Bride of a Bygone War (29 page)

“What’s the big rush?” he asked, an avuncular grin wrinkling the folds of his heavy jowls. “Perhaps I can help you. Which one of our tenants did you come to see?”

At nearly the same moment, Bud Strickland emerged from the elevator into the lobby below and paused to adjust his eyes to the dazzling white sunlight outside. The tall boy sitting astride the Kawasaki fifty meters away started involuntarily at the sight of him. He watched the American take long visual sweeps left and right as he approached the BMW, keys in hand.

Instantly the motorcycle rider lashed out with his foot at the starter, heard the engine roar to life, and then swung the Kawasaki into the street. By the time the American stepped off the curb, the Kawasaki was on its kickstand two meters behind the BMW.

“
Monsieur, êtes-vous Americain
?”

“Sorry, no
parlez francais
,” Strickland answered perfunctorily as he stood by the car door without giving the boy in the black helmet a second look. He slipped the key into the lock, twisted it half a turn to the right, and opened the door.

The black-helmeted youth pulled the trigger twice, heard the pistol roar, and saw the American crumple sideways against the automobile, right hand still in his jacket pocket. The foreigner’s lifeless body faced Michel momentarily as it collapsed to the pavement, a pair of crimson stains forming on its shirtfront, a fixed and unseeing stare in its eyes, showing neither pain nor surprise nor anger. The smell of fresh blood rose to Michel’s nostrils, and for a moment he thought he would vomit. Instead, he took a deep breath, sank to one knee, placed the pistol muzzle ten centimeters from the base of the American’s skull and fired again. He felt bloody fragments of skin and bone spray against his trouser leg and all over the hand that gripped the pistol.

“Michel!”

Jabril’s voice penetrated the dense fog that had momentarily taken over Michel’s brain. The pistol dangled loosely at his side.

“Are you hurt?” Jabril asked, seeing the blood on his friend’s hand and trousers.

Michel looked up and watched the expression on his companion’s face change from concern to relief to horror. His ears still rang from the pistol shots.

“I lost him,” Jabril began uncertainly. “Then I heard the elevator again and...” He looked down at the body, unable to speak.

As if awakened from a dream, Michel leaped to his feet, tucked the pistol into his waistband, and wiped his blood-spattered hand on his dark trousers. Then he seized the white motorcycle helmet from the Kawasaki’s handlebars and thrust the helmet into Jabril’s belly so hard that the latter gave a startled cough.

“
Yalla, shabab
,” Michel ordered as he wiped his hand and wrist one last time. “I will get off at Jdeidé and we can trade helmets there.”

“Helmets?” the curly-haired youth replied dully.

“Once we get out of here, I won’t need this one anymore. It’s yours, as we have agreed. But now climb on behind me. We go.”

Chapter 17

The gray granite cobblestones in the courtyard of the Phalange intelligence compound glistened with the moisture of a late morning shower as the sun sent squadrons of purple-edged rain clouds retreating out to sea. Walter Lukash sat on a metal jerry can and watched a team of Phalange logistics men load the three Land Rovers that were to make the trip into the mountains. The logistics men had divided all the crates, boxes, and duffels earmarked for the Syrian Free Officers into three waist-high stacks, one opposite each vehicle.

Each stack was considerably larger than Lukash had expected it to be. The radios, even with ample packing materials, surely could not occupy so much volume. And the same applied to the medical supplies, which he assumed consisted primarily of pills, vials, powders, and salves, along with some bandages and surgical instruments. Lukash looked carefully at the crates on the bottom of each stack. They bore a close resemblance to ordnance crates, and the rope handles on each end testified to their considerable weight. But the crates were newly sanded and bore no markings. Lukash winced at the thought that the Phalange might be sending offensive weapons to the Free Officers, but he had no authority to prohibit it and so said nothing. If the Phalangists intended to play hardball with the Syrians, that was their business. He would report his observations to Headquarters and let them decide what the next steps should be.

Alongside each stack earmarked for the Free Officers was a smaller pile of weapons and ammunition apparently intended for defensive use by each two-man team. Lukash examined the nearest pile and recognized a pair of M-16 rifles, an M-79 grenade launcher with wooden butt stock, and a five-inch-diameter aluminum cylinder not much longer than a baseball bat, whose U.S. Army markings identified it as containing a shoulder-fired LAW, or light antitank weapon. He also distinguished five canvas ammunition pouches and a grenade belt containing a half dozen grenades.

Lukash spotted Major Elie emerging from the main entrance to the two-story headquarters building, arm in arm with his friend Fadi. Both men appeared completely relaxed and carefree, like schoolboys whose impending football game later in the afternoon could not possibly cast a shadow over events taking place before lunch. Lukash made eye contact with Elie from halfway across the courtyard, waved a friendly greeting, and stood up to receive the two men.

“No, don’t get up,” Elie said after Lukash had already risen to his feet and offered Fadi his hand. “Captain Fadi will be joining us on our mission this afternoon. He has been assigned to the third vehicle as security officer.”

Lukash wondered whether the expression on his face had betrayed his surprise at Fadi’s presence, because Elie immediately set out to explain.

“Believe me, there is no one better for the job. If we are attacked, it will be Fadi and Lieutenant Ilyas who will stay and fight while we make our escape with the equipment.”

“But you have left out my most important role, Elie,” Fadi gently reproved his friend. He turned to Lukash with a wolfish smile. If a smile like that meant Fadi was your friend, Lukash thought, then he preferred to remain a distant acquaintance. The man was a killer and no doubt had volunteered solely in the hope of having an opportunity to shed Syrian blood.

“You see, I am also the
chef de cuisine
for the mission,” he clarified. “On the way into the mountains, we will stop in Baskinta to buy provisions for dinner, and while we wait in our mountain hut for the rendezvous signal from our Syrian friends, I will prepare the kebab.”

Lukash nodded politely and then turned away from Fadi to glance at his watch. “How much time do we have before kickoff?” he asked Major Elie. “If there’s time, I would like to drop off my car at my flat before we leave.”

“Follow me. I will escort you in my Range Rover,” Elie volunteered. “The others can finish loading the vehicles without us.”

Elie took an obscure shortcut through the back streets on the north slope of Jebel Achrafiyé, and the two vehicles arrived at Place Sassine several minutes sooner than they would have by Lukash’s usual route. Lukash overtook the Range Rover as they roared though Place Sassine past the Café La Chasse then began the descent on rue Furn el Hayek. A few blocks farther, Lukash lowered his window and gave Elie a hand signal directing him to double-park the Range Rover while he found an empty spot at the curb for the silver BMW.

* * *

Across the street from Lukash’s apartment block, Conrad Prosser sat in his Renault listening to a Voice of Palestine announcer describe the damage caused by the latest Israeli air strike against coastal villages in South Lebanon. Israeli warplanes had flown mock air raids over Beirut that morning, as well, causing traffic jams that delayed Prosser’s crossing into East Beirut by more than an hour.
 

He raised his eyes when a silver BMW drove by and spotted a Range Rover following close behind. The BMW looked like Lukash’s, he thought, but he had not looked up fast enough to be certain Lukash was inside. And who was in the Rover? More than that, why was Bud Strickland’s blue BMW still parked farther down the street when no one had answered Prosser’s knocks at Lukash’s apartment door?

Prosser watched Lukash leave the car and come his way. But as he lowered his window in anticipation, the Range Rover pulled over between Lukash and the Renault. The driver was a tall Lebanese in civilian clothes, Since he was probably one of Lukash’s counterparts from Phalange intelligence, Prosser did nothing. For if Phalange intelligence were able to identify him as an Agency officer by association with Lukash, they would doubtless add his name and a description of his Renault to their watch list at every checkpoint in East Beirut.

Then the Range Rover’s passenger door opened and Lukash hopped in. A moment later both the Rover and Lukash were gone, as was any chance Prosser might have of warning him.

* * *

By the time Lukash and Major Elie returned from dropping off Lukash’s car and eating a lunch of grilled chicken and
tabboulé
salad at a white-tiled food stall a block from the Phalange intelligence compound, the three Land Rovers were packed, fueled, and ready to go. The two point men played skat with Fadi and Lieutenant Ilyas, using the hood of the lead Rover as their card table. The point men were black-bearded, beetle-browed bruisers in their middle twenties who had doubtless honed their fighting instincts to a fine edge during five years of skirmishing along the Green Line. The way they kept their eyes fixed on Fadi, their familiar laughter at his offhanded wit, and the nearly identical arrangement of combat knife, grenades, and ammunition pouches on the three men’s cargo suspenders led Lukash to conclude that these were not just any Phalangist thugs. They were trusted henchmen who had fought alongside Fadi in countless firefights.

“Is the checklist complete?” Major Elie called out across the cobbled yard.

“We finished a half hour ago,” Fadi boasted loudly. “You told us to be ready by half past one.”

“So I did,” Elie replied in a flat voice, perhaps sensing the same hint of insubordination in Fadi’s tone that Lukash detected. “Well, as soon as we change into uniform and stop by to see the colonel, we’ll be off.” He turned to climb the steps into the headquarters building.

“You don’t need to bother with the colonel; he’s already gone to Bikfaya for the weekend,” Fadi shouted back.

Major Elie and Lukash went directly to Elie’s office, where two sets of starched olive drab fatigues had been laid out neatly on his desk, in contrast with the tangle of web-gear cargo suspenders and pistol belts left on the seat of his swivel chair. Elie checked the sizes of the fatigues and handed Lukash the set that had been selected for him.

“Do you want a sidearm? I know you don’t usually carry one, but you might want to make an exception this time. The rendezvous site is just on the edge of the no-man’s-land between us and Syrian-held territory. You Americans would call it a ‘free-fire zone,’ I think.”

“Let’s bring one, and I’ll decide later whether to strap it on,” Lukash replied guardedly. “Which model are you offering?”

“What would you like? A Browning Hi-Power? Czech 75? Beretta?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a U.S. Army GI .45, would you?”

“For you,
habibi
, of course.” Elie twirled the dial of the four-drawer safe behind his desk and rolled open the topmost drawer. From it he brought out a .45 autoloader and a black leather GI holster with button flap. “How many magazines would you like?”

“Four, if you have them.”

“Here are four, and a box of cartridges.”

They dressed quickly in the starched fatigues, strapped on the holsters, and carried the webbed belts out with them. They had descended the stairs and were on the way to the lobby when Lukash hesitated.

“Excuse me, but I would like to stop at the colonel’s office for a moment.”

“But Fadi said the colonel is gone,” Elie replied.

“Ed has been trying to set an appointment with the colonel all week. Perhaps he has left a message for me. It will take just a moment.”

The two men turned down the first-floor corridor and entered the first office on the left. The balding male receptionist in the khaki safari suit whom Lukash had met on his first visit to Phalange intelligence headquarters sat behind the desk usually occupied by the colonel’s aide. A tabloid newspaper lay spread across the desk and, to the right of it, a glass of mint tea in a saucer. A Japanese clock radio played tinny Arabic music from a shelf behind his head.
 

The receptionist looked up. “The colonel is away,” he said in a perfunctory tone that indicated he considered himself off duty.

“When did he leave?” Lukash persisted.

The receptionist shrugged. “An hour, perhaps two? Ask outside to see the log. It will be written there.”

“And do you recall whether Monsieur Pirelli spoke to the colonel this morning before he left?”

The Lebanese shrugged again. “The colonel’s aide would know. He will return tomorrow morning. You can ask him then.”

“Do you know if Monsieur Pirelli left any messages for me? Would the messages be kept at the reception desk, too?”

“Yes, but there are no messages for you. Monsieur Pirelli called and asked to speak to you, but Captain Fadi told him you were gone and would not return before tomorrow.”