End of Enemies

53

After Safir returned from the Riviera and confirmed Hossein Asseal’s arrival, Tanner spent the night sitting on the balcony, staring out over the city and periodically checking Asseal’s position on the Palm Pilot.

By sunrise the red square still had not moved.

Where is Abu Azhar? he wondered. He still couldn’t accept the idea of his “uncle” as a terrorist, a man prepared to give Syria the power to kill hundreds of thousands of people — or worse still, a man prepared to use that power himself. The Abu he’d once known could not be that man, but what might time and war and death do to an otherwise gentle person? If history had shown anything, Tanner knew, they can turn anyone into a killer.

Nourani arrived at seven. “I hired two boys to keep an eye on Asseal,” he told Tanner. “Don’t worry, they are trustworthy. Ahmed and Sadiq. Both from my home village.”

“I’d feel better if I handled—”

“You would stand out, Briggs. They can move about freely.”

Tanner thought it over; it made sense. “What did they find out?”

“Asseal and his woman—”

“Woman?”

“Of the evening,” Safir said. “He hired her for the week. I don’t recognize her, but others have seen her from time to time. Her name is Lena, though I doubt it is her real name.”

“Could you reach her? Would she be open to some extra income?”

“Almost certainly. Why?”

“If I’m right, Asseal will do some sightseeing today. I want to know where he goes and what he does.”

“I will look into it. Anyway, Asseal gambled until about three in the morning, then went to bed… alone. He is still asleep.”

Asseal certainly was working hard at spending the Israelis’ money, Tanner thought. Hopefully, today he would start earning some of it.

By late afternoon, Briggs was pacing the room, awaiting word from Nourani.

Earlier, Safir had found the woman and, after a bit of haggling, a price was agreed upon, with the proviso that whoever Nourani represented would do nothing to curtail her client’s generosity.

According to Ahmed and Sadiq, Asseal awoke just after noon, had a late lunch with his companion, then took a cab into the Hamra district for a shopping spree. At two, the taxi took them south into the slums of Southwest Beirut, at which point the boys broke off and returned to Nourani.

“They say things are bad between here and the airport. Something between Amal and the Maronites. Al’ane.”

Tanner knew the phrase; it meant “it is being hooked or tangled.” In short, someone was fighting. The reason was unimportant. “Where is he now?”

“Napping. Energetic man, this Asseal. He left a wake-up call for eight, with dinner reservations at Amici for eight-thirty. I will speak to the woman before then.”

In his suite in the Moriah Plaza, Stucky finished decoding Tanner’s latest message. On the table beside him sat a cell phone, a Palm Pilot similar to Tanner’s, and a briefcase transceiver through which he could access both the MilStar and the GPS.

“Okay, let’s see what you have to say, Briggs ol’ buddy.”

Stucky chuckled. “No luck, huh? Ain’t that a bitch.” He set aside the message and began encoding his own to Langley.

As his second day in the city came to a close, Tanner got his first nibble.

Following his return to the Riviera, Asseal dismissed Lena and ordered her to return later for dinner and more gambling.

She met Safir in a café on Mazzra Street. After shopping, she said, Asseal had ordered the taxi driver to take them into the Zokak al-Blat, a heavily populated Muslim neighborhood that, was seeing fierce fighting between the pro-Syrian Saiqua guerillas and the Hezbollah.

Asseal made four stops, each within enclaves contested by both groups. He talked with several of the local commanders and passed around a photograph. Lena did not overhear the conversations, but judging from Asseal’s mood, he’d had little luck.

On the way back to the hotel they took Damascus Road to the Green Line, at which point Asseal grew agitated, claiming they were being followed by a gray Volvo. He ordered the driver to hurry to Hamra, which he did, dropping them in the heart of the district.

“Did she see the Volvo?” Tanner asked Safir.

“No, but Asseal was clearly frightened.”

“He must have thought Hamra’s traffic would shield him.”

“He doesn’t know Beirut, then. They would kill him in front of the Vatican embassy if they really wanted him.”

“How about the groups he went to see? Was it just those two?”

“No, there were others, but she didn’t recognize them.”

Briggs checked his watch. “Okay, Hossein’s nightlife should be starting soon. Hold the fort. I’m going to take a walk around.”

He strolled along the Corniche, stared at pigeon rocks from Lighthouse Square for a while, and then, a little before eight, headed back up the Corniche and found a restaurant across from the Riviera.

Night had fully fallen, and down the block he could see the glare of Hamra’s neon lights. The volume of strollers surprised him; either they were very brave, or they had faith in Hamra’s reputation as being an unofficial haven from whatever troubles the rest of the city was experiencing. Though kidnappings and murders were still commonplace in Hamra, it rarely saw serious fighting.

The restaurant Tanner chose was run by an Armenian family, a husband and wife and their two young daughters, who served as waitresses. The husband seated him in a corner booth near the window.

“And how are you, sir?” asked the husband.

“Very well, thanks.”

Tanner ordered sanbousek, a pastry filled with meat, spices, and pine nuts, and a glass of kefrayek. As one of the daughters returned with his food, Tanner smiled and thanked her in Armenian, which drew a giggle and then whisperings with her sister behind the counter.

At 8:40, Hossein Asseal stepped through the hotel’s revolving door with a woman on his arm. The lovely Lena, Tanner assumed. Her hair was bleach blond, her dress bright red and rhinestoned. They stepped into a waiting taxi, which made a U-turn on the Corniche and sped off.

Amici restaurant was only a few blocks to the south, so Tanner paid his bill, stepped outside, and started walking.

Suddenly, from around the corner came the squeal of tires, followed by the crunch of metal. He ran to the corner in time to see Asseal’s taxi stopped in the intersection, blocked on each side by a car, one of them a gray Volvo.

A dozen men encircled the taxi. Waving AK-47s at the bystanders, they yanked open the doors. The driver was dragged out and thrown aside, then Lena, screaming and kicking. Three of the kidnappers crawled into the backseat. Arms and legs flailed; the taxi rocked from side to side. They dragged Asseal out, already bound and gagged, rushed him to the Volvo, threw him in the backseat, piled inside, and sped away.

Tanner stared at the empty street, his heart pounding. What he’d just seen had happened a hundred times before to diplomats and journalists. Fifteen seconds and you’re gone. Just like that.

Down the Corniche he heard the wail of sirens. Both the taxi driver and Lena were on their feet, looking shaken but uninjured. In a flurry of flashing blue lights, the police pulled up.

Tanner turned and began jogging for the Commodore.

“Just now?” Safir asked. “They took him?”

“Off the Corniche,” Tanner said, connecting the Palm Pilot to his cell phone.

A few seconds passed before the Palm Pilot made contact with the GPS and downloaded the information. The red square flashed on the screen. Every ten seconds it blinked, then reappeared as Asseal’s position changed. They were moving north, toward the coast. Tanner pulled out his map of the city, cross-referenced it with the Palm Pilot, then circled the port area.

“The Majidiya District,” he said. “Do you know it?”

Safir nodded. “Oh, yes. It’s divided by the Green Line. Heavy fighting. That is a bad neighborhood, Briggs. If that’s where they’re taking him… Allah help him.”

Tanner handed him a pad and a pencil. “Draw me a map.”