Hadi Kashmiri reflected on his conversation with MacMurphy. Of course, the driver would know where Abu Salah went and therefore where Abida Hammami (if that was her real name) was being held. But, he was Hezbollah. He would never cooperate. Not willingly anyway.
Kashmiri shook his head. He didn’t quite understand what was in MacMurphy’s mind but was confident he knew what he was doing. So, Kashmiri decided to spread a little of the CIA’s money around to learn what MacMurphy wanted to know.
And he knew exactly how to do it.
The moment he arrived back at his apartment in Beirut, Kashmiri called a few of his close friends, including his main contact at L’Orient-Le Jour and a couple other journalist friends. He invited them to dinner and drinks at the iconic Saint George Yacht Club and Marina located in Ain el Mreisse. Its restaurant and bar had been the equivalent of a Foreign Correspondents’ Club for local and foreign reporters since the 1930s. Although it had lost some of its luster since then, it was still a haven for correspondents, jet-setters, and spies.
To set the mood for the evening, Kashmiri told his guests he was celebrating a huge commission he had just received for arranging a real estate deal in Cyprus. He knew there would be several other journalists at the bar who would talk freely with a little encouragement and a toast or two in them. Thus, his pool of prospective sources would be substantial. Surely, one of them would have information on Abu Salah and his Hezbollah connections. He hoped that in a relaxed and alcohol-fueled environment, conversation would flow freely.
He was not disappointed.
Most people opened up to Kashmiri without realizing it. He was soft spoken and had a non-threatening cherubic look about him that put them at ease. He was also a good listener. One had to be a good listener to be good at elicitation. The trick was to guide the conversation with careful questions and to let other people talk. People love to talk when they have an interested listener to entertain. And they love to show off how smart they are.
During dinner, the conversation among the friends had been about general things that interested them all. Things like the economy, politics, women, and local gossip. After dinner, they headed for the bar on the circular terrace and joined up with several others, including two other local journalists and a foreign journalist from Le Monde in Paris. The newcomers had overheard Kashmiri’s journalist friends digging into local gossip and couldn’t help but ask a few questions of their own. Journalists. Always looking for the next headline.
Kashmiri ordered a round of drinks for the group and gently turned the conversation to Hezbollah and the terrorist acts it had committed over the years. When the name Imad Mughniyeh came up, as it always did when a discussion touched on Hezbollah in Beirut, Kashmiri ordered another round.
Meanwhile, the journalists engaged in a sort of competition, each one trying to outdo the other with stories about the murderous Mughniyeh and his cohorts and their exclusive knowledge of the events. Well-oiled with alcohol, they were on an enthusiastic roll.
Kashmiri waited for the right moment and then asked, “Remember that brute who was Mughniyeh’s security guy? What was his name . . . Abu Saba, Sabya, something like that?”
One of the journalists replied, “Yeah, Salah, Abu Salah. Miserable bastard.”
Kashmiri picked it up, “Right, Abu Salah. That’s his name. A real chickenshit. Did you know the asshole was afraid to drive? Big vicious animal and he was afraid to get behind the wheel of a car.”
His friend from the L’Orient-Le Jour chimed in, “I heard about that. He needs a driver to chauffeur him around. Maybe he’s just smarter than all of us!”
The crowd laughed and Kashmiri ordered another round of drinks.
One of the journalists asked, “Is he still around? He must be pretty old by now.”
Another journalist said, “Oh, he’s around alright. Still doing Hezbollah’s bidding. I saw him drinking tea in a café on Hamra Street a couple of weeks ago. He looked as mean and miserable as ever.”
Kashmiri laughed and interjected, “Did he have his driver with him?”
They laughed again and the journalist replied, “Yup, his black Mercedes was parked right at the curb in front of the café. He’s had the same driver for at least ten years. He’s a cousin, or nephew, or something like that . . .”
The L’Orient-Le Jour journalist broke in, “On Hamra Street? That makes sense. The driver’s father owns an English pub on Hamra Street. Near the American University. It’s called Wellington’s or something like that. It’s in the old Mayflower Hotel. Very nice. I think he’s related to the former Druze leader, Walid Jumblatt. His name is Sami something. Pretty well known and wealthy. But his son was a punk. Juvenile delinquent. A gang member, as I recall. Always getting into trouble. He ran away to Baalbeck out in the Bekaa Valley and joined Hezbollah. It was all over the gossip columns at the time.”
Hadi Kashmiri smiled inwardly. The son of Sami who owned Wellington’s Pub on Hamra Street was Abu Salah’s driver. He could figure out the rest.
He ordered another round and relaxed.