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Authors: Preston Fleming
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you,” he continued. “But, please, if you see this man or one who looks like him, find us at once. We will be in the lobby.”
“Certainly,” Prosser replied as they turned to leave.
Prosser locked the door again, returned to the rear of the apartment, and knocked lightly on the bathroom door to let Abu Ramzi know it was safe to come out. The Palestinian smiled confidently as they took their seats at the table. Prosser took a sip of juice before speaking.
“Listen carefully,” he began in a low voice. “There were two armed men at the door just now. They seem to be searching for somebody who looks very much like you. Tell me, Abu Ramzi, did you have any troubles on your way up here?”
“Not at all. I spoke only to the concierge and no one else. He asked me where I was going, and I told him I wanted to visit Dr. Hamdoun on the third floor, as you and I agreed.”
“Perhaps the concierge was suspicious because of your Iraqi accent. With so many bombings around here lately, one would rather expect them to be jumpy.”
A mischievous smile crept over Abu Ramzi’s face. “Well, perhaps there was something else. Perhaps he noticed this as I entered...” He stood up and pulled up the back of his sweater a few inches, revealing a Soviet-made Makarov pistol tucked into the waistband.
Prosser sighed. “Never mind,” he said. “There is nothing we can do about it now. Let’s finish our work and decide later how we’ll get out of here.”
He gestured for Abu Ramzi to sit down and resumed the debriefing, recording significant details in a nearly indecipherable scrawl in his pocket-sized notebook.
Twenty minutes passed. The doorbell rang again. Prosser put the notebook back in his trouser pocket, pointed Abu Ramzi to the bathroom, and returned to the door. On the other side of the peephole he saw four faces: the two original visitors and two of their comrades in green-and-brown-mottled camouflage uniforms. One of the uniforms bore an insignia that Prosser recognized as belonging to the Murabitoun, one of the radical Nasserist organizations that competed for dominance in the neighborhood.
The same youth who had spoken before spoke again, but he seemed bolder and his voice held no tone of deference. “ Salaam alaikum . Have you still not seen the man I described? The one with the blue pullover, about forty years old?” He craned his neck to look past the American into the apartment.
“No.”
“You are certain of this? He entered the building not long after you did. We have asked all the tenants about him and have checked some of the empty apartments, but no one has seen him leave.”
Prosser shrugged.
“You are alone here?”
“I already said I am. Why, is there some problem?”
“Perhaps. The concierge called us because he had suspicions about the man we are looking for. We need to speak to him.” He paused and looked Prosser in the eye as if to challenge him. “If you see him, you will contact us, no?”
“Certainly,” Prosser replied. “May Allah give you strength.”
The visitor nodded and gestured for his comrades to follow him up the stairway to the next floor.
Prosser returned once more to the bathroom door and knocked lightly. “It was the same bunch,” he said. “Nasserists, by the looks of them. The concierge must have called them for help.”
He gestured for Abu Ramzi to take a seat. Fighting back the panic that threatened to shut down all ordered thought in his brain, he attempted to think out loud of a means to escape. “Look, my friend,” he began, momentarily surprised at his own self-possession. “The way I see it, we have two choices in trying to get out of here. Either we march down to the lobby together, or you could try to make your exit through the window while I stay here. It seems possible that you could lower yourself from one balcony to another without anyone seeing you. Of course, they might have somebody covering the outside of the building, but my guess is
“Certainly,” Prosser replied as they turned to leave.
Prosser locked the door again, returned to the rear of the apartment, and knocked lightly on the bathroom door to let Abu Ramzi know it was safe to come out. The Palestinian smiled confidently as they took their seats at the table. Prosser took a sip of juice before speaking.
“Listen carefully,” he began in a low voice. “There were two armed men at the door just now. They seem to be searching for somebody who looks very much like you. Tell me, Abu Ramzi, did you have any troubles on your way up here?”
“Not at all. I spoke only to the concierge and no one else. He asked me where I was going, and I told him I wanted to visit Dr. Hamdoun on the third floor, as you and I agreed.”
“Perhaps the concierge was suspicious because of your Iraqi accent. With so many bombings around here lately, one would rather expect them to be jumpy.”
A mischievous smile crept over Abu Ramzi’s face. “Well, perhaps there was something else. Perhaps he noticed this as I entered...” He stood up and pulled up the back of his sweater a few inches, revealing a Soviet-made Makarov pistol tucked into the waistband.
Prosser sighed. “Never mind,” he said. “There is nothing we can do about it now. Let’s finish our work and decide later how we’ll get out of here.”
He gestured for Abu Ramzi to sit down and resumed the debriefing, recording significant details in a nearly indecipherable scrawl in his pocket-sized notebook.
Twenty minutes passed. The doorbell rang again. Prosser put the notebook back in his trouser pocket, pointed Abu Ramzi to the bathroom, and returned to the door. On the other side of the peephole he saw four faces: the two original visitors and two of their comrades in green-and-brown-mottled camouflage uniforms. One of the uniforms bore an insignia that Prosser recognized as belonging to the Murabitoun, one of the radical Nasserist organizations that competed for dominance in the neighborhood.
The same youth who had spoken before spoke again, but he seemed bolder and his voice held no tone of deference. “ Salaam alaikum . Have you still not seen the man I described? The one with the blue pullover, about forty years old?” He craned his neck to look past the American into the apartment.
“No.”
“You are certain of this? He entered the building not long after you did. We have asked all the tenants about him and have checked some of the empty apartments, but no one has seen him leave.”
Prosser shrugged.
“You are alone here?”
“I already said I am. Why, is there some problem?”
“Perhaps. The concierge called us because he had suspicions about the man we are looking for. We need to speak to him.” He paused and looked Prosser in the eye as if to challenge him. “If you see him, you will contact us, no?”
“Certainly,” Prosser replied. “May Allah give you strength.”
The visitor nodded and gestured for his comrades to follow him up the stairway to the next floor.
Prosser returned once more to the bathroom door and knocked lightly. “It was the same bunch,” he said. “Nasserists, by the looks of them. The concierge must have called them for help.”
He gestured for Abu Ramzi to take a seat. Fighting back the panic that threatened to shut down all ordered thought in his brain, he attempted to think out loud of a means to escape. “Look, my friend,” he began, momentarily surprised at his own self-possession. “The way I see it, we have two choices in trying to get out of here. Either we march down to the lobby together, or you could try to make your exit through the window while I stay here. It seems possible that you could lower yourself from one balcony to another without anyone seeing you. Of course, they might have somebody covering the outside of the building, but my guess is
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