He pointed to one of the two facing chairs that sat near his desk.
He went back to his seat. As I sat down, I looked closely at him. I read his name on a small wooden nameplate on his desk: “Colonel Muhsin al-Attar”.
He was also looking closely at me, and when he saw that I was reading his name, he said: “There – now we have gotten to know each other.”
I nodded.
“Wouldn’t you agree with me that you are quite fortunate?” he went on.
I arched my eyebrows, and didn’t say anything.
Shuffling several dossiers on his desk, he said, “Apparently you have many friends in Lebanon.”
He picked up a small notebook from one of the dossiers – I knew it had my passport in it – and flipped through its pages. When he realized that I was refraining from saying anything, he pointed out, “Your visa expires in three days’ time.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you intend to travel before then?” he asked.
I looked up at him in confusion. “Would it be possible for you to let me know where I am?” I asked.
He smiled. “You haven’t noticed yet?” he said. “You are here in the military intelligence bureau. The Deuxième Bureau, as they call it.”
“Why?”
He arched his eyebrows dismissively. “Why? Because we saved your life. We searched for your kidnappers and persuaded them to release you.”
I looked at the soft skin of his cheeks that hung loosely outside of his tight shirt collar.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I think we deserve more than a word of thanks.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“By having you stick to being candid and honest with me.”
“But I haven’t lied to you. I haven’t said anything to you.”
He smiled meaningfully.
“Exactly,” he said.
“Are you saying I’m a free man?”
“Of course.”
“Can I go?”
He tossed my passport to one side and picked up my notebook.
“Of course. But don’t you want to take your papers and your passport? And then there are a few small questions. You are free to answer them or to refuse. But if you want a proper way to express your appreciation for us . . .”
“What do you want to know?”
“First we’ll have some coffee. How do you take it?”
“Mazboota – medium-sweet.”
“Just like I do.”
He talked into a small intercom on his desk, requesting Egyptian-style coffee. He offered me a pack of Marlboros. I couldn’t stand the taste of them, but I took one, and let him light it for me. Then I took a deep pull on it that made me feel dizzy.
“Beirut is an important city as far as writers are concerned,” he said, “because it has a lot of publishers. Unfortunately, some writers and publishers don’t stay within the confines of their work, and they get themselves involved in matters that can cause them serious harm.”
A young man brought two cups of coffee. I took my cup, while he busied himself in changing the filter of his cigarette holder. Then he fixed his cigarette in it and lit it with slow deliberation as he cast a glance at a piece of paper in front of him. With no warning, he leaned over the desk and stared sharply at me.
“Where is Carlos?” he demanded.
Perplexed, I looked up at him.
“Carlos who?”
And suddenly I remembered, and smiled in spite of myself.
He jabbed a finger at me in a state of agitation.
“There – so you know!”
“You mean the international terrorist,” I said.
He grew even more agitated.
“That’s him exactly.”
“But what do I have to do with him?” I asked.
He pounded the dossiers with his fist.
“Sir,” he said in exasperation. “You should be talking candidly with me the way I am with you. We have information that you know him well.”
“Not true.”
“Our information has been corroborated.”
“Your information is wrong. I have nothing to do with terrorism or politics. I came to Beirut to publish a book, that’s all.”
He smiled wickedly.
“And what about the film?”
“What about the film?” I riposted sharply. “They asked me to write a voiceover for it. And why wouldn’t I do that? That’s my job.”
“So what’s the story with Carlos?”
“There isn’t any story. What I’ve told you is everything.”
He began examining me closely. He seemed to be uncertain about which of two options to take. Then he came to a decision, and slumped into his seat. He took the cigarette out of the holder and put it out in the ashtray, telling me, “Sir. Listen to what I’m going to tell you. We aren’t able to rescue a person in your circumstances every day. If we succeed today, then perhaps we won’t be able to the next time. My advice to you is to stay away from troublesome matters. If you find yourself in a fix, maybe you can turn to us. We hold some strings, and we can pull on some others.”
He picked up a card from the brass tray and handed it to me, saying, “Here’s my name and number. There’s no need for you to come here or for us to meet. You only have to pick up the phone and talk to me. Afterwards, you will find that we can show our gratitude. On the right occasion. This book you were talking about. Have you found a publisher for it?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Give me a copy of the manuscript, and maybe we’ll find you one,” he offered.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have any more copies.”
He stood up and reached for my passport, my notebook and the rest of the papers that had been in my pockets. I stood up too, and took them from him.
“I had around two hundred lira with me,” I said.
“That’s all we got from your kidnappers,” he explained as he pressed a buzzer on his desk. “If you need cash, perhaps I could loan you some.”
He put his hand in his pocket, but I stopped him, saying, “There’s no need. I don’t need anything. I will manage.”
I insisted on refusing, and he took his hand out of his pocket. The escort from the car entered the room, and the colonel addressed him, saying, “Accompany this gentleman to the gate and call him a taxi.”
I shook hands with him to say goodbye, and left the office. I walked ahead of my escort to the floor below, the marble staircase, and then the outer gate.
Chapter 23
The taxi made its way in the dark of night through deserted streets and dusty fence-walls, and groups of gunmen affiliated with different groups. Some of them stopped us and then let us pass. We finally reached Hamra, and then pulled up to the house.
I looked for Abu Shakir, but couldn’t find him. I went up the stairs at a run, hoping Wadia would be there. I knocked on the door, and he opened it for me. As soon as he saw it was me, his jaw dropped in astonishment, and he gave me an affectionate hug.
I asked him to pay the taxi fare, and hurried to the kitchen. I took a can of beer out of the fridge, and drank it in one gulp. I brought another one out with me to the living room.
I lit one of Wadia’s English cigarettes, and walked up to the telephone. I dialed Lamia’s number, and a child’s voice answered. Then her voice came on the line: “You?”
“Is someone with you?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, whispering. “Where have you been?”
“I’ll tell you everything when we meet. Maybe in half an hour?”
“That’s impossible,” she said. “I can’t go out.”
“Then I’ll come to you,” I suggested.
“That’s more impossible.”
“At your office?”
“I’ll be waiting for you at the office in the morning,” she said in a normal-sounding voice.
“I’ll come on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“T
hat you wear your hair in a ponytail.”
She laughed. “No problem,” she said.
“And another thing. Don’t wear a bra.”
“What?”
“Your breasts don’t need a bra.”
“In the past, I didn’t wear one, but now I’m older.”
“Not at all. Promise me?”
She laughed again. “I’ll see,” she said. “Bye-bye.”
I heard Wadia’s voice behind me as I put the receiver down, and I turned to him. He was looking at me nervously as he lit a cigarette.
“A real miracle. A kidnap victim comes back – and so quickly. Everyone will be eager to buy the interview I’ll be doing with you.”
I scrutinized his face carefully, as though I were seeing him for the first time.
“How did you know I was kidnapped?” I asked as I opened the second can of beer.
“When I noticed you weren’t sleeping at the house, I called Antoinette, Lamia and Safwan, and everyone who knows you. But none of them had seen you. There was no other explanation. Antoinette promised me she would prod the apparatus of the Palestinian resistance into action. Listen: you must be hungry.”
“Like a dog,” I said. “I want meat and whiskey. And first of all, a bath.”
“Go take a bath. I’ll get everything ready for you.”
“Did Safwan mention anything about the book?” I asked as I headed to my room.
“He said he can’t publish it in the current circumstances,” he answered.
I brought clean clothes from my room, and carried the can of beer to the bathroom. I took off my clothes and put them in a pile in a far corner. I brushed my teeth, then ran hot water in the bathtub. I shaved as I drank the beer. And finally, I sat down in the tub and leaned my head against the wall. I raised the beer to my lips.
But it wasn’t long before my happiness disappeared. My bowels moved for the first time in two days. The reason wasn’t that they would imminently be returning to normal regularity. Rather it was the idea that began to nag at me.
I finished my bath, put on my clean clothes, and went out to the living room. I found that Wadia had brought from outside two chickens grilled over charcoal, with familiar plates of salad. I recounted to him, while we ate, how I was kidnapped, and the conversation that took place between me and the fanatical Phoenician, and then the conversation between me and the man from the Deuxième Bureau.
Puzzlement came over him when he heard about the question that the man from the Deuxième Bureau had asked me about Carlos, and he muttered: “Strange. What did you tell them?”
“The truth.”
He looked bewildered. So I added, “I mean that I don’t know anything about him.”
His face went pale. “Is that true?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“But you told me . . .”
I laughed. “You’re the one who misunderstood.”
“Strange,” he repeated, astonished.
I dipped a mouthful of food into a plate of yogurt and crushed garlic. “Really strange,” I said. “I only mentioned Carlos’s name once. In this living room, during a conversation with you. So that means only one thing.”
He stopped eating and looked at me expectantly.
“What’s that?”
“Either you had a chat with someone about the conversation we had . . .”
“Absolutely not,” he burst out.
He went quiet, and then added, “I don’t think so. Maybe.”
I continued: “Or your apartment has been bugged by the Deuxième Bureau.”
He turned to look around everywhere in the living room, and then looked down, saying, “Maybe.”
I sipped from a glass of beer. “I don’t think so,” I said.
His eyes widened.
“If you’re saying –”
I held up my hand to stop him.
“Let’s not talk about that now. What I want to understand is: why did they kidnap me, and why did they let me go?”
He cut a slice of chicken and said, “Your kidnapping may have been by chance. A strange face that appeared in their area. And especially if the stranger seemed to be curious.”
He put a morsel in his mouth and continued: “There’s no basis for it as far as kidnapping operations are concerned. Sometimes the kidnap victims are executed immediately. That’s often done in revenge for a similar operation done by the other side. And sometimes it happens for no apparent reason, like what happened recently when the Phalangists killed around forty Egyptian workers. A lot of times, the kidnappers keep their victims so they can be traded for others, or for fixed sums of money. That’s why the Phoenician was being patient with you – it was so he could assess your situation, and whether he could profit from you in some kind of exchange. If it became apparent to him, for example, that you were a Christian, he would try to persuade you to come around to his view, and gain from your support. I think you’ve heard that there are links between them and some Egyptian Copts.”
“What about the Deuxième Bureau?”
He focused on wiping up what remained in the bowl of hummus with a morsel of food and explained: “The Deuxième Bureau is a strange institution. It is subject to the influence of the ruling families, Maronite and Muslim. But those who are in charge of it are also subject to other loyalties, foreign and mutually opposed to each other. And on top of all that, sometimes they operate independently in the game of the struggle for power between the different blocs, domestic and foreign.”
He lit a cigarette and continued talking: “And now we come to the Palestinian resistance. Circumstances have forced them to maintain lines of communication with the different blocs. They are channels that are not affected by events. For example, while there may be bloody fighting between Fatah and the Phalangists, the line of communication between them works normally.”
He looked at his watch, then went up to the television set and turned it on, putting it on mute while waiting for the news report. He continued what he was saying, as he returned to his seat: “So your kidnapping was by chance. Antoinette succeeded in prodding PLO officials into action. Naturally, they took an interest in the matter for two reasons: the first is that they are keen to support their relationship with all the progressive Lebanese groups, such as Antoinette’s, to safeguard their presence in Lebanon. The second reason is connected to the first: Antoinette’s use of the facilities at the media institute affiliated with them makes her a client of theirs in some way. In that light, your kidnapping infringes on their standing, even if indirectly. First, they began with the different organizations in West Beirut until they were sure you weren’t with them. At that point they opened up their line of communication with the Deuxième Bureau, and then with the Phalangists, the Tigers and the Guardians of the Cedars, and the rest of the Maronite factions. They all denied they had anything to do with the matter. But the Deuxième Bureau – either to pay off a debt to the PLO, or to do them a favor that they can call on later, or to win a point in the struggle for power with the Maronite parties, or to follow up on an entirely side issue like Carlos – the important thing is that the Deuxième Bureau didn’t stop there, and it took an interest in your story. Within a few hours, it learned where you were being held via its agents spread out among the various factions. The matter was settled with a phone conversation. The kidnappers found that by letting you go they would have a point in their favor with the Deuxième Bureau, or they could pay back a favor to them. Apologies were exchanged and future favors made note of, and you get your freedom back. And you become indebted to the Deuxième Bureau in some way.”
I nodded, adding, “Very likely. Even if it’s a frightening scenario. And laughable, too. But it explains the rest.”
He gave me an inquisitive look.
“Your role in it,” I explained.
A look of astonishment appeared on his face, and he forced out a laugh.
“My role was that I set this chain of events in motion when I looked for you and cal
led Antoinette.”
“Of course, of course. No argument about that. But I mean something else.”
“What?”
“Carlos.”
His face grew pale. “What about him?” he asked.
“Maybe we are being bugged here. But I am confident that the Deuxième Bureau heard about Carlos from you personally.”
“Meaning that I’m a Deuxième Bureau agent?”
“Not necessarily. I don’t think so. There is a modern, civilized way for these things. You pick up the phone and call a friend of yours, someone you know has some connection to the Deuxième Bureau. Someone like the owner of the café where we saw Lamia. You chat with him. And during the course of the conversation you throw out some information that you know very well the Deuxième Bureau will be interested in. Practically speaking, you didn’t do anything that professional agents do. All you did was have a chat in the form of a response to the traditional question: ‘Any news?’”
“And what would I gain from this chatter?”
“A little security, perhaps,” I replied. “Some support in a moment of crisis. Life is hard here. Beirut is a den of tangled and contradictory loyalties. And then, isn’t it likely that you are obligated to them for what happened with me today?”
“I never imagined that you thought so poorly of me.”
“I wish it was like that: that it was just about thinking poorly of you.”
His fingers were shaking. Without looking at them, I knew that my fingers were shaking too.
“Would you like me to give you another example of thinking poorly?” I asked. “There’s the subject of the notebook. I am confident that I left it on the bedside table. So how did it end up in my bag?’’
“If I took it, then logically, I would put it back in the same place.”
“On the contrary. You know I looked all over for it on the bedside table, around it and under it. If it turned up in the same place, then it would be obvious. The smarter thing to do is to have it turn up somewhere else to convince me I had forgotten where I put it.”
“So I took your notebook and gave it to the Deuxième Bureau?”
“Maybe you only flipped through it. You were afraid I had contacts that could expose you to danger.”
“And what else?”
Beirut, Beirut Page 24
