Free Dynamite Fishermen by Preston Fleming Page A

introduction and then resumed his search for an empty wine glass.
    A knowing laugh came from one of the Lebanese guests on his right. “Ah, everyone knows what the political section does,” declared an elegantly dressed Lebanese three seats away. “But, maalesh , that is not a concern among friends,” he added with a broad wave of the hand. “And are we not all friends here tonight? Ahlan wa sahlan , Conrad, habibi !” The speaker was an inebriated Husayn al Fayyad.
    “ Wa ahlan fiik ,” Prosser replied graciously, ignoring the speaker’s opening gibe.
    He turned to the woman beside him and held out his hand. “I’m Conrad Prosser,” he greeted her with his most engaging smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
    She turned and looked at him with curious and intelligent eyes. She took his hand and let her eyes linger a moment in his after he released her. “No, but I am pleased that we do now. My name is Rima al Fayyad. Excuse me, would you be so kind as to repeat your family name?”
    “Prosser. Conrad Prosser. It’s German. My grandparents came to America from Germany after the First World War.”
    “Ah, Germany, very nice,” she said with an approving nod. “My brother, Husayn, lives in Germany. He works in Stuttgart as an engineer.”
    “Let me guess, for Mercedes-Benz?”
    “Yes, how did you know?” she asked with unaffected curiosity.
    “To tell the truth, Husayn and I met last night. But it wouldn’t have been a difficult thing to guess. Stuttgart is where their main factory is. Out of any ten engineers in Stuttgart, I would expect nine must work for Mercedes.”
    “You seem to know Germany well.”
    “I used to, anyway. I spent a summer in Hamburg as a schoolboy and went back later to study at a German university for a year. I still manage a stop in Frankfurt now and then on my way back and forth to the States, but not often enough. After living in Middle East for a couple of years, it’s nice to go to a place where everything works the way it’s supposed to. You know, trains on time and all that. No offense, of course.”
    She raised an eyebrow. “You have lived in other Arab countries, then? You must tell me, which of them did you like the most?” She shifted her chair to face him more directly.
    “Lebanon, hands down. I studied Arabic for a while in Tunis and was posted to Saudi Arabia for a couple years, but compared to North Africa and the Gulf, Lebanon is paradise.”
    “Ah, you have studied Arabic? Then we must speak bil arabi .”
    “When I joined the diplomatic service, that is all I did for nearly two years,” he continued in his best formal Arabic. “In fact, I spend an hour every morning with a tutor to learn new words. It would be a hopeless task to find out what’s happening here if I had to rely only on those Lebanese who speak English.”
    “Then you must be very well informed. Your Arabic is excellent.”
    “Thank you,” he replied, reverting to English. “Would you mind repeating that to my tutor? Her name is Huda, and she’s sitting right over there.”
    “By Allah, you are Huda’s student? Our families live not more than fifty meters away from each other in Tripoli. She has spoken of you many times, but until now I did not connect you to her.”
    “Nothing too derogatory, I hope.”
    “Ah, habibi , what she said about you I cannot tell.” She cast a playful glance at him and looked away.
    At that moment, Husayn al Fayyad reached over the person to his left and touched his sister’s arm. “Aha,” he interrupted. “So Mr. Prosser speaks Arabic and works in the political section. Be careful what you tell him, Rima, or he will put it in your file at the CIA.”
    As the remark had been made in a reasonably good-humored tone of voice, Prosser let it go. Rima would not. “Why do you speak such nonsense, Husayn? It is a dangerous thing these days to call someone a spy, even in jest. You do not know whose ears it may reach.”
    After delivering the rebuke,