Dynamite Fishermen (Beriut Trilogy 1)

by Fleming, Preston

  “I can imagine how you must have felt. I mean, if you hadn’t recruited him—”

  Pirelli cut him off. “Yeah, I felt pretty low for a while, but it was something I had to learn. No matter how hard we try to prevent it, sooner or later agents tend to get caught. Not all of them, of course, but the better their access, the harder we use them and the more likely they are to be rolled up. Since you and I are the ones who recruit and run them, sooner or later you’ll watch one of your own agents get the shaft. Sure, it makes you feel low for a while. But it’s part of the job and you just have to accept it.”

  Pirelli’s eyes met Prosser’s. Whatever the station chief had expected to find there—empathy, understanding, perhaps even admiration—he looked disappointed.

  Prosser only hoped Pirelli could not see the extent of his unease at the story’s outcome, for it had been foreseeable from the moment of his recruitment that Hasan would be rolled up. Whether the Egyptian’s life was worth the extra advantage it brought the United States in the Camp David negotiations was anyone’s guess. But whether he, Conrad Prosser, was willing to take responsibility for shortening the life of a Hasan each year of his Agency career was a choice only he could make. And despite his years of training and experience, he had resisted making it. One thing was becoming very clear about the decision: if his answer was yes, he would have to land his first Hasan very soon.

  Chapter 4

  Prosser turned the corner onto rue Clemenceau and spotted his man waiting at the curb. He was in his mid-forties, half a head taller than the average Levantine Arab and built like a boxer, with slender hips and thick shoulders and arms. Although he was not in uniform, his closely cropped black hair, trimmed mustache, and erect posture were clearly those of a military man. Prosser watched the man’s swarthy, lantern-jawed face brighten in recognition as the Renault passed. Two weeks before, Prosser had shown him the spot and had driven him past the apartment building just off rue Omar Daouk where they were about to meet.

  Prosser drove on for another three blocks to find a parking space and then started back on foot along the quiet, tree-lined avenue where century-old stone villas had only recently begun to make way for modern reinforced concrete and cinderblock apartment buildings. Advancing toward the corner where he had seen the agent, he paused before the display window of a men’s clothing boutique to watch the movements of the few pedestrians around him. He paused again before a goldsmith’s window filled with handmade Aleppo chains and eighteen-karat wrist bangles that shone in the direct rays of the afternoon sun. He combined a lingering look at the jewelry with a rapid sweep of the block and then crossed the street to enter a neatly whitewashed six-story building block of working-class flats and professional offices.

  The money changer’s stall just inside the foyer was shuttered for the afternoon, but the door to the concierge’s tiny studio was wide open, filling the area with the odor of rancid mutton and the overwrought crooning of an Egyptian torch singer. Prosser passed the door and quietly mounted the stairway. On reaching the fourth floor, he halted and listened for any sound of movement on the floors above and below, then quickly pulled a key ring from his pocket to unlock the twin deadbolts of the door before him.

  He entered, locking a single deadbolt behind him, and then moved down the long hallway into the living room. He had not been inside the apartment in more than a month, not since the elderly National Assembly member he usually met there refused to meet in Muslim West Beirut any longer out of concerns for his safety.

  The flat’s tenant was an American woman of about fifty who had long ago divorced her Lebanese husband and decided to remain in Beirut with the idea of earning her living as an artist. Wisely, she had held onto her part-time administrative post with a United Nations relief office and, as a result, collected a modest salary that was sufficient to meet her needs and cover the rent on her one-bedroom living quarters near rue Verdun. The place where Prosser now tidied up and dusted was her studio, furnished tastefully, if sparsely, on the slim budget that the station allowed her. Unfinished and unsold works, generally Lebanese pastoral scenes that imitated the Impressionists—and did so badly—filled every room. Although the canvases showed only modest ability, Prosser admired their uninhibited use of bold colors and their irrepressible spirit of hope.

  Prosser stood at the picture window to gaze out over the cascade of red-tiled roofs that descended to the seawall. Late in the afternoons on such clear summer days, the sun reflected off the Mediterranean and filled the studio with a warm, rippling light that never failed to put him at ease. But today there would be no time for relaxation.

  He opened the casement windows and switched on an electric fan to expel the stale air; then he went to the kitchen to fetch some refreshments from the refrigerator. On his way back, the doorbell rang. Setting the tray down silently, he approached the door noiselessly and looked out the peephole. On the other side was the swarthy agent he had passed on the street corner.

  As soon as the door was locked behind them, the two men embraced in Arab fashion, kissing each other on both cheeks before exchanging formulaic greetings in Arabic. Although Prosser knew his guest would have to leave within an hour or two, he avoided showing any haste as he poured out two glasses of apple juice and offered the man a dish of salted pistachios.

  “So, Abu Ramzi, tell me where you have been these past two weeks. Did you make your inspection trip to the Bekaa Valley that we talked about?”

  Abu Ramzi nodded. “I did, but I saw no foreign trainees or any sign of the special operations courses that you asked me to find. Perhaps such training was going on in camps that I did not visit, but I doubt it. I think it more likely that such courses have been moved to newer camps near the Syrian border by Yanta and Deir el Achayer. I tried to go there, but it is impossible to enter without written orders from Damascus.”

  Prosser picked up his notebook. “Who runs these camps?” he asked.

  “Most of the training cadres are Palestinians, but they do not belong to the Palestinian Resistance. They call themselves Palestinians, but their true home is Damascus and they take their pay and their instructions from the Syrians. To my way of thinking, they are merely Syrians who speak with a Palestinian accent.”

  “Surely you must know somebody who can tell you what’s going on inside.”

  “Maybe so, but it will take time to find them,” Abu Ramzi replied noncommittally. “Wally,” he said, addressing Prosser by his alias, “it surprises me that you still fail to recognize that those who carry out terroristic acts are not permitted to remain within the Palestinian National Movement. Arafat prohibited aircraft hijacking and assassination by the Resistance years ago. We have no use for such tactics now that our men are able to attack the Israeli army directly in South Lebanon and the occupied homelands. Terrorist operations in the Western countries do nothing but blacken our name there and set back our struggle for diplomatic recognition. Surely you must appreciate this.”

  “Arafat can boast all he wants about stopping international terrorism,” Prosser replied, “but that doesn’t mean all his people are listening. Terrorist cadres are training right here in West Beirut at bases run by Fatah and Saiqa and the Popular Front and other outfits in the PLO. Open your eyes, Abu Ramzi.”

  No matter how often Prosser raised the subject of PLO involvement in international terrorism, Abu Ramzi always denied it and invariably laid responsibility at Syria’s doorstep. Irksome as this habit sometimes was, Abu Ramzi’s reporting on political and military affairs was highly accurate and rich in detail. Prosser had learned to accept Abu Ramzi’s biases and edit them out of his reporting.

  Abu Ramzi had first volunteered his services to the Agency in the autumn of 1976, in revenge for Syria’s intervention against the Palestinian militias in the Lebanese civil war. A fervent Palestinian nationalist, Abu Ramzi had once told Prosser he would accept aid from Menachem Begin himself to resist Syrian domination of the Palestinian cause. His reason for joining the pro-Iraqi Arab L
iberation Front was that he had lived in Baghdad from 1948, when his parents fled Haifa, until the 1967 Arab-Israeli War, when he traveled to Jordan to enlist in the Palestinian fedayeen forces.

  Abu Ramzi had also felt that he understood the Iraqi character and could accept help from Iraq because Baghdad’s distance from Jerusalem meant the Palestinian Resistance had less reason to distrust Iraq’s leaders. Iraqi aid, Abu Ramzi often repeated, came with no strings other than continued opposition to Syrian domination in Lebanon and occasional public tribute to Saddam Hussein.

  In Abu Ramzi’s view, however, it was neither Syria nor Iraq, nor even Israel, that held the key to creating a Palestinian homeland on the West Bank and Gaza. It was the United States. The two thousand U.S. dollars Prosser paid him every month doubtless also helped to foster a positive attitude toward America. The money provided financial security for Abu Ramzi’s family and an ample source of funds for the many small gifts and favors he dispensed to cultivate the personal loyalty of his junior officers and troops. Abu Ramzi believed that someday, however, the Americans would prevail upon Israel to permit a Palestinian state in the West Bank and Gaza. When they did, he believed, the individual Palestinians who were favorites of the Americans would become the fathers of their fledgling country, and he intended to take his place at the head of the list.

  While Abu Ramzi’s intelligence assignments for the Americans were often onerous and time-consuming, he never shrank from any reasonable task. Above all, he relished the opportunity to explain PLO strategy, to offer insider gossip about Palestinian leaders and factional feuds, and to pass along the PLO’s own intelligence assessments regarding the Lebanese Shiite fundamentalists and the Syrian army. He also brought lengthy handwritten reports to each meeting and served up purloined copies of secret PLO and Iraqi intelligence documents whenever he could.

  Prosser quickly scanned the twenty pages of photocopied reports Abu Ramzi had brought tucked inside his boots. Then he folded the documents twice and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. “We have many subjects to cover, Abu Ramzi,” he began once the documents were tucked away. “First, the car bombs. Twice as many exploded last month on both sides of town. Why? Who’s behind them?”

  “Surely you must know that responsibility lies with the Syrians, Wally. Their aim is to convince the Lebanese people that only the Syrian army is capable of providing security for West Beirut. Syrian military intelligence plants the bombs, then the Syrian army claims credit for discovering them. What could be simpler? Of course, some of the bombs must explode from time to time to demonstrate the importance of this service.”

  “What makes you so sure it’s the Syrians?

  “How could it not be? So very many booby-trapped cars could not possibly be assembled or moved about the city without Syrian complicity.”

  “Then how do you explain the wave of bombings on the East Side, against the Phalangists?”

  Abu Ramzi gave Prosser a reproving look. “Syria has agents there, too, of course. Just this week I read a report that Syrian military intelligence has recruited a new explosives expert to manufacture bombs for use against East Beirut. He is said to be a Palestinian, formerly in the Resistance. He produces the bombs in West Beirut, then has them smuggled across the Green Line by Christian members of the Syrian Baath Party who live in East Beirut and are able to pass easily in and out. Believe me, Wally, these are facts I am giving you,” he boasted with a self-satisfied smile. “Solid facts.” He leaned back on the sofa and took a handful of pistachios.

  “What else do you know about this explosives expert?” Prosser inquired. “Can you give me a name or a description?”

  “I have no more than what I have told you. But as for the Christian smugglers, before the Syrian occupation they worked closely with Fatah, training cadres in demolitions work. There are three brothers. The eldest lives on rue Furn el-Hayek in Achrafiyé, where he owns a garage and petrol station. The other two live in Jdaide. Their family name is Naaman.”

  “Give me their first names and dates of birth.”

  “By Allah, I do not remember their names, but they are young men, not yet above thirty. You can find the name of the eldest brother on the sign above his garage, near the Nôtre Dame du Liban.”

  Prosser recorded the names in his notebook. “How many other people in your organization know about the Naamans?”

  “None. I know about them only because my brother-in-law is an officer in Fatah. He worked directly with them last year on some joint operation in the mountains.” Abu Ramzi grew pensive, as if trying to recall some forgotten detail. “One other thing. After the bombings on the East Side, there will be an operation in West Beirut against a foreign target.”

  “What kind of target? An embassy, an airline office, a school? I need details.”

  The agent shrugged. “The report did not say.”

  “For God’s sake, Abu Ramzi, you’re going to have to do better than that,” Prosser chided. “First of all, find out if it’s targeted against Americans. Then follow up on that explosives expert. Report any fragment you hear, even if it’s bazaar gossip. Understood?”

  Abu Ramzi leaned back and observed Prosser coolly. “Always you ask first whether there is any danger to Americans. Do you truly believe your American lives are more precious than ours, or that foreigners should be immune from the shelling and sniping that the rest of us face? Forgive me for saying so, Wally, but perhaps if more Americans died in Lebanon, your government would take a harder stand against those responsible for the killing.”

  “And by that you mean the Syrians, of course.”

  The Palestinian seemed surprised by Prosser’s skeptical attitude. “Was it not your secretary of state, Mr. Kissinger, who invited the Syrian army across the border five years ago? At that time he said it was a temporary measure to stop the fighting. Now five years have passed and the fighting is still going on, with the Syrians in the middle of it. I think that you Americans could send them home again if you wanted to. Yet they remain.”

  Prosser took a long sip of apple juice while he collected his thoughts. “Whether the Syrians come or go is none of my concern, Abu Ramzi,” he replied at last. “If you want to talk policy, call the ambassador. I’m here to collect information.” He turned over a fresh page in his notebook. “Okay. Next topic: arms shipments,” he began.

  Five minutes later, as Abu Ramzi was about to conclude his summary of arms shipments that the PLO had received over the past month, the doorbell rang.

  Prosser gestured for the Palestinian to hide in the bathroom, then tiptoed slowly to the end of the corridor and peered out through the peephole. On the landing outside he saw the mustachioed faces of two Lebanese youths in their early twenties. He considered ignoring them, but he quickly rejected the idea and opened the door. They wore T-shirts and faded blue jeans, and each held a folding-stock Kalashnikov rifle by its pistol grip with the barrel drooping toward the floor.

  “Salaam alaikum,” one of them greeted Prosser deferentially. “We do not wish to disturb you, siidi, but we are looking for someone,” he announced in excellent classical Arabic. “Have you seen a Palestinian, about my height, maybe forty years old, wearing a blue pullover?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Prosser lied, trying to keep his face from showing anxiety.

  “We think he entered the building less than an hour ago,” the Lebanese persisted. As he spoke, his companion peered past Prosser into the apartment.

  “Are you alone?” the second one demanded in a gruff voice.

  “Yes.”

  The first youth hesitated and looked at his comrade, who shook his head as if to say there was no point in pressing the issue. “I am sorry for disturbing you,” he continued. “But, please, if you see this man or one who looks like him, find us at once. We will be in the lobby.”

  “Certainly,” Prosser replied as they turned to leave.

  Prosser locked the door again, returned to the rear of the apartment, and knocked lightly on the bathroom doo
r to let Abu Ramzi know it was safe to come out. The Palestinian smiled confidently as they took their seats at the table. Prosser took a sip of juice before speaking.

  “Listen carefully,” he began in a low voice. “There were two armed men at the door just now. They seem to be searching for somebody who looks very much like you. Tell me, Abu Ramzi, did you have any troubles on your way up here?”

  “Not at all. I spoke only to the concierge and no one else. He asked me where I was going, and I told him I wanted to visit Dr. Hamdoun on the third floor, as you and I agreed.”

  “Perhaps the concierge was suspicious because of your Iraqi accent. With so many bombings around here lately, one would rather expect them to be jumpy.”

  A mischievous smile crept over Abu Ramzi’s face. “Well, perhaps there was something else. Perhaps he noticed this as I entered...” He stood up and pulled up the back of his sweater a few inches, revealing a Soviet-made Makarov pistol tucked into the waistband.

  Prosser sighed. “Never mind,” he said. “There is nothing we can do about it now. Let’s finish our work and decide later how we’ll get out of here.”

  He gestured for Abu Ramzi to sit down and resumed the debriefing, recording significant details in a nearly indecipherable scrawl in his pocket-sized notebook.

  Twenty minutes passed. The doorbell rang again. Prosser put the notebook back in his trouser pocket, pointed Abu Ramzi to the bathroom, and returned to the door. On the other side of the peephole he saw four faces: the two original visitors and two of their comrades in green-and-brown-mottled camouflage uniforms. One of the uniforms bore an insignia that Prosser recognized as belonging to the Murabitoun, one of the radical Nasserist organizations that competed for dominance in the neighborhood.

  The same youth who had spoken before spoke again, but he seemed bolder and his voice held no tone of deference. “Salaam alaikum. Have you still not seen the man I described? The one with the blue pullover, about forty years old?” He craned his neck to look past the American into the apartment.