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"My friend, how are things?"
Sayyed frowned. It was Ivanov, and he sounded as if he was drunk. It was only midafternoon. "Fine," Sayyed said, as he stole a quick look around the corner. The sun had reflected off something across the street, and he got the horrible feeling it was the front end of a sniper's scope.
"How are things in your fine city?"
Sayyed pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it with skepticism. Something was wrong with Ivanov. The man hated Beirut. He sighed and put the phone back to his ear. "A little tense at the moment, but nothing I can't handle."
"What is wrong?"
"Just a land grab by one of the other militias. It has created a bit of a standoff."
"Fellow Muslims?"
"No," Sayyed said, irritated by the implication. Ivanov liked to get drunk and lecture him on history. Specifically, that Muslims loved nothing more than to kill each other, and the only time they stopped killing each other was when they decided to kill Jews, Hindus, or Christians. "Maronites."
"Ah ... the wood ticks of the Middle East. Haven't you been trying to exterminate them for a thousand years?"
"What do you want?"
"My package," Ivanov said, slurring the words. "Is it ready? You haven't decided to negotiate with the Persians, have you?"
"I am standing by our deal. When can I expect it to be retrieved? I assume you are still sending someone."
"Yes ... although I am considering coming myself." There was a long pause and then, "You did offer ... didn't you?"
"Oh," Sayyed said, surprised that Ivanov was taking him up on his insincere offer. "Absolutely."
"Good. I will be there in three days. Maybe sooner."
"Fantastic," Sayyed lied. "I will have everything prepared. I must go now. There is something urgent I need to attend to. Please call if you need anything else." Sayyed punched the red button and disconnected the call. He looked around the desolate landscape, with its pancaked and shelled-out buildings, and wondered how he could ever play host to Ivanov in this pile of rubble.
Then as he turned to go down the stairs he came face-to-face with Imad Mughniyah, the coleader of Islamic Jihad. Mughniyah, not known for levity, looked as if he was ready to kill someone. "Imad," Sayyed said, "what is wrong?"
Mughniyah looked back into the stairwell and motioned for his two bodyguards to give him some privacy. "Who was that?" he said, looking at the phone. "I heard you talking."
"Ivanov."
"What did he want?"
"To insult me, I think, but I did not take the bait."
"Anything else?"
"He was going to send one of his men to pick up the spy. Now he's changed his mind and he's going to come himself."
"He just changed his mind ... right now?"
"Yes," Sayyed said, wondering what all the questions were about. "What is wrong?"
Mughniyah again looked over his shoulder to make sure no one would hear him. In a raspy voice he said, "My bank accounts ... in Switzerland ... they are empty."
"What do you mean empty?"
"Empty ... gone ... nothing."
Sayyed knew there must have been a mistake. "Impossible."
"I have checked three times already. And it is not only the two Islamic Jihad accounts. My personal account you helped me set up is also empty." There was a hint of accusation in his words.
