Dynamite Fishermen (Beriut Trilogy 1)

by Fleming, Preston

  “Yaa, Rami!” Prosser called out.

  The Palestinian stopped, wheeled around, and raised his rifle.

  Prosser held the gunsight pattern lined up just below Rami’s ribcage and squeezed the trigger. The instant he fired, a spray of bullets from the assault rifle shattered the glass of the French door behind him, throwing off his aim. He leveled the pistol again as Rami ducked between parked cars to reach the waiting Mercedes.

  Suddenly Prosser felt lightheaded and his rapid breathing disrupted his aim, but he was determined that his next shot would reach its target. He wondered for a moment whether the hollow-point slug would knock the youth down or possibly spin him around in a way that would prevent a follow-up shot but decided it didn’t matter so long as the first shot hit home.

  He fired as Rami broke cover and, seeing no immediate result from the shot, glanced toward the Mercedes in time to see its driver, Maarouf Zuhayri, take aim at him with a German G-3 assault rifle. Prosser hit the deck a fraction of a second before the three-round burst exploded through a decorative glass panel on his left. The pain of falling on his wounded arm was nearly unbearable.

  He rolled over onto his belly to take aim one more time, but before he could line up either of the two gunmen in his sights, he saw Rami knocked off his feet as if by an uppercut to the chin. The youth’s limbs jerked and twitched in midair like a scarecrow and then crumpled to the pavement a few paces short of the Mercedes’s open passenger door.

  Only then did Prosser catch sight of the truck-mounted heavy machine gun parked behind the Saudi embassy, its barrel pointed at Rami’s inert body. On seeing what had happened, he turned again to see Zuhayri, who had by now tossed his weapon into the sedan, hopped into the driver’s seat and closed the door to make good his escape.

  The Lebanese gendarme, a cigarette still dangling from the corner of his mouth, quickly swung the barrel of the heavy weapon around to track the Mercedes but waited too long to fire. All but one of his shots missed the fleeing sedan.

  Prosser held his breath; ten meters more and Zuhayri would be out of the gendarme’s line of fire. He tossed off three more pistol shots at the Mercedes but none hit home.

  At that moment he spotted Ulla Hamawi in her blue Volvo station wagon and recognized the driver of the waiting Mercedes as Maarouf Zuhayri. To Prosser’s surprise, it appeared that Zuhayri had not noticed her. But having seen Zuhayri fire on Prosser and attempt to drive away, Ulla threw the Volvo into gear and gunned it forward to block Zuhayri’s exit. The Mercedes screeched to a halt just short of colliding with her, and Zuhayri’s jaw dropped when he saw Ulla’s face staring grimly back at him through the windshield.

  “Out of my way!” he raged, desperate to flee. He pounded the car’s horn as if to blast her out of his path.

  Ulla switched off the ignition, locked the car doors and close the windows, and ducked as Zuhayri emerged from the Mercedes with his rifle leveled at her.

  Meanwhile, the gendarme behind the truck-mounted machine gun held his fire.

  “Please, Ulla, don’t make me shoot you!” Zuhayri shouted frantically as he pressed the rifle’s muzzle against the driver’s window. “Move your car!”

  She climbed over the front seat onto the station wagon’s rear seat, and Zuhayri responded by blasting a gaping hole in the driver’s side window. He reached through the opening to unlock the door and climbed into the driver’s seat, only to find that Ulla had removed the key.

  “Give me the bloody key!” he screamed at her. “Give it to me, or I’ll kill you!”

  “Burn in hell!” she spat and clambered out the tailgate.

  Zuhayri jumped out of the Volvo, raised the rifle to his shoulder, and took careful aim at Ulla as she fled toward the Hala Building’s entrance.

  But he was too late. She tripped on the curb and fell sprawling toward the door. The shot went high, and before he could correct his aim, she crawled on her hands and knees around the corner to safety.

  “Whore!” Zuyahyri shouted in Arabic. Then he ran back to the Mercedes, tossed the rifle onto the front seat, and put the car in gear. With a resourcefulness born of desperation, he slammed the heavy sedan into the rear end of the station wagon and spun it around until it was nearly out of his way. In a moment his path would be clear.

  But Zuhayri had not reckoned with the Lebanese gendarme, who determined that his line of fire to the Mercedes was blocked only so long as the Mercedes remained behind the Volvo. The gunner lined up his sights with a spot two meters to the left of the Volvo and, when the Mercedes passed through the kill zone, raked it with a dozen armor-piercing rounds that blasted holes the size of silver dollars in its chassis. One of the shots took Zuhayri’s head off, and another set the fuel reservoir ablaze.

  Prosser saw the Mercedes burst into flames but did not remain on the balcony to watch what followed. His arm was throbbing, his vision blurred, and nausea broke over him in waves. He shuffled back into the bedroom. Dropping the pistol on the bed, he sat staring at the trail of blood he had made across the tile floor. His fingers fumbled with the phone as he picked up the receiver and dialed.

  “Harry?”

  “Is that you, Con?”

  “Can you get over here right away? I need help…fast.”

  “You sound awful. Are you okay, pal?”

  “I think so, but I’ve lost some blood. Get over here now, will you?”

  “I’ll be right there; hang on, tiger.”

  Prosser raised himself on wobbly knees and staggered to the closet to hide his pistol under a stack of shirts, then shuffled off to the living room to unlock the deadbolt. No sooner was it undone than the door swung open.

  Prosser stepped back in alarm, fearing that a third assassin had concealed himself in the stairwell. At that moment Ulla stepped forward and caught him around the waist to guide him to the sofa. With the skill of someone who had done it before, she stripped the belt from his trousers and formed a tourniquet above the elbow of his injured arm. Then she laid the bloodied limb gently across his lap.

  He opened his mouth to thank her, but in the same moment a fresh wave of nausea swept over him and everything faded from view.

  Chapter 34

  Wednesday

  The liquor kiosks at the end of rue Venus were the only man-made structures amid the stones and stubble east of Raouché and the coastal road. They were constructed of nothing more than a few sheets of corrugated aluminum weighed down with cinder blocks, but they were thriving businesses, selling smuggled wines and spirits at lower prices than any supermarket or specialty store in West Beirut. In the gathering darkness of evening, Prosser surveyed the vast array of Scotch whiskeys, champagnes, cognacs, and cordials spread out before him and leaned forward to inspect their labels under the dim light of a hanging sixty-watt bulb.

  After a moment’s deliberation, he selected a fifth of Remy Martin and another of Glenlivet and paid his cash to the proprietor, a gray-bearded, pot-bellied Armenian of around fifty in a faded brown field jacket. The Armenian accepted the money without comment and stuffed each of the bottles into a plastic grocery sack. Satisfied with his purchase, Prosser set off down rue Salaheddine Ayoubi toward the neon lights of Raouché’s nightlife district.

  He had covered little more than a hundred meters before a late-model BMW pulled up beside him. The window was open, and through it he saw that the driver wore green-and-maroon camouflage fatigues. The electric door lock made a loud click as the front passenger door swung open from inside.

  “Salaam alaikum, Wally, my friend,” Abu Ramzi greeted him with a broad grin. Prosser took his seat and closed the door behind him.

  “Praise Allah for your safety,” Abu Ramzi went on. “I was not certain you would be able to come so soon after your injury.” He nodded toward the plaster cast that encased Prosser’s arm from wrist to elbow.

  “Thank you, Abu Ramzi,” Prosser replied. “But how did you know that I was wounded?”

  “I knew it the day it happened. At a meeting of the H
igher Security Committee it was reported that someone had tried to assassinate an American diplomat. I did not know the name, of course, but I had an idea it might be you.”

  “I would not have expected the committee to take an interest in me,” Prosser observed with a smile. “Were they disappointed that the attempt failed?”

  “No, no, no, you misjudge us, Wally. On the contrary, we were furious that someone had violated the standing orders against harming Western diplomats. I was with Abu al Hul of Fatah Central Security when he telephoned the chief of Syrian military intelligence in Shtaura to demand an investigation. He spoke very roughly and refused to accept any of the Syrian brigadier’s assurances that the assassins were not under direction from of Damascus. He warned that Syrian leaders should not delude themselves into thinking that the Palestinian Resistance would ever accept blame for the murder of a Western official.”

  “Are you saying that Abu al Hul believes Syria was behind the attempt to kill me?”

  “I do not know what Abu al Hul believes. Like Chairman Arafat, his private opinions and what he says in public are often not the same. But most of us on the committee believe that in this instance the Syrians were not responsible. Based on all the available evidence, the shooting appears to have been an error—a case of mistaken identity.

  “As it happened, a few days before he appeared at your door, the assassin was seen acting suspiciously outside your apartment building, which also contains the apartment of Commander Nasib al Khatib of the Red Fursan. Nasib’s bodyguards questioned the boy, beat him, and sent him away. Then he returned at a time when he knew the bodyguards would be away. No doubt his intention all along was to kill Nasib, but his mistake was that he went to the wrong apartment. Nasib’s apartment is on the same floor as yours, is it not?”

  “Yes, but in the opposite wing of the building. Your explanation also does not explain why Maarouf Zuhayri was there. Why would Zuhayri want to kill the leader of the Fursan?”

  The Palestinian shrugged. “That is something we have not determined yet. But Commander Nasib has many enemies; perhaps Zuhayri was among them.”

  “Does anyone else on the committee know about Zuhayri’s relationship to Colonel Hisham or about Hisham’s threat to assassinate an American earlier this summer?”

  “Tsk,” Abu Ramzi replied peremptorily, raising his chin slightly and narrowing his eyes. “Even Hisham himself denies having intended such an operation.”

  Prosser’s eyes narrowed in astonishment. “How would you know...”

  “Because he is in our hands,” Abu Ramzi announced with pride. “Immediately after our meeting on Friday evening, I returned to my office and found an Iraqi security man there who had escaped the bombing of his embassy. I told him what you had told me—about how Hisham and Zuhayri were the ones who assassinated the three Iraqi diplomats—and he remembered that Hisham was one of those under suspicion of other acts against Iraq. So he placed the home of Hisham’s sister under observation. Praise Allah, Wally, for on Saturday morning Iraqi security men captured Hisham while he was preparing to depart for Damascus. They are holding him now at a secret place outside of Sidon.”

  The American reached out and nearly pulled Abu Ramzi’s hand off the steering wheel in his eagerness to shake it. The BMW veered momentarily toward the barren median strip of the Corniche road.

  “That’s excellent!” Prosser exclaimed as the Palestinian brought the car back under control. “Has he talked?”

  “Yes, though most of what he has said has been a web of lies. At first he admitted nothing at all, insisting that for the past year he has done no more than help Maarouf Zuhayri recruit skilled Lebanese and Palestinian laborers for employment in the Gulf. After a night spent under interrogation, however, he admitted to smuggling car bombs into both East and West Beirut for Syrian military intelligence.

  “By this morning he also seemed ready to concede that he and Zuhayri played at least an indirect role in murdering the three Iraqi diplomats. He continues to deny that he constructed the device used in the bombing of the Iraqi embassy, but that is to be expected. Confessing to the other crimes does not necessarily seal his fate. But should he admit to a crime as enormous as the embassy bombing, Wally, he knows he would never be allowed the privilege of a quick and merciful death.”

  “What about his relationship with Zuhayri and the attempts to have me killed?”

  Abu Ramzi gave Prosser a quizzical look. “There was more than one attempt?”

  “Last Thursday morning three men in a Peugeot tried to gun me down on rue Henry Ford. And the night before, somebody took a few shots at my car from a flying roadblock on rue Bliss just below the lighthouse. It may have been just an attempted robbery, but I didn’t stay around long enough to find out.”

  “Hisham spoke only about the shooting on Saturday.”

  “What did he say about?” Prosser pressed. “Did he reveal why I was selected as a target?”

  “He has spoken of this more than once. But none of us has found it very convincing, as he insists upon shifting all responsibility onto Zuhayri.

  “His claim is that Zuhayri asked him as a favor several months ago to have a certain American diplomat placed under surveillance. The reason, he said, was that Zuhayri suspected that a certain foreign woman after whom he lusted had taken the diplomat as her lover.

  “What?” Prosser protested, before thinking better of it and allowing Abu Ramzi to continue.

  “Hisham said he assigned one of his young recruits, a university student, to follow the American. But the student never saw the woman anywhere near the American or his apartment, and after some time the observation was dropped.

  “Hisham thought nothing more about the request from Zuhayri until a few days later, when the cadres he was using to smuggle his car bombs into East Beirut were arrested by Phalange security men. Upon being told that certain Phalangist officials boasted privately that the Americans had given them the smugglers’ names, Hisham became enraged and ordered the student to renew his surveillance of the American diplomat, this time with the aim of assassinating him.

  “When Hisham’s sponsors in Syrian military intelligence learned of the plan, they ordered him to abandon it and prohibited him from carrying out any operation against an American target without express permission from Damascus. So Hisham claims that he put the American out of his mind for a second time and did not think of him again until he heard that his young recruit had been killed along with Zuhayri in a failed attempt on the same American’s life. He swears on the head of his father that he knew nothing of Zuhayri’s intentions to kill the American and that Zuhayri and the student acted alone.”

  “But how could Zuhayri have used the student unless the colonel knew of it and approved it?”

  “He contends Zuhayri must have recontacted the student later for his own purposes and that the youth could not resist the promise of easy money. The claim is a credible one, I think.”

  “It still doesn’t make sense to me, Abu Ramzi. If Zuhayri’s only motive was jealousy over a woman, I can’t see why he went to such lengths over it. I know the woman he’s talking about, and we’ve hardly spoken to each other in months.”

  “As I said before, Wally, most of what Hisham has told us is a carefully crafted lie designed to preserve his life—or at least to secure a merciful death. He is almost certainly concealing his true role in destroying the Iraqi embassy, and he’s probably lying about his role in the attacks against you as well. But the truth is something we may never know, because Hisham’s interrogation will probably not last much longer. A day, perhaps two. Then he will be sent to Baghdad and that will be the end of it.”

  Abu Ramzi made a U-turn opposite the padlocked entrance to the Riviera Beach Club and headed west again along the Corniche. The espresso vendors had already packed up for the night, and no pedestrians were left along the seaside promenade except for a trio of schoolboys who sat on the curb sharing a bag of pistachios and letting the empty shells pile up at t
heir feet. The BMW continued around the bend past the Red Fursan encampment and the Bain Militaire. Then it began the ascent back to the neon lights of Raouché.

  “Tell me, Abu Ramzi,” Prosser asked, breaking the momentary silence. “If Colonel Hisham is indeed lying and it really was he and not Zuhayri who sent the student to kill me, what are the chances of the Syrians sending another assassin after me now that the colonel is gone?”

  Abu Ramzi shrugged. “Unlikely,” he replied. “That is, unless the Syrians require another American target in the future and you are still available.”

  “Well, I may not be available much longer, my friend.”

  Abu Ramzi’s face took on a puzzled expression. “Is this by your own choice?” he asked. “Or that of your government?”

  Prosser shrugged. “If I had a choice, I would probably stay. But it’s no longer up to me. The way Washington sees it, American diplomats are not supposed to carry weapons and get involved in gunfights. Especially diplomats who are expected to stay in the background and move about without being noticed. Tell me honestly, Abu Ramzi, now that everybody on the Higher Security Committee knows my name, why would you want to risk having one of the other members see us together?”

  Abu Ramzi gave a confident laugh. “Believe me, Wally, by this time next week not a single one of them will remember you. There are a dozen assassinations every week in our sector alone, and foreign diplomats come and go too quickly for any of us to remember them. Do not concern yourself over it.”

  “I’d like to think you’re right, Abu Ramzi, but I don’t think my superiors are willing to take that chance. Tomorrow I fly back to America to report what happened. In a few days they’ll decide whether I will come back or not. If I don’t, they will send another officer to meet you in my place three weeks from tonight.”

  There was a pause while the BMW peeled off to the left and started up the steep hill of rue Kuwait.

  “And if I refuse to meet anyone other than you?” the agent asked after a long silence.