even admiration—he looked disappointed.
Prosser only hoped Pirelli could not see the extent of his unease at the story’s outcome, for it had been foreseeable from the moment of his recruitment that Hasan would be rolled up. Whether the Egyptian’s life was worth the extra advantage it brought the United States in the Camp David negotiations was anyone’s guess. But whether he, Conrad Prosser, was willing to take responsibility for shortening the life of a Hasan each year of his Agency career was a choice only he could make. And despite his years of training and experience, he had resisted making it. One thing was becoming very clear about the decision: if his answer was yes, he would have to land his first Hasan very soon.
Chapter 4
Prosser turned the corner onto rue Clemenceau and spotted his man waiting at the curb. He was in his mid-forties, half a head taller than the average Levantine Arab and built like a boxer, with slender hips and thick shoulders and arms. Although he was not in uniform, his closely cropped black hair, trimmed mustache, and erect posture were clearly those of a military man. Prosser watched the man’s swarthy, lantern-jawed face brighten in recognition as the Renault passed. Two weeks before, Prosser had shown him the spot and had driven him past the apartment building just off rue Omar Daouk where they were about to meet.
Prosser drove on for another three blocks to find a parking space and then started back on foot along the quiet, tree-lined avenue where century-old stone villas had only recently begun to make way for modern reinforced concrete and cinderblock apartment buildings. Advancing toward the corner where he had seen the agent, he paused before the display window of a men’s clothing boutique to watch the movements of the few pedestrians around him. He paused again before a goldsmith’s window filled with handmade Aleppo chains and eighteen-karat wrist bangles that shone in the direct rays of the afternoon sun. He combined a lingering look at the jewelry with a rapid sweep of the block and then crossed the street to enter a neatly whitewashed six-story building block of working-class flats and professional offices.
The money changer’s stall just inside the foyer was shuttered for the afternoon, but the door to the concierge’s tiny studio was wide open, filling the area with the odor of rancid mutton and the overwrought crooning of an Egyptian torch singer. Prosser passed the door and quietly mounted the stairway. On reaching the fourth floor, he halted and listened for any sound of movement on the floors above and below, then quickly pulled a key ring from his pocket to unlock the twin deadbolts of the door before him.
He entered, locking a single deadbolt behind him, and then moved down the long hallway into the living room. He had not been inside the apartment in more than a month, not since the elderly National Assembly member he usually met there refused to meet in Muslim West Beirut any longer out of concerns for his safety.
The flat’s tenant was an American woman of about fifty who had long ago divorced her Lebanese husband and decided to remain in Beirut with the idea of earning her living as an artist. Wisely, she had held onto her part-time administrative post with a United Nations relief office and, as a result, collected a modest salary that was sufficient to meet her needs and cover the rent on her one-bedroom living quarters near rue Verdun. The place where Prosser now tidied up and dusted was her studio, furnished tastefully, if sparsely, on the slim budget that the station allowed her. Unfinished and unsold works, generally Lebanese pastoral scenes that imitated the Impressionists—and did so badly—filled every room. Although the canvases showed only modest ability, Prosser admired their uninhibited use of bold colors and their irrepressible spirit of hope.
Prosser stood at the picture window to gaze out over the cascade of red-tiled roofs
Prosser only hoped Pirelli could not see the extent of his unease at the story’s outcome, for it had been foreseeable from the moment of his recruitment that Hasan would be rolled up. Whether the Egyptian’s life was worth the extra advantage it brought the United States in the Camp David negotiations was anyone’s guess. But whether he, Conrad Prosser, was willing to take responsibility for shortening the life of a Hasan each year of his Agency career was a choice only he could make. And despite his years of training and experience, he had resisted making it. One thing was becoming very clear about the decision: if his answer was yes, he would have to land his first Hasan very soon.
Chapter 4
Prosser turned the corner onto rue Clemenceau and spotted his man waiting at the curb. He was in his mid-forties, half a head taller than the average Levantine Arab and built like a boxer, with slender hips and thick shoulders and arms. Although he was not in uniform, his closely cropped black hair, trimmed mustache, and erect posture were clearly those of a military man. Prosser watched the man’s swarthy, lantern-jawed face brighten in recognition as the Renault passed. Two weeks before, Prosser had shown him the spot and had driven him past the apartment building just off rue Omar Daouk where they were about to meet.
Prosser drove on for another three blocks to find a parking space and then started back on foot along the quiet, tree-lined avenue where century-old stone villas had only recently begun to make way for modern reinforced concrete and cinderblock apartment buildings. Advancing toward the corner where he had seen the agent, he paused before the display window of a men’s clothing boutique to watch the movements of the few pedestrians around him. He paused again before a goldsmith’s window filled with handmade Aleppo chains and eighteen-karat wrist bangles that shone in the direct rays of the afternoon sun. He combined a lingering look at the jewelry with a rapid sweep of the block and then crossed the street to enter a neatly whitewashed six-story building block of working-class flats and professional offices.
The money changer’s stall just inside the foyer was shuttered for the afternoon, but the door to the concierge’s tiny studio was wide open, filling the area with the odor of rancid mutton and the overwrought crooning of an Egyptian torch singer. Prosser passed the door and quietly mounted the stairway. On reaching the fourth floor, he halted and listened for any sound of movement on the floors above and below, then quickly pulled a key ring from his pocket to unlock the twin deadbolts of the door before him.
He entered, locking a single deadbolt behind him, and then moved down the long hallway into the living room. He had not been inside the apartment in more than a month, not since the elderly National Assembly member he usually met there refused to meet in Muslim West Beirut any longer out of concerns for his safety.
The flat’s tenant was an American woman of about fifty who had long ago divorced her Lebanese husband and decided to remain in Beirut with the idea of earning her living as an artist. Wisely, she had held onto her part-time administrative post with a United Nations relief office and, as a result, collected a modest salary that was sufficient to meet her needs and cover the rent on her one-bedroom living quarters near rue Verdun. The place where Prosser now tidied up and dusted was her studio, furnished tastefully, if sparsely, on the slim budget that the station allowed her. Unfinished and unsold works, generally Lebanese pastoral scenes that imitated the Impressionists—and did so badly—filled every room. Although the canvases showed only modest ability, Prosser admired their uninhibited use of bold colors and their irrepressible spirit of hope.
Prosser stood at the picture window to gaze out over the cascade of red-tiled roofs
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