, pal,” Prosser teased as soon as Layla was out of earshot. “If that isn’t a conflict of interest, I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

  “She’ll get a fair review. I’ll look her application over and give it to Steve. He’ll end up rejecting her on the same grounds that Jon did.” Landers made an effort to appear casual but failed.

  “Then what about tomorrow night? Are you going to let her do her number on you and then have Steve slip her the bad news the next day when she shows up at the consulate?”

  “Whatever she does tomorrow night won’t make a damned bit of difference. If she wants me to review her case, fine. If she wants to do a number on me—as you put it—by God, that’s fine by me, too. She’s a big girl, and she knows what she’s doing.”

  “That’s not the point, Harry. The point is that Layla thinks you’ll give her a visa if she sleeps with you.”

  “Look, it’s not my problem if she’s unrealistic. There isn’t an Arab in this entire country who’s above playing up to a consular officer to get an American visa. The only way for us to stay absolutely unsmudged in the face of all the attempts to butter us up would be to socialize only with other diplomats. Somehow, Con, I don’t think that’s what we were sent out here to do.”

  “So you’re going to treat her like any other bimbo who comes to your apartment?”

  “I’ll give her my best, old sport.”

  Prosser frowned. “Do what you like, Harry. But these are proud people. If any of the women you interview in your bedroom get the idea that you took unfair advantage of them, you may wish you’d been more careful.”

  “I suppose that’s something you’d know about, Con. You’ve gone through enough women here to know. Look over there, in the dining room. Your latest ex hasn’t taken her eyes off you since you walked in.”

  Across the apartment, at the entrance to the dining room, Prosser recognized the profile of Ulla Hamawi, née Sundstrom. At thirty-nine she still had the slim, athletic figure of a woman half her age. Her tawny blonde hair hung straight and loose down her back, and her sleeveless black dress displayed her long, girlish limbs and golden tan to glorious advantage.

  For a moment Prosser forgot about Landers as he watched Ulla through the screen of bodies that separated them. She was standing opposite Maarouf Zuhayri, and the two of them seemed to be embroiled in some kind of sullen argument. Zuhayri appeared determined to secure her consent to something, but she stubbornly resisted.

  “What the hell is Ulla doing here?” Prosser demanded irritably as he turned away from them. “You know we don’t see each other anymore. Why didn’t you tell me she would be coming?”

  “I happen to like Ulla. So I invited her,” Landers replied. “I like you, too, Con. If the two of you can’t stand being at the same party, you’ll ju
st have to work something out.”

  “And what’s she doing with Zuhayri? She didn’t arrive with that slime, did she?”

  “Actually, ‘that slime’ came as a guest of your precious ward, the hoochy-coochy dancer.”

  “Layla?”

  Landers nodded. “But once he came through the door, he cut Layla loose and has been following Ulla around like a stray pup. I didn’t realize they were acquainted.”

  “Zuhayri is a crony of her ex-husband—another dirtball.”

  “It’s funny, Con. If I didn’t know you’d dropped her like a hot rock, I might think you were jealous.”

  Just then Ulla gazed across the room and noticed for the first time that Prosser was watching her. She whirled around as if stung, bade an abrupt good night to Zuhayri, and set off for the exit.

  Zuhayri followed the line of her gaze to Prosser. The glare of jealous hatred in his eyes was unmistakable. But Prosser was not interested in Maarouf Zuhayri’s feelings at that moment and set off instantly in pursuit of Ulla. He intercepted her just inside the foyer and blocked her path to the door.

  She glared at him without a word, waiting for him to step aside.

  “Don’t leave, Ulla. If you’re uncomfortable with me around, I’ll go. I had no idea you would be here.”He spoke softly, with an undertone of self-reproach.

  She lowered her eyes, stepped around him, and went out the door without closing it behind her. Her mouth was set grimly, and her eyes held a watery gleam.

  By the time the thought occurred to him to follow her outside, she had already entered the elevator and begun her descent. He started off down the stairs, taking two steps at a time, but gave up the pursuit after three flights. It was clear that he would not be able to overtake her. And he no longer knew what he would say if he did.

  Chapter 3

  Thursday

  Prosser awoke to the muffled bursts of underwater explosions not far offshore. It was the dynamite fishermen again, landing their daily catch by tossing bundles of dynamite sticks wrapped in electrician’s tape over the sides of black rubber dinghies. In the five years since the Lebanese civil authorities had lost control over public life, these high-volume poachers had devastated the undersea life along the city’s shoreline, killing a dozen fish for every one that they sold to the busy open-air restaurants of Raouché, Ramlet el Baida, and Jnah.