Bride of a Bygone War (Beriut Trilogy 2)

by Fleming, Preston

  “Why don’t you tell me some more about this movement of yours, Mazen? How many members does it have, and what are their ranks and unit affiliations? What operations have you carried out so far?”

  “I am prepared to tell you everything you may wish to know about us, but only after you agree to help us.”

  Prosser let out a short laugh. “I think you may be putting the cart before the horse, Mazen. The people who will be deciding whether to help you are in Washington, not here. And before they can decide to do anything for you, they will want to know every possible detail about you. That’s why I’m here to help you. I will write it all down, send it by satellite to Washington, and let you know their answer as soon as it comes in.” He flashed the Syrian his friendliest all-American smile.

  “If I reveal these details to you and you decide not to help us, how can we be certain that what I have told you will not somehow find its way into the hands of Hafez al-Asad’s security organs?”

  “Listen, Mazen,” Prosser continued amiably. “The United States is not at war with Syria. We have our embassy in Damascus, and Syria has its embassy in Washington. Friendly governments simply do not go around giving material support to insurgent groups aiming to overthrow each other. Besides, how do I know that you haven’t been sent from Damascus to find out whether the American embassy in Beirut is arming Syrian opposition movements? If you have been, and I offer to help you, it seems likely to me that somebody in Damascus might just arrange to have me assassinated as a warning to others not to arm Syrian oppositionists. See what I mean? All I can promise you is that I will relay your information to Washington and that we will keep it a strict secret. You have my word on that. The rest is up to Washington.”

  The Arab smiled weakly at Prosser’s suggestion that he might be an agent provocateur and then seemed to weigh his alternatives. “There are not yet many of us, and we lack experience in these matters. Yet we cannot succeed without your help. Tell me again what you wish to know about us and I will answer what I can.”

  Chapter 8

  “Hey, Connie, get on over here,” Harry Landers bellowed in a voice that could have been heard by the street peddlers on the Corniche eight floors below. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Prosser stopped his progress toward the dining room, where he had caught a glimpse of their host, Muriel Benson, supervising her Lebanese steward as the youth gingerly lowered a heaping platter of curried lamb onto the sideboard. Harry’s voice had come from the balcony. Prosser turned that way and was amused to find the burly vice consul backed against the iron railing by a middle-aged Lebanese couple whose cross-examination appeared to have him on the ropes.

  The husband had a jutting jaw, bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows, a matching mustache, and a head of thick, silver-gray hair with a prominent widow’s peak. Something about the man’s thin-lipped slit of a mouth, however, put Prosser on his guard. At the same time, the man’s wife, a full-bosomed woman dressed in an expensive-looking dress of dark blue silk chiffon, to all appearances seemed a warm and good-humored soul, ready to cajole where her husband appeared intent upon intimidation.

  The couple renewed their questioning while Harry gestured for Prosser to approach. Despite the vice consul’s gay smile and apparent bonhomie, Prosser detected a note of exasperation in his voice.

  Recalling the numerous favors Harry had done him recently, and thinking ahead to those he intended to extract from the visa officer in the future, Prosser stepped through the open French doors onto the balcony. As he did, a gentle breeze stirred from offshore and brought the smell of sea salt to his nose.

  “Connie, I’d like you to meet somebody you’re going to be seeing much more of. This is Claudette Hammouche and her husband, Victor. Claudette used to teach Arabic at the embassy before the Events. For the last few years they’ve been living in Kuwait, but now they’ve moved back to Beirut and Claudette has been hired again to give Arabic and French lessons under the post language program. You take Arabic lessons, don’t you, Connie?”

  “Three days a week, until Ghada quit last month,” Prosser replied. He turned to Claudette with a friendly smile. “I hope we can start soon. I’ve been slipping back into bad habits, and I have a feeling that my Arabic vocabulary is getting smaller every day instead of larger.”

  “Then come to my office on Monday morning. Bad habits are my specialty.”

  “Don’t fall for that false humility act of his, Claudette,” Harry said. “Connie is the best Arabist in the embassy. What he considers bad habits would raise my test scores a full grade.”

  “And will Mr. Prosser work with you in the consular section, Harry?” Victor Hammouche inquired with the ingratiating sort of smile that Prosser recognized as portending a visa referral for some friend or relative.

  “I’m afraid not, Victor. Connie works in the political section. So I doubt if he’ll be in a position to help you with your particular question.”

  “I was a consular officer in my last posting, if that means anything. What sort of question do you have, Victor?”

  Harry frowned and Prosser knew why. Harry knew him well enough by now to realize that Prosser had no scruples about recommending an ineligible visa applicant or promising some other consular favor if it would help him cultivate a relationship or acquire a piece of information he coveted. To Prosser, U.S. visas represented a sort of fiat currency that could be dispensed in nearly unlimited amounts to gain advantage with the locals.

  “Actually, it’s not visa advice that Victor needs,” Harry broke in. “What he wants is for somebody to look up a name for him in our card file of American citizens registered in Lebanon. Unfortunately, the card file is covered by the Privacy Act, so neither I nor anybody else in the embassy will be able to help him.”

  “My dear Harry,” Victor pressed, “I understand your position perfectly. I would not think of asking you to violate one of your American laws. I ask only that if you meet such a person in the future, or if you hear his name, you should inform me. Surely there can be no American law against doing such a small favor for a friend, eh?”

  “But you still haven’t told me why you want to know about this person, Victor,” Harry protested. “For all I know, he may be an old beau of Claudette who makes you insanely jealous.”

  At this, Claudette chuckled and Victor appeared to soften.

  “Who is it you want to know about? Maybe I’ve already run across him on the cocktail circuit,” Prosser offered.

  Harry’s smile vanished. “I rather doubt it, Con,” he interjected. “Victor says the fellow left Beirut in 1975. That’s well before your time.”

  “Yes, but I am certain it was he whom I saw last night at L’Olivier,” Victor insisted doggedly. “He is here in Beirut. I know it.”

  “His name?” Prosser asked.

  “William Conklin,” Claudette answered. “He was once a student of mine.” She glanced uneasily at Victor. “And the husband of my niece, Muna.”

  “Then can’t you find out from your niece where he is?” Prosser suggested.

  “She has not seen him since he disappeared on his way to the airport five years ago,” Claudette replied. “We do not wish to speak to her until we know more, but at the same time, we cannot leave it alone.”

  “Her father must be told, Claudette,” Victor insisted. “If you will not tell your brother, I will call on César myself tomorrow.”

  * * *

  “Campari with a twist, on the rocks,” Prosser told the Filipino waiter, after having made his way back to the sideboard that served as a bar in Muriel Benson’s spacious apartment.

  “That sounds delicious. May I have a taste of yours?” asked a woman’s voice directly behind him. Prosser turned around to find Lorraine Ellis. She kissed him on both cheeks, but for an instant looked as if she was unsure what sort of response to expect.

  “Make that two Camparis,” he told the waiter.

  “Is it very strong?” she asked.

  “Only the
taste. Try it. If you don’t like it, you can pour it into mine and I’ll get you something else.”

  She held the tumbler up to her lips and drank the bitter red infusion. “Does it mix with anything? I like the flavor but perhaps not as much as you do.”

  “Then how about a Campari Tonic?” he asked, adding the contents of her glass to his.

  “Smashing,” she replied. But there was still an odd chill in her voice, a hesitancy that suggested a change of heart from the night before.

  “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday,” he volunteered in an effort to break the ice. “Something urgent came up shortly after lunch, and it didn’t give me a moment’s rest until after dinner.”

  “To be perfectly frank, Conrad, I was quite prepared to strike your name from my list at five minutes after three when you didn’t call as you had promised. I held pen in hand, poised to strike, when the messenger came to the rescue with your note. It was a damned near thing, I should say. I was crushed that you were standing me up but delighted at finding Walter’s new phone number at the end of your note. Thank you.”

  “Were you able to reach him?”

  “We had dinner.” She looked Prosser carefully in the eye, as if to measure his reaction. Then the bartender held out her Campari Tonic and she took a cautious first sip. “Much improved,” she declared.

  “And Walter? Also improved? Or the same as always?”

  “Mmmm. Do you really want me to answer that?” she teased.

  “I suppose it serves me right, leaving you alone for an evening. Will you let me make it up to you by taking you out for a nightcap after the party?”

  “So late? Muriel tells me that after eight o’clock only gunmen and dope addicts venture out onto the streets.”

  “Muriel has never been out after eight; that’s one of her problems,” Prosser replied dismissively. “So how about it? Are you game?”

  “Thanks, Conrad, but really, I can’t. I promised Muriel I would help her tidy up after the guests leave; it’s what a well-mannered houseguest does, you know.”

  “How about tomorrow?” he pressed.

  “Muriel and I are going to the Casino du Liban with a group from the consular section and spending the night in Jounié.”

  “Sunday, then?”

  “Why don’t you call me sometime Sunday afternoon? I’m not sure yet if Muriel has anything planned.”

  “Your being so busy wouldn’t have anything to do with Walt being back in touch, would it? No, you don’t have to answer that one. After all, Walt was there first.”

  “At times I could hardly say he’s there at all,” she replied wearily. “Walter hasn’t yet made up his mind about what it is he wants. I believe he’s still reeling from the shock of finding out he’s expected to stay here for two years instead of two months. It has quite upset his calculations.”

  Suddenly Prosser spotted Ed Pirelli sidling up to them with a blissful smile on his face. Pirelli was the kind of drinker who reached mellowness after the first double scotch and remained a friend of all the world for the rest of the evening until his eyes glazed over and his knees buckled beneath him.

  Prosser turned his back to Pirelli and told Lorraine not to move. “Just smile sweetly and don’t say a thing.”

  “Say, Ed,” Prosser began affably as soon as the station chief pulled up beside them. “Have they finished setting up the buffet?”

  “Muriel sent the rice back for further fluffing,” he replied, taking pains to bring off the alliteration successfully. “She says it won’t be long.” He sipped his scotch and stared intently at Lorraine.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lovely friend, Connie?” he asked with boozy familiarity.

  “Oh, excuse me, Ed. I thought you had met. Lorraine, allow me to introduce Ed Pirelli. Ed works in the economic section, in case you ever need the latest numbers on the Lebanese national debt in a hurry. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Ed, I was about to show Lorraine where Muriel keeps the telephone.” He took her by the elbow and began nudging her forward, but, to his surprise, she would not budge.

  “You wouldn’t be the Ed Pirelli who served in Delhi, would you?” she asked boldly.

  “I’ll admit to that,” he answered, drawing himself up to his full five feet, nine inches. And you must be the Lorraine—”

  “Lorraine Ellis. I believe we have a mutual friend, Walter Lukash. Before Walter left Amman, he must have told me a hundred times how he looked forward to working with you again.”

  Prosser watched Lorraine switch on her Irish charm and turn up the dial.

  Upon hearing Lukash’s name, Pirelli suddenly seemed to recover his sobriety, then just as quickly retreated behind a protective mask of drunken affability.

  “Lorraine has a training contract with Middle East Airlines for the next few weeks and is going to be a houseguest of Muriel Benson’s,” Prosser said. “Now, Lorraine, wasn’t there an important phone call you had to put through?”

  She ignored him.

  “Then you’ve seen Walt recently, Miss Ellis?” Pirelli probed.

  “Yesterday at dinner. Walt has a marvelous flat in East Beirut, by the way. Have you seen it?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t. To be honest, I haven’t seen very much of Walt since Delhi,” he said, lying without a trace of self-consciousness. “You wouldn’t happen to have his new phone number, would you?”

  “It’s in my purse in the next room, but I would be happy to copy it for you after dinner if you’d like. I just got it myself.”

  Prosser winced and Pirelli sent a malevolent glare in his direction. “I would be very grateful if you could do that for me,” he answered. “If we miss each other after dinner, just give it to Conrad here. He’ll make sure it gets to me. Again, it was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Ellis.”

  * * *

  The Filipino bartender laid out a dozen empty brandy snifters in two rows on the sideboard between the coffee service and a silver tray piled high with baklava and a dozen varieties of treacly Arab pastries.

  “Cognac, sir?”

  “A small one, please.”

  He poured a little more than a centimeter of Remy Martin into the glass closest to Prosser.

  “Is the brandy any good?” Muriel Benson asked with the air of satisfaction that comes to a hostess when dinner, dessert, and coffee have all been served and the kitchen help has begun to tackle the dirty dishes.

  Although Muriel was well into her forties, she was an energetic woman who regularly played tennis, swam, and walked twenty minutes to and from the embassy every day. One day at the Coral Beach Hotel Prosser had seen her in a bathing suit and had been surprised that such a shapely figure had been kept so well concealed beneath her baggy cotton print dresses. Tonight she wore a knit cocktail dress that clung to her hips and rode high over her knees as she sat cross-legged on the sofa. Suddenly he realized that he had not heard anything Muriel had said and quickly tried to piece together what he had missed.

  “The PPS liquor kiosk wanted a hundred lira per bottle, the thieves,” Muriel continued. The Parti Populaire Syrien, a leftist militia espousing union between Lebanon and Syria, ran a sidewalk liquor stand on rue Sidani to help finance its activities. It was generally able to offer rock-bottom prices because its merchandise consisted of stolen and smuggled goods on which no duty had been paid.

  “That’s not bad,” Prosser replied. “I’ve paid as much as two hundred, when I could find it.”

  “I thought as much. I recognized the label from your dinner party last week and bought it. It was such a pleasant surprise to be invited, Connie,” she added, blushing faintly. “You always bring together the most fascinating collections of people at your parties. The only disappointment was that the two of us didn’t get more of an opportunity to talk.”

  “That’s something we can easily correct. Why don’t you grab yourself one of those glasses and come sit. Let the staff do the work.”

  “I’d be delighted,” she replied, reac
hing out to touch Prosser’s hand. “But first, please do me a favor and take off that jacket and tie of yours. And in case I get called away in a few minutes when the guests start leaving, please don’t think you have to go too.”

  As if on cue, a half dozen guests appeared from the living room to thank their hostess and bid her a good night. Prosser carried his cognac onto the balcony and watched the espresso sellers on the Corniche below dismantling their equipment for the night. Far to the east, he saw flashes of light from mortar and artillery shells falling in the former commercial district, but he heard none of the roar or rumble that signified heavy fighting. Occasionally a burst of automatic rifle fire disturbed the calm but failed to draw answering fire. When at last he finished the cognac and returned to the sideboard for more, no other guest was in sight.

  “Ah, there you are,” Muriel greeted him brightly as he closed the double doors behind him. “Why don’t you come over here where we can relax?”

  Without waiting for him to follow, she started across the room. He poured just enough brandy to give color to his glass and then took a seat at the opposite end of the sofa. Muriel was facing him with her feet tucked under her legs and one arm draped around an oversize throw pillow held in her lap.

  “Why don’t you take off that jacket and tie, Conrad? I’m so happy that we finally have a chance to get to know each other. You know, I recall vividly the moment you first stepped out of the elevator to report to Ambassador Ravenel. I don’t know if I should say this, but I thought you were the most handsome man I had ever laid eyes on. I remember that you had flown in directly from Jeddah, and I said I had served there, too.”

  She brushed a strand of hair from her face, and all at once Prosser noticed that Muriel’s hair was unpinned. In the dim light the streaks of gray were hardly visible, and the tiny sunburst wrinkles at the corners of her eyes had totally disappeared. There was an odd gleam in the woman’s eye, and Prosser thought he knew what it meant.