Dynamite Fishermen (Beriut Trilogy 1)

by Fleming, Preston

  “Yalla, go away,” he told the child. When the little fingers pushed their way inside one more time, he began to raise the window electrically. Startled by the window’s movement, the boy withdrew his hand in fright.

  Prosser thought of the crone who had begged for alms a few minutes earlier and stopped the window. Had he become so callous as to intentionally close his window on the fingers of a small child? “Yaa, walad, hold on a second,” he called out to the boy. “How much are the tickets?”

  The child stood at a distance, uncertain whether to answer or flee. “One lira,” he answered a moment later, regaining his nerve.

  Prosser reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten-lira note, worth about two dollas and fifty cents American. The boy took the note and tore ten tickets out of his book.

  Prosser accepted them and then handed them back to the child. “Allah be with you,” he told the boy in Arabic.

  The child beamed, pocketed the tickets, and ran off.

  Prosser was under no illusion that buying the tickets would make any difference in the larger scheme of things. Buying ten thousand tickets would not have given the boy any more of a chance in life. But if every day consisted of a series of individual choices, here at least was one that did not leave him feeling compromised. He regretted that the longer he remained in Lebanon, fewer and fewer choices seemed to meet that standard.

  * * *

  Despite its name, Embassy Supermarket had no connection to any diplomatic mission in Beirut. It was popular among the city’s foreign envoys solely because its shelves never ran bare of imported delicacies, even when day after day of shelling in the Port of Beirut closed off the possibility of resupply. The Lebanese supermarket’s selection of high-priced European food and drink would have rivaled that of any Manhattan specialty store: dozens of varieties of European cheeses; wines from the finest vineyards of France and Germany; fresh fish and game; and pâtés, caviar, and smoked salmon in abundance.

  The store was located in the center of Achrafiyé, two blocks off Place Sassine, in a neighborhood that had been prosperous, even fashionable, before suffering heavy damage from shellfire during the civil war. Despite the recent spate of car bombings against Achrafiyé, many well-to-do residents of other, safer areas in East Beirut still made regular forays into the besieged quarter to shop. A few, like Prosser, even hazarded the journey across the Green Line from West Beirut.

  Prosser scanned the street in front of him as he emerged from the Embassy Supermarket with a case of 1975 Moët & Chandon under one arm and a bag of groceries under the other. An L-shaped barrier of sandbags piled two meters high outside the store’s entrance provided excellent protection from any stray rounds or shrapnel that might chance to land in the side street. Nonetheless, the pockmarked façades of adjacent buildings testified to the ever-present threat of random shellings and car bombings, and from month to month the sandbag barriers seemed to grow taller and thicker.

  As only fifteen minutes remained before his meeting with Maroun, Prosser locked his purchases in the trunk of the Renault and set off on foot for the safe house. It was a grand five-bedroom apartment in a fine pre–World War II building off rue Ghazaliyé. One of Maroun’s relations had lived there until taking his family to Saudi Arabia in 1978, leaving it unrented with Maroun as caretaker, against the day when the owner or his married children might decide to move back to Beirut. Prosser’s cover for meeting Maroun at the apartment, should the concierge or neighbors ever challenge him, was that he had become acquainted with the owner in Riyadh and might be interested in taking a lease on the place for the American embassy.

  But today there was no need for a cover story, for the concierge was nowhere to be seen when Prosser crossed the mirrored lobby and took the elevator to the fourth floor. He pressed the buzzer and heard footsteps approaching inside; then he heard the clank of a heavy deadbolt.

  “Ahlayn, Peter,” Maroun greeted him softly through the half-open door. “Come in. I am sorry it is so stuffy inside, but I dare not open all the shutters or it will attract the attention of the neighbors. Come, let us sit in the dining room. I have started a fan there.”

  Prosser followed Maroun out of the foyer and across a vast expanse of black-and-gray checkerboard marble to a spacious salon where the furniture was covered by sheets of opaque white plastic film and every piece of artwork or other ornamentation had been removed. With the wooden shutters rolled down, the solitary overhead light fixture provided the two men barely enough light to find their way to the dining room.

  Maroun removed the plastic covering from one end of the massive carved-wood table, pulled out two chairs, and rolled up the wooden window shutters far enough for the sun to shine through the slats and provide light for their work.

  “I’m sorry I had to cancel our last meeting, Peter,” Maroun began defensively. “We have had some difficulties in the family business these last months, and it has demanded a great deal of my time.”

  “There’s no need to apologize, Maroun. You’ve been doing a terrific job of keeping us on top of events lately. In fact, we could probably afford to cut our meetings back to every second week for the next month or two if that would help you.”

  The agent hesitated. “It would, Peter, but there are also other difficulties, ones that may be beyond our ability to resolve. What I mean is that conditions here may soon become much worse, and the time has come for me to take my family away from Lebanon.”

  Prosser put his pen and pad aside and looked at Maroun. “I just don’t understand. In all the time we’ve been together, you’ve never once talked about leaving. What happened, Maroun?”

  “It is not what has happened; as I said, it is what will happen.”

  “I’m still not sure I know what you’re referring to. What could possibly make things that much worse than they are now?”

  “I now consider it a certainty that the Israeli army will invade by next summer, with Bashir’s support.”

  “So?” Prosser replied. “They invaded in 1978, and it didn’t change a damned thing. As soon as the IDF pulled out, everything went right back to the way it was. What makes you think the outcome will be so different this time?”

  “This time no one has yet reckoned with Bashir Gemayel. Bashir intends to become ruler of all Lebanon, Peter, and he intends to use the Israelis to achieve it. As I see his plan, he means to have the Phalange and the Israeli army take West Beirut, install him in the presidential palace, and then expel the Syrian army and the Palestinians from the rest of the country, crushing any remaining forces that oppose him. My greatest fear is that Bashir will overestimate the Israelis and that the battle he starts will end in utter disaster for the Christians of Lebanon. When the Israelis leave, all the other Lebanese will take their revenge against us.”

  He paused, then added in a subdued voice, “That is why I believe now is the time to sell my house and business and move to America.”

  Prosser put down his pen again and let out a low whistle. “What does your family think about all this, Maroun? Is your wife prepared to chuck it all and start over again?”

  “She has been urging me to make such a decision for at least two years.”

  Prosser scribbled a note on his pad. “Have you discussed the idea with anybody else or made inquiries at our consular section?”

  “I have spoken to no one, Peter, because I wanted to consult you first. You see, my wife has a brother in Detroit who is willing to sponsor us for a green card, but I am told there is a seven-year wait. If we cannot emigrate to the United States, we are thinking of applying to Canada or Australia. That is why I need to know…if we apply for immigration visas to the United States, could your people in Washington arrange it for us?”

  Prosser put his hand on Maroun’s shoulder. “I can’t promise an answer right away, Maroun, but I’ll explain your situation to Washington and see what they can do. Since you have a close relative in the States, you’ll be eligible under our laws for an immigrant visa, but as you say
, there’s a long waiting list. I think we might be able to move you to the head of the line, but it will still take some time, perhaps a few months. Can you hold on that long?”

  Maroun nodded, clearly relieved at what he was hearing. “Of course. We will need a few months to arrange our affairs here in any event.”

  “I hope you change your mind about this, Maroun, but I’ll start the ball rolling. You’ve been a good partner.”

  The Lebanese man looked down uncomfortably at the tabletop, apparently embarrassed by the compliment. Then he fumbled with his leather purse, removed a folded manila envelope, and placed it in front of his visitor.

  “Perhaps when you read these you will better understand my pessimism. They are the latest war council minutes and several special reports recently commissioned by Bashir. One contains a plan to mobilize ten thousand additional reservists through mandatory training of secondary school and college students.”

  “That was tried before in 1978,” Prosser said. “It didn’t work.”

  “Bashir intends to try again. He is determined to field no fewer than forty thousand fully trained and equipped fighters by next spring, regardless of the cost.”

  “And if the Israelis don’t invade?”

  “There is an alternate plan. I do not know the details yet, but it seems to involve recapturing large areas of West Beirut with the aid of certain units of the regular Lebanese army that are led by Christian officers.”

  “I’d like to know more about that plan. Can you write up a report on it by our next meeting, starting with what you told me just now?”

  “Certainly, Peter.”

  “Good. Now I have a different question for you, Maroun. What do you know about the string of recent car bombings in West Beirut? Some people are saying that the Phalange has been sending them to the West Side in revenge for the car-bombing campaign in East Beirut earlier this summer. Is there any truth to that?”

  “It would not surprise me if a few such bombs originated here, but I have no proof of it—such operations are handled in great secrecy. It seems more likely that most of the bombs—on both sides of the city—are sponsored by the Syrians.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I will give you an example. Since yesterday, our security men have been conducting an urgent search for two fifty-kilo car bombs fabricated last week in Shtaura by a Palestinian who also sent bombs to us this spring. Do you recall the name of Colonel Hisham?”

  “I certainly do. But I thought he went out of business a couple of months ago,” Prosser replied.

  Maroun shook his head. “Our sources say he has returned to Shtaura and is making car bombs again.”

  “Why Shtaura? Why not Beirut?”

  “They say he left Damascus only last week. He has been in a private clinic there since June, recovering from wounds inflicted during an assassination attempt. Since one of his attackers is known to have escaped, the colonel wishes to take no chances by making an early return to West Beirut, and it seems that the Syrians can protect him more easily in Shtaura. But that is of minor importance. What is significant is that he is making bombs again, bigger ones than ever before.”

  “Who’s backing him?” Prosser asked as he turned a page in his notebook. “And who are his targets?”

  “We presume he is still working for the Syrians. But Iran and Libya are also possibilities. As for his targets, we cannot be sure, but so far our information is that they are located in West Beirut, not here in the East. If he’s still with the Syrians, he could be aiming at the French, the Iraqis, the Saudis, the Americans, or anyone else who is lined up against the Damascus-Tehran axis. But the war council believes that it is only a matter of time before he makes trouble for us in East Beirut once again and that we must stop him, whatever the cost.”

  “You mentioned the Americans. Do you think he will come after us first?”

  “Possibly. But at this time we can only guess. All we know is that the colonel has discovered a devilish new method of smuggling the bombs to their destinations. He finds someone who regularly enters Beirut from the countryside, abducts a member of his family, and then offers to release the abducted family member only when the other has delivered one of the colonel’s vehicles to a specified destination in West Beirut. Unhappily, what the driver does not know is that the car is wired to explode at the moment he opens his door. He dies before he can be questioned.”

  “Murderous bastard,” Prosser muttered. “And the colonel is sending these cars only into West Beirut, nowhere else?”

  “Until now that is so. But we also know that two of these booby-trapped cars passed through Aley this week and have not yet exploded, so we are taking the necessary precautions. Our men search every car that meets the description of the two that were seen in Aley, and they are instructed specifically to require each driver to climb out through one of the windows while the car undergoes inspection.”

  “Can you recall anything else your sources have reported about Colonel Hisham or the projects he’s working on?”

  Maroun paused to organize his thoughts. “Only one other thing. I remember an unconfirmed report about ten days ago that the colonel was trying to smuggle several hundred kilos of explosives into West Beirut for a single operation. Clearly if so large a quantity is used against a single target, the destructive power would be enormous, but we have no further details.”

  “Please try to find out more, Maroun, and signal me the moment you do. It’s urgent that we find out whom he has targeted.”

  “Do you believe it is the Americans, Peter?”

  “We have to assume it is until there’s good reason to believe it’s not,” Prosser answered. “Do you remember how furious the Syrians were said to have been a couple of months ago when they suspected us of helping the Phalange arrest the Naaman brothers?”

  Maroun nodded. “As usual, our enemies are reluctant to give us proper credit for our successes,” the agent observed. “When we beat them, it pleases their vanity to ascribe our successes to the hidden hand of Israeli and American intelligence. In any event, I will try to learn more about the colonel for you.”

  “Thanks, Maroun. This is one worth going the extra mile for.”

  “And if you learn anything useful about the colonel from your own sources, Peter, I hope you will inform us. We have long-range guns at Baskinta and Qanat Bakiche, not more than fifteen kilometers from Shtaura. If your sources can pinpoint Hisham’s office or residence for our gunners, it may be possible to drop a few shells on him one night in his sleep.”

  A faint smile formed at the corners of Prosser’s mouth. “Now, there’s an idea with lovely possibilities. Keep it to yourself for a while, Maroun. We may want to use it one of these days.”

  Prosser glanced at his watch and let out a low whistle. “Damn, it’s getting late. If you don’t mind, we’d better move along to the next question. I’ve got to be out of here in less than an hour or I’m cooked.”

  * * *

  Fifty minutes later Prosser was walking toward Place Sassine to buy the latest issue of International Herald Tribune before returning to West Beirut. He had scarcely traveled two blocks when a mud-brown Land Rover bearing the stenciled cedar-tree emblem of the Phalange militia screeched to an abrupt halt in front of him. The doors of the vehicle flung open even before the vehicle ceased to move, disgorging three bearded Phalangists who set off at top speed down the side street with their M-16 rifles held across their chests and the gear attached to their web suspenders bobbing up and down as they ran.

  While the militiamen raced off down the street, Prosser left his car and approached the driver of the Land Rover, a curly-haired Maronite of about forty, to ask him what was going on. The latter replied brusquely that the men were searching for a suspected car bomb and that anyone who had a brain in his head would stand back. Then, without giving Prosser another moment’s attention, he picked up a handheld radio from the seat beside him and began talking into it in French.

  At t
he far end of the side street, where it intersected with Avenue de l’Independance, the three Phalangist militiamen surrounded a green two-door BMW. The first of the trio, a tall, slim youth probably no more than nineteen or twenty, stood in front of the car with his weapon pointed at the driver’s chest. The second, who was short and balding and probably in his early thirties, stood behind the driver’s door, his rifle muzzle a few inches from the base of the man’s skull. The third member of the patrol, a heavy six-footer who sported an untrimmed full beard and was somewhere between the other two in age, seemed to be the leader. He barked an order to his partners and then instructed the driver, a thirtyish businessman in a dark gray suit, to climb out the passenger-side window very slowly and stand with his feet apart and hands on his head.

  When the order was carried out, the youngest militiaman remained behind the leader while the latter prodded the well-dressed suspect forward with his M-16 and ordered him to open the vehicle’s hood and trunk. When this, too, was done, the two marched their suspect to a doorway some forty meters behind the car for questioning while their comrade inspected the car’s engine compartment, trunk, seats, dashboard, and several other spots that were outside Prosser’s line of vision. In less than two minutes the search was complete, having revealed no explosives.

  When the pair holding the driver at gunpoint heard the shout from the third militiaman that the car had passed inspection, they slung their rifles over their backs once more and stood at ease. Prosser surmised from the body language of the leader as he talked to his erstwhile captive that he was offering the man an apology. The leader pulled a pen and notepad from the cargo pocket of his fatigue pants and handed them to the driver, who wrote something on the pad before returning it.