Free Bride of a Bygone War by Preston Fleming

Peugeots.
    Prosser drove on, reaching the coastal suburb of Jdeidé with half an hour to spare. Instead of continuing north along the Mediterranean, he passed through the tidy bedroom community that occupied the thin wedge of fertile land between the coastal autostrade and the foothills of the Sannine Range, then started up the narrow mountain road toward Ain Saadé and the summer resorts of Beït Meri and Broummana. After only five minutes of climbing, the humid coastal air became drier and took on a perceptible chill.
    Halfway to Ain Saadé, Prosser steered the Renault off the road at the crest of a hill overlooking the commercial port and parked on the gravel shoulder. Directly below him was St. Georges Bay and the southern terminus of the autostrade, while to the north lay the prosperous seaside suburbs of Jall ed Dib and Antélias. Barely visible in the haze beyond them lay the thriving harbor town of Jounié. Prosser turned his eyes west, where a huddled mass of whitewashed houses clung to the steep slopes of Jebel Achrafiyé, just east of the Green Line separating East and West Beirut, their red tile roofs blazing in the brilliant rays of the morning sun. As many times as he had looked out over the city from this or one of the other hills above Jdeidé, he never ceased to marvel at the rugged beauty of the land and its wondrous faculty for concealing the wounds inflicted by five years of armed conflict.
    Having nearly squandered his half-hour head start, Prosser retreated to the coast, keeping a vigilant eye open for any clues that he might be under surveillance. He picked up the autostrade at Jdeidé, rode it for just under five minutes, and exited to the north at Antélias. Reasonably certain by now that he had not been followed, he backed into a parking space two blocks south of his Lebanese agent’s twelve-story apartment block.
    The time was ten minutes after nine, and any residents of the building who held down jobs would already be on their way to work. Prosser entered through the rear door. The concierge’s chair on the opposite side of the lobby was unoccupied, as were both elevators. He entered the elevator to the left, rode to the tenth floor, and then walked down two flights of stairs to César Khalifé’s eight-floor apartment to throw off anyone who might have seen him enter.
    He rang the bell and a melodic young voice called out something unintelligible. Then footsteps rapped a hasty beat across the hardwood floor. The door opened and a slender, dark-eyed woman in her late twenties stood before him, dressed modestly in a charcoal wool skirt and a white silk blouse, a leather art portfolio slung over her shoulder.
    Prosser had seen César’s daughter only once before. As he recalled, her long chestnut hair had been gathered behind her neck with a brightly colored silk scarf, as it was now. And, as before, her erect carriage and uplifted chin conveyed an air of aloofness tinged with disdain, as if she knew what he was about and wanted no part of it.
    “ Sabah al-khayr, Muna,” he began. “Is your father at home?”
    “ Sabah an-nour ,” she replied with studied politeness. “ Entrez, s’il vous plait .” Her smile was businesslike and devoid of any spark of interest in him or the work that had brought him there. “My father is expecting you and will join you in a moment. Would you like some coffee or some mint tea?” she continued in French.
    “No, thank you. I’ve already had some this morning. Besides, you look as though you’re on your way out.” He spoke in English because he knew her English was at least as good as, if not better than, his French or Arabic.
    A wry smile formed at the corners of her mouth and her aloof expression softened. Beneath Muna’s businesslike façade was a woman of considerable allure, Prosser thought. He wished he could see more of her, but could not imagine how it could be done as long as her father remained an agent of Beirut Station.
    “ Oui, c’est