Dynamite Fishermen (29 page)

From the seaside road, Prosser could see through their enormous picture windows the command posts that the militia had set up on the hotel’s mezzanine, using furniture looted from the rest of the complex. Presumably because the windows faced northwest, away from the battle lines, a few had miraculously survived the nightly artillery battles that raged farther inland and to the east.

As he came around the bend, Prosser was surprised to see six or seven automobiles lined up at the sandbag bunker in front of the Normandie. Exposed as it was to sniper fire on two sides, this was hardly an ideal place for a checkpoint. But since there seemed to be no choice in the matter, he took his place in line. After five minutes or so an obese militiaman in his late thirties wearing a grease-stained khaki uniform and worn out leather sandals waved him forward for inspection.

Neither of the two militiamen who stepped forward to conduct the search could have been more than sixteen years old. Their cheeks were still smooth, and their threadbare uniforms seemed too large for their scrawny frames. But when the Renault stopped beside them, the darker-skinned boy stepped right up to the car door without hesitation and aimed his rifle at Prosser’s head. The other one stood behind the first and covered him.

“Out,” the first boy commanded mechanically in Arabic. “Search.”

Prosser moved his right hand slowly to his shirt pocket and pulled out his diplomatic identity card. “
Diplomasi
,” he replied with deliberate slowness. “No search. Search forbidden.”

The teenager took the card but did not look at it. Keeping his distance from Prosser, he waved the rifle’s muzzle back and forth between the car’s trunk and Prosser’s chest to indicate that he should move to the rear of the car. “Open. Search,” he ordered.

The fairer-skinned youth approached the car from the passenger side and opened both front and rear doors. He looked inside the glove compartment and under the seats but found nothing of interest.

Prosser felt relief that he was not transporting any agent reports or other contraband on this trip. “I am a diplomat,” he repeated patiently. “No search. Search forbidden for diplomats.” He stood his ground as a matter of principle, but as long as the rifle remained trained on his chest, he knew he could not protest with much vehemence.

Suddenly losing patience, the first youth pulled back the slide of his rifle and let it slam forward to seat a round into the chamber. At this Prosser realized the game was up. As slowly and conspicuously as he could, he pulled the keys out of the ignition, held them up for the boy to see, and accompanied him to the rear of the Renault to open the trunk. Once the second boy was satisfied that the vehicle carried no contraband, he nodded for Prosser to slam the lid and followed his dark-skinned partner to the next car without another word.

Prosser started the engine and was about to put the car into gear when a tiny unwashed hand thrust a book of lottery tickets through the window and under his nose. It belonged to a frail youngster of no more than seven or eight, and he guessed from the boy’s tattered clothes, matted hair, and dirty face and hands that he had no home except the street.

“Buy one, buy one,” the boy said dully in Arabic, tugging at Prosser’s sleeve for added emphasis until Prosser shook it free. “Buy one, buy one—you will win, you will win,” the boy persisted. He thrust the tickets once again into his customer’s face, but Prosser caught the boy’s wrist and gently pushed it back outside the window.

“
Yalla
, go away,” he told the child. When the little fingers pushed their way inside one more time, he began to raise the window electrically. Startled by the window’s movement, the boy withdrew his hand in fright.

Prosser thought of the crone who had begged for alms a few minutes earlier and stopped the window. Had he become so callous as to intentionally close his window on the fingers of a small child? “
Yaa, walad,
hold on a second,” he called out to the boy. “How much are the tickets?”

The child stood at a distance, uncertain whether to answer or flee. “One lira,” he answered a moment later, regaining his nerve.

Prosser reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten-lira note, worth about two dollas and fifty cents American. The boy took the note and tore ten tickets out of his book.

Prosser accepted them and then handed them back to the child. “Allah be with you,” he told the boy in Arabic.

The child beamed, pocketed the tickets, and ran off.

Prosser was under no illusion that buying the tickets would make any difference in the larger scheme of things. Buying ten thousand tickets would not have given the boy any more of a chance in life. But if every day consisted of a series of individual choices, here at least was one that did not leave him feeling compromised. He regretted that the longer he remained in Lebanon, fewer and fewer choices seemed to meet that standard.

* * *

Despite its name, Embassy Supermarket had no connection to any diplomatic mission in Beirut. It was popular among the city’s foreign envoys solely because its shelves never ran bare of imported delicacies, even when day after day of shelling in the Port of Beirut closed off the possibility of resupply. The Lebanese supermarket’s selection of high-priced European food and drink would have rivaled that of any Manhattan specialty store: dozens of varieties of European cheeses; wines from the finest vineyards of France and Germany; fresh fish and game; and pâtés, caviar, and smoked salmon in abundance.

The store was located in the center of Achrafiyé, two blocks off Place Sassine, in a neighborhood that had been prosperous, even fashionable, before suffering heavy damage from shellfire during the civil war. Despite the recent spate of car bombings against Achrafiyé, many well-to-do residents of other, safer areas in East Beirut still made regular forays into the besieged quarter to shop. A few, like Prosser, even hazarded the journey across the Green Line from West Beirut.

Prosser scanned the street in front of him as he emerged from the Embassy Supermarket with a case of 1975 Moët & Chandon under one arm and a bag of groceries under the other. An L-shaped barrier of sandbags piled two meters high outside the store’s entrance provided excellent protection from any stray rounds or shrapnel that might chance to land in the side street. Nonetheless, the pockmarked façades of adjacent buildings testified to the ever-present threat of random shellings and car bombings, and from month to month the sandbag barriers seemed to grow taller and thicker.

As only fifteen minutes remained before his meeting with Maroun, Prosser locked his purchases in the trunk of the Renault and set off on foot for the safe house. It was a grand five-bedroom apartment in a fine pre–World War II building off rue Ghazaliyé. One of Maroun’s relations had lived there until taking his family to Saudi Arabia in 1978, leaving it unrented with Maroun as caretaker, against the day when the owner or his married children might decide to move back to Beirut. Prosser’s cover for meeting Maroun at the apartment, should the concierge or neighbors ever challenge him, was that he had become acquainted with the owner in Riyadh and might be interested in taking a lease on the place for the American embassy.

But today there was no need for a cover story, for the concierge was nowhere to be seen when Prosser crossed the mirrored lobby and took the elevator to the fourth floor. He pressed the buzzer and heard footsteps approaching inside; then he heard the clank of a heavy deadbolt.

“
Ahlayn
, Peter,” Maroun greeted him softly through the half-open door. “Come in. I am sorry it is so stuffy inside, but I dare not open all the shutters or it will attract the attention of the neighbors. Come, let us sit in the dining room. I have started a fan there.”

Prosser followed Maroun out of the foyer and across a vast expanse of black-and-gray checkerboard marble to a spacious salon where the furniture was covered by sheets of opaque white plastic film and every piece of artwork or other ornamentation had been removed. With the wooden shutters rolled down, the solitary overhead light fixture provided the two men barely enough light to find their way to the dining room.

Maroun removed the plastic covering from one end of the massive carved-wood table, pulled out two chairs, and rolled up the wooden window shutters far enough for the sun to shine through the slats and provide light for their work.

“I’m sorry I had to cancel our last meeting, Peter,” Maroun began defensively. “We have had some difficulties in the family business these last months, and it has demanded a great deal of my time.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Maroun. You’ve been doing a terrific job of keeping us on top of events lately. In fact, we could probably afford to cut our meetings back to every second week for the next month or two if that would help you.”

The agent hesitated. “It would, Peter, but there are also other difficulties, ones that may be beyond our ability to resolve. What I mean is that conditions here may soon become much worse, and the time has come for me to take my family away from Lebanon.”

Prosser put his pen and pad aside and looked at Maroun. “I just don’t understand. In all the time we’ve been together, you’ve never once talked about leaving. What happened, Maroun?”

“It is not what has happened; as I said, it is what
will
happen.”

“I’m still not sure I know what you’re referring to. What could possibly make things that much worse than they are now?”

“I now consider it a certainty that the Israeli army will invade by next summer, with Bashir’s support.”

“So?” Prosser replied. “They invaded in 1978, and it didn’t change a damned thing. As soon as the IDF pulled out, everything went right back to the way it was. What makes you think the outcome will be so different this time?”

“This time no one has yet reckoned with Bashir Gemayel. Bashir intends to become ruler of all Lebanon, Peter, and he intends to use the Israelis to achieve it. As I see his plan, he means to have the Phalange and the Israeli army take West Beirut, install him in the presidential palace, and then expel the Syrian army and the Palestinians from the rest of the country, crushing any remaining forces that oppose him. My greatest fear is that Bashir will overestimate the Israelis and that the battle he starts will end in utter disaster for the Christians of Lebanon. When the Israelis leave, all the other Lebanese will take their revenge against us.”

He paused, then added in a subdued voice, “That is why I believe now is the time to sell my house and business and move to America.”

Prosser put down his pen again and let out a low whistle. “What does your family think about all this, Maroun? Is your wife prepared to chuck it all and start over again?”

“She has been urging me to make such a decision for at least two years.”

Prosser scribbled a note on his pad. “Have you discussed the idea with anybody else or made inquiries at our consular section?”

“I have spoken to no one, Peter, because I wanted to consult you first. You see, my wife has a brother in Detroit who is willing to sponsor us for a green card, but I am told there is a seven-year wait. If we cannot emigrate to the United States, we are thinking of applying to Canada or Australia. That is why I need to know…if we apply for immigration visas to the United States, could your people in Washington arrange it for us?”

Prosser put his hand on Maroun’s shoulder. “I can’t promise an answer right away, Maroun, but I’ll explain your situation to Washington and see what they can do. Since you have a close relative in the States, you’ll be eligible under our laws for an immigrant visa, but as you say, there’s a long waiting list. I think we might be able to move you to the head of the line, but it will still take some time, perhaps a few months. Can you hold on that long?”

Maroun nodded, clearly relieved at what he was hearing. “Of course. We will need a few months to arrange our affairs here in any event.”

“I hope you change your mind about this, Maroun, but I’ll start the ball rolling. You’ve been a good partner.”

The Lebanese man looked down uncomfortably at the tabletop, apparently embarrassed by the compliment. Then he fumbled with his leather purse, removed a folded manila envelope, and placed it in front of his visitor.

“Perhaps when you read these you will better understand my pessimism. They are the latest war council minutes and several special reports recently commissioned by Bashir. One contains a plan to mobilize ten thousand additional reservists through mandatory training of secondary school and college students.”

“That was tried before in 1978,” Prosser said. “It didn’t work.”

“Bashir intends to try again. He is determined to field no fewer than forty thousand fully trained and equipped fighters by next spring, regardless of the cost.”

“And if the Israelis don’t invade?”

“There is an alternate plan. I do not know the details yet, but it seems to involve recapturing large areas of West Beirut with the aid of certain units of the regular Lebanese army that are led by Christian officers.”

“I’d like to know more about that plan. Can you write up a report on it by our next meeting, starting with what you told me just now?”

“Certainly, Peter.”

“Good. Now I have a different question for you, Maroun. What do you know about the string of recent car bombings in West Beirut? Some people are saying that the Phalange has been sending them to the West Side in revenge for the car-bombing campaign in East Beirut earlier this summer. Is there any truth to that?”