Beehive Page 13

  “Bees? Your life on the edge of a pit and you can only think of honeybees?”

  “In summer, bees live about a month. They wear themselves ragged collecting nectar and pollen. Drones and queens live longer, except the drones who mate with the queen and the ones left in the fall. They die.”

  “So will you, and you will take me with you.”

  “You will drive when I go back in a couple of days.”

  I saw his eyes flick to the rearview mirror and cloud back to the road. “The bees will be better passengers than you!”

  “Take me to the Paris. Is it open again?”

  “Of course. But the prices have gone up.”

  “Take me.”

  61.

  Andrea was at the same table we sat at before. She had only one glass in front other. Everyone else in the bar eyed me worriedly as I wobbled between the tables. My bandage marked me as a target, one some enemy had already come frighteningly close to hitting. I could see them thinking they’d rather be behind the marksman than the mark.

  But Andrea smiled in recognition when she caught sight of me. Her smile washed away when she got a good view of my color. “You look terrible.”

  “It’s good to see you, too.”

  “You ignored the doctor’s advice. You should have rested.”

  “I rested last night. His pills make me woozy. I need to be alert.”

  “It’s not smart, Ron. What happens if you can’t function?”

  “Whatever would have happened if I never came?” I cracked out a pain pill and swallowed it with a swig of Andrea’s gin-and-tonic. “Harbison lied to me.”

  “I knew he would.”

  “Just the porn, nothing more, he said.”

  “You didn’t argue with him?”

  “Only when he said he thought I should go to Israel for treatment, join the people who dropped me off. I told him no.”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  “Something cheery, like ‘It’s your funeral.’”

  “So what’s next? What did you find out?”

  “Nothing more. Nothing I’m going to tell you.”

  “You can, you know.”

  “It won’t get me anything. It won’t get you anything.”

  “Don’t be sure.”

  “I know you know things you can’t tell me.” Her head flinched to the side, like a sympathetic reaction to a blow to someone else. “I might need the same privilege. How intact is your diplomatic pouch?”

  “You saw what it was like at the airport.”

  “I don’t mean coming in, I mean going out.”

  “The safer it is, the more the hassle. For a lot of hassle, I can keep it safe.”

  “From our own people too?”

  “That’s just luck. They have the right to look at what our government claims protection for. Only makes sense; you don’t want some sour foreign service officer dragging drugs into the country on diplomatic immunity.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I want you to carry something for me.”

  “Where? When?”

  “Whenever you come to the States.”

  “A couple of months. We rotate. What have you got? A pound of hash? If you say yes I’ll be very disappointed.”

  The pill, or the alcohol, or the exhaustion with the pain itself numbed me. I receded within, puppeteer to my burned and scarred shell. It scared me; I’d always been so much my body. I craved a drink to quell the fear, but feared the alcohol would shrink me more. “You’ll have to trust me on it.”

  “Trust you? It’s my job on the line, Ron.”

  “It’s not illegal to carry if you declare it, I can tell you that.”

  “But you don’t want me to declare it. That makes it illegal, secret.”

  “You keep secrets. That’s what makes you trustworthy.”

  “A secret like what was on the tape.”

  “OK, so you’re not trustworthy. I trust you anyway. You earned it.”

  “So how will you earn my trust?”

  “With results. If I free Elizabeth, will you trust me?”

  She wavered, but acceded. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just come to my place the day after tomorrow, just like you did yesterday morning. Keep the package I give you safe until you can take it to the States.”

  “To be safe I’ll have to carry it myself, you know. It’ll be months — July, anyway.”

  “If you can keep it safe, I don’t care if it’s next year.”

  “And if you don’t get results?”

  “It won’t make much difference to me then, will it?”

  “That’s crazy talk. I mean if I doubt you, not if you fail.”

  “Then the package is yours. Do what you want with it.”

  62.

  I slept like death through a night that never cooled. Flies began to buzz around me before dawn. I remember thinking or dreaming: This will be the morning I will not wake up. But nothing is as relentless as the mechanics of a new day. The sky bloomed grey-blue and searing. The early heat of the day allowed only for slow motion. I rose like a blister, watery and painful.

  First I called Brian. Gone for the day on family business, back tomorrow.

  I went to the American compound to check in with Harbison, who made me wait in the heat before he’d talk to me. “Still here, Stutzer?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hoping to get shot at again?”

  “No, sir. Just checking in, like you said to. But I do plan to leave the day after tomorrow. I thought you might want to know.”

  He thought he’d won. He’s a military man down to his bunions and like Elizabeth said, they always need an enemy. He couldn’t help but show the pleasure of his victory. “It’s for the best. I said it before, you’re an amateur playing in the big leagues. Not a bad showing, for a plug. It’s a rougher game than your Saturday softball group, isn’t it?”

  63.

  The telephone office baked like an oven. There were no cool spots. The walls were even hotter than the air.

  I called Jacobs again. “I think I’m almost ready to clear out.”

  “Ron? Is that you?”

  “Yeah, I’m almost ready to clear out. A few more days.”

  “Are you sure? We can come and get you now, you know.”

  “No, I’ve come all this way, I might as well stay a little longer.”

  “You’re giving up?”

  “They want more than I have to give them. At first I thought I could handle it, but it’s much more and much worse than I imagined.”

  “Well, I understand. No one will be disappointed. You gave it a shot.”

  I looked around the booth. I swear I was followed, but that’s all right. They have people at the bank, people at the phones, people everywhere, almost. I caught the eyes of a few people I thought might be tracking me and smiled at them, a smile like a wink. Who knows if they understood, or even cared, or even knew who I was. But I would rather die knowing I did my best than wondering if I missed a detail somewhere. Of course, I’d rather not die at all.

  I asked, “Anything I need to do at the bank here?”

  “I don’t think so. No problem with the money?”

  Thank you, Noah Jacobs. “Yeah, perfect. I’m going to the bank now. I expect I’ll have all five.”

  “When do you want us to come?”

  “I’ll let you know. Just wanted you to be ready is all.”

  “Ready any time you are.”

  64.

  I have never before offered someone a bribe, never before knew of anything worth bribing someone for, never had the resources to build a big enough golden slide to give someone else’s morals a ride. And my own morals, coming down to it, never
would let me induce someone else to shrug off theirs.

  I spent twenty minutes with my grey banker, who looked cool in his Western suit. I had papers to sign and accounts to check over. Throughout, the $200,000 sat beside him on the desk, a simple brick of bills; but enough to buy a house, some land, some quiet — at least in a country where none of them seemed portents of blood. On my letter of credit, he worked out the accounting. I’d converted close to half of my half-million dollar limit. He handed me the letter of credit and the brick. I began to count.

  When I got to $190,000, I stopped. My banker’s face formed a question. “I need an accounting error.”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Today is Friday. You will be closed over the weekend. Can you grant me an accounting error until Monday morning?”

  “Sir, we cannot plan an error.”

  “But sometimes errors do occur?”

  “Why, yes.”

  I separated the remaining bills from the stack, $10,000 worth, and set them on the desk between us. “May I borrow your pen?”

  “Of course.”

  At the end of the figure at the top, the initial figure, the $500,000, I added a 0. “I need nothing — just an extra zero in the accounts between now and Monday morning.”

  “I cannot do that.”

  “How much remains in my line of credit?”

  “Over two-hundred-fifty thousand dollars sir. You can see, it’s there.”

  “And how much for the error and your silence?”

  He clouded over. “Until Monday, not beyond?”

  “And I’ll ask for the balance of my credit now.” He squinted at me, ready to object. “I will thank you now for your help. I don’t expect to see you again. You may do what you like with the balance.”

  “May the error occur at the end of the day today?”

  “You will need to make it as you fill out your papers on this transaction.” I wrapped up my $190,000. “I sign this receipt for $200,000, and you give me a zero.”

  I signed my papers and laid my banker’s pen on the $10,000 stack of hundreds. He took both and said, “Allow me a few moments to prepare the demand note for the balance of your credit.”

  “The balance?”

  He paused. “The balance of the first half a million dollars in the line of credit.”

  Everything was simple after that. My banker did not even examine my signature on the demand, which relieved me. I signed it with Harbison’s name.

  65.

  Friday afternoon I went to the hospital again. When you realize how bad even special treatment can be in places like Lebanon, you forgive the humiliation of illness in the States. Sure they have X-rays in Beirut, but I swear my head got bombarded by the exact same machine that my leg did when I pulled some ligaments in a high school game in Cleveland more than fifteen years ago. And the Lebanese don’t just snap your picture, give you a bad magazine and then tell you what’s wrong. I had been X-rayed two days before, and they just got the results back Friday morning.

  The doctor with the thin slick hair pulled himself away from his ward of youngsters mangled by random violence when someone’s bomb — or maybe even their own — exploded close enough to take a digit or a limb. He had tsked over me when he had changed the bandage and personally supervised my photo session. I was the doctor’s prize patient. Maybe I’m one of the few who survived.

  “And how do you feel today, Ron Stutzer?”

  “Hot,” I told him. He looked alarmed.

  “Let us hope your trauma has not led to infection! I must prescribe you antibiotics!”

  “No. The weather.”

  He laughed. “Oh yes. Hot!” Then he put on his mask of concern. They teach that in medical school. “But relating to your injury, how do you feel?”

  “Either numb or in pain. If it hurts, I take a painkiller and the pain goes away.”

  “You must be careful of those pills, Ron Stutzer. They are codeine, very addictive.”

  “Thanks for telling me.”

  “You are most welcome. I have reviewed the X-rays we took yesterday.” He had a light board behind him, a small one. It was illuminated, but it was also blank. He made no move to bring out his pictures for me to see. “You recovered from some significant damage to your knee many years ago, and now there is only a bruise there. Also there is good news about your jaw, which must still hurt but encountered no broken bone. Very lucky!”

  “And the ear.”

  “Your left ear had less luck. I could tell when I saw you Tuesday at night that you would suffer disfigurement, slight scarring on the neck and punctures to the cartilage on the ear. Also the burn on your neck — does it hurt now?”

  “Like a blister.”

  “So, some scarring there as well. For your hearing, I do not see complete recovery. The damage is small. The concussion of the shot dislocated one of the hearing bones, and I would recommend surgery. But even so . . .”

  “Surgery?” This thought truly pained me.

  “Not here, of course, goodness gracious no. But when you return to the United States of America, there you should have surgery, though I cannot say what sort of recovery your hearing might receive. But you hear perfectly on your right side?”

  “Yes.” Acrid sweet gas, knives in my head: I felt woozy from the image.

  “And you have had no dizziness?”

  Except for now? “No, no dizziness.” Was he going to recommend going under for that too?

  “Then the damage is simple, though perhaps not reparable. Of course, the sooner you see a specialist, the better for you. Until you can leave the country, I say rest, rest, rest.”

  66.

  I could take the doctor’s advice overnight at least, though my rest was delayed by a message Hussein gave me as I arrived home. Mr. Brian Bowman had been looking for me.

  I called him. “Can you give me all day tomorrow?”

  “Funny you should want me. I was at a conference for the family business today, and my job is to help you in any way I can. Our pro bono work. Noble, aren’t we?”

  It couldn’t have been much later than seven the next morning when I arrived at Brian’s house. I only had to wait for Andrea to pick up the packet I had wrapped up for her.

  “You won’t tell me?” she asked, bouncing the brick in her hand.

  “Trust me,” I told her. It was all I could say.

  Brian was dressed down in jeans and a plain linen shirt, but I could tell that both of them had been recently pressed.

  “I like the way it came out.”

  “My hair? Well, I’m stuck with it for a while either way. Not too Eurotrash?”

  I didn’t know what he meant. “No,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

  “I’ve got some coffee prepared. Are we going to work hard today?”

  “Very.”

  “Then I’ll order us some eggs and ham. One of the advantages of being part of the Christian establishment, our servants work Saturdays. And they serve ham without a whimper. Now, what’s the plan?”

  “I’m going to need a few things from you. To start with, six beehives.”

  “Not a problem, of course. Isn’t that a lot of honey, though?”

  “I don’t want the honey. In fact, I’m going to harvest all the honey in the hives. And I’ll need twelve queen cages.”

  “What’s a queen cage?”

  “It’s a small wire cage, about the size of your fist, with a plug hole at the bottom. When you want to introduce a new queen to a hive, or if you want to stop the queen from laying for a while, you put her in the cage. That way, the bees can be near her, but they can’t get to her.”

  “No more hanky-panky, eh?”

  “No. Queens mate only once. But bees are touchy. If you disturb the hive, they might kill their own queen. The cage protects her.”

&nbs
p; “So twelve cages for the queens.”

  “No, six for the queens and attendants, another six for scavengers.”

  “What for?”

  “I’d rather not tell you.”

  “Fine. I understand. You run it your way and I will help. What else do you need?”

  “An open truck for the beehives and a driver who is not afraid, either of bees or guns.”

  “The truck we have, the driver we do not. All of the people who work for me fear guns, except Hussein’s boys, whom I can’t trust to drive. And I’m not fond of bees.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Can’t your driver take the truck?”

  “No. He has to take me in his cab.”

  “Well.” Brian quietly snorted in and out. “Do you suppose you can protect me from the bees?”

  “Sure, of course. But why?”

  “Because I’m not afraid of guns.”

  “I’m sure you’ve got a keeper’s suit somewhere. It covers you all over.”

  “The kind with the veil over your face?”

  “Yup, that’s it.”

  “That won’t do. I’m not afraid of guns when the people who carry them can see my face. My face is my passport in Beirut.”

  “We can protect your face with alcohol or something. Bug spray, cold cream. You won’t be exposed to bees and guns together very long.”

  “You have a plan, don’t you? This is not an experiment in beekeeping?”

  After breakfast we went to the apiary. Hundreds of hives, bees everywhere. The head keeper followed us each step, explaining what I already knew, but in Arabic. I told Brian again what I wanted and he translated for me, into both French and Arabic, to make sure his man got it right.

  I wanted the keeper’s most aggressive hives, the ones that collected the most honey, flew the farthest afield, defended their hive and queen the best. He disputed each choice, reluctant to give up his best producers. I could see the lies in his eyes; beekeepers have no skill at deceit. We were suited up, but the man in charge insisted he handle the hives. I watched him as he first smoked the bees into submission. Something about bees and smoke — they fall into a trance, a stupor. Smoked bees hobble deep into the hive and sleep.