Chapter 43
BEIRUT, LEBANON
THEY were to meet two hours after sunrise. Sayyed asked Mughniyah why two hours, and he told him it was because the cowardly Americans only attacked with the cover of darkness and the Jewish dogs with the rising sun at their backs. Sayyed had seen the Jews attack at all hours of the day but he wasn’t going to argue with Mughniyah, at least not considering his current mood.
Sayyed looked down at his little CIA guinea pig. The man was not doing well. None of the nails had grown back enough to use the pliers, so he’d been forced to drill a hole through one of the agent’s nail beds to try to get him to respond to his questions. Instead the man had passed out. There were parameters in these situations, but they were only parameters. You could never tell when you had an outlier. On that note, Sayyed still wasn’t sure about Cummins. Given the less than sanitary conditions, it was entirely possible that he was seriously ill. Aziz al-Abub had taught him how a subject could become sick to the point of the nervous system shutting down. Once that happened, the only thing you could do was nurse the subject back to health and then start over.
Unfortunately, Mughniyah and the others wanted answers that were simply not here. At least not in Cummins’s head. They were distrustful of Ivanov and his constant plotting, but there was still a deep-seated hatred of the Americans and Jews, and they wanted to know if this man knew anything about their missing money. Beyond that there was a fundamental problem that they had overlooked, which was not unusual for the collective group. They were far too one-dimensional and always looked at a situation as if it were a street battle in Beirut. Attack, retreat, dig, and fight—this was the extent of their military repertoire. In the espionage business Sayyed had to analyze in three dimensions and project possible outcomes. This John Cummins was going to eventually end up in the hands of Ivanov, if for no other reason than that Ivanov was used to getting his way. Sayyed had to be very careful what type of questions he asked, with an eye to the fact that the subject would eventually inform Ivanov of what he’d been asked.
Sayyed would have to start the subject on a cycle of antibiotics. The others could talk all they wanted about not handing Cummins over, but Sayyed was done with him. There was nothing more to learn and he did not wish to be put in the middle of this fight. He wiped the small splotch of blood on the front of the white butcher’s apron and wondered what he should tell Damascus. They would want to be fully briefed on the situation, but they did not have to deal with all of these crazy Palestinians.
That was the paradox of Lebanon in general and Beirut specifically. The Palestinians were supposed to be in Palestine, not Lebanon. The Palestinians had upset the balance that the Turks had kept for centuries. Their displacement by the Jews shattered the fragile peace and plunged the country into civil war. And now more than fifteen years later, that civil war was over and the Palestinians were growing cocksure. With relative peace, Damascus was losing its sway over how all these vying factions conducted themselves. Damascus, for its part, was slow to realize what was plain to see. The child was now an adult and did not appreciate, much less need, the consent of the parent. Fortunately for Sayyed, he was more like an uncle—a very nonjudgmental uncle. Especially this morning.
Sayyed knocked on the metal door and waited for it to be opened by the guard. He stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. Looking at the two guards, he said, “He will need medical attention. Pass the word to the others. I want him treated like a baby. No more kicking or punching.”
The two men nodded and Sayyed moved off down the hallway, still struggling with what he should tell Damascus. He could hardly share the details of the past few days. The Swiss accounts that had been so carefully set up were now empty. Damascus had contributed zero to the accounts, but they were aware of their existence. They did not know, however, that Sayyed had set up an account for himself with the aid of Sharif and Ivanov. He took a cut of every arms shipment that came into the country by helping assure that the various Syrian factions would leave the merchants be. Damascus needed to be kept in the dark as long as possible.
He stopped in the small sandbagged lobby on the first floor. The door was completely blocked and the floor-to-ceiling windows on each side were now nothing but small portholes, just enough to allow a man to take up a rifle position. Oh, how he wished those pesky Maronites would go away. He climbed to the second story and followed the extension cords and phone lines to the makeshift command post. Once again the hallway was filled with armed men, but this time they did not upset Sayyed. He needed them to deter the Christians from doing anything stupid.
They were living in abject squalor. There was no running water, electricity, or phone service. The men were relieving themselves in the basement in random rooms and corners. No wonder Cummins was sick. Electricity and phone service would have to be brought in from three blocks away, via a series of patched cords and lines that had been spliced into the service of an apartment building.
The guards stepped aside so he could pass, and he entered the command post. The men were standing around a sheet of plywood that had been placed on top of two fifty-gallon oil drums—Mughniyah and Badredeen from Islamic Jihad; Jalil, who was Sayyed’s Iranian counterpart; and Radih from Fatah. Each man had benefited handsomely from his association with the Turkish arms dealer and now they were once again paupers.
“Close the door,” Mughniyah commanded.
Sayyed did so, and joined the men at the makeshift table.
“Well?” Mughniyah asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Radih asked, obviously dubious.
Sayyed looked at the little toad from Fatah and said, “I have been informed that some of your men have taken certain liberties with my prisoner over the past few days.”
“Your prisoner?” Radih shouted. “He is my prisoner!”
“The prisoner,” Sayyed said, “has been kicked and brutalized by your men and due to the lack of sanitary conditions from your men defecating all over the basement like a pack of wild dogs, it appears the prisoner is now ill.”
Badredeen made a foul face and said, “Really … you should institute some basic hygiene. At least have the men go on the roof. The sun will take care of it for you.”
“Do want to walk up seven flights of stairs to go to the bathroom?” Radih asked.
“Enough,” yelled an impatient Mughniyah. He looked from one end of the table to the other, making it clear to all that he was not in the mood for petty arguments. “Someone has stolen millions of dollars from us and you want to argue about where the men should shit?”
“I was only—”
“Silence!” Mughniyah screeched. With his fists clenched he turned on Radih. “I am sick of it … all of the complaining and fighting, the bickering, and for what … it gets us nowhere. Millions are gone, Sharif is dead, our banker is dead, and that vulture Ivanov is now talking about coming to Beirut for the first time in years. Am I the only one who finds this a bit disconcerting?”
“He told me he had nothing to do with Sharif’s murder,” Sayyed offered.
“And since when do you believe anything that comes out of a Russian’s mouth?”
“I have no trust in the man, but on this point, he did seem to be upset that someone had killed Sharif.”
“Maybe someone else did kill Sharif, and that was when Ivanov decided that with our Turkish friend gone it was the perfect time to take all of the money.”
Sayyed considered that one for a moment. It was possible. Ivanov had proven many times that he could be ruthless.
“Add to that these damn Christians deciding to make a show of strength.” Mughniyah gave a swift shake of his head. “I like none of it. Something is very wrong and we know far too little.”
“Why would Ivanov want to visit Beirut?” Badredeen asked.
“Land.”
All eyes fell on Colonel Jalil of the Iranian Quds Force. “Explain,” Mughniyah ordered.
“There is a great deal of valuable land here in Beirut, and many are saying that with war finally behind us, there are huge sums of money to be made.”
“Why can’t these people leave us alone?” Mughniyah asked no one in particular.
“What about the Americans?” Radih asked. “We have one of their agents in this very building.”
“Who was sent here to negotiate the release of the businessman you kidnapped.” Sayyed’s tone suggested what he thought of the idea.
“That is the story he has given you.”
Sayyed turned his head to look at Radih. “You doubt my ability to get the truth out of people?”
“None of us are perfect.”
“So you think the American is holding back on us? That his coming here is all part of a master plan by the Americans to take over Beirut?”
“I did not say that.”
“You did, in so many words.” Looking back toward the leaders of Islamic Jihad, he said, “We do not have enough information to know what is actually happening. It could be anyone at this point, but based on what we do know, we have to assume that Ivanov is the front runner.”
“So what should we do?” Badredeen asked.
Sayyed thought about it for a moment and then said, “Let him come to Beirut. Keep our eyes and ears open and see what we can find out.”
Mughniyah was scratching his beard thinking about what had been said. “Beirut is our fortress. Spread the word to our people at the docks and the airport. I want to know of anything that looks suspicious. Americans, Russians, Jews … I don’t care.”
“And we should alert our allies,” the Iranian said. “Everyone should be extra careful until we know exactly what is going on.”
“I agree,” Mughniyah said. “Quietly spread the word to our people in Europe. Especially anyone who has a connection to Sharif. Let them know of our concerns … that someone might be targeting us.”
It was the right decision, but Sayyed needed to add something. “No mention of the money, though. At least not yet.” One by one they all nodded as he knew they would. To a man, they were too proud to admit that they had been duped out of such a large sum of money.