Taragon is about to leave when a beefy hand lands on his shoulder. He resists striking back with a defensive blow. Instead, he slowly turns. Bronstein’s face has aged since they last met at the funeral of Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin in 1995. Taragon had been sent to cover Rabin’s assassination by a West Bank settler. Bronstein was then still in his prime, a stalwart of the left-wing Meretz Party, a man Rabin had listened to. His once flaming red hair has disappeared, replaced by a crown of thinning grey. His green eyes have lost their glint, and are now surrounded by deep wrinkles. And his smile shows a few missing teeth, thanks to a violent encounter with Israel’s ultra-right.
Taragon embraces Bronstein, who grins.
“So are we going fishing?”
“Yes,” Taragon replies. “Did you bring the boat?”
“It’s over there.” Bronstein motions to a small yacht docked in front of the café.
“Where did you get it?”
“A wealthy friend in Meretz. So where are we headed?”
“Istanbul via Mersin. And just maybe we’ll pass by Gordiyon.”
“To cut a knot?”
“Yes, to cut a knot.”
The boat leaves the dock, cutting through the aqua-blue of the eastern Mediterranean. It is perfect for the short journey to the Turkish mainland where Taragon and his companion will land undetected. Khalid Murat’s agents are already circulating rumours that Taragon has returned to France, and Bronstein’s gone to Moscow.
Night falls. Taragon watches the constellations form. No better place in the world to see the stars dance in the theatre of the Gods. Cassiopeia is brightly lit up, perhaps to attract her lover Perseus.
Taragon looks over to Bronstein.
“Are we safe?” Bronstein asks.
“Yes. Thanks to Khalid and your boat, we’re now ghosts. Let’s hope that we can keep it that way.”
“Tov—good.”
The two men take stock of each other.
“It’s been a long time,” the Israeli remarks.
“Indeed. You know that the Mossad had me banned from entering Israel. They even accused me of being an anti-Semite.”
“I know. Some of my old friends in military intelligence are trying to get the Mossad back under control, but they too are under pressure. There’s a witch hunt in the intelligence services for anyone who believes that peace is possible. And the American Congress is now in the hard-liners’ pockets. Marc, can we really make this happen?”
“I hope so. Time is running out.”
Chapter
7
The Road to Beirut – April 1975
MARC LOOKS ACROSS AT HODA. Perhaps, he has misheard her, he thinks. Did this young Palestinian woman just say her aunt was Jewish?
Hoda reads Marc’s mind and continues.
“My Aunt Meryem was Jewish from Algeria. You look surprised. You shouldn’t be. There was a large Jewish community there, but the French Vichy officials sold them out during the war.”
“How did she end up in Lebanon?”
“She went first to Istanbul, and toward the end of the war to Haifa where she met my uncle, Hisham. They were both Communists and worked on the party’s newspaper.”
“My parents were anarchists who fled Spain during the civil war.”
“Oh. It sounds like we may have something in common.”
“I’d like to think so. Tell me more about your aunt and uncle. Marriage between Muslims and Jews must have been rare back then.”
“Not as uncommon as it is now. Like many party members, my aunt and uncle fell in love and married. The party and the British authorities protected them from extremists. When the British withdrew and the party splintered, that protection vanished. My uncle was killed in 1947, and my aunt and my cousin, Abdullah, fled Haifa to Lebanon.”
“How did your uncle die?”
“It was in the middle of the night. He was working on an editorial for the party newspaper pleading for a bi-national state. No one was sure if the assailants were Jews or Arabs. My aunt Meryem found him perched over his desk with a makeshift garrotte around his neck.”
Marc looks attentively at Hoda. He isn’t sure how much more he should ask.
“Life wasn’t easy in Beirut for refugees,” Hoda says, “but Aunt Meryem found a job teaching art in a French convent school. The nuns, some pied-noirs from Algeria, knew she was a Jew but didn’t care.”
“Were you close to your aunt?”
“Very. My brother Nabil and I often spent our weekends with her and Abdullah. She taught us art. Nabil loved it. He’s become a very good artist. You should see his street murals in Sabra. They’re stunning.”
“Was she a religious person?”
“Not at all, but she was pragmatic. She raised her son Abdullah as an atheist at home but conceded to her Muslim in-laws that he would attend the mosque with his cousins. When the rabbi of Beirut’s small Jewish community asked that Abdullah also be taught basic Jewish beliefs and Hebrew, she reluctantly consented to that but insisted that it be kept secret. Meanwhile, Abdullah was educated by the nuns at Meryem’s school. They taught him Christianity and to sing hymns.”
“He sounds like an interesting person.”
“He certainly is. He can cite the Quran, Torah and New Testament, but he doesn’t believe in any of them. When foreigners ask him about his religion, he recites back to them the Declaration of the Rights of Man in Arabic, French and even Hebrew. You should see their faces!”
“You spoke of your aunt in the past tense.”
“Yes, she died two years ago from tuberculosis. She contracted it when she walked to Lebanon in the winter of 1947.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. She lived a full life and taught me a lot.”
Marc hadn’t expected such an intricate story from his new Arabic teacher—neither did he anticipate the intensity of his attraction to her. He looks out the window. The outskirts of the Beirut suburb of Hazmiyeh are coming into view. Signs of recent fighting are everywhere. Walls marked by bullet holes. Overturned cars. Burning tires.
Evan slows the car when he sees militiamen at the Hazmiyeh junction. He can’t make out the regalia on their makeshift uniforms, but Hazmiyeh is a Christian area so he assumes that they must be either Phalangists or their main rivals, the Tiger militia.
Elie Labaki begins to sweat when the officer says: “It’s your turn.” For the first time today, he must be the one to approach an oncoming car. It’s the most dangerous job at a checkpoint. You never know if the car is full of fighters ready to gun through it. He fingers the stylized cedar insignia newly sewn onto his jacket and curses how easy it was for the Phalangist militiamen to knock on his door at nine that morning and hand the patch to his mother. Like the mothers of all his friends, she dutifully sewed it on. Refusal was not an option, not for him, not for her, not for anyone.
Elie steps forward, his hand in the air to wave the car to one side. He looks at the diplomatic plates and scrutinizes the faces of the driver and passengers. Clearly, foreigners—he relaxes. But the shuffling of feet and cocking of guns behind him remind him to hurry. He’s already witnessed how trigger-happy his comrades can be. The sooner he can send these foreigners on their way, the better. He motions to the driver to roll down the window.
“Passeports, s’il vous plaît,” he politely asks.
“I’m sorry. What was that?” Evan asks.
In halting English, Elie asks again for the passports.
Evan digs out his diplomatic passport and Marc hands over his French one. Hoda sits rigidly.
“Diplomat, good! French also good. Who is she?”
“She’s my wife. She’s left her passport at home.”
“Is she also French?”
“Oui Monsieur, je suis française,” Hoda says.
At first, Elie looks suspiciously at her. His own French is strong, and although he cannot detect a trace of an accent from the elegantly dressed young woman, her complexion is olive like the
girls in the refugee camps. Then he notices her fingering something around her neck. The silver of a crucifix reflects in the late afternoon sun. Elie breathes a sigh of relief. Thank God, she’s a Christian. French or Arab, it doesn’t matter. His orders are clear—no Muslims are to pass through. He shudders at the butchery he witnessed that morning. Old men herded into open fields to be eliminated à l’arme blanche. This car will not be a problem. No need to add its occupants to the rising toll of the missing. He hates this war. He has no quarrel with Muslims, but he’s a Maronite and he has his duty.
“Please continue. But be careful. The Palestinians and their communist allies are everywhere.”
Evan nods deferentially. Marc gives Hoda a side glance. She’s still fingering the crucifix. So that was what the headmaster’s wife had pressed into her hand. As soon as the checkpoint disappears from view, Hoda removes it, buttons her blouse and puts on her hijab.
“The next checkpoint will be at the Museum crossing. There they’ll be Muslims.”
“Good, your people then?” Evan asks.
“Possibly. I’m not sure where the Palestinian lines are now. The checkpoint might be manned by Lebanese Muslims. Some of them are as extreme as those young Maronites.”
Elie watches Evan’s Peugeot disappear down the hill, and returns to his companions at the checkpoint.
“Who were they, Elie?”
“An Australian diplomat and a French couple.” He keeps his suspicions about the woman to himself.
The sun is setting over the Mediterranean. It’ll be a long cold night. Elie slumps into a chair, and worries about his fiancée. Palestinian and Druze forces surround the coastal town of Damour where her family lives, and she has left her studies in Beirut to stay with them. He knows that his fellow militiamen are no match for the enemy forces there. Already so much blood has been shed in so little time. He wants to finish his studies and start work at the Banco do Brazil, where his uncle is the Beirut branch manager. All he wants is a peaceful life, but here he is in Hazmiyeh, toting an HK sub-machine gun. Elie leans back to dream of his fiancée and their life together when the war ends.
Hoda is right about Muslims manning the Museum crossing checkpoint, and they are the worst type. She recognizes immediately the redrimmed octagon shoulder patches of the Mourabitoun.
Three young militiamen point their guns directly at the car, march toward it, and without asking for identification, pull Evan, Marc and Hoda out of it. Evan reaches into his vest pocket to bring out his diplomatic passport but stops when the muzzle of a gun is pressed hard against his temple. Another grabs Hoda by the arm. She curses him in Arabic. Just as the militiaman is about to strike her, Marc lunges at him, wrestling him to the ground.
“Ibn sharmouta—son of a bitch!” the militiaman screams as Marc pins him down. Marc looks behind. Ten more fighters are racing toward them. He releases the man and stands up, his hands in the air. The kicks and punches are swift and vicious. Half-conscious, Marc feels himself being hauled up against a cement wall. Evan is beside him, sweating profusely, the revolver now pressed hard against the back of his skull. Hoda screams and curses as two militiamen pin her against the car. As she protests, “I am a Muslim,” the crucifix falls from her pocket. The leader, a small, balding man, picks it up and grunts: “You’re a liar and they’re spies.”
The militiaman whom Marc had bested is now on his feet and leering at Hoda. “Captain Yassin, let’s rape the bitch!”
Yassin glares at his brother-in-law and shoves him away from Hoda. There will be no rape on his watch.
With his palms pressed hard against the wall, Evan can feel the bullet-holes in the concrete. He looks beyond Marc to where the wall turns a corner. A shoe-less foot peeks out. He breathes for a moment and begins to smell the human flesh rotting in the sun. As the guns behind them are cocked, Evan knows what he must do. He summons the courage to utter in perfect Damascene Arabic that he is a Syrian intelligence officer—a lie, but perhaps one that can buy them time.
Abdullah ‘Akkawi lowers his binoculars. He has seen enough. He curses Arafat for having made an alliance with these scum who have laid their hands on his cousin. “Yallah, Shabab.” He orders his men into the back of the beaten-up Mercedes truck and squeezes his gigantic frame into the passenger seat beside the driver.
“Go!”
Seconds later, the truck screeches to a halt in front of Yassin’s men. Twenty Palestinian fighters jump out, and Abdullah climbs down from the cab and walks forward as if to shake Yassin’s hand. Instead, he grabs the smaller man by the throat and lifts him off the ground.
“What are you doing to my cousin?” Abdullah screams at the man now going blue in the face. The other Palestinian fighters train their guns on the bewildered and outnumbered Mourabitoun.
Hoda breaks free of her captors, and races to Abdullah’s side.
“Thank God, Abdullah, they were going to shoot my friends. And that one threatened to rape me!”
“Don’t worry. You’re safe now. Who are these foreigners?”
“My students. Marc, he is French and Evan’s Australian.”
Abdullah turns to Marc and in flawless French says: “Monsieur, can you quickly take my cousin home? There’s a problem near the port. We must go there.”
Abdullah assigns a young fighter to ride with them to Sabra and then escort Marc and Evan back to the highway to Aley.
As Evan’s Peugeot rumbles along the almost deserted streets of West Beirut, Marc turns to Hoda. “He spoke French like you, even better than you.”
“Yes, he’s Meryem’s son.”
Evan watches Marc and Hoda and makes a mental note—Abdullah ‘Akkawi, a half-Jewish commander in the Popular Front, Hoda’s cousin. This connection could come in useful for his real assignment in Lebanon. He decides then and there that he’ll begin to show Hoda a lot more respect and win her trust.
The Mourabitoun leader sits on the ground with his disarmed men. His throat still aches from Abdullah’s strong grip. The gigantic Palestinian returns towards him.
“Your name?” Abdullah yells.
“Yassin Ayoub.”
“What will I find behind that wall?”
“Three men. They tried to run our checkpoint this morning.”
“Did you execute them?”
“No, two died when we shot at the car. The third died in the crash.”
“Bring him!” Abdullah orders his men, who drag Yassin to his feet.
He walks past the wall. Yassin is telling the truth—only three men, no women or children. He stoops to examine the first body. The dead man is clearly older than his two companions. His forehead is bloodied—small shards of glass in his scalp, but no sign of bullet wounds. The two others have been shot in the head and shoulders. He checks their identity cards. All are from Ain Ebel, a border village in the South. The young men were students, Maronites, the old man an Armenian Catholic, a taxi driver.
“Look at their forearms,” Yassin says.
Abdullah rolls up the young men’s sleeves. Tattooed on their arms is “Lebeyki Lubnan—At your service, Lebanon,” the slogan of the Guardians of the Cedars. There’s no doubt. These young men are followers of the fanatic Étienne Saqr, who preaches that the duty of every Lebanese is to kill a Palestinian. Abdullah looks at the young men’s faces—schoolboys barely old enough to shave, and already recruited to be Saqr’s henchmen. In the distance, he hears the mortar fire near the port. He makes up his mind.
“I should still kill you for dishonouring my cousin.”
“Effendi, forgive me. We were only trying to frighten them into confessing. Beirut is full of spies, and she was wearing a cross but claimed to be a Muslim! What were we to think? Forgive me, Effendi, I did not mean to dishonour your family.”
“Only God can forgive you. But today you’ll defend our Kurd brothers in Karantina. Gather your men. We leave now!”
“May I be a martyr for Islam, Effendi. Men, gather. We fight in Karantina for Allah!”
A
bdullah ‘Akkawi looks at his new ally. There is a fanaticism he detests. He decides to test this man, to compromise him, to ensure that the man won’t turn on him later.
“There is one last thing. Did that man really threaten to rape my cousin? Yes or no?”
“Yes, but I didn’t let him.”
“You know the penalty?”
“The man really didn’t mean it.”
“Are you calling my cousin a liar?”
Yassin can see that the giant Palestinian is implacable. He looks over his shoulder at his brother-in-law. The man’s shaking. Urine pools on the ground between his legs. Yassin curses his wife for talking him into taking her brother on. Now he might get them all killed. He feels Abdullah’s presence beside him, and his neck muscles begin to ache again from the bruising left by the giant’s grip. Yassin knows what he has to do.
“Give me a pistol. I will personally carry out the punishment.”
Abdullah studies the Mourabitoun leader. Can he really trust him with a gun? The man’s eyes betray a mixture of sadness and resolution. Abdullah places the pistol in his hand.
The condemned man looks up as the Palestinian giant hands Yassin the gun. He turns in all directions, looking for an avenue of escape. There is none. He sinks to his feet and whimpers. “No, no. Please don’t!”
Yassin takes aim. Can he really execute his wife’s brother? His vision blurs. His hand shakes. Just as Yassin feels he is going to break down, his brother-in-law lunges toward him, desperately trying to grab the pistol from his hand. In a reptilian reflex, Yassin pulls the trigger.
Abdullah looks at executioner and executed. He feels disgust overcome him. How can he trust a man who would kill one of his own?
But there are men and women dying near the port. He needs these Mourabitoun fighters at least for a while longer.
Abdullah puts his hand on Yassin’s shoulder.
“Get your men into the truck. Today we fight together.”
Quill of the Dove Page 4