Chapter One
Prince Imad al Din put his hands on his uncle's shoulders and kissed him three times on the cheek. Prince Khatib al Saud sat back down on the silk brocade divan and patted the cushions to indicate his nephew should sit beside him. King Abdullah's half-brother, head of the Saudi General Intelligence Department, took a sip of his whiskey highball and cleared his throat.
"Would you care for a whiskey?"
"Yes, please, uncle."
"Help yourself. Everything's there on the table."
Prince Khatib bent forward and opened a chiseled silver box. He took out an oval-shaped Turkish cigarette and lit it with a massive silver lighter. He inhaled deeply and blew out a thin stream of smoke.
"How would you like to go the Beirut?" he asked his young nephew.
The question thrilled Imad al Din from his scalp to the soles of his feet. For a young, healthy Saudi male, a mission to the Lebanese capital, the little Paris of the Near East, was the next best thing to an assignment in paradise. Responsible for public relations with the intelligence services of foreign powers, Imad al Din's duties as an employee of his uncle's department consisted mainly of entertaining foreign spies at expensive restaurants in Riyadh. Compared to Beirut, Riyadh was a dungeon, the sinister capital of a country where most adult pleasures were mortal sins, some of them punishable by prison or death. A country where women were inaccessible and nearly invisible, forbidden to drive an automobile.
"Beirut, uncle?"
"Yes, Beirut," he continued. "His Majesty - may Allah protect him - has honored our department with a secret mission of the utmost importance."
Prince Imad al Din looked wide-eyed at his uncle. Prince Khatib stubbed out his cigarette and spoke in a grave voice.
"Since Hezbollah militia fought the Israeli army to a standstill, Hassan Nasrallah has become increasingly popular, even among Sunnis. In spite of the fact that he is a Shi'ite. He has become such a hero in this part of the world, that even some Sunnis have replaced Osama bin Laden's photograph on their walls with Nasrallah's."
"At least, Nasrallah proved Muslims can fight as well as Jews."
"You have much to learn, nephew. Nasrallah... Hezbollah is a destabilizing force in the region. The Saud dynasty could topple if the Islamic Republic of Iran extends its influence. Hezbollah is Iran's protégé. Hassan Nasrallah must be silenced!"
"But Uncle Khatib," Imad al Din said. "That would be sleeping with the enemy, wouldn't it? Helping Israel recover from defeat. Didn't you say the ultimate goal should be to drive the Jews into the sea and help the Palestinians reclaim their land?"
"You must not confuse short-term and long-term goals, Imad al Din. King Abdullah is the guardian of the holy sites of Islam and head of the Sunnite branch of our religion. Something must be done to stem the rising tide of Shi'ite sacrilege. Nasrallah is the head of Hezbollah. At the moment, the most pressing issue is the elimination of Hassan Nasrallah and his Iranian-sponsored militia."
"How can this be accomplished, uncle?"
"That will be your mission."
"But I'm not trained in..."
"You will not be alone. In his wisdom, His Majesty - may the Almighty Allah grant him long life - has decided to join forces with the Jews and the Christians."
Prince Imad al Din felt as if the ground had just dropped from under his feet.
"An alliance with the Jews"?
"The Jews want to eliminate Hassan Nasrallah just as much as we do. Our allies in Washington, too."
"What's our role?"
"Several of our operatives in Beirut have infiltrated the Red Crescent relief agency and reconstruction companies working in Southern Lebanon. They're in contact with the Shi'ite population there and with Hezbollah. Their job is to recruit informers who can help us keep tabs on Nasrallah's whereabouts. You will handle these sources and transmit vital information to our associates. Even though our station chief in Beirut is a competent and faithful civil servant, our sovereign places more trust in you, a member of the royal family."
"I appreciate His Majesty's confidence in me, uncle. But if the Israelis haven't been able to get rid of Nasrallah in spite of all the means they have at their disposal..."
Prince Khatib Al-Saud bin Hakim dismissed his nephew's doubts with a sweep of his hand.
"Neither the Jews nor the Americans have been able to infiltrate Hezbollah. It's up to you to get the intelligence they need and communicate it to them."
"How do I get the information from our sources and how do I make contact with our... friends"
"You'll be briefed by our station chief in Beirut."
"When do I leave?"
"I'll let you know when the time is ripe. In the meantime, I'm having our Mediterranean desk get together a file on the situation in Lebanon for you. Study it. Knowledge of what's going on there now could be invaluable to you."
#
Sitting at his desk in the study of his partially restored hillside mansion in Ellicott City, Mark McGill was stuggling with a tricky technical translation when the phone rang. He dropped his pencil on the desk and picked up the receiver.
"Hello."
"Mark?"
"Yeah."
"How about a cup of coffee tomorrow...at the usual place...four p.m." It was not a question. It was an order. Mark was about to answer when he heard a click, followed by a dial tone. Lost in thought, he replaced the receiver in its cradle and reached for his half-empty cup. He glanced at the clock on the wall as he sipped the cold coffee. Ten forty-five.
"Who was that?" Mark's fiancée, Georgia Lee, stood in the doorway dressed in a see-through baby-doll nightgown.
"Nobody," Mark replied, staring appreciatively at Georgia's long, smooth legs.
"Nobody?"
"Just an old schoolmate."
"Anybody I know?"
"No, I don't think so. Goes way back. Before we met."
"Oh."
"Georgia?"
"What is it, Mark?"
"Can we reschedule dinner at the Taj Mahal for some other time?"
"I've already made reservations for tomorrow night."
"I'm afraid I won't be able to make it. Can't you cancel?"
"I could, but I'm not going to. We have tickets to the play afterwards and I intend to see it. What've you got to do that's so important you have to back out of a dinner date? No, wait. Don't answer that. The old schoolmate who just called is one of your Virginia farmboys, right?"
"Georgia, I..."
"It's okay, Mark. I know you're hooked on that cloak and dagger nonsense."
"It's not that, Georgia. I need the money for..."
"It's not the money, Mark, and you know it. I've got more than you and I both could spend in a hundred years. If you won't let me help you restore this place, it's because you get a thrill out of those missions you go on."
"Georgia..."
"Go ahead, Mark. It's all right. I'll get Josephine von Meyer or somebody else to go with me."
"You're not angry?"
"No, I'm not."
"Prove it."
"Come on to bed and I will."
#
Mark rode the elevator to the seventh floor of the Old Headquarters building at the Central Intelligence Agency in the Langley section of McLean. Helen Aters greeted him as the doors opened.
"Hello, Mr. McGill," she said, leading the way down the hall. "Mr. Greer's going to be very happy to see you."
When she opened the door to the Director of Operations' office, Thomas Jefferson Greer stood and walked around his desk to shake Mark's hand.
"How are you, Mark? It's all right if I call you Mark, isn't it?"
Mark felt as if he were in a rerun of an old sitcom series on television. The Director of Operations never failed to ask if he could call him by his first name, sometimes several times in the course of one meeting.
"Of course, Mr. Greer," he gave his standard answer.
"Jeff. My friends call me Jeff, Mark."
The Director of Operations motioned for Mark to sit in a leather armchair and took a seat on a sofa.
"So here you are again, Mark," he said.
"Yes, here I am again. Like old times. Er... what did you want to see me about... Jeff?"
"John Krueger wants you to help him out on a little project he has going for us. He has such a high opinion of you, especially since your performance in Tehran and Vienna. Thinks you're the only man for the job."
"In Geneva?"
"No, John's been reassigned. Where he can make better use of his special skills."
"Where?"
"Beirut."
#
Mark set the tray on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned over an kissed his fiancée on the forehead.
"Wake up, sleepyhead."
Georgia Lee stretched and yawned as Mark picked up the tray and placed it across her legs.
"How was the play?" Mark asked.
Georgia plumped up the pillows and stood them against the headboard.
"That coffee smells delicious," she said, sitting up and sniffing. "I thought the play was wonderful."
"What did Josephine think?"
"I didn't go with Josephine."
"You went by yourself?"
"No."
Georgia drank the glass of orange juice without stopping for breath and took a bite of croissant.
"Who did you go with?" Mark asked.
Georgia swallowed and took several gulps of coffee before answering.
"Walter Clark."
"The guy who's always hanging around your shop downtown?"
"Uh huh."
Mark removed the empty glass from the tray and set it on the nightstand.
"Look, Mark," Georgia said. "I don't ask you any questions about what you do when you're away on a mission."
"I didn't say anything."
"Where are you going this time?"
"I can't say, you know that."
"When do you leave?"
"Tomorrow."
Georgia leaned forward and hugged Mark to her.
"Be careful," she said.
~End of Chapter One of Bloodbath in Beirut~
More on http://www.thenextbigwriter.com/library/index.html/toc/12576