“So I heard. Why would he do that?”
“I have no answer for you.”
“Why would he go to Latakia you think? Buy weapons?”
“It would he logical.”
“It’s either that or gamble. I don’t figure him for that. If he was going to sell the jewels, he would have gone to Cairo, don’t you think?”
“A good bet.”
“Who would he know up there in Latakia?”
“We have people in Damascus,” said Fouad. “Perhaps you could speak to them.”
“There’s a waste of time. Why would the resistance need to buy weapons?”
“Perhaps they aren’t buying weapons but services. Or maybe he is escaping: from Latakia he could go to Turkey.” The more Fouad thought about this, the more he thought it must be the answer. The insurgency was doomed, and Khazaal, not being a stupid man, would try to get out while it was still possible.
“If he was going to Turkey, it would have been easier to get out through the Kurdish area,” said Ferguson.
“Not for him.”
“Point taken.”
Fouad didn’t understand the expression, but he assumed it meant that Ferguson agreed with him.
“How’s Rankin treating you?” asked Ferg.
“Very well.” When Thera had begun running at the first crack of gunfire, Fouad had assumed the worst: that the Americans were abandoning him. He was ashamed now.
“He can be tough on Iraqis.”
“Yes,” said Fouad. “But I am tough on Americans as well.”
“Fair enough. See you guys when you get here.”
21
Corrine went through the motions of the tour, admiring the equipment she was shown, nodding appropriately, and twice taking notes. Her hosts were very cordial and accommodating, traditional Arabs who did not let political or even religious differences disturb the mandate to be gracious hosts. They staged an elaborate dinner with enough food for an army; Corrine thought to herself that she would not fit into the bathing suit she had bought earlier in the day without considerable exercise. As the dinner wound down, she managed to ask her hosts for their opinion about a new peace plan for a Palestinian homeland without offending them. They were vaguely hopeful, but perhaps that too was due to politeness.
Her car was escorted back to the hotel by four police vehicles. It presented the illusion of safety while creating an obvious target for anyone who hated the regime as well as the U.S. Still, by the time she got into the hotel Corrine could almost believe that the media had overhyped the hatred Arabs felt toward Americans; her experience here had been as pleasant as any she had had in Europe or Asia.
Once again she waited in the reception area as her room was checked; once again she examined the illustrated manuscript pages. Gazing at them through the glass, she noticed a man approaching the reservations desk who looked vaguely familiar. She stared for a moment, unable to place him, and then, as he turned and met her gaze, she realized it was the man she had seen in the Mossad building.
She turned her head away, pretending not to notice, feigning absorption in the art.
The man came over to her.
“Ms. Alston?”
Corrine hesitated for a split second before turning around. Her escorts were right at his side bristling, ready to intervene. A few feet behind them, the Lebanese police too were ready.
“Yes?” she said.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” said the man, bowing his head slightly in greeting.
“I’m afraid not.” It was the safest thing to say.
“I was with the delegation to the UN two years ago. I had the great privilege of presenting the Pan-Arab view on the injustices faced by the Palestinian people.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” she said, emphasizing the noncommittal tone.
“You did not treat us well.” The man wagged his finger at her. “You personally, of course, were very gracious, but your
The Lebanese security people, who had begun by looking suspiciously at the man, now turned those same glares toward Corrine.
“I’m afraid I’ve totally forgotten your name,” she said.
“I am Fazel al-Qiam. I no longer have my government post,” said Aaron Ravid. He’d come to Lebanon en route to Syria, renewing his contacts and gathering information.
The American had clearly recognized him from Tel Aviv and wasn’t practiced enough to hide her expression, which was sure to be seen by the Syrian and Lebanese agents watching the lobby. So he’d done the only thing he could do, approach her and try to cover it.
Was it a coincidence that she was here, an accident of luck? Or was the Mossad somehow using her?
It must be an accident, but he would put nothing past Tischler.
Corrine, not thinking, extended her hand to shake. Ravid reacted as a conservative Arab might, frowning and smiling nervously but hesitating to shake. Realizing the faux pas, she quickly dropped her hand.
“Excuse me. I beg your pardon,” she said.
“Apologies are not necessary for such a gracious and beautiful woman. I am in private life now, a simple man.”
“Well, it was nice to see you again.” Corrine started to turn away.
“You didn’t answer my question. Does the new president understand the needs of the Palestinian people?”
“I think the president wishes to understand all of the complicated needs of the people in the Middle East,” she said. “I would hope, strongly hope, that better arrangements can be made to our mutual benefit. I am here to help report on a trade agreement. I have found my hosts gracious and wonderful. Candidly, I don’t think there are friendlier people in the world.”
“We could do much trade with America if our rights are respected. Of course, that is tantamount. For too long the Arab people have not been accorded the proper respect. You are happy to take our oil, but do you treat us with the consideration equal partners are due? Sadly, you do not. Our civilization is many times older than yours, but we are treated like the little brother.” Ravid smiled, as if stopping himself from the rest of the rant. “I apologize. You, Ms. Alston, are certainly not personally responsible for this. You have been honorable and respectful, even though I see you disagree with me.”
“I don’t disagree. I—” She stopped herself midsentence. “I may disagree on some points but not on the whole. Some day, at your leisure, I hope, we may discuss them.”
“With the grace of God, we shall.”
Upstairs in her suite, one of the marines found a brochure of tourist spots stuck under the door as they entered. Corrine took it from him before he could toss it in the garbage.
Convinced it was Ferguson’s message on what time to meet, she thumbed through the English section several times without finding any clue, much less a note or directions. Out of desperation she looked in the directory for jazz clubs. There was only one: the Blu Note, in an older part of town. She didn’t see a clue there either, until she realized that the digits for the acts had been carefully erased or changed, until the only ones that were legible were all the same: 1.
