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to Lukash. “Then it’s resolved. You made the right choice, Walt. Unless you have anything else to say, Mr. Ambassador, I’ll take Walt downstairs and show him around the communications center before we head across the Green Line to his new digs.”
    Ambassador Ravenel rose slowly from his leather armchair and buttoned his suit jacket before extending his hand one last time to his newest subordinate. “This may well be our first and last meeting, Walter. As you may know, an ambassador’s term is served at the pleasure of the president. I submitted my resignation in January along with every other ambassador appointed by the outgoing president. I have a notion that our new chief executive will name my successor very soon.
    “The new man will doubtless champion the project in which you are now taking part. In any event, you have my full support for as long as I remain chief of mission. And if you ever wish to reach me, I encourage you to do so through Mr. Pirelli.”  
    The ambassador released his hand and Lukash knew the interview was over. “Thank you, Ambassador Ravenel. You can count on me to do my level best.”
    Pirelli indicated to Lukash by a nod that he wished to remain behind for a moment for a private word with the ambassador. Lukash pulled the heavy door shut and found himself alone in the darkened outer office, all the lights having been extinguished but for two brass sconces flanking the exit.
    On an impulse he strode to the glass doors and watched the thinning crowds of Arab youths strolling idly along the Corniche below, drinking coffee and spitting sunflower seed husks onto the sidewalk. Then he stared across the Bay of Beirut toward the sparkling crescent of Antélias and the eastern Phalange-controlled suburbs. For a brief instant something about the view reminded him of Jeddah, as seen from the south along the Red Sea coast. But as he continued to look across the water, he knew there was little objective resemblance between the two cities. The only trait they had in common was that both looked their best at night and from a distance.
    Suddenly Lukash wondered if the fourth-floor embassy offices were still arranged as they had been five years ago when Pirelli, then the deputy chief of station, had handed him his orders to Saudi Arabia. Then, as now, the change in assignment had come like a lightning bolt out of a clear sky. He recalled sitting alone in Pirelli’s sparsely furnished, windowless office for nearly half an hour in sweaty indecision, pondering whether to accept the job or not while Pirelli met in another room with the chief of the political section.
    The Saudi-Yemeni border was the last place on earth he had wanted to be. And why, in heaven’s name, a covert action program? He had absolutely no paramilitary experience then. In an instant the offer had upset every assumption he had cherished about his future in the Agency. He had been asked to take the assignment or leave it—no other alternative was offered. They needed an Arabic-speaking officer, and he was it. As the implications of the cable gradually rippled out to the far reaches of his mind, he had realized that there was to be no Cairo, no home leave, no Headquarters consultations, no opportunity to arrange his affairs, follow through with his plans, or honor his commitments.
    Now five years had passed. He had accepted the assignment, spent his year in a dust-choked camp in the Saudi desert, another year and a half in Jeddah, then sixty days of home leave and then off for two years in Jordan. Now he was back where the troubles had started: Beirut. And once again he was completely off balance and unprepared for what lay ahead.
    Through the walnut-paneled walls he heard a young woman’s musical laugh, followed by the muffled shout of a deep-voiced young marine in the stairwell. “Party up!” the marine’s voice shouted. “Give us some tunes, Gunny! Hot damn!” Then the driving beat of Prince set the walls vibrating and