Dynamite Fishermen (Beriut Trilogy 1)

by Fleming, Preston

  His smile faded. “Unfortunately, their little caper will probably cost us quite a few bad visas over the next few weeks. Favors from the Syrians don’t come cheap, and you never know when we might need their help again.”

  “What’d I tell you, Harry? Being a hero is no bed of roses.”

  Harry paused before he made his reply. “Con,” he began, “I need to ask you something. If you can’t say anything, just tell me and I’ll forget about it, okay?”

  Prosser nodded.

  “I’ve heard there’s been some kind of a terrorist threat against the embassy. Is it true?”

  “That depends on what story you heard.”

  “The one I heard is that somebody is going to drop off a car bomb outside the embassy or at one of the buildings where we live. And that the ambassador is doing his best to keep the whole thing under wraps.”

  “Where did you hear it?”

  Harry hesitated. “I’d really rather not say. Can’t you just tell me whether there’s any truth to it and leave it at that?” As the vice consul spoke, his right hand fidgeted with the combination lock of the Samsonite briefcase in his lap.

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.” Prosser held his gaze and waited.

  “All right. I got it from my boss, who says he heard it straight from the ambassador. So tell me, is there anything to it? All this shit with the car bombs is giving me the creeps.”

  Prosser said nothing, so Harry spoke to fill the silence. “I suppose you’ve already heard that last night some asshole fired another rocket at the embassy. That makes the third one this year.”

  “Let them fire away. They nearly always miss.”

  “They won’t miss if they start using car bombs. Is that what we’re in for from now on?”

  Prosser shrugged. “I wish I knew. We get reports just about every week about some operation that one group or another is planning against the embassy. Hardly any of them ever amounts to anything, but we report them. That way if an attack ever comes, the Agency will be able to say it gave everybody plenty of warning. You know the drill.”

  “I can see how you don’t want to spread panic, Con, but somehow it doesn’t seem right that the rest of us never hear about these things. I mean, shouldn’t the embassy staff at least be put on some kind of alert?”

  “What good would an alert do? We’re in Beirut, for God’s sake. It goes without saying that there are people here who hate our guts and mean to do us harm.”

  “Then couldn’t the embassy hire more guards or put out more sandbags or vehicle barriers or something? There must be something they can do.”

  “I suppose there might be, if there were money for it in the budget. But let’s face it, Harry. If terrorists in this town are truly serious about hitting Americans, their first punch is probably going to take us by surprise no matter what we do. Even if we cut the size of the mission by half and kept everybody indoors, we’d still be vulnerable.”

  “All of which makes me feel like a tethered goat...”

  “Well, there you are. So are the rest of us. The trick is to stay in the middle of the herd so that the wolves will pick on some other poor goat who’s more exposed.”

  Prosser tilted back his chair again and clasped his hands behind his head. “Now that you bring it up, though, Harry,” he continued in an offhand tone of voice, “if I were you, I might think about keeping a slightly lower profile. An awful lot of people in this town know you. It seems to me that lately you might be living too close to the edge of the herd.”

  “Thanks a load,” Harry answered, resenting his friend’s flippant attitude. “You seem to have it all worked out, don’t you?”

  Suddenly the windows shook again, this time with a monstrous roar that sounded as if a jet engine had been turned to full thrust just outside the embassy gates. The roar abated and then repeated itself a second, third, and fourth time. The two men raced onto the balcony in time to see the last four of eight 140-millimeter Katyusha rockets streak out over the Bay of Beirut from truck-mounted canisters parked a couple hundred meters away near the Cadmos Hotel.

  When the roar subsided, they could hear the muffled explosions of heavy artillery once again in the former commercial district. Harry scanned the length of the deserted Corniche boulevard and then stepped back from the railing.

  “I don’t think it’s very bright of us to be standing out here, Con.”

  “Hold on…I think they’re bringing up a second load of rockets,” Prosser replied excitedly, his attention glued to the square of pavement in front of the Artisanat, now the home of a Murabitoun infantry company.

  “No, you hold on. I’ll watch from inside.”

  Harry sat in a leather armchair leafing distractedly through a back issue of Monday Morning when Prosser joined him a few moments later.

  “The second truck was just a troop carrier,” he reported as he closed the glass door behind him. “It looks like they decided to move the launcher before the next salvo so that the Phalange’s counter-battery fire won’t know where to find them. Smart move.”

  “Listen, Con, I really have to go,” Harry said distractedly as he rose from the armchair. “We closed the consular section down a half hour ago, and there’s really no purpose in my staying here. But before I go I wanted to give you the dope on those names you asked me about last night.” He took an envelope from his briefcase and laid it on the coffee table.

  Prosser scooped it up eagerly. “Thanks, Harry. I appreciate your having stayed behind to get this done.” He opened the envelope and leafed through the visa application of Rami Khalid al Karameh. Looking closely at the photo on the reverse side of the application, he was certain it was the driver of the silver Volvo he had seen parked outside the Hala Building on Wednesday morning.

  “How about al Ghawshah and Zuhayri?” Prosser asked.

  “We have nothing on file for them. But that doesn’t mean much, because we generally only keep records on visa applicants when an application is refused. If Zuhayri ever applied for a U.S. visa, we probably would have given him one. He’s more qualified than ninety-nine percent of the applicants we see.”

  “Do you think he ever applied?”

  “I would guess not. Layla says he’s never been west of London. That was the main reason why she wanted to go to the States in the first place. Zuhayri wasn’t likely to hound her over there.”

  “Hound her? I thought you said everything was over between her and Zuhayri?”

  “It is. But Zuhayri’s the possessive type. When Layla broke up with him, she was afraid he wouldn’t give her a minute of peace unless she left the country. By her description, he gets obsessed with a woman and won’t let go.”

  “And you’re saying that since she came back, he has left her alone?”

  “That’s what she tells me. She says he has the hots for somebody else now.” He paused and an unkind smirk drifted across his face. “As a matter of fact, I believe it’s somebody you know.”

  “Hooray,” Prosser said with a blank face. “Go ahead, tell me anyway.”

  “It’s Ulla,” Harry answered, looking Prosser directly in the eye.

  Prosser felt the blood rush to his cheeks.

  “Don’t act so surprised,” Harry went on. “You could have seen it from a mile away, the way Zuhayri followed her around at the party that Layla brought him to.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Prosser answered, doing his best to remain cool. “Ulla has known Zuhayri for years; he’s a friend of her ex-husband. He’s always had a hard-on for her, even when she was married, but she would never give him the time of day.”

  “Sure, if you say so, Con. I’m just repeating what Layla told me; I thought that was what you wanted.”

  The irony in Harry’s voice irritated Prosser. “It is,” he replied. “And if she has anything else to say about Zuhayri, I expect you to pass it along.”

  “I’ll make sure to ask her when she comes over for dinner tonight—since I assume that means the Agency no
longer has any objection to my seeing her...”

  At that moment another crash shook the windows. Prosser turned around just in time to see a column of water rising a few meters offshore from the Artisanat.

  “That does it. I’m getting out of here,” Harry declared as he picked up his briefcase. “I take it you’re staying for the duration?”

  “Until Ed comes back, most likely.”

  As Harry started toward the door, Prosser returned to his desk and began to straighten the mass of books and papers heaped in front of him when the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver.

  “Sergeant Rocco again, sir. We’re looking for Mr. Landers. Is he with you?”

  “He’s right here. Would you like to talk to him?”

  “No, just tell him he’s got to move his car pronto. We’ve got some armor moving in to stand guard around the embassy, and they want the curbs cleared fast.”

  As Prosser relayed the message, he noticed Harry give him a searching glance, as if there were something he could not yet comprehend.

  “I don’t get it, Con,” Harry said. “None of this bothers you in the least, does it?”

  “None of what?”

  “The fighting, the decline, the hopelessness. It just doesn’t get under your skin, does it?”

  “I suppose I could let it,” Prosser replied. “Are you implying I should?”

  “Doesn’t it ever worry you that you might succeed so well in numbing yourself to what’s going on around you that someday you might not be able to feel anything at all?”

  Prosser looked out over the shimmering waters of the Mediterranean and the cloudless blue sky above it; then he met Harry’s gaze head-on.

  “Not in the least,” he replied. “God help me, Harry, but I’ve never felt more alive in my entire life.”

  Chapter 29

  Prosser poked his head through the half-open door to Ed Pirelli’s office. “Would you know what a B-10 antitank weapon is, by any chance?”

  “It’s the Soviet 82-millimeter recoilless rifle, isn’t it?” Pirelli replied without raising his eyes from his typewriter.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Prosser answered. “But what about a B-11?”

  “B-11? Damned if I know. Isn’t it listed in Jane’s?” Prosser and Pirelli each kept a copy of the latest edition of the Jane’s Defence Weekly reference books on armor and infantry weapons for help in answering such questions.

  “Not that I can see. Maybe B-11 is a street name.”

  “Then try looking under the next largest caliber after the B-10 and see what street names are listed. Or, better yet, call Colonel Ross.”

  “I’ve already done both. The colonel isn’t back yet.”

  “Do you need it right away?”

  “No. But I have six pages of documents here on the PLO order of battle in South Lebanon, and there are already half a dozen weapons on the first page that I’ve never heard of.”

  The phone rang. “Economic Section,” Pirelli answered as he picked up the receiver. “Did you try his office? Okay. Wait a second and I’ll check.” He held his hand over the receiver. “It’s for you,” he told Prosser in a low voice; then he uncovered the receiver and spoke again. “You’re in luck, Sergeant. Connie happens to be coming down the hall from the political section. I’ll flag him down for you.”

  Prosser went out into the receptionist’s area and took the call at her empty desk.

  “Mr. Prosser? Sergeant Kuehner here, at Post One. There’s a woman here to see you, sir. She says you’re supposed to take her to lunch. Would you like to speak to her, or should I give her a message?”

  “Oh, my God, it’s already one thirty,” he muttered as he looked at his watch. “Tell her I’ll be right down.”

  He returned to his office, gathered up the loose papers from his desk, and shoved them into an oversized manila envelope before collecting his jacket and returning to Pirelli’s office.

  “Would you mind doing me a favor, Ed? I’ve got a couple errands to do before my meetings tonight. Would you mind locking my papers up with yours when you leave?”

  “Sure, put them on the table. I’ll leave them in the bottom drawer of the safe upstairs in case you need them later.”

  “Thanks,” Prosser answered as he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

  He raced down the four flights of steps and made a beeline for the bulletproof glass barrier that separated the chancery from the outer reception area. Through the door’s thick Lexan window he saw Rima sitting at the back of the waiting room, leafing idly through a glossy French fashion magazine. She was dressed in pleated slacks and a red silk blouse, her hair fastened in a ponytail behind her head. Seated to the left of her were two briefcase-carrying Maronite monks in cowled robes, speaking to each other in low voices.

  Prosser pushed the exit lever, but the door would not budge. He leaned against it and jostled it repeatedly; then he retreated two steps and rapped on the marine guard booth for help. “Would you mind releasing the door, Sergeant?”

  “Sorry about that,” the husky marine replied through a microphone as he reached for the button. “Say, Mr. Prosser, that wouldn’t be your girl, would it?”

  “Actually, it would.”

  The guard gave a low whistle. “Foxy. Now I see why you haven’t been coming around to the Marine House bar after work these days. Why don’t you bring her along some night?”

  “I tried, Sergeant, but she won’t come. She says you guys are too wild.”

  The marine laughed. “She calls us wild, and she’s going out with you?”

  Prosser shrugged and grinned back as he reached for the door. This time it opened.

  Upon seeing Prosser enter the room, Rima stuffed the magazine into her handbag and rose to kiss him on both cheeks.

  “Sorry for being late,” he said. “I got so carried away with what I was doing that I lost track of the time. Where would you like to go for lunch?”

  “Anywhere you would like, batta.”

  “How about one of the fish restaurants along the beach south of the city? I have a craving for those tiny fish they serve whole, the crispy fried ones—what do you call them?”

  “Sultan brahim?”

  “Yes, a platter of sultan brahim and plenty of cold beer to wash it down. And a small mezzé to start.”

  “Then we should go to Alcazar,” Rima suggested. “The fish there is excellent, and you might find the owner an interesting personality. His son Jihad did his military training with Husayn, and both father and son are still active in Husayn’s old organization.”

  “I’d love to meet them. You can tell me all about them on the way over.”

  Rima slung her handbag over her shoulder, put her hand gently through Prosser’s arm, and followed him out the door.

  Despite his tardiness, he felt the afternoon was off to a promising start. As she had shown him so many times before, Rima knew and understood more about a whole array of things than he had ever expected. He had underestimated her, to be sure. But he was not yet certain whether that was good or bad or, in either case, what to do about it.

  * * *

  Theirs was the last car across the Corniche el Mazraa before the traffic policeman signaled the opposing traffic to proceed. The Renault followed the high brick wall of the Soviet embassy compound for a block and then veered left toward the Bir Hasan refugee camp.

  “Isn’t there a better way to go than through Pepsi Cola Circle?” Prosser asked upon spotting the congested road ahead.

  “Perhaps, but it is safer to remain on the main road while we pass through this area. Patience, batta—the crowds will soon be behind us.”

  As they advanced, movement on the four-lane road slowly ground to a halt, hemming in the Renault on all sides.

  “Well, it’s too late to turn back now,” he said, resigning himself to an extended wait.

  They inched forward at the rate of one or two car lengths per minute. To their right a trio of small boys lined up along the curb hawking f
eather dusters, boxes of tissues, and lottery tickets. As one of them approached Rima’s window, she closed it. Within moments the ten-year-old had circled around to the driver’s window and held up a straw basket of prickly pears for Prosser’s inspection. Contrary to his usual practice, Prosser lowered the window and looked them over.

  “How many kilos do you have?” he asked the boy.

  “Three, maybe four,” the child replied.

  “How much for a kilo?”

  “Eight lira,” the boy blurted out, as if it demanded extra force of will to demand such an exorbitant price.

  “I think somebody must have told him to triple his prices for foreigners,” Rima said in English.

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” Prosser told the boy. “You must mean eighty piastres, not eight lira. Listen, I’ll give you five lira for the whole lot of them.”

  The boy lowered his basket to waist level and shook his head. “Not enough,” he insisted. “My tiin showki are very sweet, worth ten lira the kilo. But for you I give special price: everything for twenty-five lira.” The boy held them up once again.

  “Batta, I have never once seen you eat tiin showki,” Rima chided. “Why would you wish to buy four kilos of them?”

  “I’ll make juice out of them if I can get them cheap enough. Hang on, let’s see how low he’s willing to go.”

  He put the Renault into gear and inched forward with the line of cars, keeping the boy in his peripheral vision as he went. The child kept pace and stopped when the car stopped.

  “Listen, habibi, I’d really like to help you, but even the best tiin showki aren’t worth more than two lira a kilo. I’ll give you ten lira for all you’ve got, and not a piastre more.”

  The cars moved forward another five meters, and Prosser followed suit without looking to see whether the boy followed. He did. “Twenty,” the boy insisted.

  Prosser pulled his money clip out of his jacket pocket and peeled off a ten-lira note. “Here, take it,” he said. “It’s my last word.”

  The line of vehicles advanced, but he kept the sedan in neutral while he watched the boy’s dust-smeared face.