Bride of a Bygone War (11 page)

Muhammad led them up a metal stairway to the second floor and then down a stone-tiled corridor painted the same drab shade of green that the people who decorate government buildings seem to favor everywhere from Washington to Baghdad. The teen stopped halfway down the corridor, knocked twice, and listened carefully with his ear pressed against the door before going in.

He led the two Americans into an airy outer office furnished with nothing more than a cheap gray sheet-metal desk, a four-drawer safe, a linoleum-topped map table, and an overstuffed sofa covered in crimson velour. Behind the desk sat a Lebanese of about thirty or older in a tailored khaki safari suit. He was almost as tall as Lukash, broad at the shoulders, and darkly handsome behind his neatly trimmed beard, although he carried a few surplus kilos of fat around his midsection and had a severely receding hairline, which he attempted to conceal by combing strands of hair from one temple to another. He came out at once from behind the desk with his hand outstretched.

Something about Major Elie’s smile looked oddly familiar, and it was only when he spoke in his low, gravelly voice that Lukash recalled how closely the man resembled Samir Bino, the Jordanian agent Lukash had handled in Saudi Arabia—the one who had both seduced Lorraine Ellis and collected the information that enabled Lukash to break up the Islamic fundamentalist operation to assassinate King Khalid. Although it had been two years since he had last seen Samir, he suddenly remembered how much he had enjoyed his weekly meetings with him.

He and Samir had met at a party on the Saudi Arabian Airlines residential compound in Jeddah, where they had each hoped to meet British air hostesses and American contract nurses. To the disappointment of both men, the few single women in attendance were unattractive as well as vastly oversubscribed. Lukash remembered having struck up a conversation with Samir while pouring bootleg
siddiqi
into his paper cup and having been struck by the contradiction between the Arab’s tastes for alcohol, loose women, and rock and roll and his espousal of Islamic fundamentalist politics.

Over the next few months, Samir often visited Lukash’s villa for a glass or two of scotch and an hour of English conversation. More than once he confessed that he considered himself under no obligation to forgo earthly pleasures in this life for the sake of paradise in the next. Lukash was not at all surprised when, after a long discussion of Saudi and Jordanian politics, Samir accepted his offer of an all-expenses-paid excursion to Bangkok in exchange for a confidential debriefing on Islamic fundamentalist groups in Jordan and Saudi Arabia.

Samir was so enthusiastic about his discoveries in the topless bars, live sex shows, and massage parlors of Patpong Street that in return for the promise of a second trip later in the year, he agreed to Lukash’s suggestion that he join a particularly virulent cell of anti-monarchy fanatics who met at the mosque that Samir attended sometimes on Mecca Road. The cell, led by a fellow Jordanian of Chechen descent, soon put Samir to work casing Saudi government buildings and observing the comings and goings of high-ranking Saudi officials and members of the royal family. Samir and Lukash both exulted in their success at stealing some of the clandestine group’s closely guarded secrets.

The Phalangist major who now sat opposite Lukash possessed the same angular features and dark coloring as Samir, as well as the crow’s-feet wrinkles around his perpetually smiling eyes. Samir’s smile had been one of devilish mischief, as if he had just laid a snare and was waiting for you to fall into it. The major’s smile was more relaxed, as if you had already fallen in and he wanted to hear from you exactly how it felt.

Lukash and Pirelli gave their names, and the Phalangist introduced himself in turn as Major Elie Musallam, chief of the External Branch of the intelligence service.

“It’s odd we haven’t crossed paths before, Major,” Pirelli began in a routine effort to elicit Elie’s biographical information. “I thought I had met everybody in the External Branch.”

The major let out a low laugh from somewhere deep in his chest. “For the past year I have had only rare occasion to appear at our headquarters. Until last week I was assigned to the third security zone in the mountains above Zahlé.”

“Ah, yes,” Pirelli replied. “I recall Colonel Faris talking about your work against Syrian military intelligence—or at least I assume it was your work. The car bombing ring based in Shtaura? About two months ago?”

“Yes, two of my men found the workshop where the Syrians fabricated concealment devices for the explosives. It required eight months of slow and painstaking work, but afterward we were able to trace each vehicle back to their shop. Now the bomb makers work for us—in our prison workshop, teaching us their methods.”

Lukash nodded respectfully while shuddering inside at how the Phalange were likely to apply their newly discovered knowledge against their enemies.

“And now that you are assigned to Headquarters?” Pirelli continued.

“It’s different now. Since coming here, I follow the activities of Syrian intelligence from my office upstairs.”

Lukash recognized in Elie’s voice the note of resignation that every experienced case officer feels when he leaves behind the autonomy of fieldwork and surrenders to the ordered rigidity of headquarters life.

“I admit that I have not yet adapted fully to the new point of view. Here in the External Branch, we have far too little information coming directly from Damascus and far too much hearsay and speculation.” A note of polite irony was detectable in the major’s voice. “But our director has promised that this will change very soon.” He stepped toward the door. “Come, perhaps if you ask him, the director will be kind enough to explain how he expects this improvement to come about.”

Major Elie beckoned his visitors to follow him into the director’s inner office, a spacious, sun-drenched room furnished identically to the outer office except for the addition of two armchairs of the same red velour and the substitution of a dark wood-veneer desk for the one of metal.

“Welcome, welcome, Mr. Pirelli,” began Colonel Faris Nader, the director of Phalange intelligence, in a disconcertingly unctuous tone. “And Monsieur Lukash. It is a great pleasure to have you among us at last. My good friend Tom Twombley has given you the highest recommendation.”

Lukash stepped forward to shake the colonel’s carefully manicured hand and found it surprisingly soft and weak. “You can call me Wali, Colonel. It’s sort of an Arabic version of Walter, my American name. And I would suggest that you divide by three anything Mr. Twombley tells you about me.”

“Tom Twombley has been known to exaggerate from time to time,” Pirelli added with a smile.

“But surely not about a matter of such importance,” Colonel Faris replied, only half in jest. “If Tom Twombley recommends someone to us, I feel there is no more need for questions.
Khalas. Finis.
Do you know why? Because Monsieur Twombley understands the situation here. He understands us, the Christian Lebanese, as well as we understand ourselves. Maybe better.

“As I have told your ambassador many times,” the colonel went on, “your American government does not fully appreciate who its friends are in the Middle East. Billions of your American dollars go each year to Israel, and they are not even Christians! We Maronites have looked to the West for ten centuries—since the Crusades. It is time that America recognizes that we—the Lebanese Christians, the Phalange—are its truest friends in the Middle East.

“I have told your ambassador and my friend Tom Twombley this simple truth: that the survival of every Christian and Jew in the Middle East depends on the fate of the Maronites in Lebanon. If the Syrians succeed in annexing Lebanon into a Greater Syria, not a single Christian or Jew in the region will be safe. Our churches and religious institutions will be razed or turned into mosques, the French and English languages will be eradicated from our schools and public life, our unique heritage will be purged from the history books, and the very idea of a separate Christian Lebanese race will be denied in the name of Pan-Arabism and Islam.

“The campaign has already begun, and it is plain for anyone to see: the incessant sniping, the shellings, and these unholy car bombs everywhere, making life miserable for us. Do you think it is Lebanese who are committing these outrages against their fellow countrymen? Never believe it! Never! The Syrians are at the bottom of all these troubles. They have a plan and they will stay with it for as long as they must until the Lebanese people say at last, ‘Enough! We cannot endure any more of it. Bring in the Syrian army to occupy all of Lebanon, and let us have peace as a province of Greater Syria.’ Then—mark my words—the violence will end overnight and it will be obvious to everyone that the Syrians caused it from the very beginning.

“Now, I tell you, the only way to end the reign of terror without destroying the Lebanese Christians as a race is to carry the battle to Damascus. As long as the battle is on Lebanese soil, Syrian losses can never be heavy enough to rid us of their occupation forces. I have stated this conclusion to the chief of the Mossad and to Monsieur Twombley, and I repeat it to you now. Your ambassador has always refused to accept these basic truths, but now that the new channel of communications between our two organizations has been opened, I hope that together we will be able to convince the new American president that we are right in this.”

Ed Pirelli sat forward in his chair and waited for his host to finish. “Faris, before you say any more about carrying the battle to Damascus,” he began deliberately, “you’d better understand that our business here is intelligence gathering—no more, no less. If you want to work with us to recruit an agent in the Syrian Ministry of Defense or bug their presidential palace, we’re with you all the way. Joint operations, financial aid, technical assistance: they’re all yours. But the moment you try to involve us in a car bombing or an assassination against Syrian leaders, Washington will cut you and your outfit off so fast you won’t even hear a dial tone. Those are the ground rules. I don’t mean to be impolite about this, Colonel, but I’m afraid you’ll have to take it or leave it.”

“Ah, my good friend, you misunderstand me,” Colonel Faris answered, evidently unfazed. “Not for a moment was I speaking of your involvement in terrorism. We Maronites would never stoop to terrorist methods. What I have in mind is merely the formation of contacts with Syrians who are already working against the villainous al-Asad regime and giving them whatever assistance we can render. What we need from you is merely replacements for the equipment that we would give to them. Today, radios are what they need most. Handheld units with voice privacy, like the Motorola units you gave us last week. With such equipment Syrian oppositionists would have much less reason to fear the regime’s security organs.”

“What kind of oppositionists are you talking about, Faris? The Muslim Brotherhood? As much as we would like to see a new regime in Damascus, I doubt that Washington has much interest in replacing the Baath Party with a mob of raving religious fanatics.”

“There are others, many others, besides the Muslim Brothers, believe me. We have reports of a new underground movement among junior officers in the air force, to name only one. One of its leaders is expected here within the week. If you are interested, perhaps Monsieur Wali can be among those who meet him when he comes to Beirut. One of Major Elie’s agents is arranging the visit.”

Pirelli nodded. “What do you think, Walt?”

“I’m game if we can get it cleared. Why don’t I chase down the details with Major Elie after our meeting here is finished?”

* * *

A corral of low concrete planters separated the sidewalk Café La Chasse from the swirl of Fiats, Renaults, and Citroëns negotiating the traffic circle at Place Sassine. The white enamel tables still gleamed, having been placed in service only three days earlier, when the restaurant reopened after five kilograms of Semtex exploded in the trunk of a stolen Saab parked opposite the restaurant’s side entrance. Six patrons and a waiter had died in the blast, and at least a dozen more were burned or slashed by flying glass.

“We’ll take this one,” Major Elie announced to the white-jacketed waiter as he stopped at a table near the main entrance that commanded the best view of the square. “And bring two bottles of Almaza lager right away. My friend is very thirsty.”

“Are you sure you want to eat outside, Major?” Lukash inquired in the moment before the Phalangist took a seat. “It seems rather exposed, considering what happened here last month.”

“Inside we would not be able to see what is around us,” the Phalangist replied, assuming a paternal tone, although Lukash suspected he was the older of the two men by a year or more. “In my opinion, the best defense against terrorist attacks is the ability to detect the person or object that is out of place. Besides, Wali, if the Syrians intend to strike this place again, they will delay a few more weeks or months until the waiters and the patrons are no longer as vigilant as we are today.”

“So you’re convinced it was the Syrians?”

Major Elie gave him a reproving look. “All the car bombs in East Beirut originate with the Syrians, mon ami. Oh, they may coerce or dupe some poor Palestinian or Lebanese Shiite into actually bringing the bomb across the Green Line, but be sure of one thing: the plans were made and the orders given in Damascus.”

“You have proof?”

Major Elie nodded impatiently and was about to speak when the maître d’hôtel, a tonsured Lebanese of about fifty years in an ill-fitting black dinner jacket, arrived with a flat stainless steel dish of salted almonds, a pair of long-necked brown beer bottles, and two slender tumblers bearing the red, white, and black logo of Beirut-brewed Almaza beer. The major waited until the tray’s contents were unloaded onto the table before he ordered
mezzé
for both of them.