Dynamite Fishermen (23 page)

Behind them a pair of helmetless riders aboard a large touring motorcycle made intermittent headway along the newly cleared lane. When the motorcycle was within thirty meters of the fleeing Arab, its passenger fired three pistol shots at him. Prosser ducked across the front seat of the car when he heard the shots and stayed down until the motorcycle passed. He counted to five before looking out again. The touring bike was still making steady progress, but by now its quarry was no longer in view.

The line of traffic started to move again, and Prosser put his car in gear once more when the horns repeated their warning. This time it was a gray Toyota station wagon that approached from behind, taking advantage of the path the motorcycle had cleared. The passenger in the right rear seat waved a revolver out the window and fired in the air to force the other drivers out of his way. Prosser ducked again as the station wagon passed, then raised his head a few moments later to watch the car bully its way forward to the end of the block. In less than half a minute the motorcycle and car were out of sight, and no more horns or shots could be heard. Whatever had happened to the fugitive, it was over.

As the line of traffic resumed its intermittent progress, Prosser watched life return to normal on the sidewalks of rue Abdel-Aziz. Pedestrians emerged from doorways where they had taken refuge and chatted with their companions as if they had done nothing more than seek shelter from a fleeting summer shower. Shopkeepers returned to their seats outside their stores, holding freshly poured glasses of tea. The drivers who moments ago had tried to retreat into driveways and loading ramps now regained their usual bravado and jockeyed for competitive advantage in the hope of passing the car just ahead.

When Prosser reached the end of the street a few minutes later, not a trace was left of the fugitive or of his pursuers. The unhappy thought occurred to him that he might be the only onlooker who cared in the least how the man’s flight had ended.

Chapter 17

Prosser paced along the Corniche seawall with long, rapid strides, stopping where the sidewalk ended a short distance north of the Bain Militaire. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the perspiration from his forehead, put it back, and ran the fingers of both hands through the cropped hair at his temples. Raising himself atop the metal railing, he sat with elbows propped on his knees and watched his Lebanese neighbors pass in review along the Corniche. At this hour, just after sunset, the seaside promenade was filled with poor and middle-class Lebanese, the vast majority of them men.

The older ones walked side by side in twos and threes, kneading their worry beads between their fingers while they conversed. Those of middle age played cards or backgammon at makeshift tables under hissing propane lamps that the proprietors of curbside espresso vans had set out for their use. The youths, who outnumbered all the others, leaned or sat on the railing and waited for something interesting to happen.

Prosser looked at his watch, then jumped down from the metal railing and started across the street toward the Hotel Mediterranée. Once across and out of the glare of the streetlamps, he turned onto an unlit side street and trudged up the steep incline toward rue Venus, perspiring heavily in the humid stillness. He had covered about two-thirds of the distance to the hill’s crest when a pair of headlights came to life ahead of him and cast their beams over his head. Almost imperceptibly, the parked vehicle to which the headlights belonged began to move forward. When it had come within ten meters of him, it pulled over and waited. The driver leaned across the passenger’s seat to open the door.

Prosser climbed into the battered white Toyota and closed the door behind him. “Good evening, Abu Khalil.
Kiif haalak
,” he greeted the Palestinian as he reached out to shake his hand.

“All is well for me, praise Allah,” Abu Khalil replied as soon as the car was in first gear.

“And your boys?”

“All very well, thank you. Especially Ali, the youngest. I took him back to the hospital today, and the surgeon told me he will have the plaster removed from his leg next week. For this I thank you, Tommy. By Allah, without your help, his operation would have cost me too, too much.”

“Don’t mention it, Abu Khalil. The important thing is that Ali grows up to be big and strong, like his father.”

The Arab chuckled at Prosser’s flattery, which was mild compared to Abu Khalil’s own toadying when he wanted something from the American.

They reached the end of the street and turned left onto the coastal road toward the nightclubs and restaurants of Raouché.

“I bring other good news, Tommy,” Abu Khalil said. “There is a new promotion list for officers of the Democratic Front, and I have been promoted to lieutenant colonel.” The Palestinian smiled proudly and tapped two fingers against imaginary epaulets on his shoulder.

“Congratulations!” Prosser answered. “What a terrific surprise! But tell me, Abu Khalil, does this mean you will be reassigned to a different duty station?”

“Probably not before the end of summer. But the high command is working on a new rotation, and there is talk that some of us may be transferred to new duties in September.”

“Do you think you can manage to stay in Beirut?”

“
Inshallah
, although it is also possible that I may be asked to command a unit farther to the south, in Damour or Sidon.”

“Damour would not be so bad, but don’t accept a job in Tyre or the border region if you can avoid it. I couldn’t go there to meet you, and it would be difficult for you to come to Beirut more than a few times a month. Besides, the south is a dangerous place, Abu Khalil. We don’t want to lose you.”

The Palestinian gave a self-assured laugh. “Do not be concerned, Tommy. I would never volunteer for duty along the frontier. That is for the younger men who are eager to fight and die. I am not so eager.”

He took a bulging envelope out of the glove compartment and handed it to Prosser, who opened it and examined its contents for a brief moment before stuffing the handwritten reports into his rear trouser pockets. He buttoned the pockets while Abu Ramzi pulled a pack of Kents from the dashboard, shook out a cigarette, and lit it with a lacquered gold lighter.

“I see you’ve been busy since Saturday,” Prosser remarked as he fastened his seatbelt. “Tell me, have you had an opportunity to learn anything else about Colonel Hisham?”

“I spoke to my cousin this morning,” the Palestinian replied. “He told me he met Colonel Hisham last night and had a glass of whiskey with him. The colonel had been drinking for some time already and told my cousin in the strictest confidence that he has been planning an operation against the Americans for several weeks. It was to be carried out this week, but when the Phalangists arrested the colonel’s men in East Beirut over the weekend, he moved it up to today.

“The plan was for one of the colonel’s assistants to assassinate an American spy early in the morning along the Corniche road. But yesterday morning a Nasserist official was shot at almost the same spot as the one the assistant had selected, so it became necessary to call off the entire operation and reexamine the alternatives.

“My cousin said Colonel Hisham was furious about the delay. Had it not been for childish squabbles among the Nasserist militias, he complained, the American spy would already be dead and the colonel’s captured men would be avenged. The colonel had no doubt that the Phalangists had tortured his men to death, and he was just as certain that the Phalange could not have captured them without help from the Americans.”

The news made Prosser shiver despite the heat and formed goosbumps on his bare forearms. “Hold on, Abu Khalil,” he broke in, doing his best not to let his anxiety show. “Let me get this straight. Does this mean he’s canceled the operation against the Americans?”

“Not at all. The colonel said that the only step required for the operation to go forward is to select a new time and place for it, as his assistant has prepared several alternative action plans. The colonel is waiting only for a green light to proceed.”

“I see. And whom does the colonel expect will give him this green light?”

“Ah, Tommy, that is something my cousin was unable to find out.”

“Did it sound as if the order would come from Damascus?”

“Most likely. But my cousin cannot be certain of it.”

“Okay, then, let’s go back to what Colonel Hisham said about the target. Did he say only one person will be shot? Or will there be more?”

“He said that the one to be liquidated will be an employee of the American embassy. A spy.”

Prosser remained silent while the Palestinian officer knocked a long ash from his cigarette into the car’s ashtray, which was already brimming with butts.

“An employee or an official, Abu Khalil? If Colonel Hisham said ‘employee,’ he might have meant one of the embassy’s Lebanese employees. There are over a hundred of them. But an ‘official’ can only mean an American. Is your cousin absolutely certain that Colonel Hisham said the target would be an American official?”

“The words my cousin used were ‘American spy,’ so, yes, I believe that is what he meant. But you must understand, Tommy, both the colonel and my cousin were drinking, and the colonel has a very indirect way of speaking where such topics are concerned.”

Prosser scribbled nervously in his checkbook-sized notebook. “When you saw the colonel a week ago, Abu Khalil, he said the target was going to be a foreigner. Now he says it will be an American spy from our embassy. That’s a very important difference,. If I report that to Washington, they’re going to get very excited and will probably order the embassy to take security measures that the colonel might notice. If you think your cousin could be wrong about what he heard, I need to know now.”

“Of course he could be wrong,” Abu Khalil replied indifferently. He took a last drag on his cigarette, exhaled the smoke through his nose, and tossed the butt out the window. “And I know very well what it will mean for my cousin and for me if Colonel Hisham discovers new security measures being taken by your embassy. But I have told you all that I know. It is for you to decide what to tell your government. My cousin and I will do what is needed to protect ourselves.”

“It’s not that I doubt what you’re telling me, Abu Khalil. It’s just that I had hoped it might be you who would drink whiskey with the colonel instead of your cousin. I thought you were going to meet him this weekend. What happened?”

“He was invited to eat with us on Saturday, but instead he was obliged to attend a meeting that was called after the Phalangists shelled the Corniche.”

“What kind of meeting?”

“He did not say.”

“In Damascus?”

“No, in Shtaura, I believe.”

Prosser sighed. “All right, before we move on, is there anything else the colonel told your cousin last night that I ought to know about?”

“I have told you everything.”

Prosser frowned and wrote something into his notebook, then he looked up again at the Palestinian. “Damn it, Abu Khalil, what we really need right now is for you to go see Colonel Hisham yourself. Can you do it?”

“By Allah, that would be difficult, Tommy. He would suspect me.”

“Tell him you admire him. Tell him you’d like to help. Tell him whatever you want—just get him talking. If he is really planning to kill someone from our embassy, we need to know more so that something can be done about it.”

Abu Khalil scratched the back of his head and weighed his reply. “Would it not be simpler to have the colonel liquidated?”

Prosser shook his head emphatically. “No, it wouldn’t. The Agency doesn’t assassinate people, Abu Khalil. Our job is to collect information. And if you can collect what we need from Colonel Hisham, there will be a sizable bonus in it for you.”

He had no authority to offer the bonus. He knew that if Headquarters did not approve, it would be difficult to come up with the money without juggling the salaries and expenses of his other agents. But this might be his only chance to find out whether Colonel Hisham represented a genuine threat and who his target might be.

“Eight thousand lira, Abu Khalil, if you can get him to talk.”

“Ten thousand.”

The Palestinian lit his last cigarette and tossed the crumpled pack out the window. A reptilian smile spread across his face, and Prosser knew at once that Abu Khalil would do whatever was required to claim the money.

“I will pay the colonel a visit very soon, Tommy. I have only one question. If he tells me nothing of value, how will you stop him?”

“That is my problem, Abu Khalil. All I can ask is that you do your best.”

“Of course,” the Palestinian replied impatiently. “But if he suspects me, that becomes my problem, does it not?”

“That is the risk you take if you agree to this, Abu Khalil.”

 
“It seems to me that if the colonel were to die, it might satisfy the needs of both of us, no?” The officer’s reptilian smile returned.

Prosser smiled sympathetically but shook his head in disagreement. “Look, Abu Khalil, I won’t tell you how to do your job, but a murder for hire is not what I had in mind. Forget it.”

“I meant no such thing. I intend only to speak to the colonel, as you request. I will go in peace. But if I must defend myself, I will. And if I do what you ask, I expect to collect ten thousand lira, regardless of what becomes of Colonel Hisham.
Mish hayk
?”