Chapter 47
MARTYRS’ SQUARE, BEIRUT
SUNDOWN was shortly after five in the evening and sunrise shortly after six in the morning. With limited power in the building, and no curtains on the windows, there wasn’t much to do after sundown, so Sayyed had gone to bed early. Loyal Samir had scrounged up a mattress and a lantern and set up a room for him on the fifth floor away from all of the men and most of the noise. He’d checked on the two prisoners briefly to make sure they were following his orders. The businessman was faring much better than the spy. Sayyed had brought a doctor in to take a look at Cummins and the prognosis wasn’t good. Due to the beatings, poor diet, and unsanitary conditions, the doctor feared he was suffering from liver failure.
The news upset Sayyed. He had been warning the guards for several weeks to lay off the prisoners. But they somehow couldn’t get it through their thick heads that the two men were worthless to them if they were dead. Add to that the stress of the missing money and Ivanov coming to town and it was enough to make Sayyed’s temper flare out of control. He gathered the men in the basement and told them he would execute the next man who dared lay a hand on either prisoner. He caught one of the men rolling his eyes at the order, and before the imbecile knew it Sayyed had the muzzle of his Markov pistol pressed firmly against his forehead. The others finally got the point.
Sayyed went to bed wondering if they would rebel or follow his orders. It was just another thing to add to his general discomfort. He did not sleep well. His dreams, vivid and bizarre, taunted and tortured him. He was running. He must have been on the beach, because no matter how fast he told himself to run, his legs plodded along as if they were stuck in deep sand. There was a dense fog, so thick that he could see no farther than the end of his hand. Jets were overhead, screeching and dropping deafening bombs in the distance. Bright flashes erupted through the marine layer, the noises of the big bombs muted by the moisture in the air. Why was he running toward the bombs? What was he running from? He woke up with a start, his heart pounding out of his chest, covered in sweat.
Sayyed looked around the office where he’d decided to spend the night. A soft moonlight spilled in from the blown-out window. There was a pile of garbage in the corner where Samir had swept the glass and debris. Scavengers had taken everything. The furniture, even the carpeting, had been pulled up, leaving only the bare concrete floor and the dried glue that had been used to hold the carpeting down. The whole thing was depressing. The geniuses in Damascus should all be forced to live like this for a night.
Sayyed decided to get some air. He pulled on his shirt but didn’t bother to button it up. He climbed two flights to the roof and with a murmur greeted the two men standing watch. All was quiet across the street. He lit a cigarette and wondered what Ivanov was up to. The man was always plotting. Given the choice between making a fortune the honest way and stealing it from someone, he was convinced, Ivanov would prefer to steal it. He was a thief at heart. It was in no way a stretch to think of him plotting to kill Sharif, and then with the Turk out of the way, killing Dorfman and taking everything for himself.
Sayyed sighed. He wished he could skip ahead a day or two. Be done with this mess and go back to Damascus for a few weeks. His two girls were grown and married and had very little to do with him, and that was fine. He didn’t particularly care for their husbands. Beyond that, he had never been around when they were growing up, so there was no real connection. His wife—they barely spoke. The women in life weren’t the draw. Civilization was the draw. Running water, and functioning toilets, and sleeping in a clean bed without fear of two thousand pounds of steel and high explosives being dropped on your head. That’s what he needed. A VCR and a stack of movies and some sleep. He needed to recharge.
If he could run, he would. Walk out of this hellhole of a city and leave it all behind. He’d considered it many times as his pot of money grew with Herr Dorfman. Another year or two and he would have made it. He could have gone back to Damascus, retired, and used the money he had stashed away in Switzerland to invest in opportunities as Beirut stabilized. He could have lived like a wealthy sheik. All of those years of hard work gone in an instant. It was almost impossible to bear.
He finished his cigarette and looked at the stars. He did not like having to stay in one place like this, especially a place so primitive. The food was horrid and infrequent, the conditions ripe for illness, and he couldn’t sleep, and if he couldn’t sleep he would make mistakes. Mistakes were not something he could afford these next few days. He did not want to go back to the depressing room with the soiled mattress, but he had to, at least to close his eyes and rest.
Sayyed plodded down the steps and into the dark room. He took his shirt off, setting it on the floor, and then lay back down on the dirty mattress, trying to ignore the stench. The crux of the problem was the money, and it was a bigger problem than any of them realized. They were all lamenting their loss of personal wealth, but the dire situation lay in their inability to pay their people.
There were a few mentally unstable militants who would work for free, but the bulk of the foot soldiers would walk away. They were paid in cash every week, and payday was Thursday. They would be able to scrape together enough to get through this week, but then they would be bankrupt. The following week they had to pay their monthly bribes to the police, politicians, bureaucrats, and spies in the other camps. There would be hundreds if not thousands of hands extended, waiting for the money, and behind them families, waiting to put food on the table. If they did not rectify this situation quickly it could be a major disaster. The Maronites and the other factions would swoop in and pick up territory it had taken them years and thousands of men to gain.
Everything they had worked for would unravel. He would have to tell Damascus, and of course leave his personal loss out of it. They were likely to punish him by banishing him to Yamouk, the bleak Palestinian refugee camp on the outskirts of Damascus that was teeming with the pushy tribe in search of a permanent home. He heard footsteps down the hall and then some voices. They sounded as if they were going from room to room. Looking toward the open doorway, he saw the beam of a flashlight. Sayyed grabbed his pistol and sat up.
“He’s up here somewhere,” he heard a voice in the hallway say.
“Who is it?” Sayyed asked.
“It’s me. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Sayyed recognized Radih’s voice and lowered his gun. “I’m in here.”
Radih appeared in the doorway. Three other men were behind him. “Assef, you are not going to believe the news I bring you.” Radih clapped his hands together.
Sayyed looked for his watch, but couldn’t find it. “What time is it?”
“Nearly two in the morning. You must get up. I have amazing news.”
Sayyed sighed. He half rolled off the mattress, looking for his watch. He found it, strapped it on, and then grabbed his shirt. “It better be good. I need some sleep.”
“You will not be disappointed.”
Sayyed felt like crap. He needed water and then coffee and then some food, in that order, and then maybe he could think clearly. He motioned for Radih to get on with the story.
Radih told his men to leave and in a hushed voice said, “Do you remember an American who went by the name Bill Sherman?”
Did he remember him? The man had purportedly killed Sayyed’s predecessor while he was enjoying his breakfast one spring morning. “Of course.”
“My spies at the airport … one of them says he saw Sherman tonight.”
“At the airport?”
“Yes. He came in on a flight from Paris, along with another man.”
Sayyed was dubious. There had been rumors here and there that Sherman had been back to the city. In fact, anytime someone met his end at the hands of an assassin, Sherman’s name somehow became attached. “How can you be so sure? It has been many years since anyone has seen him.”
“My man says he has aged. His hair has gone gray, but the eyes”—Radih pointed to his own—“he said they are those same eyes. Eyes of the Devil. He said he remembers him as a very nasty man with many vices.”
Sayyed’s lips felt unusually parched. He found the jug of water that Samir had left in the corner and took a drink. Why would the Americans send Sherman to Beirut after all these years? The most obvious answer was in the basement of this very building. They wanted their agent back. But why send an assassin like Sherman? The man was a harbinger of death, not a negotiator. Turning back to Radih, he asked, “Did your spy happen to know where he was headed?”
With a self-satisfied grin, Radih said, “I put out the word yesterday, after our meeting. I told everyone to be on the lookout for anything suspicious. My people know how to do their jobs. They followed him and the other man to the Intercontinental.”
“And?”
“They had a drink at the bar, and he bought a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the bartender and then got into a cab, one of ours. He had the cabble drop him off in front of a hotel on Daoura. After the cabbie was gone, they walked three blocks to a different hotel.”
“Which one?”
“The Mar Yousif Inn.”
“And he is there right now?”
“Yes. They got two rooms for one night. I just spoke to the manager. They are still there.”
“Are you sure?” Sayyed asked skeptically. “The Bill Sherman I remember would never allow himself to be followed.”
“My men are good. We have trained them to use radios. They have a system set up the airport. When they see someone who might be a fat target they follow him and pass the word to me. We then swoop in and grab them. I have men heading to the area now. There’s only one problem.”
“What?”
“The hotel is in Bourj Hammoud.”
Sayyed needed to wake up. Normally he would never ask such a stupid question. The Sherman he remembered was tight with the Armenians. This would have to be handled delicately. “If we get in a gun battle in Bourj Hammoud, we might not make it out alive.”
Radih did not disagree. “We can wait and follow him. If he leaves the Bourj we can grab him.”
They had been lucky enough to stumble across him. That luck would not hold with a man like Sherman. He would see them sooner rather than later, and then he would kill whoever it was who was watching him and disappear. “Tell your men to hold.”
Radih seemed relieved. “And then what?”
“The chief of police owes me a favor. They can operate in Bourj Hammoud without too much trouble.”
This time Radih shook his head. “I’m not so sure.”
“Normally you would be correct, but there are some things that you are unaware of. Some influential Armenians owe the chief a few favors. As long as we aren’t going in to take one of their own, we will be fine.”
“If a single shot is fired…” Radih winced at the thought.
Sayyed finished it for him. “The entire neighborhood could erupt.” Such was the reality of Beirut. The city was always one gun battle away from plunging back into chaos and civil war.