“Shit,” she whispered, taking an involuntary step back.
One of the men was big and brawny, maybe mid-thirties, his complexion olive, his hair dark and wavy. His companion was both younger and fairer, no more than a boy, with green eyes and a wide smile. He held the muzzle of his machine pistol against Jax’s cheek and said in rapid Arabic, “Get in the car, please.”
They got in the car. The brawny, olive-skinned guy took the seat next to the driver, while his younger companion squeezed into the back with Jax and Tobie.
Jax, she had discovered, spoke fluent Arabic. He said, “No blindfold?”
The boy beside them laughed. “You’ve been watching too many Hollywood movies. Everyone in Beirut knows where Dr. Badr al’Din lives.”
Tobie whispered to Jax, “Doctor?”
“He has a Ph.D. in psychology. From Berkeley.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
They took off in a swirl of dust. It occurred to her, looking back, that no one on that crowded street seemed at all shocked or disturbed by what had just happened. The guy in the falafel stand hadn’t even looked up.
They headed south, past the sports stadium, past a squalid ghetto of tiny shacks built of concrete blocks hideously crowded together. As she stared at the grim, crooked alleyways lined with wretched half built, half destroyed houses crisscrossed by sagging lines of tattered wash that drooped in the dusty heat, she realized what she was looking at. A refugee camp.
“That’s Sabra and Shatila,” said the boy, following her gaze.
For some reason she couldn’t explain, she felt a brush of cold air against her cheek, like the whisper of an unseen, unhappy ghost that was there, then gone.
She was glad when they broke free of the city, passing through olive groves and scattered villages of whitewashed houses with flat roofs and shutters rolled down against the heat of the day. The sea was a swath of vivid sparkling blue on their right. Then the road they followed swung toward the mountains, and thick stands of sweet-smelling cedars rose up beside them until the sea only appeared in surprising glimpses when they rounded a bend or crested a ridge. The driver punched a CD into the stereo, and the wail of a popular Lebanese singer filled the car.
Gradually, the road narrowed, deteriorated. Chickens scratched at the rocky soil beneath scented orange groves; goats lifted their heads to watch as the dusty Range Rover roared past. They were stopped at one checkpoint, then another. Looking ahead, Tobie saw a fortresslike compound rising above them.
With its high stone walls and massive corner guard towers, the compound reminded her of the castle of some medieval robber baron. Only, instead of being surrounded by a moat, this fortress rose from amidst rolling fields of some leafy green crop she couldn’t identify, and the guards in the towers had heavy 50 caliber machine guns. She had no doubt that the men standing on the roof of the tall sandstone house in the center of the complex had Stinger missiles.
Waved through by the guards at the gate, the Range Rover swept into a courtyard softened by hanging vines of bougainvillea and sweetly scented jasmine. Two men in fatigues reached out to yank open the car doors.
Stiff from the long, cramped ride, Tobie clambered out.
“Marhabah. Welcome to my home.”
She turned to see a man somewhere in his late thirties or early forties descending the shallow stone steps from the house’s broad veranda. He was slim and fit, with an open tanned face and a rapidly receding hairline. He was also, she realized, quite short-probably no more than five-four or-five.
“Jax, my dear old friend,” said Azzam Badr al’Din, engulfing Jax in a fond embrace. “It’s been too long.”
“If I remember correctly, the last time we met, you said if you ever saw me again you’d shoot my balls off.”
Azzam took a step back. “I said that?”
“You did.”
Assam laughed and threw a questioning glance toward Tobie.
Jax said, “This is Ensign Guinness.”
Azzam’s eyebrows rose at the “Ensign,” but he shook her hand in warm welcome and said, “I hope you don’t believe everything he’s told you about me.”
“How much of it should I believe?”
Azzam laughed again. “No more than half.” He spread one arm wide in an expansive gesture toward the house. “This way, please.”
“Let me do the talking,” Jax whispered to Tobie as they followed the arms dealer around the house, to a broad, stone-flagged veranda shaded by a grapevine-draped pergola.
For once, she wasn’t inclined to argue. This guy was seriously intimidating.
Azzam said, “Please, sit. You’ll have tea?”
A slim brown boy of maybe twelve appeared from the house bearing a tray with tea and flatbread and a yoghurt-and-cucumber dip. The drinking of either mint tea or a vile, thick Turkish coffee was an inescapable part of any social or business interaction in the Middle East. At least it wasn’t vodka, Tobie thought as they seated themselves on a set of rattan chairs with floral cushions.
“So,” said Azzam when the tea had been served and the boy withdrew. “What is so important that you’d risk having your balls shot off by coming here?”
Jax tore off a piece of flatbread and dipped it in the yoghurt sauce. “A Nazi U-boat.”
Azzam gave one of his sharp laughs. “What do I know of Nazi submarines?”
“Just one sub. An XI-B Type that went down off the coast of Denmark near the end of the war. A Russian by the name of Jasha Baklanov talked to you about selling part of its cargo.”
Azzam took a slow sip of his tea and said nothing.
Jax said, “I know he came to you.”
Azzam held his cup with both hands. He was still faintly smiling, but his eyes were hard and bright. “What is your interest in Jasha?”
“Jasha is dead. His entire crew was massacred five days ago and the U-boat destroyed.”
“Surely you don’t think I’m responsible?”
“No. The way I see it, Jasha was planning to double-cross the men who hired him and sell the sub’s cargo through you. That’s why they killed him.”
“So, what is it you think I can tell you?”
“I want to know who hired him.”
Azzam leaned back in his chair. “That, I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“There are certain kinds of information men like Jasha keep to themselves. You know that.”
“So tell me about the cargo.”
Azzam’s smile widened into something less than pleasant. “You of all people should know I don’t give anything away, Jax.”
“Not even for old times’ sake?”
“Especially not for old times’ sake.”
Jax tore off another piece of bread and chewed it slowly. “Jasha was planning to sell the U-boat to a Turkish shipbreaker by the name of Kemal Erkan. Erkan is dead, too.”
“If you mean to imply that I myself might somehow be in danger, I suggest you take a look around. Everyone from the Israelis to the Phalangists and Hezbollah have been trying to get me for years. I’m not an easy man to kill, Jax.”
At this rate, thought Tobie, they were going to be here all week. She set aside her teacup with an impatient clatter. “How about a trade?” she said. “You give us what we want, and we give you something you want.”
Both men turned to stare at her: a female interrupting a time-honored demonstration of macho strut. She was aware of Jax giving her a warning frown. She ignored him.
Badr al’Din shifted in his seat. She was an unknown quantity, and he wasn’t sure where she was going with this. He said, “What are you offering?”
“The information we need really isn’t important to you, is it? The only reason you’re not telling Jax what we want to know is because you need to feel like you’re getting the best of him.”
Azzam let out a surprised bark of laughter. “Now that’s a novel approach.” He leaned forward. “I tell you what, Ensign. I’ll give you what I know, as a gift. But at some time in the future, you”-he pointed to Tobie-“will owe me a favor.”