Message In a Shell

By Ghazi Kaddouh

Sami Badroni grew up in poverty but flourishes to become friend and smuggling partner of a high-ranking Palestine Liberation Organization official in Beirut in the 1980s. However, his world crumbles when Israeli forces invade and Sami’s girlfriend inadvertently implicates him in the murder of two Mossad agents in London months prior. A drug lord working for the Mossad kills Sami’s partner, Israel’s number one enemy, and so removes Sami’s protection. He now faces the unrelenting wrath of the most powerful spy agency in the world all on his own. His life of power and dirty money crumbles under the murder accusations, and Sami goes on the run. Although Sami may be innocent of the crime he’s accused of, he might also be inadvertently involved. It’s no matter to his hunters. With the airport closed and the city under siege, Israeli agents begin to close in. Unable to escape, Sami’s luck has run out and he now has no other choice but to confront his checkered past and face a ruthless adversary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Dec 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781483493329

Book preview

12/19/2018

PROLOGUE

T HIS IS A NOVEL, A WORK OF FICTION, INSPIRED BY REAL-LIFE events. It is the story of Sami Badroni, a twenty-eight-year-old Shiite Muslim who found himself the subject of a ruthless Israeli campaign to eliminate him after being accused of a crime he didn’t commit. The events of this story are set firmly against a historical, political, religious, and cultural background that has wrecked many lives and hardened many he arts.

The year 1969 was a landmark year for the Middle East as a whole and to Lebanon in particular. King Hussein had just crushed the Palestine Liberation Organization, ejecting their fighters from Jordan, when tens of thousands of guerrillas began pouring into Lebanon; with the complicated Lebanese politics and weak government, the armed Palestinians were able to settle in the country. They soon established themselves in Beirut and other major cities and began behaving in the same manner as they did in Jordan—attacking Israel.

With Israel’s disproportionate retaliation against civilians, and with the Palestinians setting up their own security zones, many Lebanese resented them. The Christians took the initiative of opposing the Palestinians’ behaviors, and, allying themselves with Israel, they began training and arming themselves.

In the absence of an effective and united army and police force, Lebanon became like a free country for warlords and chieftains; lawlessness, smuggling weapons, and drugs became the norm.

Tension began building as the Christian right-wing militia, Kataeb, and the Palestinians began escalating their rhetoric of war. Then, on April 13, 1975, a car carrying gunmen sped from west Beirut to Ayn Rumaneh, a Christian neighborhood in east Beirut and opened fire on Sheik Pierre Gemayel, a Christian leader and Kataeb founder. The assassination attempt failed, but two people were killed.

Later that afternoon, the Kataeb retaliated by attacking a bus carrying Palestinian fighters across Ayn Rumaneh, killing twenty-six. The following day, fighting erupted, and thus began the long and convoluted Lebanese Civil War, which involved, in addition to the local militias and warlords, the armies of Syria, Israel, the United States, and France. The civil war claimed more than one hundred thousand lives and lasted for sixteen years.

PART I

A Rising Star

CHAPTER 1

Eli

W HERE IS MY MONEY, ELI? I DON’T LIKE ANYBODY RIPPING me off, Sami Badroni said as he sat facing Eli in Olives, a restaurant near Hamra Street in west Beirut. Customers at tables nearby looked in his direc tion.

He ignored them and made sure they knew he did not like them staring. He touched his Colt .45 Combat Commander, which was tucked into his side, in a threatening gesture. At once, they diverted their eyes.

It was a warm September afternoon in 1979. Although the four-and-a-half-year-old civil war had damaged many roads in the western part of the city, the fashionable Hamra Avenue had escaped most of the damage so far. The people frequenting the cafes and luxury boutiques dotting the thoroughfare were dressed in their trendiest attire.

Eli, wearing a white, cotton, short-sleeved shirt and gray, loose pants, looked pale and uncomfortable; he stuttered while offering excuses. They were sitting near a large cage full of parrots and parakeets. The cacophony of the birds made it difficult for people to snoop on conversations, which suited Sami, who wanted to confront his former partner without attracting attention. Eli owed the smuggler 20,000 francs for a shipment of hashish Sami had sent him in Paris.

Although he had always sent payments on time, Sami wanted to teach him a lesson about not being late. He unbuttoned his jacket and unceremoniously exposed the Colt.

Eli swallowed visibly at the sight of the gun. Give me more time, Sami. I’ll send the money as soon as I can.

Are you saying you don’t have it right now? Sami leaned forward, baring his teeth.

The air conditioner was blasting out cool air, but Eli kept getting paler; sweat formed on his forehead.

Are you ill, Eli? What’s the matter?

I’m in big trouble, Sami. I had the rest of your money. I counted it myself—twenty thousand francs—and gave it to Marten, my assistant, to bring to you. But the police caught the bastard selling heroin.

The mention of the opiate upset Sami. He had known many young people who had become addicted to heroin and had watched it ruin their lives. Thus, he had never allowed his associates or anyone close to him to use or deal with the poisonous drug.

Sami liked Eli, who had been his partner in France for two years. He was trustworthy and always sent money on time. Sensing that he might have been hard on Eli, Sami eased up on his harsh demeanor. He believed Eli was telling the truth. So far, Sami had survived the civil war by using no more than his smarts, pure luck, and amazing intuition.

The smuggler put his arm around Eli’s shoulder. Once you have the money, you can pay me back.

Eli broke down, sobbing.

Sorry, Eli. I was rough on you. I just don’t like people cheating me. He continued to look at Eli’s pale face. What’s the matter, man? Are you using heroin?

No, I swear I’m not. Eli’s eyes surveyed the place as he turned his head around.

Are you expecting someone?

No. He continued to turn his head, checking people out. I’ve got to leave to take care of a couple of things before I meet my cousin in the late afternoon at the main bus station in Chiah.

Are you going somewhere? Sami asked.

Damn. I need to take her back to our village in Syria. She’s in trouble.

The bus to Damascus doesn’t run from Chiah any longer since the main highway to Syria was damaged in a recent Israeli air bombardment. I live in Chiah, not far from the station. Look for other routes through the north.

Oh, she doesn’t know that. In any case, thank you, Sami, for understanding my situation about the money. He pushed his chair back, ready to get up. Once I’m back in Paris, I swear I’ll send what I owe you as soon as I can.

Don’t worry about that. Just take care of yourself. I need you strong and healthy so we can continue working together.

Eli released a huge sigh. Yes, Sami. I will. I appreciate what you’re doing for me.

As he stood up, the waiter appeared to take their orders. Eli declined to eat, saying he did not have an appetite. Before reaching the exit, he looked back, nodded slightly, and then stepped outside.

Minutes later, while Sami was checking the menu, he heard the sound of a car crash. He hurried outside and saw a blue Buick stopped in the middle of the road, a few meters away. A chubby, bald motorist got out of the car and approached the man he had just hit. With his body twisted and mouth bleeding, the injured person screamed as he glimpsed the man approaching. The fat driver flipped him onto his back. Still breathing? Damn it.

Another terrified scream pierced the air.

Shut up. Damn you, the fat man said.

Eyes filled with terror, the man’s screams continued. No!

The driver put his hand over the victim’s mouth, pulled out a Browning pistol, and fired two bullets. The blood spurted at once, and the color began to drain from his face. Before anyone realized what had happened, the shooter got back into his car and sped away.

Horns blasted, and someone cried, Help!

No one knew what to do.

It all happened so fast. Sami, who had watched from the door of the restaurant, ran toward the crowd. He looked at the man drenched in a pool of blood.

Oh, Lord, Sami cried as he spotted Eli’s hollow eyes, sunken in their sockets, staring up at him.

Hang on, Eli. The ambulance is on its way, Sami said in a calm voice as he kneeled. He had seen many people being shot by snipers, blown up by car bombs, or obliterated by rockets fired from Israeli jets. He, like many other Lebanese, had become numb to the violence and the daily slaughter.

Eli reached out with his bloody hands and grabbed Sami by his shirt as he tried to lift himself up. Sami lowered his head as he saw Eli laboring to speak. It’s Murad.

Stunned, Sami jerked his head back and asked, What? Why?

After a long time, Eli was finally able to say, Selma. Selma. He’s going to kill her. Please help her.

Those were his last words.

Sami had no idea what Eli was talking about.

CHAPTER 2

Selma

A T A GROUND-FLOOR HOUSE ON MISK STREET, TWENTY-EIGHT-year-old Sami looked outside the bedroom window. The sun was still a distance from descending toward the Mediterranean horizon. Plenty of time until dinner, he murmured while thinking about his friends Mark and Lisa. They said they had invited a guest, a twenty-four-year-old girl who had started working with Lisa at the jewelry s tore.

One more chick, he snickered, inspecting his necktie in the mirror as he admired the navy blue Pierre Cardin suit. Ever since his fiancée had dumped him two years earlier, he had moved from one girl to another.

He remembered his mother, who had come from the village, waiting to meet his future wife. Sami could never forget the old woman’s stare of bewilderment when Faten did not show up—or the day after, or on any other day.

The bruised young man suspected her parents had influenced her decision. Most women, he told himself, were comfortable with declaring, I’m leaving because you are jealous, mean, or lousy in bed. They rarely say, You won’t make a suitable husband because you are the son of poor farmers with no money.

Even after many years, the memory still hurt. His friend and business partner, Hamid, kept begging to let him take revenge. Give me the word, and I will kill her and whoever she is dating. Yet, as bitter as he was, Sami had never entertained the idea even for a fleeting moment. He still had some kindness left in him.

Although he was making a lot of money, albeit not from a reputable profession, he felt it was too late for his heart’s rehabilitation. He thought with all the booze, hashish, and coke he ingested, he was just not suited for romantic relationships. Still, his many affairs had each started with a wish for love—and ended the same way: passionate sex followed by emptiness the morning after.

He heard his mother’s voice: You’re our only hope, Sami. Since he was little, her words had been a constant reminder of their miserable beginning and harsh existence. She kept echoing, Tomorrow, when you grow up, you’ll find a good job and marry a nice girl. You’ll still help us and give us money, won’t you, son?

At four in the afternoon, Sami headed for the bus terminal, a ten-minute walk from his house. He was not sure what to tell Eli’s cousin if he found her waiting at the station as Eli told him she would be. Instead of his usual strolling pace, he walked fast this time.

As he passed the car body shop at the corner of Misk and Maroun, he covered his ears. The noises of hammers hitting the metal frames and the hissing sounds of hoses spraying paint rattled him.

Soon he crossed the Beirut-Damascus Highway and spotted her at an abandoned bus stop. She was sitting on a bench with withered and splintered boards. She appeared in her late twenties and had cream-colored skin and blue eyes. From her jewelry and flowery dress, he surmised she must be from the Kurdistan mountains.

With his heart racing, which happened whenever he introduced himself to a beautiful woman, he approached her. Hello.

The young female, startled, turned in his direction.

The bus stopped coming here months ago, he said in a shaky voice as he tried to catch his breath.

Oh, I’m waiting for my cousin to take me to Syria, she said as she fumbled through her purse.

It’s a long way from here.

She showed him a photograph. Have you seen him?

Her eyes appeared perfect, blue, and large. She wore earrings, necklaces, and several bracelets, all in gold.

Sami bent to look at the picture, so that it almost touched his nose. A tinge of sadness brushed against him as he straightened his body. I know him. Eli is my friend.

The woman’s eyes became larger, and she smiled. Do you know where he is? He’s my cousin, and he’s supposed to take me home to the mountains.

Sami avoided looking at her, wishing they would talk about something else. He told her nothing about how the man she was expecting was lying lifeless in the mortuary at the AUB, the American University Hospital. Too much sorrow, too much pain. He preferred to wait for a more appropriate time and space to break out the tragic news.

I’ll wait, she insisted.

You’re going to be here for a long time.

He told me he’d come. I’m not leaving.

Okay. I’ll be over there if you need help. He pointed to a cafe a block away on the other side of the road with people sitting outside. Not knowing what else to say, he added, You can trust me. My name is Sami. I’m a friend of your cousin.

I’m Selma. Thank you.

As he walked away, he heard weeping.

Just before dark, Selma, carrying an old brown suitcase, stood alone among men sipping tea and playing backgammon. As soon as Sami spotted her, he rushed toward her.

I hope I’m not bothering you. I don’t know what to do, the woman said in a sad tone. I hoped I could leave this place.

Can I get you a drink?

She shook her head. After a long silence, she said, No cousin and no bus.

Do you have anywhere to go?

I guess back home.

Eli’s voice came ringing in his ears: She’s in trouble. He’s going to kill her. Please help her.

Are you going to be okay? Sami asked.

I think so.

He reached for her hand and touched it gently. I’ll give you a ride.

Thank you. She let out a sigh and put her head on his shoulder.

CHAPTER 3

Selma Goes Home

A SNIPER WAS SHOOTING AT ANYTHING THAT MOVED: PEOPLE, cats, plastic bags. Amid the men rushing to move their cars from the exposed street, Sami hurried Selma into his Mercedes in front of the house. He sped away just before he heard the popping of the M16 bullets hitting the pavement. Like most Lebanese during the war, Sami had become something of an expert on various types of weapons. The American rifle, used mostly by Christian militia, was clearly distinguishable from the Russian Kalashnikov carried by Palestinian guerrillas and their leftist al lies.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived in Basta, an old neighborhood of Beirut where established Sunni families had lived for hundreds of years. Most of the houses were close to one another, but on the main street, the homes were large, with high fences around well-watered gardens.

Selma asked him to drive a little way past her home. His car is here. Thank you. I can go alone.

Sami parked. He got out and approached a sizable brown house, fenced off like the others. He watched from the side of the road as Selma, dragging her suitcase, gingerly approached the residence.

Sami saw a curtain twitch and knew someone was viewing Selma approaching slowly from behind the window. As soon as she reached the door, it opened. Sami saw someone raise his arm and bring his fist down hard on her face; she was on the floor with one blow.

With his back to the fence, Sami waited. There was an eerie silence, but not for long. He heard the woman screaming again. He hesitated for a moment, scratching the fence with his fingernails, and then rushed through the gate.

Who is it? a male shouted.

Police! Open up! Sami said, deepening his voice.

What the hell? A big fat man with a bald head, as shiny as a polished marble floor, appeared, armed and irate.

Sami knocked the pistol out of the man’s hand, and it slid across the carpet to the other end of the room. He recognized the fellow instantly. He felt his facial muscles harden involuntarily. He stepped forward, eyeing the man sharply and pushing his broad chest with both hands.

What do you want? Who are you? The large man was dressed in an oversized gray suit with blue stripes. His tone wavered between anger and alarm as he retreated.

Shut up, you piece of crap. Why did you shoot Eli?

Simultaneously, a female screamed in another room.

The fat man ignored the cry and remained silent.

Sami pulled out his Colt .45 and jabbed it into the man’s flabby body.

He cried out in pain. That bastard. Sweat began forming on the man’s forehead as he hesitated. It’s something between him and Murad.

Who’s Murad? Did he tell you to murder him?

Although his eyes betrayed his anxiety, the chap bellowed, Yes, he did. No one double-crosses Murad and gets away with it. In spite of the weapon pointed at him, the man appeared to suddenly master his panic. Something about Murad’s name seemed to inject him with a renewed sense of courage and arrogance. He emphasized his words with exaggerated glee.

After assessing the situation for a few seconds, Sami decided against roughing up the murderer or handing him over to the police. He didn’t know who this Murad was. All he knew was that Eli had seemed afraid of him, and that at the mere mention of his name, this guy’s chest seemed to puff out, like a rooster ready to fight.

Before leaving, Sami saw Selma standing near the open bedroom door, her eyes teary. Without making a sound, she mouthed, Please help me.

I will, he replied with a nod.

CHAPTER 4

Safety

S AMI SAT IN HIS CAR, FIGURING THE FAT MAN WOULD LEAVE sooner or later. It was a two-story house, with a large square balcony on the second floor and a couple of fir trees blowing in the evening wind. The balcony was surrounded by iron bars, so Sami was able to see through them to the dark brown wooden chairs and the table they encir cled.

After an hour listening to the radio, he saw the man leave. Sami got out of the car and sprinted to the front door. Even though he was late for his dinner party, he needed to find out why Eli was killed. Eli was his man in France, and he received and distributed the drugs Sami sent from Beirut. His death was a serious setback for his business.

After knocking, Selma opened the door. Her eyes were moist, and her mascara was smudged on her cheeks. For the first time, he noticed her smooth-looking face had freckles. She was wearing large, dangling earrings that almost reached her shoulders.

Relieved to see Sami, she examined his olive skin, black hair, and brown eyes closely for a few moments. You’re a courageous guy, coming back after what you did to Saber. He’s mad as hell.

So that’s his name? Ha! I need to know if you’re safe with him. Are you his wife?

No, I am no wife of his. Please come in.

He declined her offer for coffee and asked her to tell him about the big man with the bald head.

She asked him to sit down, and she