by Chuck Holton
Liz nodded, unable to say anything around the clog of emotion in her throat. Not that she believed in his show of sympathy.
They were silent a few minutes, ordering, then sipping their coffee.
Bashir lifted his hand for a refill. “What you propose to do is very dangerous, very foolish.”
Liz nodded.
“Do not even think of going into the camp.”
Disconsolate, Liz stared at the Mediterranean. He wasn’t going to help. She wasn’t surprised, not really.
Bashir took off his glasses and glared at her. “It is suicidal. Not only can it get you killed. It can get me killed if they find out I helped. I do not want to be killed.”
Like I do? “I understand.” She swallowed her fear. “But I must try. I can’t leave Julie there, subject to who knows—” Her voice broke.
“Let the authorities take care of it. It’s what they get paid to do.”
“I’ve spoken to Captain Timon Habib. I told him what I told you yesterday. He wasn’t impressed.”
Bashir nodded as he slipped his glasses back on. “I know Habib.” His tone of voice said he didn’t think much of the man. “You understand, don’t you, that life would be much easier for Habib if Julie were dead? A confrontation with militant Palestinians is the last thing he wants.”
Liz’s hand went to the pendant hanging around her neck. She’d worn it ever since she found it in the alley by the hotel. “He won’t hesitate to let her die, will he?”
“Keeping Lebanon from civil war and keeping the factions quiet are his main concerns.”
“Well, Julie is mine.”
Bashir leaned back in his green plastic chair and studied her. “So you are riding to the rescue by yourself. Like St. George who is said to have slain his dragon not far from the place we sit.” Suddenly he leaned forward, reaching across the table and putting a strong hand on her arm. “Elizabeth, don’t.”
Surprised, she turned her head and looked at the sea until she felt she had control of herself. “I don’t have a choice. She is my sister.”
“You would rather risk that your parents have no daughters than that they have one safe and well?”
Fear two-stepped its icy dance down her spine. She repeated, “I don’t have a choice. If you won’t help me, I will go to your father. I’ll go to whomever I have to.”
“You will not go to my father.” Bashir slapped the table with the hand that had just rested on her arm in something like kindness. “I will not have you putting his life in danger. He has enough to bear without a hysterical American prima donna putting him in the sights of Ansar Inshallah.”
“If you don’t want your father involved, then you will have to help me.”
Bashir ignored her comment. “How many times have you mounted rescue operations? Or tried to sneak through a camp where Westerners are not welcomed?”
Liz’s chin came up. “I have been there before.”
“At night? Trying to get a captive out?”
A captive whose unmedicated rheumatoid arthritis would prevent her from running or moving with any agility. “Do you have information for me or not?”
“Not long ago they murdered the Palestinian wife of an American missionary in the very camp you want to infiltrate.”
Liz frowned. “I remember hearing about that. She converted from Islam, didn’t she? Upset her family?”
“Upset is a mild term.” Bashir shrugged. “I know. I play soccer with some men who live in this camp. So did the missionary. Don’t go, Elizabeth.”
Again silence fell. Liz was vaguely aware of a man looking through the postcards at the kiosk two doors from the café. When she looked back at Bashir, she said, “I’m going.”
He stared at her, shaking his head, obviously convinced she was crazy. Then he surprised her.
Downtown Beirut
Sweat trickled down John’s back as he pushed out through the double glass doors of the Berkley onto the sidewalk of the Hamra district of Beirut. The sun was warm, and several blocks away from the sea, the air was relatively still. He quickly donned sunglasses to shield his eyes from the glare. He looked up and down the busy street as Frank emerged behind him.
“Moving,” Frank spoke into a tiny Motorola walkie-talkie in his hand.
“German bike team members wouldn’t carry military radios,” Rip had said that morning as he produced the four standard FMRS radios from his bag. “Of course they don’t carry automatic carbines in their shoulder bags either, but we’ll just keep that little fact to ourselves.”
“Gadget Man to the rescue,” Hogan had drawled as he studied his new toy.
To go out today, John had traded his under armor jersey for a lightweight gray crew neck sweater and khakis, clothes he had purchased in Kuwait the previous winter. He almost never bought clothes in the U.S. because they made it more difficult to blend in and not look like an American. Frank wore a sport coat over his turtleneck, which effectively concealed the .45 caliber pistol under his arm.
“Valor Three in position,” Rip answered.
“Me too,” came Buzz Hogan’s reply. He never had been much for proper radio procedure.
John and Frank walked several blocks west, heading for the outdoor café near the Corniche.
John watched a group of young, stylish Lebanese strolling along the avenue. “Is it just me, or are all the women here gorgeous?”
“Quite exotic, yes.” Frank nodded.
In fact, John was finding his preconceived notions of Beirut shattered at every turn as he took in the gleaming buildings, the modern shopping boutiques and malls, and the trendy citizens. As much traveling as he’d done, he shouldn’t have been surprised.
“I guess I figured they’d all be wearing burqas or something. You know, like in Iraq or even Jordan. Look! There’s a Pizza Hut!”
“Wanna stop in for a slice?” Frank’s voice was droll.
John laughed. “Not today.”
They crossed the Avenue du General de Gaulle and strolled south along the Corniche toward the café where they were to meet Zothgar. Children chased each other along the seaside path, while young men fished with long poles off the seawall.
John spotted Rip looking at postcards in a little newsstand two doors before the café. His black hair and olive skin made him almost indistinguishable from the typical Lebanese.
John had been a bit worried that Hogan, big Texas cowboy that he was, would stand out like a logger at Lollapalooza, but his fears subsided a little when he saw the cosmopolitan makeup of Beirut’s people.
“So what kind of a name is Zothgar?” Frank asked. “Is that his first name or his last name?”
“You’ve got me.” John kept walking. “But I trust him about as far as I can throw him.”
Rip nodded almost imperceptibly as they passed.
The café was situated on a small flat area of rock on the cliffs on the seaward side of the Corniche, just south of the famed Pigeon Rocks. Several of the tables were occupied with a lunch crowd of college students and workers enjoying the sun. There wasn’t anything especially notable about the place, which made it perfect for their meeting.
John slid his six-foot frame into a chair and casually checked the diners out more carefully. His eyes paused briefly on a tall, angry-looking man in a well-tailored suit talking passionately with a woman, whose back was to John. Deciding that the man wasn’t a threat, he finished his sweep and settled in to wait for Zothgar.
Frank took a seat several tables over, facing John so he would be able to cover John’s back if one of these innocents wasn’t so innocent after all. He could also keep an eye out for Zothgar.
John checked his watch. 12:20. The proprietor emerged, and John ordered a bottle of bitter lemon, a drink he’d come to love when he was stationed in Germany but was unable to get in the States.
He waited as the scent of sweet apple nargileh, the tobacco smoked in the vastly popular hookahs or water pipes, wrapped around him. The Avenue du General de Gaulle in front of the café offer
ed the competing odor of exhaust. The avenue was absolutely packed with people driving as if they’d just been told to evacuate the city.
A BMW raced by, weaving in and out of traffic with its horn blaring in competition with its radio. Behind it, a young man zipped past on a motorcycle, wearing no helmet and performing a wheelie. Just in case that didn’t kill him, a cigarette hung out of his mouth.
John shook his head. Just another of those things no one thought twice about here, but if someone tried it in the U.S., the police—and the lawyers—would have a feeding frenzy.
John sweated and nursed his drink for fifteen minutes, twice having to beg off when the owner came to take his food order.
He had no choice. He would have to pull the plug and abort the mission if Zothgar wasn’t here in five minutes.
* * *
“You must wear the proper clothes,” Bashir lectured. “Cover your head. Look meek. No respectable Muslim woman should be wandering the streets of the camp at night. Just being there at that time makes you suspect.”
She nodded, more than slightly miffed at his condescending tone. “I know how to dress.” She paused and took a deep breath. He might be irate, but she mustn’t react in kind. He might take offense and leave before she had all the information she needed. “But where is she in the camp? Where’s the building she’s being held in? How many guards does she have? Have they hurt her in any way?”
Until she voiced that question, Liz hadn’t realized just how afraid she was for Julie with a fear of things other than death. She had been blocking such thoughts because they were too painful, too devastating. Once more she swallowed against the fear.
“The warehouse where I think they hold her will have a guard.”
“Just one?”
He shrugged. “They know she is not going anywhere.”
“Does the guard know I’m coming?”
“Of course not.” He gave her that superior smile of his.
Well, how was I supposed to know? She forced herself to smile back, her curve of the lips as insincere as his. Over his shoulder she absently watched a little man in an ill-fitting suit approach, then rush past. She eyed the immaculately tailored Bashir. Quite a contrast but proof that clothes did not make the man.
“I must go.” Bashir pulled his slim leather wallet from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He slid a Lebanese ten-thousand livre note onto the table to pay the tab.
“But—”
He reached into his briefcase and drew out an unsealed envelope. He handed it to her. She blinked. It was stuffed with many Lebanese livre notes of high denomination.
“What—?”
“The guard’s name is Azmi. Give him the envelope, and he will see you have entry into the warehouse. After that he cannot and will not help you. And I will not help again in any way.”
Liz was still reeling over the fact that he was helping at all. “Why is the guard willing to help me? And where did this money come from?”
“Azmi has a son who has a bad leg as the result of being too near a land mine that exploded. The boy needs surgery to correct his problems, but Azmi hasn’t the money.” His voice turned harsh. “No one in the camps has the money.”
“How do you know this Azmi?”
“Soccer.”
“Ah. And the money?”
“Julie is my sister-in-law. I might not have chosen her for Khalil, but she is still extended family whether I like it or not.”
Liz was stunned. If she understood what he wasn’t saying, the money was from him. Watch it, Bashir. Next thing you know, I might like you. Or at least tolerate you.
He pulled a piece of paper from his briefcase and dropped it on the table. “It has been nice knowing you, Elizabeth.” With a slight nod that did nothing to negate the acid dripping from his voice, he was gone.
It was clear he expected her to die in this mission.
O, Lord, You have to protect me.
Another thought skittered through her mind. The missionary and his wife had undoubtedly prayed that same prayer, and look how their story had turned out. She swallowed, but the fear continued to sit in her throat.
She unfolded the paper he’d left. It was a map of the camp, with the course she should follow marked on it. A building in the center had an X on it in red ink. As she studied it, she wondered if the X was just for the building, a pretty large one if the map was anywhere near scale, or for that section of the building. She shrugged. She’d find out soon enough.
She closed her eyes and turned her face into the sun.
Lord, what else can I do? She knew the answer was nothing. She also knew that just a month ago she would have expected everything to go well in her rescue venture. She had no confidence that it would go well tonight.
Her faith slipped another notch.
She turned as she heard Bashir summon a taxi. She watched as he climbed in, a slick, overconfident, opinionated, quite nasty man. His driver darted into traffic without regard for the oncoming vehicles.
Then her gaze settled on the athletic man in the gray sweater seated three tables behind her. Those chiseled features looked just like…
John was just about to abort the mission when Frank, digging into a huge plate of hummos, caught his eye and motioned with his head. John turned to see Zothgar threading his way through the traffic and parked cars, wearing the same faded suit as the previous night. He looked as if he hadn’t slept much.
When Zothgar spotted John, he headed right for his table. He sat, then called the proprietor over. They had a rapid-fire conversation in Arabic.
“I’ll have the same,” John said in German. At the proprietor’s uncertain look, John pointed to Zothgar, made eating motions, and pointed to himself, nodding. Zothgar translated, and the man brightened and left.
Zothgar settled back and waited until the proprietor returned with the plates of hummos and flat bread and small cups of Turkish coffee.
Zothgar sipped his drink and regarded John calmly. “Did you know that Lebanon is mentioned more than sixty times in your Bible?”
“Er…no.” John was startled by the question, which he suspected was exactly what Zothgar had in mind. “I mean, I know it’s mentioned, but I didn’t know how often. Why do you assume that it’s my Bible?”
“You are a Christian, are you not?”
He hesitated again. “What leads you to that conclusion?” Way to avoid the question, Cooper.
Zothgar shrugged. “Yours is a Christian nation.”
John grunted. Hardly. “So if I was born in a garage, would that make me an automobile?”
He could see that his analogy had been lost in the cultural divide, so John grabbed the excuse to change the subject. His thoughts about God were still too confused and full of anger to discuss. “What have you got for us?”
“I have made arrangements for our transportation.” Zothgar paused to light a cigarette. “Check out of your hotel and take a taxi to the Moevenpick Hotel where you will secure rooms for the night. Meet me in the hotel lobby at eleven-thirty this evening, prepared to depart.”
John tore off a piece of flat bread and used it to scoop up some hummos. “I had ice cream once at the Moevenpick in Frankfurt. It’s a pretty classy place. Expensive. What’s wrong with the hotel we currently occupy? The rates there are more reasonable.”
John suddenly realized that Zothgar wasn’t paying attention to him but was staring at another table. His face went suddenly tense. But before John could see what was so distressing, a woman’s voice rang out.
“John? John Cooper?”
Zothgar started to stand, but John froze in his seat. What the…? He knew no one in Beirut, no one knew he was here, and no one must ever know. His right hand instinctively slid into the shoulder bag, his fingers seeking his gun as he looked up to face the voice.
“John, it’s me, Liz Fairchild!”
John sat paralyzed, staring into those beautiful brown eyes.
Downtown Beirut
LIZ FELT THE
HEAVINESS in the air that comes when something is wrong, when you’ve acted in a way you shouldn’t, but you have no idea what you’ve done or why it’s wrong. She felt herself flush.
John Cooper didn’t move, didn’t even blink. He just sat there, handsome as ever, eyes wide, face blank, mouth shut.
What was his problem? Certainly he’d never followed up on what she’d thought might become a wonderful romance after she met him at the beach three years ago, but did that mean he couldn’t be polite enough to at least acknowledge her?
Unless he’d forgotten all about her. Unless he couldn’t even remember her name.
Now there was a humiliating thought.
She smiled too brightly and began talking in an attempt to relieve the awkwardness. “What a surprise, seeing you here in Beirut of all places.”
Had she told him her family lived here? She couldn’t remember. Wouldn’t it be a real-life fairy tale if he’d come looking for her? Right. And world peace was just around the corner.
“Are you on vacation?” Like you were when we met? “I hope you’re having a good time.”
Talk about inane. What she really wanted to do was ask if he’d like her to show him around since she knew the city so well, but she bit it back. Dump me once, it’s no one’s fault. Dump me twice, it’s all mine. It irked her that she still felt that little kick just looking at him. She was pathetic.
She fidgeted uneasily. “So, um…are you still in the Army, or are you a civilian now?”
If only he would respond! Even a blink would be a step in the right direction. She plowed on, not knowing what else to do. Her grin felt pasted on.
“I’m glad you found the Corniche. Walking by the sea is so relaxing.”
Suddenly, a muscular arm snaked around her shoulders. She stiffened and turned. The leering face of a man she’d never met hovered much too close to hers.
“Guten abend, Frauline!”
The man was at least eight inches taller than she was, and he was holding her firmly, too firmly, with his powerful right arm. He was grinning from ear to ear. “Dieses eine gute schauende Frau! He Fritz!”
She frowned. The man might be looking at her, but he was talking to John.
