retired Lebanese American grain merchant who served as the station’s translator; once a week he brought back the man’s output.
As Prosser came abreast of the cinema, a trio of ragged shoeshine boys ran out from the shade of the building to intercept him. They shouted, waved their blackened hands in his face, and did everything short of tackling him around the waist to make him stop for a shine, but Prosser ignored them. One by one they gave up and peeled off.
Farther on, a reclining beggar with trousers rolled up past his knees revealed hideously burned legs and held out a cupped hand in supplication, but Prosser ignored him as well. A moment later he saw a pudgy teenage girl in a black embroidered Palestinian tribal dress rise from the shadows and start after him with an infant under her arm, but by the time she got up he was too far away to be overtaken. It was not that he had no sympathy, Prosser assured himself, but when he was on his way to or from an agent meeting he could not allow himself to be distracted.
At the edge of the construction site just beyond the cinema he stepped gingerly along the narrow passage between the stalled lanes of traffic and untidy piles of planks and reinforcing bars stockpiled on the sidewalk. It was early afternoon, and the streets were filled with shoppers and workers going home for their midday meal and nap. Women in sleeveless summer dresses and French designer sunglasses shared the sidewalk with Muslim schoolgirls wearing dreary gray headscarves and matching overgarments to cover their ankles and wrists. Wealthy businessmen immaculately attired in crisp ivory-hued summer suits likewise rubbed shoulders with militiamen in starched fatigues and high-heeled flamenco boots.
Prosser stopped to buy a copy of Monday Morning magazine from a sidewalk news vendor, only to be told that the local English-language weekly had already been sold out. As he turned around to try the vendor a few doors back, he caught a glimpse of a clean-cut Arab youth in jeans and a pink polo shirt disappearing around the corner just a bit too quickly. There was something familiar about the young man; he racked his brain to recall the connection but failed in the attempt.
Prosser continued to move through the crowd in no apparent hurry, stopping from time to time to study window displays, remaining alert to any face, mannerism, or garment that he had seen since setting out from the embassy. At rue Abdel Baki he turned left, staying close to the wall to avoid the heat of the sun. Halfway down the sloping street he disappeared into the lower level of the Étoile Center shopping arcade. It was five minutes before two.
The center was an excellent place to wait unobserved. Although its main entrance and shopping area faced onto rue Hamra, it also had a lower level that could be reached by elevator, stairway, or street-level entrances at the building’s side and rear. None of these entrances was controlled by a concierge, and the center’s shops and cinema gave ample excuse for lingering at almost any time of day.
Prosser stared at the display window of a shoe salon opposite a bank of elevators on the center’s lower level. At the same time, a bronzed Lebanese businessman in his mid-forties wearing dark glasses and a perfectly tailored beige suit pressed the elevator call button. He fidgeted with the strap of a thin leather purse while he waited.
As soon as the sliding door opened, Prosser looked up casually from the display window and started toward the elevator. He entered behind the Lebanese businessman and pressed the button of the highest floor in the building. The moment the elevator began its ascent, the two passengers stepped back from the door and turned toward each other with relieved smiles.
“Thanks for coming, Maroun,” Prosser said. “I hope you had no trouble finding the place.”
“Not at all. I had an engagement here on the West Side for lunch today and had no difficulty coming a few
As Prosser came abreast of the cinema, a trio of ragged shoeshine boys ran out from the shade of the building to intercept him. They shouted, waved their blackened hands in his face, and did everything short of tackling him around the waist to make him stop for a shine, but Prosser ignored them. One by one they gave up and peeled off.
Farther on, a reclining beggar with trousers rolled up past his knees revealed hideously burned legs and held out a cupped hand in supplication, but Prosser ignored him as well. A moment later he saw a pudgy teenage girl in a black embroidered Palestinian tribal dress rise from the shadows and start after him with an infant under her arm, but by the time she got up he was too far away to be overtaken. It was not that he had no sympathy, Prosser assured himself, but when he was on his way to or from an agent meeting he could not allow himself to be distracted.
At the edge of the construction site just beyond the cinema he stepped gingerly along the narrow passage between the stalled lanes of traffic and untidy piles of planks and reinforcing bars stockpiled on the sidewalk. It was early afternoon, and the streets were filled with shoppers and workers going home for their midday meal and nap. Women in sleeveless summer dresses and French designer sunglasses shared the sidewalk with Muslim schoolgirls wearing dreary gray headscarves and matching overgarments to cover their ankles and wrists. Wealthy businessmen immaculately attired in crisp ivory-hued summer suits likewise rubbed shoulders with militiamen in starched fatigues and high-heeled flamenco boots.
Prosser stopped to buy a copy of Monday Morning magazine from a sidewalk news vendor, only to be told that the local English-language weekly had already been sold out. As he turned around to try the vendor a few doors back, he caught a glimpse of a clean-cut Arab youth in jeans and a pink polo shirt disappearing around the corner just a bit too quickly. There was something familiar about the young man; he racked his brain to recall the connection but failed in the attempt.
Prosser continued to move through the crowd in no apparent hurry, stopping from time to time to study window displays, remaining alert to any face, mannerism, or garment that he had seen since setting out from the embassy. At rue Abdel Baki he turned left, staying close to the wall to avoid the heat of the sun. Halfway down the sloping street he disappeared into the lower level of the Étoile Center shopping arcade. It was five minutes before two.
The center was an excellent place to wait unobserved. Although its main entrance and shopping area faced onto rue Hamra, it also had a lower level that could be reached by elevator, stairway, or street-level entrances at the building’s side and rear. None of these entrances was controlled by a concierge, and the center’s shops and cinema gave ample excuse for lingering at almost any time of day.
Prosser stared at the display window of a shoe salon opposite a bank of elevators on the center’s lower level. At the same time, a bronzed Lebanese businessman in his mid-forties wearing dark glasses and a perfectly tailored beige suit pressed the elevator call button. He fidgeted with the strap of a thin leather purse while he waited.
As soon as the sliding door opened, Prosser looked up casually from the display window and started toward the elevator. He entered behind the Lebanese businessman and pressed the button of the highest floor in the building. The moment the elevator began its ascent, the two passengers stepped back from the door and turned toward each other with relieved smiles.
“Thanks for coming, Maroun,” Prosser said. “I hope you had no trouble finding the place.”
“Not at all. I had an engagement here on the West Side for lunch today and had no difficulty coming a few
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