Read Online Dynamite Fishermen by Preston Fleming - Free Book Online
Authors: Preston Fleming
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eldest lives on rue Furn el-Hayek in Achrafiyé, where he owns a garage and petrol station. The other two live in Jdaide. Their family name is Naaman.”
“Give me their first names and dates of birth.”
“By Allah, I do not remember their names, but they are young men, not yet above thirty. You can find the name of the eldest brother on the sign above his garage, near the Nôtre Dame du Liban.”
Prosser recorded the names in his notebook. “How many other people in your organization know about the Naamans?”
“None. I know about them only because my brother-in-law is an officer in Fatah. He worked directly with them last year on some joint operation in the mountains.” Abu Ramzi grew pensive, as if trying to recall some forgotten detail. “One other thing. After the bombings on the East Side, there will be an operation in West Beirut against a foreign target.”
“What kind of target? An embassy, an airline office, a school? I need details.”
The agent shrugged. “The report did not say.”
“For God’s sake, Abu Ramzi, you’re going to have to do better than that,” Prosser chided. “First of all, find out if it’s targeted against Americans. Then follow up on that explosives expert. Report any fragment you hear, even if it’s bazaar gossip. Understood?”
Abu Ramzi leaned back and observed Prosser coolly. “Always you ask first whether there is any danger to Americans. Do you truly believe your American lives are more precious than ours, or that foreigners should be immune from the shelling and sniping that the rest of us face? Forgive me for saying so, Wally, but perhaps if more Americans died in Lebanon, your government would take a harder stand against those responsible for the killing.”
“And by that you mean the Syrians, of course.”
The Palestinian seemed surprised by Prosser’s skeptical attitude. “Was it not your secretary of state, Mr. Kissinger, who invited the Syrian army across the border five years ago? At that time he said it was a temporary measure to stop the fighting. Now five years have passed and the fighting is still going on, with the Syrians in the middle of it. I think that you Americans could send them home again if you wanted to. Yet they remain.”
Prosser took a long sip of apple juice while he collected his thoughts. “Whether the Syrians come or go is none of my concern, Abu Ramzi,” he replied at last. “If you want to talk policy, call the ambassador. I’m here to collect information.” He turned over a fresh page in his notebook. “Okay. Next topic: arms shipments,” he began.
Five minutes later, as Abu Ramzi was about to conclude his summary of arms shipments that the PLO had received over the past month, the doorbell rang.
Prosser gestured for the Palestinian to hide in the bathroom, then tiptoed slowly to the end of the corridor and peered out through the peephole. On the landing outside he saw the mustachioed faces of two Lebanese youths in their early twenties. He considered ignoring them, but he quickly rejected the idea and opened the door. They wore T-shirts and faded blue jeans, and each held a folding-stock Kalashnikov rifle by its pistol grip with the barrel drooping toward the floor.
“ Salaam alaikum ,” one of them greeted Prosser deferentially. “We do not wish to disturb you, siidi , but we are looking for someone,” he announced in excellent classical Arabic. “Have you seen a Palestinian, about my height, maybe forty years old, wearing a blue pullover?”
“I don’t believe so,” Prosser lied, trying to keep his face from showing anxiety.
“We think he entered the building less than an hour ago,” the Lebanese persisted. As he spoke, his companion peered past Prosser into the apartment.
“Are you alone?” the second one demanded in a gruff voice.
“Yes.”
The first youth hesitated and looked at his comrade, who shook his head as if to say there was no point in pressing the issue. “I am sorry for disturbing
“Give me their first names and dates of birth.”
“By Allah, I do not remember their names, but they are young men, not yet above thirty. You can find the name of the eldest brother on the sign above his garage, near the Nôtre Dame du Liban.”
Prosser recorded the names in his notebook. “How many other people in your organization know about the Naamans?”
“None. I know about them only because my brother-in-law is an officer in Fatah. He worked directly with them last year on some joint operation in the mountains.” Abu Ramzi grew pensive, as if trying to recall some forgotten detail. “One other thing. After the bombings on the East Side, there will be an operation in West Beirut against a foreign target.”
“What kind of target? An embassy, an airline office, a school? I need details.”
The agent shrugged. “The report did not say.”
“For God’s sake, Abu Ramzi, you’re going to have to do better than that,” Prosser chided. “First of all, find out if it’s targeted against Americans. Then follow up on that explosives expert. Report any fragment you hear, even if it’s bazaar gossip. Understood?”
Abu Ramzi leaned back and observed Prosser coolly. “Always you ask first whether there is any danger to Americans. Do you truly believe your American lives are more precious than ours, or that foreigners should be immune from the shelling and sniping that the rest of us face? Forgive me for saying so, Wally, but perhaps if more Americans died in Lebanon, your government would take a harder stand against those responsible for the killing.”
“And by that you mean the Syrians, of course.”
The Palestinian seemed surprised by Prosser’s skeptical attitude. “Was it not your secretary of state, Mr. Kissinger, who invited the Syrian army across the border five years ago? At that time he said it was a temporary measure to stop the fighting. Now five years have passed and the fighting is still going on, with the Syrians in the middle of it. I think that you Americans could send them home again if you wanted to. Yet they remain.”
Prosser took a long sip of apple juice while he collected his thoughts. “Whether the Syrians come or go is none of my concern, Abu Ramzi,” he replied at last. “If you want to talk policy, call the ambassador. I’m here to collect information.” He turned over a fresh page in his notebook. “Okay. Next topic: arms shipments,” he began.
Five minutes later, as Abu Ramzi was about to conclude his summary of arms shipments that the PLO had received over the past month, the doorbell rang.
Prosser gestured for the Palestinian to hide in the bathroom, then tiptoed slowly to the end of the corridor and peered out through the peephole. On the landing outside he saw the mustachioed faces of two Lebanese youths in their early twenties. He considered ignoring them, but he quickly rejected the idea and opened the door. They wore T-shirts and faded blue jeans, and each held a folding-stock Kalashnikov rifle by its pistol grip with the barrel drooping toward the floor.
“ Salaam alaikum ,” one of them greeted Prosser deferentially. “We do not wish to disturb you, siidi , but we are looking for someone,” he announced in excellent classical Arabic. “Have you seen a Palestinian, about my height, maybe forty years old, wearing a blue pullover?”
“I don’t believe so,” Prosser lied, trying to keep his face from showing anxiety.
“We think he entered the building less than an hour ago,” the Lebanese persisted. As he spoke, his companion peered past Prosser into the apartment.
“Are you alone?” the second one demanded in a gruff voice.
“Yes.”
The first youth hesitated and looked at his comrade, who shook his head as if to say there was no point in pressing the issue. “I am sorry for disturbing
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