242 AMERICAN SPY
pleasing, calming scents of hibiscus, jasmine, and frankincense seem to per-
meate every aspect of life in the Middle East, from the bustling souks to quiet
corners inside private homes and hotels. To my mind, scalding hot, sugar-
laden black teas, infused with hints of cardamom or mint, are always better
sipped in the Arab world. Although popular Arabic music can be found at
all hours on MTV Lebanon and Rotana Music, I never travel to the Middle
East without my Sublime Ailleurs album (on iPod), just in case. It’s the perfect
soundtrack for unwinding at day’s end while gazing up at the stars, red wine
and a Cuban cigar at the ready. The last sound I may hear before going to
sleep at night, particularly in a place like Damascus, is equally evocative of A
Thousand and One Nights: old men noisily talking and laughing while smoking
sweet-scented hookahs and playing yet another game of backgammon. It’s a
fitting end to a busy day in Arabia; backgammon is the world’s oldest board
game and was likely invented somewhere in Mesopotamia.
During one road trip in the not-too-distant past, my good friend and
colleague “Tarek” and I took a taxi from the sometimes war-torn but always
fun-loving Mediterranean city of Beirut to the ancient city of Damascus
for meetings with our Iraqi manager, Ali Baba. At the time, it was safer for
all of us to meet in Syria instead of Iraq. As we left behind the cacophony
of car horns in Beirut and headed south toward the fertile Beqaa Valley, it
occurred to me I was likely retracing the same route taken by former Beirut
CIA station chief William Buckley when he was moved by his Hezbollah
captors from the Shi’ite slums of southern Beirut to the Iranian-controlled
Sheik Abdullah military barracks in Baalbeck. Buckley’s final, anguished
moments were spent in brutal Iranian and Hezbollah captivity.
Naturally, Tarek’s and my taxi broke down in the Beqaa Valley just as
I was reflecting on Buckley’s horrific fate. While we waited for the car to
be repaired, it struck me that if we were forced to show our documents to
roving Hezbollah security forces, it would not take them long to run my
name and learn from their Iranian masters that they should hang on to
me and await further instructions. I had escaped Iranian “justice” once
in Sarajevo years earlier, but this time there would be no second chances.
Fortunately, our car was soon fixed and we were on our way to Damascus
before coming to the attention of any local Hezbollah supporters. The
popular Netflix series Al Hayba provides a glamorized window into the
organized crime lifestyle in the lawless Lebanon-Syria border region.