Dynamite Fishermen (Beriut Trilogy 1)

by Fleming, Preston

  “Not at all,” Colonel Hisham replied. “I spend little time in Beirut, in any event. And today it happens that my schedule is clear until lunch. Please excuse the disarray. We have been removing furniture and papers all week. There is scarcely another pair of chairs to sit upon in the entire villa.” He gestured toward the table and chairs. “Please, sit.”

  Husayn dusted off one of the chairs and sat. “Do you have an idea of why I asked to see you, Jamal?”

  The Palestinian nodded. “I understand that my friend Maarouf owes you money. It is regrettable how so many now share your situation.”

  “The others are none of my concern. We both know Zuhayri has money in Europe. Perhaps not enough to pay all his debts, but doubtless enough to pay the three hundred thousand lira he borrowed from my father, with interest.”

  “Such a thing is not for me to judge,” the Palestinian answered with indifference. “So far I remain at a loss to see how your business with Maarouf affects me.”

  “I want you to persuade him to pay me.”

  Colonel Hisham examined Husayn’s face closely, as if uncertain whether his guest possessed a peculiar wit or had lost his grip on reality. “And if I am not mistaken, you believe I should do such a thing because I am somehow obliged to you?” he asked indulgently.

  “Only if you believe so, Jamal.”

  Colonel Hisham laughed in a way that caught Husayn completely off guard. In place of the malice and distrust he expected to see in the colonel’s eyes, he saw only relaxed self-assurance.

  “Perhaps you are right, Husayn,” the colonel said. “Perhaps I owe a great deal to you. If you had not reported against me that night when we captured the Holiday Inn, perhaps I would still be a poor infantry officer in Fatah risking my life for Yasir Arafat and his clique of Gazans. Or perhaps I would be dead—my old battalion has fought many battles since 1975.

  “You see, you and the brigadier helped me to realize that my future was not as in infantry officer but as a businessman. I perform certain services for which my sponsors pay me very well. There are risks, of course, as in any business, and they pay me only when I deliver the desired results, but I am quite skilled at producing the results my sponsors desire. If you or anyone else had asked me to imagine five years ago that I would have villas in Rome and Damascus and a flat in the rue Verdun, I would have thought you mad.”

  Husayn was momentarily at a loss to respond. “Then you don’t blame me for reporting what happened on the roof of the Holiday Inn?”

  “That was long ago, Lieutenant. It angered me then, but it means nothing now.”

  “I said nothing to the brigadier about your absences during the early stages of the campaign. I have told no one of that.” Husayn spoke quickly now.

  “Ah, yes, my absences,” the Palestinian said, his eyes growing cold again. “You still think me a coward, don’t you, Lieutenant?”

  “I never judged you. Every one of us has needed a push or a kick to move forward during one battle or the next.”

  “Oh, but you do judge me. Your very presence here is a judgment. You had me removed from command because you judged me a murderer and a coward, and later you turned your back on the war itself because you judged all of us who continued to fight to be bloodthirsty killers. You cursed us all from the rooftop of the Holiday Inn and went to live among the virtuous Europeans. Now you have come back, still holding your nose against the stench and thinking how superior you are to all of us who remained here to battle Israel and the Phalange.”

  “That’s not true, Jamal. I don’t consider myself superior at all. If anything, perhaps I am the coward for having gone.”

  “Spare me your patronizing speeches, Lieutenant. They bore me. You came to ask me a favor, and I intend to grant it. Maarouf will pay you, even if I have to repay him the three hundred thousand myself.”

  Husayn’s jaw dropped. He took in a deep breath and was thinking of how to respond when the Palestinian cut him off.

  “But I am nonetheless a businessman. I expect a favor for a favor. I find myself without a driver for a certain shipment of car parts that must be delivered to West Beirut by this afternoon. You will be my driver.”

  Husayn shook his head. “I know what kind of shipments you send to Beirut, Jamal. Surely you don’t expect me to deliver one of your car bombs for you.”

  “There. You do it again, Lieutenant—insulting me with your judgments. If I were not so badly in need of a driver, I might withdraw my offer to repay Maarouf’s loan.”

  “Then withdraw it. I will not murder innocent civilians for money.”

  “I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me what you will or won’t do. Do you recognize this picture?” Colonel Hisham tossed a photocopy of a government identity card onto the table.

  Husayn picked it up. It was Rima’s Ministry of Housing employee identity card. “Where did you get this?” he asked, barely able to suppress his rage.

  “Your sister gave it to me. She works for my organization.” He pulled a sheaf of handwritten reports from the inside breast pocket of his blazer and pushed them across the tabletop toward Husayn. “Here is a sample of her work. Very resourceful, your sister.”

  Colonel Hisham tapped his cane on the floor, and the young driver in the polo shirt appeared in the doorway with a Kalashnikov held at his hip. The colonel rose stiffly and took a step back from the table.

  “Rami will prepare the car. You are to drive it directly to West Beirut and leave it at the intersection of rue Bliss and rue Abdel-Aziz, opposite the entrance to the American University. Do not, under any circumstances, leave the car until you reach your destination. Rami and one or two of my men will follow you at a short distance. If you deliver the car as you are instructed, you will go free and will have your money from Maarouf within a week. If you violate any of my instructions, I will feed your sister to the fishes.”

  * * *

  Someone untied the electrical cord behind Husayn’s hands and pulled the blindfold from his eyes. “Take a piss if you have to. It’s a long drive to Beirut,” Rami suggested as Husayn once again slowly raised himself from the floor of the Volvo.

  He found himself outside a derelict cinder-block outbuilding about the size of a two-car garage somewhere in the hills near Shtaura. Alongside the Volvo was a late-model white Peugeot 504, one of the two or three automobiles found most often on Lebanese highways. It bore a Lebanese civilian license plate, had a set of olive-wood worry beads hanging from the rearview mirror, and in every other respect appeared unexceptional. Hidden inside, however, were anywhere from ten to fifty kilograms of plastic explosives, Husayn guessed.

  Rami had already described for Husayn the route he was to take into Beirut via the Damascus Highway, the Galerie Semaan checkpoint, and the coastal road, and Husayn had already recited it back to him twice at his direction, along with the ground rules for the trip. Rami nonetheless held him by the elbow for one final briefing.

  “We will follow you at a short distance all of the way. From time to time we will overtake you to pass through security checkpoints ahead of you. Do not be alarmed—this is to ensure that you will not have to undergo inspections. Remember, you must remain in your seat at all times until you reach the destination. If we see a door open, we will shoot.”

  * * *

  Husayn al Fayyad had just begun the descent from the mountain resorts of Bhamdoun and Aley toward Baabda and the outskirts of Beirut when he decided to turn on the radio. From the moment of his arrival at the villa in Shtaura, a profusion of conflicting thoughts had been racing through his mind faster than he could sort them out. He knew that the moment to make a heroic stand had passed. He did not want to die or risk his sister’s life by refusing to submit. Yet he also knew he could not leave the booby-trapped Peugeot where Major Jamal had directed him to leave it, at one of the busiest intersections in Ras Beirut. But he did not understand how he could do anything else, short of stopping the car in the middle of the highway, stepping out the door, and bein
g shot to death.

  Husayn turned on the radio and spun the dial. Radio Monte Carlo came in clearly, but the thought of disco music repelled him. He worked his way up the dial through a half-dozen newscasts until he heard the soothing voice of Julio Iglésiàs. He took his hand off the dial and settled back to try and clear his head.

  When the ballad ended, the Radio Liban announcer identified himself and immediately played a second song by the Spanish star, then a third. Husayn had already taken his place in the queue at the Galerie Semaan crossing when the news came on. By force of habit, he tuned out the announcements of fighting along the Green Line, the lack of progress toward resolving the dockworkers’ strike, and the latest devaluation of the Lebanese lira, but when the announcer spoke the words “car bomb,” he listened closely to every word. What he heard was so diabolically simple that he was amazed he had not already thought of it.

  “Following an explosion earlier this week at the western side of the Galerie Semaan crossing,” the announcer said, “the Internal Security Forces have been on the alert for a new type of car bomb. According to sources in the interior ministry, the Mercedes taxicab that exploded Tuesday inside the no-man’s-land was set to explode automatically when the driver opened any of the taxicab’s doors. Fortunately for the driver of this car bomb, when the cab ran into a ditch, he crawled out through a window.”

  Husayn turned off the radio and followed the slow-moving line of vehicles to the edge of the no-man’s- land. He waited for a signal from the sentry and then raced across, paying careful note to the crater where fifty-five kilos of explosives had detonated along the right shoulder of the road on Tuesday. A moment later, a Syrian sentry waved him through the western checkpoint and a plan began to take shape in his mind.

  * * *

  Husayn spotted Rami’s silver Volvo 150 meters ahead, waiting at a petrol station for the Peugeot to pass. Another fifty meters beyond, the four-lane Damascus Highway narrowed into two lanes as it led through canyons of tightly packed apartment blocks. He drove past the Volvo and then veered suddenly into the vacant center lane left created by the merging lanes of traffic. Horns blared all around, but the other cars made way for him as he bullied his way into a spot at the head of the queue. Behind him drivers edged toward the center to prevent anyone else from attempting the same trick.

  In his rearview mirror Jamal could see the Volvo twenty or thirty cars back and unable to catch up. The single lane of westbound vehicles moved with agonizing slowness but not so slowly that Rami or his companion could safely attempt overtaking him on foot. Each time he saw the brake light of the car in front of him light up, his heart froze. He had to maintain his lead until he reached Airport Circle.

  The moment he saw a clear path ahead, he made the Peugeot jump the curb and sped along the sidewalk the remaining distance to the traffic circle. He shifted into third gear and cut in front of a Toyota pickup heavily laden with sand and then bottomed out the Peugeot’s suspension as it dropped back down onto the road.

  The Avenue Camille Chamoun stretched before him like a runway, its four poured-concrete lanes standing by to launch him forward to safety. If only the Peugeot could outrun the Volvo for the remaining two kilometers to Pepsi Cola Circle, he could peel off into Fatah-land, where Rami’s Syrian protectors could not so easily help him. There would still be the risk of searches, but if he managed to steer around or bluff his way through those, he might just beat Major Jamal at his own game.

  He shifted into fourth gear and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. The Peugeot was hardly a sports car, but neither was the Volvo. The Peugeot gradually gained speed until the dial reached 150 kilometers per hour. He could see the Volvo behind him now. It was gaining on him, to be sure, but not quite fast enough to pose a threat, and he knew that unless an act of God intervened, he now had a clear shot to the circle.

  Then Husayn spotted the convoy of flatbed lorries carrying tanks and armored vehicles. They were heading at right angles to the road from the Cité Sportive Stadium. “Another damned military parade,” he cursed. In the same breath he prayed that he would beat the first of them to the spot where the dirt road intersected the highway.

  The driver of the first heavy transport pulled onto the asphalt highway with the nonchalance of someone who knows he has nothing to fear from a mere automobile, even one threatening to ram him from the rear at 150 kilometers an hour. The lorry trailing behind him followed suit and then edged into the passing lane to overtake the leader. Husayn saw the move and realized there was no longer any time to brake.

  Husayn gripped the Peugeot’s steering wheel tightly, took aim, and shot between the two lorries at full power with only a few centimeters to spare on either side. A moment later the gap closed and both lanes were blocked behind him by the slow-moving transports. To get around them the Volvo would have to slow down and overtake them on the rubble-strewn shoulder. As he entered the traffic circle, Husayn caught a glimpse of the silver sedan veering onto the right shoulder.

  When at last he reached the checkpoint, the tanned Fatah sentries in their smart camouflage jumpsuits and red berets waved him through without the slightest suspicion that inside the Peugeot were enough explosives to level an apartment block. Husayn waved back and could not suppress the silly grin of relief on his face as he entered the Palestinian enclave.

  He had advanced no more than a block or two when suddenly the main street was mobbed with automobiles, pickup trucks, delivery vans, pushcarts, and motorbikes. The side streets were similarly thronged with pedestrians on their way home for the midday meal and siesta. Husayn tried to peer over and around the three-wheeled delivery cart directly ahead of him to determine the best way out of the main shopping area, but he could not see past it.

  He thought that by now the Volvo would have reached the checkpoint he had just passed. Rami would likely send the second man ahead on foot once they became stuck in traffic. He had to turn off the main road soon if he was to be sure they would not spot him.

  At the next side street, Husayn turned right and saw the Cité Sportive in the distance. He followed a horse-drawn butagaz cart to the first intersection and was beginning to think he was only a few minutes away from rejoining the Avenue Camille Chamoun when he heard a whoosh of air and felt the front end of the Peugeot list to starboard. Then came the telltale flapping of rubber on the pavement, and he realized that he had lost a tire.

  All at once he was overcome with a blinding, mind-numbing panic. He was certain that if he stopped, scores of idle onlookers would converge on the car with offers to help change the tire. One or more of them would doubtless offer to steer while Husayn and the others pushed from behind, and in tugging on the door handle, someone would detonate the concealed explosives.

  He had to keep moving, and at the same time, he had to find a place not far away where he could ditch the Peugeot with the least risk to innocent life. He kept the front of the car glued to the rear of the horse cart and prayed that it would turn aside and leave him a clear path to the stadium.

  * * *

  Husayn waited for the truck-mounted antiaircraft cannon to roll down the entrance ramp before making his approach. He ignored the shouts from the gatekeeper and raced up the ramp and into the center of the Cité Sportive Stadium surrounded by a sea of empty seats. Facing him on the playing field were three rows of new or nearly new military vehicles. He saw armored personnel carriers, heavy transport lorries, jeeps, flatbed-mounted multiple-rocket launchers, and even a quartet of light tanks. Such a display of armaments meant the PLO must have something important to celebrate, he surmised as he parked the Peugeot at the end of the first row of vehicles.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a pair of guards leave the rear of a troop carrier on the other side of the stadium and don their red berets. As he climbed into a nearby jeep and turned the ignition key, he saw them set off at a sprint in his direction. Then he stopped looking, put the stolen jeep into gear, and stepped on the gas.

  The guards must be
under orders not to shoot, he thought as he flew down the nearest exit ramp from the stadium and took a hard bounce on the rutted dirt path that led across a parched field toward the Avenue Camille Chamoun. This time the thing to do was to head south, toward the airport, back to where the Syrians controlled the turf.

  Husayn looked behind him and saw a pair of Range Rovers gaining on him. This time the Fatah men inside the sedans would not hesitate to fire, he expected. He floored the accelerator, but the jeep would go no faster. Then he looked behind him one more time and saw an enormous yellow-orange fireball rise from the center of the stadium. Suddenly the earth shook and the breath was forced from his lungs.

  Chapter 26

  Prosser peered out through the display window onto a crowded side street while waiting for the teenage salesgirl to fill his tin with pistachios. The shop was jammed with insistent Lebanese customers. Three of them in succession tried to pull the girl away from him before she finished weighing and wrapping his two kilos. She flashed him a coquettish smile and traded the bag of pistachios for the chit he had purchased from the cashier. She was a lovely girl, with a perfect white complexion, dark eyes, and shining black hair flowing straight and loose over her shoulders—an Arménienne, he guessed.

  He thanked her and looked out the window one more time before moving toward the door. The unobstructed view of the street was the primary reason he had come to the shop. Buying the pistachios offered him cover for being in a position to observe one of his Shiite agents perform a dead drop directly across the street.

  At last a bearded youth in tight-fitting jeans and a white T-shirt with a flashy designer logo came into view on the sidewalk at the end of the block. Prosser watched the Arab youngster come closer, pass the silver Renault parked directly opposite the store, slip an empty cigarette pack through the car’s slightly lowered rear window, and walk on, all without turning his head or breaking stride.