Bride of a Bygone War (37 page)

Upon arriving at the dispensary, he found Lukash sitting on an examination table with his legs dangling over the edge while Nurse Asma conducted a preliminary neurological exam. First she tested the movements and reactions of Lukash’s eyes and examined them with an ophthalmoscope. Next she held a succession of small glass vials under each nostril to test his sense of smell. Lukash identified correctly the fragrances of mint, citrus, cedar wood, garlic, and vanilla, but gagged when the vial of vinegar was opened, causing the nurse to spill nearly half the vial on the floor.

Then she asked her patient to extend his arm at shoulder height and touch the index finger of each hand to his nose, which he did despite a noticeable tremor in his left hand. Then she directed Lukash, in rapid succession, to smile, frown, whistle, stick out his tongue, and clench his jaw. Through clenched teeth he asked if the exam was over yet. The nurse glowered back at him and, without responding, proceeded to palpate the neck muscles involved in moving his head.

“Damn, that hurts!” he exclaimed, recoiling suddenly and seizing her wrist.

“The pain is hardly surprising, considering that someone knocked you on the head twice with a rifle butt and ran you down with an automobile. Tell me, how long were you unconscious, Mr.—”

“Lukash,” he answered. “How long? How should I know? I was out cold.”

“Give us a guess,” Asma responded with annoyance.

“Oh, I suppose not more than a minute or two. I kept my eyes shut a while longer, but only because my head hurt so bad.”

The nurse did not appear to believe him.

“Whether you believe me or not,” he went on, “I know I was awake, because I could feel every damned pothole.”

The nurse turned her gaze to Prosser, who confirmed the patient’s testimony.

“That’s right,” Prosser acknowledged. “Once we got him onto his feet, he seemed to snap out of it and looked a lot better.”

Nurse Asma narrowed her eyes but stopped short of accusing the pair of collusion. “All right, Mr. Lukash,” she announced. “You don’t seem to be in any immediate danger from your injuries, but I strongly recommend that you see a neurologist right away for a more thorough examination. I’m going to ask you to lie down and remain as still as possible while I make an appointment for you at AUB Hospital and arrange with the motor pool for a ride.”

“I’m sorry, nurse, but I don’t have time for—”

“I am told you are a United States government employee, Mr. Lukash. If that is correct, then you do not have a choice in the matter.”

Lukash reddened, but before he could speak, Prosser thanked the nurse warmly for her help and offered to help in any way he possibly could. “Don’t worry,” Prosser assured her, “I’ll keep a close eye on the patient. Go ahead and call the hospital.” Appeased by his promise of cooperation, Nurse Asma left the room.

The moment the door closed behind her, Prosser picked up a bar of soap and a handful of paper towels from the sink beside him. “Here, clean yourself up while I go upstairs and find the chief. Don’t worry, we’ll figure out a way to get you back to the airport.”

“Okay, but make it quick,” Lukash replied. “The longer we wait, the more likely that the Syrians or the Phalange will be waiting for me.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t fly, then. Maybe you should try the ferry to Cyprus.”

“Not with the ferry leaving from Phalange territory,” Lukash countered. “And the overland route through Syria obviously isn’t an option. No, it looks like the airport is it. And if I don’t make it out today, the place could be crawling with Syrian and Phalange goons by tomorrow. Who knows? I may be holed up in the embassy indefinitely, like Archbishop Makarios in Nicosia. Washington might have to send a navy helicopter to pick me off the roof, Saigon-style.” He caught Prosser’s eye and both men laughed.

“Never mind,” Prosser assured him. “We’ll get you out. As soon as I find Ed, I’ll send him down to see you while I go about booking you a seat on the next flight.”

“And just how were you planning to do that?” Lukash interrupted.

“Through the admin section,” Prosser replied. “The travel section is pretty good at getting seats at short notice.”

“I don’t like using the locals for this. Can’t you go to the ticket office yourself?”

“Have you been to a MEA ticket office lately? It could take all day.”

“Okay, I see your point,” Lukash conceded. “But don’t let anyone connect my true name to the reservation. Why don’t you talk to Harry Landers and ask him to make an emergency request on behalf of an American citizen attending to a dying parent? Make it under the name of Conklin—William F. Conklin. I have an old alias passport under that name that I conveniently never turned in.”

Prosser shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t do,” he cautioned. “Headquarters will have canceled it, for sure. If you tried to enter the U.S. with it, the INS would arrest you so fast your head would spin.”

“Who said anything about entering the U.S.? I just need it to get to Europe. I’ll request a replacement passport in true name from the consulate when I get to Europe.”

Prosser shrugged. “Okay, if that’s the plan, let’s go for it. Where do you want to lay over? Paris? London? Rome?”

Lukash shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Anyplace will do as long as it’s west of here. Oh, and I’ll need some cash. Can you advance me something out of your ops funds?”

“How much do you need? Would five thousand U.S. do?”

“Better make it ten. For the layover…just in case.”

* * *

Prosser rode the elevator to the fourth floor and entered the political section, greeting the young stenographer who had recently arrived on temporary duty from Washington. “Is Ed in?” he inquired.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Prosser. He’s been out all morning. May I take a message?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll catch up with him when he gets back.”

“But while you’re here,” the stenographer added, “there’s a Lebanese-sounding woman holding for you on Line 2. This is the third time she’s called. She won’t give me her name, but she said she spoke to you at home this morning and that you told her to call you at the embassy. Would you like to take the call now?”

Prosser shook his head. “I don’t have time. Tell her to call back after lunch.”

As the woman reached for the telephone, it rang again on another line and she picked it up. “Yes, ma’am, I will,” she replied as Prosser turned to leave.

“The nurse wants a word with you,” she announced, holding the receiver out for Prosser with an impish smile. He scowled and took the receiver.

“It’s Asma,” she began forcefully. “I just spoke with the hospital. The chief neurosurgeon is concerned that Mr. Lukash may still be at risk of cerebral hemorrhaging from his concussion and wants to see him immediately. Please, Mr. Prosser, I’m calling on you as the responsible person closest to the patient to persuade him to go. The embassy cannot be held responsible if he refuses. In any case, he cannot remain in the chancery any longer in his condition. I will make arrangements for the motor pool to bring a car around for him. May I count on your help?”

Prosser rolled his eyes and agreed. “Give me a few minutes, Asma. I’ll come down and escort him out.”

He handed the receiver back to the stenographer and strode past her to his office, where he picked up the telephone once again and dialed. “Harry, it’s Con,” he greeted the consul when it rang through. “Hey, buddy, I need to ask you a favor. I’ve got an American here who needs a plane ticket back to the States fast, but I’d rather the request not come from me. Could you call the travel section and have them make a reservation under the name of William F. Conklin? Tell them he’s a businessman with a dying parent stateside.”

Prosser nodded as he listened to Harry Landers’s reply.

“Sure,” Prosser continued, “you can route it through any airport in Western Europe, but the flight has to depart from Beirut today. First class is okay if coach is sold out. All he needs is a reservation. We’ll ticket at the airport.”

Prosser stopped speaking for a moment to listen.

“Yes, I realize that, Harry. I’d have asked him to do it himself, except the phone lines to MEA are all tied up and he’s got some medical problems of his own to sort out before he can leave.”

Prosser hung up the receiver and stepped over to his four-drawer-file safe. He twirled the dial rapidly to the left and right until the tumblers fell into place, then he pushed down on the lever to open the main drawer. Inside was a metal cash box half filled with banded stacks of U.S. and Lebanese banknotes. Prosser found a stack of C-notes and wrapped it in a sheet of copy paper before stuffing it into a trouser pocket and locking the safe. He winked at the stenographer as he breezed past her desk and out into the central corridor. Rather than call the elevator, he took the stairs down to the ground floor.

Upon entering the dispensary, Prosser found Walter Lukash sitting motionless in a straight-backed office chair with his eyes shut and his palms resting on his knees.

“Walt, it’s me,” he said softly, placing a hand on Lukash’s shoulder from behind and waiting for his eyes to open. “Ed’s out and we don’t know when he’ll be back. I’ve got the travel section working on your flight, but the nurse won’t let you stay here. The doctors want to see you over at AUB Hospital right away.”

“Can’t we stall them?” Lukash asked, facing his colleague with an annoyed expression.

“Not without raising a stink,” Prosser replied firmly. “You’ll just have to cool your heels at the hospital until I have your reservation and come to get you. The nurse has called a car for you. As soon as it’s ready, she’ll be coming back to make sure you don’t skip out.”

Without waiting for a response, Prosser removed the stack of banknotes from his pocket and wrote out a receipt for Lukash’s signature. Only when it was signed did he hand over the money.

“Okay, then, here’s what I propose we do,” Lukash answered once the funds were tucked into his waistband and covered by his shirt. “In the interest of keeping the peace, I’ll take the embassy car over to the hospital like a good boy. But I’m going to walk in the front and right out the back. I’ll be waiting for you at the rue Maamari exit in fifteen minutes. Do you think you can have a flight for me by then?”

“I have no way of knowing,” Prosser replied impatiently “If I’m not there on time, just hang out somewhere and come back every quarter of an hour till I show up.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Conrad Prosser was back in his office, still on the telephone after repeated attempts to reach Harry Landers.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Prosser,” the consular receptionist repeated. “The consul is in a visa interview. May I have him call you back?”

“Never mind,” Prosser answered resignedly. “I’ll come down and wait for him. Life always seems to be more interesting down there than it is up here, anyway.”

He descended the stairs more slowly now, knowing that, at least for the moment, the question of Walter Lukash’s return to Washington was out of his hands. To his surprise, however, upon entering the consular offices, he was waved forward without delay through Harry Landers’s open office door. Inside he found Landers leaning back in his swivel chair, dispensing instructions to an attentive Claudette Hammouche.
 

Seeing Prosser approach, the language tutor smiled at him and stepped back from the consul’s desk, signaling her willingness to finish and leave the two men alone. “Hello, Conrad,” she greeted him with a smile. “I’ve missed you lately. Shall we resume your Arabic lessons soon?”

“Certainly,” Prosser answered with a friendly grin. “Yours is my favorite hour of the day.”

“Perhaps later in the week, then?” she offered, pleased at his flattery. “My appointment book is downstairs. Come see me when you have finished here and we will find you an opening.”

Prosser nodded his assent and Claudette turned to leave. “Any luck with getting that seat to Europe today?” he asked Harry as the tutor went out the door.

The consul winced and held his response until the woman was fully out of earshot. “You can’t be too careful around the locals,” Harry warned in a low voice. “They have ears like bats. Claudette included.” Then he brightened and flashed a wry smile. “Which do you want first: the good news or the bad news?”

“Give me both barrels at once,” Prosser replied.

“Well, the bad news is that all westbound seats today are booked. Good news is that they found a seat on the three thirty to Rome in first class. At about three times the coach fare. Do you still want it?”

“Definitely,” Prosser replied.

“Okay, I’ll call down and have them book it. I suggest you check in early, or the airline may sell the seat out from under you.”

“With pleasure. Thanks a bundle, Harry. I owe you one.”

“More than one,” the consul added tolerantly. “Not that I’m counting.”

Prosser left the consul’s office, where a queue of local employees was forming outside the door with documents to be signed. Upon reaching the ground floor, he found Claudette Hammouche at a desk in the administration section, where her calendar lay on the desktop awaiting his arrival.

“I have an opening on Friday at eleven,” she declared upon seeing him approach.