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Authors: Preston Fleming
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that the
Unionists are as eager to get their hands on my money as they are on
my person. The plain truth is that I’ve spent nearly all of the
funds under my control supporting the resistance. Not only the funds
entrusted to me by our contributors, but my personal wealth, as well.
What remains of the latter is held in trust to provide a fresh start
for my daughter and her family. If I turn myself in, these trusts
must be left untouched. So, Mr. Tanner, or whatever your real name
is, do I make myself clear? Will you convey my offer to your
superiors?”
Linder looked into
Eaton’s eyes and sensed that what Eaton said was true. The old
man’s fate and that of his daughter’s family now rested with
Linder.
“I’ll pass it
along, Mr. Eaton. I can’t promise they’ll accept your offer, but
for what it’s worth, I’ll go to bat for you.”
Eaton nodded his assent
and both men turned their eyes toward the sea. Atop a nearby
apartment building, a sudden flash of reflected sunlight drew
Linder’s attention to a pair of technicians adjusting what looked
like a parabolic microphone. The dish was aimed directly at Philip
Eaton’s balcony and when the technicians saw Linder watching them,
they ducked behind a chimney.
Two seconds later,
Linder heard a metallic whirring sound and looked up to find a half
dozen men in Lebanese gendarme uniforms rappelling from the roof onto
Philip Eaton’s balcony. Then a pair of stun grenades exploded
behind him, tossing him against the stone railing, dazed, deafened,
and out of breath. The last thing Warren Linder remembered was the
look of sorrowful reproach on Philip Eaton’s face.
S3
Life is a quarry, out of which we are to mold and chisel and complete
a character. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
SEPTEMBER, SATURDAY, WEST BEIRUT
Warren Linder looked
down a narrow alley with steep banks of granite-faced apartment
buildings on either side. It was Beirut, but he had lost any sense of
direction, so he set out uphill to find a vantage point from which he
could determine where he was. After climbing for several blocks, he
emerged opposite a dusty lot where the cinder-block shell of a
two-story house lay unfinished, then mounted its concrete stairway to
the flat roof.
Standing on the
concrete platform, he felt a chill wind at his back and scanned the
distant shoreline from the setting sun to the port and onward to the
glinting reflections of Jebel Achrafiyé in the east. All at once, he
realized that he was on the wrong side of town, in West Beirut, and
must cross the Green Line to reach his destination in Achrafiyé.
However, to his surprise, the city before him was not the pacified
Beirut of today, but some earlier version of the city during its
decades-long civil war. The commercial district, which stood between
him and his destination, seemed a dangerous no-man’s-land of
destroyed and decaying buildings infested with snipers and squads of
murderous militiamen who fought by night. Already sundown paled the
sky, yet he must cross this wasteland before darkness fell. A flood
of panic overtook him.
Linder opened his eyes
and sat upright with a start, unleashing a wave of nausea. He had
been lying on a bare military cot in a concrete cell barely wider
than the cot, with a stainless steel sink and toilet behind him and a
few square meters of empty floor space separating the foot of the cot
from the sliding steel door. The concrete walls were unfinished and
the door bore a fresh coat of gray paint. A single incandescent light
bulb hung far out of reach above him. On the floor beside the cot
stood an unopened plastic bottle of Lebanese spring water and an
earthenware plate stacked with a half-dozen disks of stale pita
bread.
Linder felt a throbbing
pain at his left temple where his head had hit Philip Eaton’s
balcony after he lost consciousness. He tried to stand but the pain
drove him back onto the cot.
He tried a different
approach, resting his forearms on his thighs and tilting
Unionists are as eager to get their hands on my money as they are on
my person. The plain truth is that I’ve spent nearly all of the
funds under my control supporting the resistance. Not only the funds
entrusted to me by our contributors, but my personal wealth, as well.
What remains of the latter is held in trust to provide a fresh start
for my daughter and her family. If I turn myself in, these trusts
must be left untouched. So, Mr. Tanner, or whatever your real name
is, do I make myself clear? Will you convey my offer to your
superiors?”
Linder looked into
Eaton’s eyes and sensed that what Eaton said was true. The old
man’s fate and that of his daughter’s family now rested with
Linder.
“I’ll pass it
along, Mr. Eaton. I can’t promise they’ll accept your offer, but
for what it’s worth, I’ll go to bat for you.”
Eaton nodded his assent
and both men turned their eyes toward the sea. Atop a nearby
apartment building, a sudden flash of reflected sunlight drew
Linder’s attention to a pair of technicians adjusting what looked
like a parabolic microphone. The dish was aimed directly at Philip
Eaton’s balcony and when the technicians saw Linder watching them,
they ducked behind a chimney.
Two seconds later,
Linder heard a metallic whirring sound and looked up to find a half
dozen men in Lebanese gendarme uniforms rappelling from the roof onto
Philip Eaton’s balcony. Then a pair of stun grenades exploded
behind him, tossing him against the stone railing, dazed, deafened,
and out of breath. The last thing Warren Linder remembered was the
look of sorrowful reproach on Philip Eaton’s face.
S3
Life is a quarry, out of which we are to mold and chisel and complete
a character. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
SEPTEMBER, SATURDAY, WEST BEIRUT
Warren Linder looked
down a narrow alley with steep banks of granite-faced apartment
buildings on either side. It was Beirut, but he had lost any sense of
direction, so he set out uphill to find a vantage point from which he
could determine where he was. After climbing for several blocks, he
emerged opposite a dusty lot where the cinder-block shell of a
two-story house lay unfinished, then mounted its concrete stairway to
the flat roof.
Standing on the
concrete platform, he felt a chill wind at his back and scanned the
distant shoreline from the setting sun to the port and onward to the
glinting reflections of Jebel Achrafiyé in the east. All at once, he
realized that he was on the wrong side of town, in West Beirut, and
must cross the Green Line to reach his destination in Achrafiyé.
However, to his surprise, the city before him was not the pacified
Beirut of today, but some earlier version of the city during its
decades-long civil war. The commercial district, which stood between
him and his destination, seemed a dangerous no-man’s-land of
destroyed and decaying buildings infested with snipers and squads of
murderous militiamen who fought by night. Already sundown paled the
sky, yet he must cross this wasteland before darkness fell. A flood
of panic overtook him.
Linder opened his eyes
and sat upright with a start, unleashing a wave of nausea. He had
been lying on a bare military cot in a concrete cell barely wider
than the cot, with a stainless steel sink and toilet behind him and a
few square meters of empty floor space separating the foot of the cot
from the sliding steel door. The concrete walls were unfinished and
the door bore a fresh coat of gray paint. A single incandescent light
bulb hung far out of reach above him. On the floor beside the cot
stood an unopened plastic bottle of Lebanese spring water and an
earthenware plate stacked with a half-dozen disks of stale pita
bread.
Linder felt a throbbing
pain at his left temple where his head had hit Philip Eaton’s
balcony after he lost consciousness. He tried to stand but the pain
drove him back onto the cot.
He tried a different
approach, resting his forearms on his thighs and tilting
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