Dynamite Fishermen (Beriut Trilogy 1)

by Fleming, Preston

  Prosser swallowed hard. “Actually, I talked to him last night,” he said. “He was supposed to get back in touch today or tomorrow. I’ll let you know when I hear from him.”

  “Good work. And one more thing. You’ll be seeing Abu Ramzi tonight, won’t you?”

  “At nine,” Prosser answered.

  “Then tell him to drop everything and find out where Colonel Hisham is and what he’s planning to do with those explosives. Set another meeting with him for Sunday. If we don’t come up with something by then, it’s my bet that the ambassador will either ask the Lebanese to lay on more security around the embassy, or he’ll start reducing the staff—maybe both. We’ve got to move quickly on this.”

  “Terrific,” Prosser grumbled. “Once they put sandbags and armor out front, everybody and his uncle will know we’re expecting an attack. How long do you suppose it will take for the Syrians to figure out that they’ve got a leak? Abu Ramzi will go ballistic.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Con, but it’s the ambassador’s call. Our job is to collect the information. It’s his to use it.”

  Pirelli consolidated the individual stacks of cables on the desk into a single pile; then he rose from his chair and carried the pile over to his safe. He twirled the dial of the combination lock as Prosser passed behind him.

  “If I get anything urgent from Abu Ramzi tonight, do you want me to drop by your apartment?”

  “Yes, why don’t you,” the station chief agreed. “What time will you finish?”

  “Probably not later than ten.”

  “Fine,” Pirelli replied. “I’ll be home till about ten thirty. After that I’ll be going out for an hour or two. Drop by before I leave if it looks like it can’t wait.”

  “If the meeting lasts till after ten thirty, where will I be able to reach you?”

  “That might be difficult. It’s some sort of club. I don’t even know if they have a phone.”

  “I’ll come find you there,” Prosser volunteered. “Which club is it?”

  “It’s not one of the main ones. You probably wouldn’t know it.”

  “Try me,” Prosser persisted.

  “The Hamra Cellar, on rue Makdissi,” he answered.

  Prosser smiled. “Actually I was there last night. I spotted you on the dance floor as I was leaving.”

  “You did?” Pirelli raised a suspicious eyebrow.

  “Yeah, and she was some dish, Ed.”

  Chapter 31

  Prosser prayed Ulla would not be at home, although he knew she seldom went out in the evening now that she was on her own again. As he drove along the bluff past the Bain Militaire toward Raouché, he tried to predict what she would say upon seeing him at her door. Would she refuse to let him in? Or listen in cold silence? Or embrace him, thinking he had come back to be her lover?

  It had been nearly six months since he had last visited Ulla. That night, on the eve of his departure for a three-week trip to Washington, he had given her no reason to expect that their affair was at an end. Instead, on his return, he simply failed to call or visit her or to take her calls until she came to understand that he no longer wanted to see her. He had justified such cold-blooded treatment by persuading himself that it would be easier for her to be angry with him, to blame him, and to deliberately drive him out of her thoughts than for him to tell her that their affair had simply run its course, he was no longer attracted to her, and that he wanted to move on.

  At first he was relieved that his plan seemed to have worked, but over time he felt growing shame at having lacked the courage to face her. Tonight he was to have another chance, and he wondered if he would do a better job of it.

  He pressed the buzzer and knocked three times on the door. From inside he heard the opening movement of a Brahms symphony and then the stentorian voice of a BBC World Service announcer. A moment later the door opened and they stood opposite each other. She was barefoot and wore faded jeans and a loose-fitting T-shirt without a bra, her long tawny hair pinned behind her head in the style she wore every day to the office. Her initial reaction at seeing him was open-mouthed surprise, but slowly a hopeful smile spread across her face and she opened the door to let him in. They stood in the vestibule at arm’s length from one other.

  “I knew you would come back one day,” she said softly.

  Prosser smiled back at her clumsily without knowing what to say. After an awkward pause, he put on a casual air and returned her greeting as if she were an old acquaintance. “Thanks, Ulla. Please excuse me for not phoning first. Am I interrupting anything?”

  She took his hand, stood on her tiptoes to give him a light kiss on the cheek, and led him with an air of controlled excitement into the living room. She still looked and behaved like a shy and ungainly schoolgirl. Wrinkles or no, she will never grow old on the inside, he thought.

  Without releasing his hand, she sat on the sofa next to him and tucked her feet beneath her. He squeezed her hand tenderly before withdrawing his own to reach into his trouser pocket. He brought out a key.

  “I came to return this,” he said.

  Her smile faded when she saw the key to her apartment. Prosser thought he saw the gleam of tears welling in her eyes. She watched him expectantly and waited for him to continue.

  “I wanted to explain why I stopped coming to see you…and to apologize,” he said.

  Her eyes took on a hurt expression, but there was no anger in them.

  “At the time, I thought it would be the easiest thing for both of us, but now I can see that it was just easier for me.”

  “Why?” she interrupted. “Why did you not call me when you returned from your holiday? I missed you terribly all the while you were away. When I learned that you returned and did not come to me...” Her eyes brimmed with tears.

  “I wanted you to forget about me, Ulla. The longer we stayed together, the more difficult it would have been to break up.”

  “But why did you never say what you intended? Why was there no talk of parting? I thought—” She lowered her eyes and voice became barely audible. “I thought you were happy.”

  “I was, Ulla. But where would it have led? The time would have come for me to be reassigned, and nothing would have been resolved for either of us. In the end we both would have been alone and unhappy.”

  “Just as I am now,” she said, looking across the room with her jaw set.

  “Except that another year would have gone by,” Prosser offered.

  “It would have been a good year,” she replied. “I know I could have satisfied you.”

  “Ulla, you’ve told me a hundred times that you intend to leave Beirut and go back to Sweden. What are you waiting for? Why don’t you just pick up and go?”

  “But I don’t want to go to Sweden,” she answered without hesitation. “I want to go where you are going.”

  He was taken aback by her directness and could not bring himself to meet her gaze. “It’s just not possible. I was sent here because I’m single. The next place they send me will probably be the same.”

  “But others in your embassy have brought their wives here.”

  “And the ambassador has sent them home twice for security reasons, which is where they are now. Besides, Ulla, my situation is not like theirs.”

  “You could arrange it if you wanted, Conrad. I know you could if you tried.” But she seemed resigned now to his refusal and spoke without conviction.

  He let out a sigh of vexation, began to speak, and then stopped short. “The point is…I don’t want to get married. I like the life I have now.”

  “I know you do,” she replied with an unexpected calm. “But it will not last. Then you will need someone, just as I do.”

  “I’m sorry, Ulla. I would never have started anything between us if I had thought it would end up hurting you.”

  “Do not be sorry,” she replied. “I still want you as much as before, but I can accept now that I cannot have you. My happiness will be to remember that I had you for a time. B
efore you came today, I was sad to have lost you, but now I am not so sad.”

  She looked at him with glistening eyes and rose to her feet with a new kind of grace. “I will make coffee,” she declared.

  Prosser followed her with his eyes. As soon as she disappeared into the kitchen, he stood up and strode to the window. The sun had already retreated behind the row of buildings opposite him, plunging Ulla’s third-floor apartment into shadow, though broad stripes of golden light still shot through gaps between the apartment blocks, painting diagonal lines across the narrow street and up the front of the building where he stood. He remembered seeing the same pattern many times from this window. Yes, he had been happy then.

  After a few minutes Ulla returned with a coffee tray and set it down before taking her place beside him on the sofa.

  “So what will you do, Ulla?” he asked her when she had poured two cups. “Are you planning to leave Lebanon or will you stay?”

  “I cannot make up my mind,” she replied. “My older boy, Hasan, will be ready to enter university a year from now, and I am trying to convince his father to let him study in Sweden. If he agrees, perhaps he would also permit Kamal to finish secondary school in Stockholm, where my mother lives. Kamal’s Swedish and English are not as good as they might be, but he is a bright boy. It would not be so difficult for him there after the first few months.”

  “Do you think their father will agree? Wasn’t he against their studying abroad when you raised the issue before?”

  “He was, but I believe Ziyad has at last become troubled by the worsening security conditions,” she replied. “More than ever, he fears that if the Shiite extremists dominate West Beirut, they will deal harshly with the wealthy Sunni families. His sister told me that he has already begun to sell some of his family’s real estate and has put the money abroad. Also, the boys are nearing the age of conscription. That concerns him most of all.”

  “It would be a wise move to get the boys out of the country, Ulla. If war breaks out, the militias would never leave them alone.”

  “What do you expect to happen, Conrad? I have heard that the American embassy is preparing to close or move to East Beirut. Is that so?”

  Prosser laughed. “That rumor has been around for years. If the civil war couldn’t shake us loose from our old firetrap of a building, I can’t imagine what will. Besides, Ras Beirut has always been the safest area in town. That’s not likely to change overnight.”

  “And you?” she inquired. “When will you leave Lebanon?”

  “My tour of duty is over next June. I may have to stay a few months longer, but I’m not one to crowd my luck, with all the car bombings and the talk of an Israeli invasion.”

  Ulla nodded and Prosser decided to change the subject.

  “How are things at work?” he asked, seeking a more positive topic of conversation. “Still pretty slow?”

  “Oh, it is much the same as before, except that a month ago we received a new managing director from Frankfurt. I think he will be an improvement. Last week he promised to give me more responsibilities soon, along with a salary increase.”

  “So far, so good. Does this one chase you around the desk yet like the other one?”

  Ulla’s eyes lit up and she laughed softly. “No, this one has brought his wife. I’m sure Frau Karstens would not stand for such behavior if it ever came to light.”

  “How about the rich Palestinian who used to ring you up all the time when I first met you? Has he come back into the picture?”

  “Oh, you mean Maarouf,” Ulla answered, shaking her head and blushing slightly. “Yes, he did start calling again, but I told him to stop. He is so persistent he makes me tired.”

  “I thought his name was al Zuhayri. Are we talking about the same guy?”

  “We are. His given name is Maarouf.”

  “Yes, of course,” Prosser said. “Lately I haven’t heard much of him. He seems to have dropped out of sight.”

  “My ex-husband says that Maarouf is at the edge of bankruptcy now. They were going to do some business together this spring, but when Ziyad learned about the extent of Maarouf’s debts, he withdrew. Now Maarouf is angry with him because he thinks Ziyad withdrew out of jealousy over me. How vain he is! There could never be anything of that kind between Maarouf and me.”

  Prosser smiled. “Maybe so, but I wouldn’t brush him off so quickly, Ulla. They say he has millions stashed away in Zurich and London.”

  She shook her head. “It would not matter if he had the wealth of King Farouk. He behaves like a fellah and never does anything without expecting payment in return. In 1976, during the fighting, he arranged for the Palestinians to provide special protection for our building. I was grateful to him, but not when he started knocking at the door every evening expecting me to receive him.”

  Prosser pointed to a framed group photograph in the étagère across the room. “Wasn’t he also the one who arranged for your boys to go to the Ashbal military training camp? I love that photograph of the kids dressed up in camouflage fatigues, armed to the teeth. Kamal looks as if he could barely hold his rifle up.”

  “Yes, Maarouf arranged it. Instructors from Fatah taught the children about weapons for an entire week. I was furious about it, but Ziyad insisted on letting them go.”

  “Do you suppose Maarouf will eventually get the picture and give up?”

  “I hope so, but I cannot be certain of it. The last time he called, I lied and told him I was still seeing a diplomat from the American embassy and asked that he not call me again.” She looked at Prosser with a mischievous smile.

  “Oh? And did it work?” he asked mildly though he could feel his hair standing on end. “How long ago was it?”

  “Not long after Harry’s party, the one where they exploded the dynamite. But someone must have told Maarouf about you even before that, because he already knew your name.” She cast him a questioning look. “Does it embarrass you that I have talked to others about you?”

  Prosser shook his head and raised a hand as if to soothe her. “No, Ulla, it’s not what you think. I was just surprised that Zuhayri knew my name. We’ve never really been introduced.”

  “I was surprised as well. He wanted to know everything about you—your position at the embassy, when you arrived, where you lived, and more. I told him to ask you directly.”

  “Did he give any reason for asking?”

  “I have already told you. Maarouf is an impossibly jealous man, even when he does not actually possess a woman. And toward those he does possess, his jealousy is a form of madness. At Harry’s party, just before you spoke to me, he told me that his latest mistress had been unfaithful to him and asked who deserved the worse punishment in such a case: the woman or the man who seduced her. I would not give an answer, because I feared it was his intention to harm whoever I named—such is the strength of his jealousy.”

  Suddenly her eyes held a look of reproach. “But why are we talking so much about Maarouf?” she asked. “Is this why you came…to question me about Maarouf Zuhayri?”

  “Of course not, Ulla. Don’t be angry with me.”

  “I am not. I have never been truly angry with you, Conrad.” She looked into his eyes, and he could see she was telling the truth. “Even when I ran from you at Harry’s party, I was not angry—only unprepared. I never expected to see you there. Since that night, I have stopped my car outside your building a dozen times, hoping to catch a look at you, or to have you see me waiting.”

  Prosser was at a loss for a reply. “Ulla. You are a beautiful woman. Men look at you and see how modest and reserved you are, and they think you’re beyond reach. Somehow, on the night we met, you let yourself be approachable. Be that way again; let another man get close to you. Find one who will make you happy.”

  “Perhaps I will, but not just yet. Not while I...Not while you...” She left her sentence unfinished before starting again. “It is good that you came to see me, Conrad.”

  “I think so, too,” Prosse
r replied. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “Yes. But more than that, I thank you,” she replied. “Because you brought me happiness, even if for a short while. Until I met you, I had given up hope of ever being happy again with a man. So, please, do not be sad for me.”

  Prosser held Ulla’s hand in both of his and kissed it lightly. She pressed his hand as well, but she turned her head away as tears welled up and spilled onto her cheeks. He remained still.

  After a few seconds she regained her composure and stood up. They met in a brief embrace and, just as quickly, she led Prosser to the door.

  “Goodbye, Conrad,” she said.

  “Good luck to you, Ulla,” he answered and closed the door behind him.

  Chapter 32

  The wail of sirens seemed very far away as Abu Ramzi turned away from the collapsed chancery building and made his way back toward the embassy gate. Volunteer civil defense workers, each wearing a white hardhat and a white canvas tunic emblazoned with a red crescent, ran past him carrying axes, ropes, and fire extinguishers. A pair of soot-covered firemen followed closely behind, unrolling a patched canvas fire hose from a wooden spool. Other relief workers returned from the smoldering ruins bearing stretchers shrouded in white.

  The stretcher bearers lifted their feet high in an effort to avoid tripping on scattered chunks of rubble. They hugged the inner curb of the U-shaped driveway and marched resolutely with their heads down to avoid the dense clouds of suffocating black smoke that blew toward them from the charred remains of the embassy car pool.

  A trio of Fatah militiamen nearly knocked Abu Ramzi off his feet as they came at him from the side dragging fire hose. Abu Ramzi grabbed hold and joined them in pulling it across the driveway and toward the remains of the chancery until heat from a row of burning automobiles blocked their advance.