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There were a few mentally unstable militants who would work for free, but the bulk of the foot soldiers would walk away. They were paid in cash every week, and payday was Thursday. They would be able to scrape together enough to get through this week, but then they would be bankrupt. The following week they had to pay their monthly bribes to the police, polit
icians, bureaucrats, and spies in the other camps. There would be hundreds if not thousands of hands extended, waiting for the money, and behind them families, waiting to put food on the table. If they did not rectify this situation quickly it could be a major disaster. The Maronites and the other factions would swoop in and pick up territory it had taken them years and thousands of men to gain.
Everything they had worked for would unravel. He would have to tell Damascus, and of course leave his personal loss out of it. They were likely to punish him by banishing him to Yamouk, the bleak Palestinian refugee camp on the outskirts of Damascus that was teeming with the pushy tribe in search of a permanent home. He heard footsteps down the hall and then some voices. They sounded as if they were going from room to room. Looking toward the open doorway, he saw the beam of a flashlight. Sayyed grabbed his pistol and sat up.
"He's up here somewhere," he heard a voice in the hallway say.
"Who is it?" Sayyed asked.
"It's me. I've been looking all over for you."
Sayyed recognized Radih's voice and lowered his gun. "I'm in here."
Radih appeared in the doorway. Three other men were behind him. "Assef, you are not going to believe the news I bring you." Radih clapped his hands together.
Sayyed looked for his watch, but couldn't find it. "What time is it?"
"Nearly two in the morning. You must get up. I have amazing news."
Sayyed sighed. He half rolled off the mattress, looking for his watch. He found it, strapped it on, and then grabbed his shirt. "It better be good. I need some sleep."
"You will not be disappointed."
Sayyed felt like crap. He needed water and then coffee and then some food, in that order, and then maybe he could think clearly. He motioned for Radih to get on with the story.
Radih told his men to leave and in a hushed voice said, "Do you remember an American who went by the name Bill Sherman?"
Did he remember him? The man had purportedly killed Sayyed's predecessor while he was enjoying his breakfast one spring morning. "Of course."
"My spies at the airport ... one of them says he saw Sherman tonight."
"At the airport?"
"Yes. He came in on a flight from Paris, along with another man."
Sayyed was dubious. There had been rumors here and there that Sherman had been back to the city. In fact, anytime someone met his end at the hands of an assassin, Sherman's name somehow became attached. "How can you be so sure? It has been many years since anyone has seen him."
"My man says he has aged. His hair has gone gray, but the eyes"--Radih pointed to his own--"he said they are those same eyes. Eyes of the Devil. He said he remembers him as a very nasty man with many vices."
Sayyed's lips felt unusually parched. He found the jug of water that Samir had left in the corner and took a drink. Why would the Americans send Sherman to Beirut after all these years? The most obvious answer was in the basement of this very building. They wanted their agent back. But why send an assassin like Sherman? The man was a harbinger of death, not a negotiator. Turning back to Radih, he asked, "Did your spy happen to know where he was headed?"
With a self-satisfied grin, Radih said, "I put out the word yesterday, after our meeting. I told everyone to be on the lookout for anything suspicious. My people know how to do their jobs. They followed him and the other man to the Intercontinental."
"And?"
"They had a drink at the bar, and he bought a bottle of Jack Daniel's from the bartender and then got into a cab, one of ours. He had the cabble drop him off in front of a hotel on Daoura. After the cabbie was gone, they walked three blocks to a different hotel."
"Which one?"
"The Mar Yousif Inn."
"And he is there right now?"
"Yes. They got two rooms for one night. I just spoke to the manager. They are still there."
"Are you sure?" Sayyed asked skeptically. "The Bill Sherman I remember would never allow himself to be followed."
"My men are good. We have trained them to use radios. They have a system set up the airport. When they see someone who might be a fat target they follow him and pass the word to me. We then swoop in and grab them. I have men heading to the area now. There's only one problem."
