Dynamite Fishermen (Beriut Trilogy 1)

by Fleming, Preston

  “I guess we pass inspection,” Prosser observed as he and Rima stepped past them into near-total darkness. His attention was immediately drawn to a smoky glow at the foot of a long descending staircase. From below he could hear the muffled voice of Julio Iglésiàs singing “J’ai besoin de toi.”

  Prosser followed Rima down the stairs and emerged onto a densely packed dance floor, behind which loomed a vast mirrored bar and on either side of it a handful of tables with stools. The decor was chrome, glass, and lacquer and was indistinguishable from that of the latest discotheques in Paris or Rome.

  Prosser looked into the faces of the comely and expensively dressed young Lebanese women and men on the dance floor without recognizing a single one. Few foreigners were among them, only a trio of blondes whom he guessed to be Middle East Airlines air hostesses. Rima squeezed his hand and smiled, pleased that she had shown him a nightspot that he had not already found for himself.

  Suddenly she tugged at his arm and pointed toward the left end of the bar, where a slender young man in white trousers and a loose-fitting black linen jacket sat on a bar stool with his back to them, one foot encased in a neon-green plaster cast up to the knee.

  Husayn al Fayyad noticed his sister in the mirror long before she reached him and climbed down from his stool to meet her at the edge of the dance floor.

  “Something told me I might find you here,” Rima said as she embraced her brother and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “Something or someone?” he replied, still smiling but looking now at Prosser.

  The two men shook hands.

  “Masaa’ al khair, Husayn. “How have you been?”

  “Maashi al haal,” he replied indifferently. “And you?” The coolness in Husayn’s response caught Prosser off guard.

  “Oh, I’ve been fine, Husayn. Not much has changed since I saw you last. But it’s been far too long. I’m sorry you couldn’t join us for dinner. Harry Landers was with us, you know.”

  “Yes, Rima passed along your kind invitation. Unfortunately, I was already under an obligation. Which restaurant did you choose?”

  “Chez Jean-Paul. His shellfish are beyond compare.”

  Husayn raised an eyebrow. “Jean-Paul? Is he still in business after all these years? Then you must have eaten very well indeed. I should like to dine there once myself before I leave Beirut.”

  “You make it sound as if you’re ready to take the next plane out.”

  “I have already stayed too long. If I delay any longer, there may be no position for me at the factory when I return.”

  Prosser glanced at Rima, who stood at her brother’s side attempting to hide her uneasiness. “Husayn is leaving Monday,” she announced. “It is settled.”

  “That is our goal, of course,” her brother corrected her. “We shall see if everything can be arranged by then.”

  She looked away from him as if to stifle an angry rejoinder.

  At that moment Prosser caught sight of Harry and Layla across the dance floor and waved to attract Harry’s attention. “The stragglers have arrived. You two stay here, and I’ll bring them over,” Prosser volunteered.

  “No, I will get them,” Rima insisted, casting a disapproving look at her brother. “It will keep us from quarreling again.” Then she set off across the dance floor.

  Prosser put his hand on Husayn’s shoulder and insisted on buying the first round of drinks. Husayn climbed back on his bar stool and took a long pull on his scotch and water.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t get to know each other better over the past couple months,” Prosser began after giving the bartender his order. “I had hoped we might have more opportunities to talk.”

  “You were generous to invite me so many times to join you and my sister. Please excuse my many absences, but I think you understand how much time and effort it has required of me to settle my father’s affairs.”

  “Of course, Husayn. I’m just happy for you and Rima that you finally seem to have finished. Does that mean you were able to collect the debts that Zuhayri and the others owed you?”

  Husayn took another sip of whiskey before answering. “Zuhayri still refuses to pay. I have tried nearly everything in my power to bring him to account. Tomorrow I will play my last card. If it fails, I return to Germany on Monday.”

  “And what card might that be?”

  “I once knew a man who is now close to Zuhayri. I think I have something he desires very much.”

  “And is the man willing to deal?”

  “I do not know. I have not spoken to him in nearly five years.”

  “Then what makes you think he’ll help you?”

  “Because he has wanted something from me for a very long time. Once he even tried to kill me for it.”

  Prosser nodded respectfully. “Rima told me about your experiences during the events. You’re talking about Jamal al Ghawshah, aren’t you?”

  Husayn did not have to respond. Prosser could see in his eyes that his guess was correct.

  “It so happens that I am also very interested in Major Jamal—or Colonel Hisham, as he calls himself these days,” Prosser said. “We might be in a position to help each other.”

  The Lebanese scooped up a handful of almonds from the dish next to his drink and pondered the offer as if he had expected it to be made. “What would you want from me?” he asked.

  “Information.”

  “And what do you offer in return?”

  “Name what you want. I’ll do my best.”

  “The only thing I want is to collect my father’s debts and to leave this useless country. Do you think you can arrange it?” he asked with a bitter smile.

  But before Prosser could respond, Rima emerged from across the dance floor with Harry and Layla in tow.

  “There he is!” the vice consul greeted Husayn boisterously. “Where have you been keeping yourself, Husayn? I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”

  They shook hands and then Harry introduced him to Layla. Meanwhile, Prosser called the bartender and ordered a round of drinks for the newcomers. As he did, Layla launched into a conversation in Arabic with Husayn. Prosser despaired of getting him alone again to speak. But when one of Rima’s legion of male acquaintances asked her to dance, Prosser seized the initiative and suggested quietly to Harry that he and Layla disappear for a few minutes. Accustomed to Prosser’s occasional lapses of etiquette when transacting government business, Harry grabbed Layla’s hand and set out with her for the center of the dance floor.

  “Listen, Husayn,” Prosser began again when the two men were left alone. “We don’t have much time to talk, so I’m going to lay it right out for you. I want to ask a favor from you. I can’t even tell you why I’m asking, only that it won’t involve doing much beyond what you’re already planning to do. Where is the meeting tomorrow going to be?”

  Husayn sat with eyes lowered for what seemed like an eternity before he abruptly raised his head and emptied the rest of his drink. “In his office in the Bekaa. Near Shtaura.”

  “Does he know you’re coming?”

  Husayn nodded. “I arranged it through a mutual friend.”

  “What reason did you give for wanting to see him?”

  “I said I had an offer to make to him. It concerns a personal matter between the two of us. If you know about Jamal and me, then Rima must have told you about what happened during the capture of the Holiday Inn.”

  “She told me about the prisoners on the roof.”

  “That is only part of the story,” Husayn continued. “What Rima does not know is that throughout the Battle of the Hotels, while I was assigned to assist Major Jamal, as we called him then, he hid from the battle while I issued orders in his name. For nearly two days Jamal cowered alone in a cellar, paralyzed with fear. Finally, on the last night of the fighting, after our men had cleared a path up to the roof, I went to his hiding place to persuade him to come out and give the appearance, at least, that he had led his troops bravely in battle. Jamal refu
sed, and in the end I had to drag him out and force him up the first few flights at the point of my bayonet.

  “Once we reached the roof, I left him there to gather his wits while I went back down to join those who were liquidating the last pockets of resistance on the upper floors. When I returned to the roof and saw what Jamal had done to the prisoners, I was so disgusted that I could barely control myself. Later that night I paid a visit to a Fatah brigadier and reported the torture of the Phalangist boys, still mentioning nothing of Jamal’s previous cowardice and how I had covered it up.

  “Within a few days Jamal tried to recruit two of my own men to kill me. They refused and reported the matter to me at once. I went to stay with my parents in Tripoli until matters could be set right, but within days there was an attempt on my life in the Tripoli souk. I realized then that it was only a matter of time before he tried again, so I took the next ferry to Larnaca and from there flew to Germany. A few weeks later Jamal was relieved of his command and forced to resign from Fatah. Some time after, I heard that he joined Saiqa and began working for the Syrians. But I doubt that even the Syrians know their Colonel Hisham for the coward that he is.”

  “Does he realize that you’ve kept silent all this time about his hiding from battle?” Prosser asked.

  “I expect so. But he still hates me for having forced him out of Fatah and probably fears that someday I will humiliate him before the Syrians by revealing his secret. It is for that reason that I propose to offer him my silence in exchange for his influence over Zuhayri.”

  Husayn examined Prosser’s reaction carefully.

  “I don’t know, Husayn,” Prosser answered cautiously. “If all he wants is to keep your mouth shut, I would think it might be easier for him to kill you and be done with it.”

  “Perhaps so. But I believe there is something else he desires from me even more: my respect. Do not forget, Conrad, he and I were once very close. If he feels he has regained my comradeship, perhaps it may be possible for him to respect himself.” Husayn saw the skeptical expression on Prosser’s face and lowered his eyes. “But I see that you think me foolish for taking such a generous view of him.”

  “Foolish is too kind a word, Husayn. Colonel Hisham is a killer. Self-respect is the last thing on his mind.”

  “He has killed. But so have many others who took part in the Events. And for those of us who cannot easily forget what we did, self-respect and the respect of our comrades is a precious thing. I cannot believe Jamal has so easily forgotten what happened between us five years ago.”

  Prosser said no more but did not attempt to conceal his disbelief.

  “I see you take a different view,” Husayn continued, “but my decision is made. Jamal expects me tomorrow, and I will see him. As for your favor, tell me what you want, and I will tell you whether I am able to comply.”

  “I want the precise locations of the buildings where Colonel Hisham lives and works. Wherever it is that he takes you—his office, his house, his garage, whatever—I want you to remember exactly what it looks like from the inside and outside and to pinpoint its location for me on a map. If you can make a sketch or two, so much the better. What do you say, Husayn? Can you handle it?”

  Husayn met Prosser’s gaze and held it. “You are asking me to betray him.”

  “You don’t owe a duty to cover up for him anymore, Husayn. And besides, if you’re meeting him at his usual place of business, it can hardly be so great a secret.”

  “And it’s also no secret what you will do with the information.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Husayn. We’re not going to send a gunman there to shoot him, if that’s what concerns you. We just want to know what he’s doing. And if you help me, I promise I won’t do anything at all with the information until after you leave for Germany on Monday. How about it? Will you make the map and sketches? I will do any reasonable favor in return. For you or for Rima.”

  Husayn looked across the dance floor at Rima dancing the twist with the friend who had taken her onto the dance floor. He turned to face Prosser. “When I return tomorrow, you will have the map and the sketches,” he said. “Once I leave Lebanon, use them in any manner you think best.”

  Without thinking, Prosser reached for Husayn’s hand to shake it, then quickly thought better of it. Each man reached for his drink. Husayn’s long fingers trembled as they raised the last swallows of diluted whiskey to his lips. A tense silence followed.

  “What time are you meeting him?” Prosser asked at last.

  “Early in the morning. I expect to be back by late afternoon.”

  “The minute you get back, call me at my home number. When I pick up the phone, ask in Arabic for Samir Sabbagh. I’ll reply in Arabic that nobody by that name lives here. Fifteen minutes later I’ll pick you up in a gray Renault in front of the Cinema Versailles on rue Tannoukhiyine. Do you still have my home number?”

  “Yes. I have the card you gave me.”

  “Write down the number somewhere else, disguised as a bank account or an address or something, and throw out the card. And if you can’t call me by tomorrow night, call on Friday or as soon as you’re free.”

  “Will you...” The music stopped and Husayn looked up to find Harry and Layla making their way through the crowd toward him. Husayn signaled to Prosser with his eyes that he had no more to say and summoned the bartender to ring up his tab.

  A few moments later, Rima deserted her dance partner to rejoin Prosser and the others. “Are you never going to ask me to dance?” she inquired of Prosser with a stage pout as she picked up her nearly untouched Campari soda.

  Prosser laughed. “I guess I’d better, before someone else makes off with you.”

  The disc jockey selected a slow-moving Joe Dassin ballad and dimmed the lights. Out of the corner of his eye, Prosser watched Layla slip her arm affectionately around Harry’s waist as he led her back onto the dance floor.

  “Did you have a good talk with my brother?” Rima asked a moment later.

  “Yes, but I’m afraid I wasn’t able to help him very much. He had some legal questions that I had no idea how to answer. I told him to ask Harry.”

  “Did he say anything else about his plans to leave Lebanon?”

  “Nothing special. Monday still seems to be the big day.”

  She said nothing further. Prosser let his attention wander from face to face among the dancing couples.

  He was beginning to wonder exactly how late it had become when he spotted a familiar figure by the bar across the room. The figure was leaning over to whisper in the ear of a beautiful young woman seated at the bar. No, he thought, he must be mistaken. It couldn’t be Ed Pirelli. Ed was married and had two kids. The man’s lips drew back from the woman’s ear and moved down to nuzzle the base of her neck. She giggled and twisted free long enough for Prosser to see her full face. It was the dark-eyed young consular secretary who recently had been assigned to Harry’s visa section. If he hadn’t seen them with his own eyes, he would never have believed it.

  * * *

  Soon afterward Prosser and Rima left the Hamra Cellar, returned to the parked Renault, and headed slowly down the ill-lit alley toward rue Hamra. It was shortly past midnight, and every street they took through West Beirut’s main shopping district was deserted. As they approached the Saudi embassy on rue Bliss, they noticed that even the second-floor discotheque of the Hotel Concorde, usually open well past this hour, was dark.

  A driverless taxi parked outside the hotel with its motor running blocked the narrow entrance to rue Maislin and their access to the Hala Building. Prosser brought the Renault to a stop a few meters behind the taxi, but its driver was nowhere in sight. “To hell with the driver,” he grumbled after waiting for only a few seconds. “Let’s go back down to the Corniche and circle back up rue Henry Ford. We can park by the Saudi embassy and walk the rest of the way.”

  “D’accord,” Rima replied dreamily.

  They accelerated around the stalled taxi past the row of l
ow apartment buildings and villas that separated the Concorde Hotel from the Minara lighthouse and then rounded the bend where rue Bliss began its winding descent toward the sea. Below them was the Renaissance Tennis Club, home of the Red Fursan.

  From the moment Prosser noticed that the first sandbagged sentry post at the top of the hill was vacant, his suspicions were aroused. He tapped the brakes and downshifted. As he rounded the next bend, he spotted two Volvo sedans parked end to end across the road in a makeshift barricade some 120 meters ahead. The cars were flanked on either end by four men in civilian clothes carrying folding-stock assault rifles. When they saw the Renault coming, they raised their rifles.

  “Put your head down and hold on,” Prosser snapped. Rima hesitated, then lowered her head to her knees. Prosser braked sharply. Because the road had begun its downhill grade, the car seemed to take twice as long to stop as it should have. He cursed himself for not having slammed on the brakes the instant he saw the first empty sentry post.

  “What do you see?” Rima asked with alarm, her head still below the level of the dashboard.

  “Stay down,” he hissed.

  As soon as the Renault came to a halt, Prosser yanked the gearshift into reverse and accelerated backward up the hill, burning rubber much of the way. Over the roar of the engine and the screech of the tires, he heard the half-muffled pops of rifle fire behind him and the sharp cracks of bullets passing low overhead, but they all sounded faint and distant as if they were merely part of the familiar nightly action in the commercial district. With his left hand he gripped the steering wheel and with his right the edge of Rima’s seat, craning his torso and neck around to steer the car backward around the bend.

  As soon as the Renault was around the bend and out of the line of fire, Prosser disengaged the clutch and pulled the steering wheel around sharply to bring the car’s rear end skidding across the road with the front end pointed uphill. The instant the change of direction was complete, he shifted into first gear and shot back up rue Bliss with another screech of burning rubber. He didn’t slow down until they passed the Saudi embassy, where he turned left under the silent gaze of the contract guards lounging on the embassy’s front steps. The driverless taxi that had blocked access to rue Maislin a minute or two before was gone.