Dynamite Fishermen (16 page)

“And has Husayn seen him since he returned to Beirut?”

“That is something you will have to ask him yourself.”

Rima wet her index finger and idly drew it around the rim of the glass without making it sing. Prosser watched her carefully and wondered why she had avoided eye contact while he questioned her about the colonel.

A pair of waiters returned with fresh china and a covered tray holding the meal’s main course, an entire roasted
loup de mer
. Once it was served, Prosser turned to a different line of questioning.

“I’d like to hear more about your
doctorat
, Rima. How long do you think it will take to finish your thesis?”

“If I return to Lyon next month or the month after, I could complete my research by the new year and return here to compile the results and write my conclusions during the winter. But I cannot go until Husayn does. If I left him here alone, I fear he would not return alive.”

Her rationale seemed a bit overstated, but Prosser let it pass without comment. “And he refuses to leave until he recovers your father’s money from Maarouf Zuhayri?”

She released the wine glass and clenched her fists in frustration. “Husayn is so stubborn! He simply refuses to admit how dangerous it is for him to remain. Even when he was shot this spring, he would not consider returning to Germany.”

“You mean somebody tried to shoot him again since he’s been back?”

“You have seen the plaster on his foot? One week after he arrived, he was driving my father’s old Mercedes near rue Verdun when four armed men stopped him and demanded that he give them the keys. When he refused, one of them fired his Kalashnikov into the pavement at Husayn’s feet. The bullets ricocheted off the pavement and some fragments entered his foot.”

“You’re certainly right about his being stubborn,” Prosser said. “Nobody would blame him for heading straight back to Stuttgart after an incident like that.”

“But Husayn refused to hear of it. As soon as he left the hospital, he hired a car and driver so he could continue making calls on people who might help him collect our father’s debts. And at first he seemed to be having success—two debtors made payments to Husayn and two others promised to pay most of what they owed. But a month has passed since then and there have been no more payments. Husayn is growing more frustrated and bitter with each passing day and has begun seeking help from men connected with the militias—men he knew before the Events. I have heard that some of them are close to Colonel Hisham.

“
Batta
, I cannot tell you how much this worries me. Lately, I have begun to fear that Husayn will use more extreme means to take back our father’s money and that the debtors will answer by having him killed.”

Prosser listened but said nothing as they continued to eat.

“Listen, Rima,” he said at last. “I realize that Husayn may not want to be associated too closely with the American embassy, but I’d really like to help if I can. Do you suppose he’d be willing to meet with me sometime for a quiet talk?”

“I have already asked him,” she answered softly. “He refused.”

“Did he give a reason?”

“No, but he seemed to have firmly made up his mind.”

“Would you try again anyway? Tell him to pick a time and place and I’ll be there.”

“I will try, but I doubt that he will change his mind.”

* * *

After the meal, Prosser took Rima for a stroll through the Roman harbor and the walled center of ancient Byblos. Then they explored the ruins of its remarkably well preserved Crusader castle. It was half past five when they started back to Beirut, and nearly eight by the time they reached the Qarantina Bridge, just east of Achrafiyé.

“Well, which shall it be, my dear, the port or the museum?” Prosser asked as they traversed the bridge. “Frankly, I’d rather not drive all the way across town to the Galerie Semaan crossing again if we can avoid it.”

“It is too late now to use the port crossing. These last weeks they have been closing the gates before sunset. Even if they let us through, it would no longer be safe. Shall we take the museum crossing instead?”

“I suppose we’ll have to give it a try. I just hope there isn’t too much traffic by Barbir Hospital. It seems every other night some shootout breaks out when traffic gets backed up there.”

Rima brightened. “But there is no need for us to pass by Barbir. I know a better way by Bechara el Khoury Street. We come out again in the hotel district.”

“Bechara el Khoury after dark? Are you out of your mind?”

Prosser had thought that the street had long since been closed off to traffic as a result of sniping and had never heard of anyone from the embassy using it.

“I have traveled it many times at all hours,” Rima said. “Really, it’s quite safe.”

“All right,” he said. “I’m game if you are.”

They passed the National Museum, crossed the no-man’s-land, and then stopped at the Syrian army checkpoint west of the Argentine embassy. Just before queuing up behind the vehicles backed up at the Barbir Hospital, Rima directed him to turn right. The Renault was now the only vehicle headed north on rue Bechara el Khoury toward the city’s devastated commercial district.

“Okay, Rima, you’re the navigator,” he told her as they headed down the deserted boulevard. “Give me directions.”

She led him straight ahead for a kilometer and a half and then into a left turn before a three-meter-high earthen barricade. Next she directed him through a maze of dogleg turns along one-way streets in a neighborhood that appeared oddly untouched by the nightly shellings less than a kilometer away. The lights shining in the windows of its well-tended shops and flats proved that the area remained inhabited.

Although by now Prosser had lost all sense of direction, Rima continued to point the way through the narrow cobbled streets and alleys. Once in a while he thought he saw a familiar landmark, but he despaired of ever being able to retrace on his own the route they had taken. He was speeding downhill across a steeply inclined plaza of polished cobblestones and aiming the nose of the Renault toward a narrow opening at the far end of the plaza when he saw Rima suddenly freeze.

“Stop!” she commanded. He downshifted into third gear.

“Stop now!” she gasped.

But since he saw no movement on the square and no obstacle in his path, he proceeded to the end of the plaza, where he entered the narrow defile without braking. Rima fell silent and held her breath until they rounded the first bend in the road.

“By
Allah
, why did you go on?” she demanded as soon as they exited the plaza. “How could you not see the checkpoint?”

“Checkpoint? All I saw was a pile of old sandbags.”

“Two soldiers were standing alongside them having a smoke. You did not notice them?”

Prosser looked straight ahead and did not reply.

“One waved for to us to halt just as we were passing the barricade. Batta, he might have shot us.” Her voice quavered and a pout formed on her lips.

“I’m sorry, Rima, but I didn’t see them. Anyway we’re past them now. I see no point in living in fear of dangers I’m not aware of.”

Rima gave him a puzzled look, as if he had said something that had a special and profound meaning for her.

“Okay, I’ll be more careful next time,” Prosser added. “But why are you looking at me that way?”

“Husayn used precisely the same words a week ago after we drove through a checkpoint near the airport.” She let out a deep breath. “It seems the two of you are even more alike than I had feared. In Allah’s name, batta, how will I manage to keep you both alive?”

Chapter 11

Prosser moved carefully in the dim light to avoid slipping on granite stairs worn smooth by countless feet. As usual, only one in four of the streetlamps installed along the passage was lit, and the high walls to his right and left formed pools of shadow across his path. He moved at a steady pace down each flight and across each landing, peering into the depths of each shadow as he listened for the sound of approaching footsteps.

Although the stone staircase was one of the few direct paths leading from the seaside corniche to the low plateau that was Ras Beirut, few considered the staircase safe after dark. For that reason it was an excellent place for detecting surveillance. By the time Prosser reached the bottom of the stairway he knew he was alone. He paused there to scan his new surroundings and then headed west along an unlit side street that skirted the edge of the American University’s main tennis courts. Until recently the street had been a favorite rendezvous for lovers in parked cars, but even they had abandoned the place after the latest wave of car bombings.

A hundred meters ahead he turned left into an alley that led directly onto the Corniche and at once spotted Abu Khalil’s battle-scarred white Toyota some thirty meters from where he had found it the night before. The tip of a cigarette glowed in the darkness where the Palestinian’s left hand hung languidly out the open car window. As usual, Abu Khalil opened the passenger door as soon as Prosser came alongside. He started the engine at once and they set off together toward the Corniche.

“Good evening, Abu Khalil.”

“
Ahlan wa sahlan
, my friend,” the Palestinian answered in good spirits.

The two men exchanged ritual greetings in Arabic, after which Prosser held out the green ledger book that he had been given the night before.

“Thanks for lending me your guest book, Abu Khalil, but I’m afraid it’s not quite what I had in mind. What I really wanted to see is the volume with the true names of your visitors, their passport numbers, affiliations, and the types of training they received. A book like that could be quite valuable to us. But this one…” Prosser shook his head and handed back the ledger book.

“I have never seen a book with the information you speak of,” Abu Khalil answered defensively. “The foreign trainees always come to us without passports. They carry only identification cards issued in Damascus under false names. If there is a book with their true names, it would most likely be kept in Damascus, not here.”

“Are you absolutely sure there aren’t any lists kept at your camp that would include information about your foreign trainees?”

Abu Khalil shrugged. “If they exist, I have not seen them.”

“Then how about looking again?”

“I will try.” The promise had an unconvincing ring.

Prosser could see the disappointment in the Palestinian’s eyes. Abu Khalil gave the book a final once-over and slipped it under the driver’s seat.

“You’re sure there will be no problem in returning it?” Prosser asked.

“Not if I replace it quickly. I told the others that I would be away no more than an hour.”

“We won’t be long,” Prosser assured him. “But I do have a few questions for you while we’re here. First I would like you to update the summary you wrote this spring about Palestinian and Syrian troop strengths in the Beirut sector. I’m especially interested in any new armor or artillery put in place along the Green Line over the last month or two. A rumor is afoot that the Syrians intend to mount a summer attack against Phalange positions around the port. I doubt there’s much truth to it, but I won’t be able to convince Washington without details. Can you do it within the next week?”

There was, in fact, no prospect at all of a Syrian offensive, but Prosser could hardly refer to an expected Phalange-Israeli offensive against Abu Khalil’s own forces and still expect a full and accurate report from the agent. No matter how long Abu Khalil had worked for the Americans and how skilled he might be at rationalization, one could not expect an agent to put his own life and those of his men at risk.

“I will have to make new observations and inquiries,” Abu Khalil said. “Two weeks, perhaps.”

“All right, I’ll expect your report at the meeting after next,” Prosser replied crisply, making a cryptic notation on his notepad. “Next, have you had a chance to see your cousin or your friends in Saiqa to ask about Colonel Hisham?”

“
Habibi
, it has been only one night since we spoke of Colonel Hisham. Since then I have not had two hours’ rest.
Inshallah
, I will see him tomorrow. My cousin has invited the colonel to dine with us at his home.”

“Good work. Then we’ll talk about him again at our regular Tuesday meeting. Can you come then?”

“
Inshallah
, but not until after nine.”

“Then let’s make it half past nine. One more thing: when you talk to Colonel Hisham, try to find out what outfit he fought with during the civil war. In particular, I want to know where he was during the Battle of the Hotels and the recapture of the Holiday Inn.”

Prosser reached into his rear trouser pocket and brought out a wad of one-hundred-lira notes bound together with a rubber band. “Here is your salary for June, Abu Khalil, two weeks early. If you can get any other documents about foreign trainees, there might be more, but this is all I can give you for now.”

“Then there is no bonus for the book I brought you?”

“Sorry, but Washington didn’t go for it. Besides, that’s what your salary is for. Bonuses are for truly extraordinary material. I hate to say it, Abu Khalil, but we haven’t seen much of that from you lately. If you want more money, we’re going to need more results.”