Dynamite Fishermen (12 page)

As Abu Khalil explained to Prosser three years later, he did not welcome the prospect of peace in 1977. On the contrary, he worried that everyone in Lebanon would benefit from the country’s recovery except the Palestinians. Not long after the final cease-fire between Lebanon’s Muslims and Christians went into effect, he predicted, the newly united Lebanese, perhaps with Israel’s assistance, would unite for one last battle to expel the Palestinians and Syrians from their ravaged country. When that happened, Abu Khalil explained to Prosser, he wanted more of a choice than either fleeing to a refugee camp in Syria—as he had already done twice in his lifetime—or remaining in Lebanon to fight for his life like a cornered beast. Only money could give him that choice, and he meant to have it.

He made his approach on a Sunday morning. The American major he accosted turned him over promptly to an Arabic-speaking CIA case officer, who took Abu Khalil to a safe house for a debriefing that covered every aspect of the Palestinian’s background, motives, and access to intelligence information. Over a trial period lasting six months, Abu Khalil managed to produce enough information to merit a modest salary, and over the following two years he established a solid reputation for accurate, if unremarkable, reporting on the Palestinian militias.

By the time Prosser arrived in Beirut to become Abu Khalil’s case officer, the agent’s production had been in a slow but steady decline. Lately the only times Abu Khalil could be relied upon to turn in valuable intelligence was when he was scheduled to receive his monthly pay. While he never refused an assignment in so many words and promised to deliver whatever was asked of him, Prosser considered Abu Khalil only marginally reliable and suspected that some of his reporting might even be fabricated.

Prosser emerged from the alley onto rue Henry Ford and began to scan the street for Abu Khalil’s white Toyota when he heard a pair of rifle shots fired from somewhere inside the Progressive Socialist Party military camp across the street. He slipped back into the alley, flattened himself against a cinder-block wall, and listened. The screech of tires reached his ears as drivers coming down the hill heard the shots and attempted to retreat back up the hill. The sounds of barking dogs and gruff voices shouting orders reached him from the direction of the walled PSP compound. More shots rang out, this time from men with pistols no more than one hundred meters uphill. Encouraged by the thought that two high walls separated him from the gunmen, he took a deep breath and waited for the shooting to stop.

A sudden burst of gunfire from a light machine gun somewhere downhill from him disturbed his reverie and brought home to him that he had apparently walked into a crossfire. He considered dropping to the ground and staying there until it was over but rejected the idea for fear of being trapped or overrun if either side decided to take the alley.

He waited for the next pause between volleys and then made his break back along the narrow passage to the Renault.
Let the militias shoot each other to their hearts’ content,
he thought as he moved through the shadows. He would not arrive on time for the meeting; Abu Khalil would just have to wait for the alternate meeting. Prosser took his seat in the Renault just as the next exchange of gunfire broke out; then he cranked up the engine and headed home.

Back at the Hala Building he had an hour to refresh himself before looking for Abu Khalil at the alternate meeting site. He showered; changed into a pair of khakis and a fresh shirt; tossed some cheese, bread, a handful of yellow cherries, and a can of beer on a tray; and went out onto the balcony to see what had become of the firefight.

A hundred meters to the west, a line of thirty or forty cars still clogged rue Henry Ford nearly all the way down the hill to the Corniche. Traffic on the Corniche itself was moving likewise at a snail’s pace past the entrance to the PSP compound, where rifle-toting Druze militiamen displaying the distinctive triangular emblem of the PSP on their armbands ordered rubberneckers to move along.

Three-quarters of an hour later, Prosser set out for the alternate meeting site. At half past nine he spotted Abu Khalil’s white Toyota on an unlit street near the American Community School. He approached the darkened car from behind and was nearly upon it when the passenger door opened from inside; a grinning Palestinian with a rugged, weather-beaten face; thinning, swept-back black hair; and small, darting eyes greeted him with a silent handshake.

Abu Khalil was not a large man and did not have the native intelligence or commanding presence of a born leader like Abu Ramzi, but every time Prosser met him he felt as safe as one could possibly be on the streets of Beirut. For although Abu Khalil had many faults, he was absolutely loyal to those he accepted as his friends, and after more than twenty-five years of street fighting all over the Levant, he had a stellar record at keeping himself, his family, and his friends alive.

Within moments of releasing Prosser’s hand, Abu Khalil had the Toyota accelerating at full throttle toward the Corniche with headlights unlit.

“Did you have any trouble with the Druze a short while ago?” Prosser asked the Palestinian, referring to the PSP, whose membership was made up almost entirely of men and women of the Druze sect. “I hope you weren’t part of the firefight.”

“Not at all, praise Allah,” Abu Khalil replied with a grin that exposed crooked, smoke-stained teeth. “When I heard gunfire, I withdrew up the hill and returned as soon as the firing stopped. When you did not appear, I thought of our emergency plan and came here to wait.”

“Did you happen to see who the Druze were fighting?”

“A shopkeeper told me that two young fighters from the Fursan insulted a Druze officer on the Corniche near the Sunrise Hotel. The Druze officer returned a few minutes later with a squad of his men and was immediately fired upon from ambush. A few minutes after that more Druze fighters joined the fight and forced the Fursan to withdraw. These Fursan were badly mistaken to have attacked so close to the Druze camp. But what can be expected from such ignorant people?”

Abu Khalil laughed. The Fursan were the equivalent of an expansion team in Lebanon’s highly competitive league of militias and would be given no respect from their rivals until they had fought for it.

“So did the two Fursan who started the gunfight get out of it alive?”

Abu Khalil shook his head. “The Druze captured both and sent them to Damascus.”

“Damascus?” Prosser asked, suddenly confused. “Why there? Why not to the PSP’s bases in the Chouf Mountains?”

Abu Khalil let out an uproarious laugh. “Ah, Tommy, my friend,” addressing Prosser by another one of his aliases. “That is only an expression we have. It means they were dispatched with finality.” He made his right hand into a pistol, pointed the index finger at the base of his skull, and fired. “Bang! Off to Damascus!”

Prosser parroted the phrase “Off to Damascus!” in Arabic and had his pronunciation corrected by Abu Khalil. “So what will the Fursan do now?” he pressed. “Retaliate?”

“Without a doubt. There is already too much bad blood between them and the Druze.”

Prosser waited for his companion to say more, and when he did not, he moved on to another subject. “So, Abu Khalil,” he continued, “perhaps now you will tell me the reason why you called this meeting. After I saw your signal this morning, I’ve been concerned for you all day.”

“Concerned for me? No, no, no,” the man replied affably. “I signaled because I brought the book you have wanted me to bring these last weeks. So many times you have wanted it, and so many times I could not bring it. But tonight it is here, praise Allah.”

Abu Khalil pulled a brown paper bag out from under his seat and handed it across. Inside was a green cloth-bound ledger of about 150 pages. More than half the pages were filled with handwritten entries—mainly in English and Arabic, but with a smattering of French, Italian, and German.

Abu Khalil had first spoken of the book two months earlier, explaining that all foreigners who came to his military base for small arms and explosives training were required to register their names in a log kept in the camp safe. There had been groups of trainees from Turkey, Italy, Spain, Germany, and various Latin American and African countries. All the trainees’ names were listed in the book, he had insisted.

In the poor light Prosser had difficulty reading the entries. It was apparent after the first few pages, however, that this was not the comprehensive record of international terrorists’ names, travel dates, and passport numbers for which he had hoped, but rather a guest book filled with testimonials from the numerous official delegations and guests who had come to tour the DFLP camp. Still, all of the entries were signed, and some included the guests’ mailing addresses.

Prosser guessed that his original hunch was probably on the mark: Abu Khalil must have been low on cash. “When do I have to give this back to you?” he asked, stuffing the ledger back into its paper bag. “Can I keep it until tomorrow night?”

Abu Khalil nodded. “Tomorrow is a holiday; no one will notice it is missing.”

“All right, then, I will bring it tomorrow night at nine. Let’s meet at the same place where we met tonight.”

“Bring money, my friend,” Abu Khalil interjected. “I have had too many expenses.”

“How much this time, Abu Khalil?” Prosser asked, doing his best to conceal his skepticism.

“Five thousand lira.”

Prosser considered the likely effect of refusing the request and then decided that the time for a showdown had not arrived. “I’ll do what I can, Abu Khalil. It’s almost the end of the month. Maybe I can release next month’s salary a little early.”

“And for the book?”

“If the book is useful to us, I’ll see what I can do.”

“I thank you, my friend,” the Palestinian answered as if he had expected all along to receive the money.

Prosser wondered if he had become so very predictable that Abu Khalil was now able to calculate within a few lira how much extra he could squeeze out of his case officer each month.

“Do you have anything else for me tonight besides the book?”

Abu Khalil shook his head.

“Have you managed to pick up anything about the latest car bombings?”

“By Allah, I have nothing yet.”

“Well, stay on it, Abu Khalil. I’m counting on you. Anything else?”

Abu Khalil paused to think, and the unkind notion occurred to Prosser that the Palestinian might be taking aim at another bonus. If there were ever an occasion when Abu Khalil might be tempted to fabricate, this was it.

“As I think of it, there is one more thing you should know about. Two days ago I heard talk of an operation being planned against foreigners.”

Prosser cocked an eyebrow. “What kind of operation? Where? And which foreigners?”

“I have few details. But the one who spoke of the plan is a Palestinian from Jaffa whose war name is Colonel Hisham. We have met only once before, at the home of my cousin.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“I am told that he stays mostly in Damascus and the Bekaa Valley and travels to Europe several times a year. My cousin knows him well. He believes that the colonel works for Saiqa, in special operations, with the ones who use the name ‘Eagles of the Revolution.’ But I know many in Saiqa—I doubt Colonel Hisham belongs to them. In my view it is more likely that he works directly for Syrian military intelligence.”

“What does he look like? Is he a young man or an old man, short or tall, dark or fair? Describe him.”

“He is not so old—only a little older than I—maybe forty or forty-five years. And he is as tall as me, but perhaps a few kilos heavier.”

“So would you say he is about one hundred seventy centimeters and about eighty kilos?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Does he have a beard or a mustache or wear glasses, perhaps, or look special in some other way?”

“No glasses…except sunglasses, yes. But he wears a mustache and is nearly bald on the top of his head. Frankly speaking, he looks like very many Palestinian men of his age. There is very little that is unusual about him.”

Prosser stopped for a moment to write the description in his notebook. “You did the right thing by bringing this to me as soon as you heard it, Abu Khalil. But I’m going to need a lot more. What exactly is Colonel Hisham planning to do to these foreigners? Did he mention any names or dates or places? And do you really believe the operation is going to happen, or is it just idle talk?”

“Colonel Hisham is not the kind who makes idle talk,” Abu Khalil replied. “Nor is he one of those who fights Israel and the Phalange from the cafés. At first he told my cousin nothing more than that foreigners will have their own martyrs soon in West Beirut. Later he hinted that he and his comrades have information about foreign spies here and have only to choose the time and place to eliminate them. Cadres are already selected for the operation and wait only for the order to be given.”

“Whose spies, Abu Khalil? Did he mention any names or nationalities?”

The Palestinian leaned forward and put out his cigarette in the Toyota’s overflowing ashtray. He concentrated for a moment and then shook his head. “That is all I know.”

Typical Abu Khalil,
Prosser thought.
Draws a blank just when we get to the good part.

“If you remember anything else before tomorrow, please write it down,” he replied, hiding his disappointment. “Meanwhile, see if you can locate Colonel Hisham again for another talk, and tell your cousin in Saiqa to do the same.”