Perhaps, it was the simplicity of the mountain folk’s faith, the unblemished act of submission to Allah’s will in the cool spring air. No walls to stifle him. No rhetoric, Quranic verses or hadiths to confuse him. That day in the fellowship of the devout, his life changed.
The sculptured gardens and vaulted archways of the National Gardens guide Abdullah to his destination. He passes by the busts of the poets Dionysios Solomos, author of the Greek National Hymn, and Aristotelis Valaoritis, whose unfinished poem calling the Greeks to rise against Venetian rule graces the lips of every schoolchild. The glare of the noon-day sun is fractured by the hundred-year-old palms. There’s a serenity here, no presence of danger, a sense of liberty. The gardens beckon Abdullah to stay, but Adil is waiting.
Abdullah quickens his pace for the last two hundred metres to the museum. Positioning himself just inside the park, he has a clear view of the building’s entrance. He waits. Abdullah begins his three-hundred-sixty-degree surveillance of the meeting site. A taxi pulls up and parks one hundred metres from the museum, but the passenger doesn’t get out. Down the other end of the street, a motorbike drives slowly up but stops a fair distance from the building. Abdullah doesn’t like it at all. His cell phone begins to vibrate in his pocket. He looks at the incoming text message. Stay away! They are here. Adil.
Abdullah shoots one last look at the street. Another car is parked close to the taxi. He looks back to the centre of the park. Two men are walking quickly toward the museum, looking at a hand-held electronic device. They’re headed straight toward him. A dog comes up, wagging its tail. Its owner is nowhere to be seen. Abdullah wipes his cell phone for fingerprints, tucks it in the dog’s collar, and then throws a stick as far as he can. The animal dashes off to retrieve it. Abdullah watches the two men pivot. One is gesturing toward the tracking device. The other places a call. The cars and motorcyclist start moving to block the park entrance where the dog is now holding the stick in his mouth. Abdullah runs fast in the opposite direction, his hand firmly grasping the knife in his pocket.
Chapter
19
Paris – April 2007
TARAGON LOOKS AROUND Kressmann’s office in the Socialist Party’s headquarters. Its high walls are adorned with fine pieces of post-modernist art. The French Socialists don’t skimp on their luxuries. The magnificent mansion in the seventh arrondissement near the Musée d’Orsay seems so distant from Kressmann’s decrepit clinic in Naba’a. Taragon wonders: Has his friend’s altruism weathered his ascent to power or given way to political convenience?
Kressmann looks at Taragon. How they both have aged. What has it been thirty, no thirty-one years since they first met? Then he’d thought that Taragon was going to die in the makeshift clinic in Naba’a. But his friend turned out to be much tougher than expected. And he’s still the most tenacious person he knows. That tenacity has brought Taragon fame but has also alienated many people along the way. Now the man is sitting in his office trying to convince him to join a wild effort to bring about peace between Arabs and Jews. Maybe his old friend has gone too far this time.
Kressmann reads the document before passing photocopies of it to his two colleagues. He likes the agreement, although he knows they won’t. It’s so full of merit, so rational. For a moment his heart flutters. Could these pages change his life as much as Taragon’s notebook had in Beirut? Five years ago, he’d have jumped at the opportunity to back such a plan, but there’s now the call from the president’s office. More is at stake, and he needs the support of the men beside him to realize his ambitions.
Taragon sits quietly, knowing that he can’t rush the verdict of Kressmann and the others. These are sober men—men who take action only after much deliberation. He expected them to probe him, look for flaws in his strategy, provoke him with their scepticism and even ridicule the initiative to see how committed he is to seeing it through. But it’s their silence that is now unnerving him.
Kressmann begins.
“Marc, is any of this real?”
Taragon’s back stiffens. He’s unsure whether Kressmann is playing the devil’s advocate or expressing authentic scepticism. Perhaps, a clever opening move to navigate his friends into backing the plan?
Kressmann begins again.
“I mean, do you really expect us to believe that Abdullah ‘Akkawi has signed on to a peace agreement with Jonathan Bronstein?”
Taragon looks Kressmann straight in the eye.
“Bernard, have you ever known me to lie?”
Kressmann retrieves the pages of the Arkassa Pact from his colleagues and hands them back to Taragon.
“So even if it’s true, what do you want France to do?”
“You mean, what do I want Bernard Kressmann to do?”
“Now, that is one and the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been invited by Sarkozy to join his cabinet.”
“Sarkozy? And you’ve accepted?”
“Yes, tomorrow the announcement will be made. Sarkozy has given me the Quai d’Orsay.”
Taragon suddenly realizes where he has seen the other men before. They are not Socialists! Leblanc, now the head of the DGSE, France’s CIA, is on Kressmann’s left. And on his right is Carbone, Sarkozy’s Corsican bagman.
“So you won’t help?”
“Marc, I didn’t say that. I asked you what you want us to do?”
“If you mean by us, the French Socialist Party, I want you to take this forward to all the Socialists in Europe,”
Kressmann pauses, then shakes his head.
“We can’t blind-side Sarkozy on this. I’ll speak to him tomorrow. If we do this, it will be on a non-partisan basis. But it won’t be easy. Sarkozy isn’t going to part ways with the Americans on this, or with the French Jewish community unless this is really going to fly.”
“And the Socialist Party?”
“As of tomorrow, I won’t be able to speak for the party, but if Sarkozy agrees, we will reach out to them.”
Kressmann’s sudden use of “we” and “them” unnerves Taragon. The man had always been on the Left, starting out as a convinced Marxist and moving to the Socialists when Mitterrand came to power. Now he was to be a minister in Sarkozy’s government.
“Let me see what I can do, but ‘Akkawi has to rein in Hamas,” Kressmann says. “We can’t sell your initiative if the suicide bombings start again.”
“You know that Abdullah has nothing to do with the fanatics. Hamas is not monolithic.”
“Maybe.”
Kressmann approaches Taragon with his hand outstretched. A firm handshake, one that exudes confidence—and leaves you with an unsettled stomach like the kiss of Judas. Leblanc takes Taragon’s hand too, clammy but not hostile. Carbone holds back. His eyes fixate on Taragon as if to read every movement he makes.
The secretary opens the door, and Taragon steps out into the world, alone with a dozen sheets of crumpled paper.
Chapter
20
Beirut – October 1975
HODA WAITS NERVOUSLY with Evan’s driver outside the terminal. She’d asked Marwan to drive her to the airport, but his uncle refused to lend him one of his taxis. Recently, the airport had become a dangerous place. So instead, Hoda asked Marc’s friend, Evan, to drive her. He’s now a third secretary at the Australian embassy and claims to have some influence with the airport authorities. Evan has been inside for over an hour, and Hoda begins to worry. The driver is also getting edgy. Hoda glares at him when he pulls out a package of cigarettes. He meekly puts them away.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“Sabra.”
“No, I mean in Palestine.”
“My family is from Safad, but I was born here.”
“My father lived in Safad as a boy.”
“But you aren’t Palestinian, are you?” she says.
“No, thank God! My father’s family is from Kafr Bir’im, near Safad. We’re Greek Catholics.”
“Sorry, so then you are a
Palestinian like me?”
“No, my mother is from Lebanon. I am Lebanese.”
How silly it all is, Hoda thinks. Kfar Bir’im is only a few kilometres from Safad. Her grandfather, a country doctor, used to tell her of his trips there to visit patients. Yet this man sees himself as Lebanese. And he’ll always see her as a foreigner, despite her having been born here. She hates this small-minded nationalism. She has also come to despise the pettiness of the Palestinian leadership. Arafat is revelling in his new status as the ruler of a mini-state. The leaders of the Palestinian Left are little better.
Most of all, Hoda hates and fears the fundamentalists who are growing in number. Their presence reminds her constantly of the assault by Akil. There were no witnesses to what had happened, and the camp came to believe that Akil had surprised criminals stealing from the shop, who had killed him. His friends elevated him to hero status.
Hoda now lives full-time in Shemlan, and keeps visits to Sabra to a minimum. She no longer trusts many of the young Palestinian men she’s grown up with. She fears that one day someone will find out what happened on the evening of the Eid feast, and then Akil’s friends will come for her and Nabil. On those rare occasions that she returns to Beirut, she visits first with Nabil who’s now living with Marwan. It also gives her a chance to catch up with Marwan on what has been happening at the university. Hoda knows that her brother is safe with Marwan, and she also feels safe with him even when Nabil isn’t there. The sudden opening of the car door interrupts her thoughts. She looks over to see Marc’s smiling face.
Evan is at his most entertaining on the drive back into the city. Even the driver is laughing. Evan has learned by heart dozens of Juha jokes, the most beloved comic in Arab storytelling.
“When Juha was riding his donkey he passed some of the people. One said disdainfully: ‘Oh Juha, I didn’t recognize you, but then I saw your donkey.’ Juha replies: ‘Of course, that is normal because donkeys always recognize each other.’”
Marc listens in amazement. He can only catch about half of the jokes. How has Evan improved his Arabic so quickly?
When Evan starts into a joke about Juha, the Caliph Harun al-Rashid and his nubile new wife, Hoda bops him on the head with her purse before the joke gets too racy.
Marc sits back and thinks how wonderful his life will be in Lebanon. He’s with a beautiful, intelligent woman. He has a great friend in Evan, who, despite all his flaws, is unshakably loyal. And now he has before him a promising career as a journalist. Beirut, despite the civil war, is still one of the great cities of the world. His exuberance puts an end to the months of grieving his father’s passing.
They cross over into Fakhani, leaving behind the Palestinian and Shia checkpoints on the airport highway. Out of the blue, a truck pulls up beside them. The back is full of young fighters. Their leader sitting in the front seat waves for them to pull over. Evan mutters an obscenity in Arabic. The driver looks at Evan, who reluctantly nods to him to comply. They are in Fakhani, Arafat’s stronghold. They should have nothing to fear here.
Evan is pumped, ready to bluster about diplomatic immunity when he recognizes the commander. Fuck, it’s that bastard Yassin Ayoub, the Mourabitoun leader who almost had them shot. Ayoub trots over to the window. Something is different. He is no longer wearing the Mourabitoun insignia. Instead, he sports the red and white keffiyeh of the Popular Front. In one hand is an AK-47 and in the other a folded piece of paper. The driver is sweating. Marc straightens his back. Hoda pulls her hijab over her head.
“Marc Taragon?”
“Yes.”
“This is from my commander.”
Ayoub passes Marc a slip of paper, and nods respectfully to Hoda.
“What does it say?” asks Hoda.
“It’s from your cousin.”
“What?”
“Abdullah wants to see me right away. He says there’s an important story unfolding.”
“Don’t go, Marc! You’ve just arrived. Let’s go to Shemlan now. I’ll explain it to Abdullah. Besides, how do we know that the note is really from him? Don’t you recognize this man? This could be a trap!”
“It is indeed from Commander Abdullah,” Ayoub says.
“You! You’re Mourabitoun!”
“I was, but now I serve Commander Abdullah.”
Hoda knows that what Ayoub is saying is likely true. Her cousin has risen in the ranks of the National Movement, and many non-Palestinian fighters are fighting for him. Still, she doesn’t trust Ayoub.
“Hoda, I should see Abdullah,” Marc says. “I’m a journalist now.”
“Not without me!”
“Fine, come with me then.”
“Thank you,” Ayoub says. “Please follow us.”
Hedaya tenderly treats her husband’s wound, as she has done so many times before. This time the wound is deep. She’s afraid of infection and pours more alcohol on it. Abdullah flinches but says nothing. He must show an example to his men. His young fedayeen stand guard all around the house and some have gone to the roof to take up positions as snipers. He curses himself for taking so many men away from the battle in Karantina. He will return that day despite his badly damaged shoulder. But first, he has to tell the young French journalist what’s happening. He fears that only international media attention can prevent a wholesale slaughter of the Kurdish, Syrian, and Palestinian slum dwellers. The fanatical Maronite militia leader, Maroun El Khoury, from the neighbouring district of Dekwaneh, sees the Muslims of Karantina as an existential threat. He has vowed that no quarter will be given. And now El Khoury’s followers are being reinforced by other Christian militias—Phalangists and Guardians of the Cedars. They’re ready for the big push on Karantina, and then the nearby Shia community of Naba’a.
A hard knock on the door—Yassin Ayoub walks in.
“Sir, the Frenchman is here.”
Hedaya puts her shoulder under her husband’s arm to help him up and then stops when she sees Hoda precede Marc and Evan. Abdullah now standing on his feet, says: “Greetings, cousin.” Hedaya moves forward, leaving Abdullah leaning against a table. Her round stomach proudly announces that soon she’ll give her husband a child. She hugs Hoda, ignoring the men with her.
Yassin leads Marc to Abdullah.
“Do you remember me?”
“Of course, you’re Abdullah ‘Akkawi. You saved our lives.”
When Abdullah sees Evan, peeking in at the doorway, he shouts: “You, Jassus, stop spying on us, come here.” Evan steps forward, a little red in the face at being called a spy, and receives a friendly slap on the back from the gigantic fighter.
From the pocket of his blood-stained shirt, Abdullah takes out a dozen Polaroid photos of executed men, women and children. Scruffy-looking youths stand over the bodies. One is crouching holding a dead man by the hair as if he is a trophy. Marc and Evan look at the photos in horror. Is this Abdullah’s work? Is he boasting of his gruesome conquests? They look more closely and notice the crosses around the young men’s necks. The murderers are Christians.
“Who are the dead?” Marc asks.
“Syrian workers and their families who tried to leave Karantina.”
“And the killers?”
“Maronite militiamen from the East Beirut neighbourhood of Dekwaneh. They’re followers of the Maroun El Khoury Group.”
Marc flinches. “The MKG?” He has heard the stories about them.
“Yes.”
“How did you get the photos?”
“We took one of their fighters prisoner. We have him in the back. He can tell you what they did to these people. But that isn’t the biggest problem. He also told us that the MKG wants to leave no one alive in Karantina, and its allies may send them enough men to do just that.”
Marc pondered. So the Maronite factions are now working together. This is disturbing, especially the possible involvement of the Guardians of the Cedars. The followers of Étienne Saqr are by far the most ruthless fighters. More merciless than even the MKG. He knows
that a largescale massacre in Karantina will lead to reprisals elsewhere against Christians in Lebanon. He remembers the fearful faces of the people of Damour. Their town is now completely surrounded by Palestinian, Lebanese Muslim and Druze forces. Will the Christians of Damour pay with their lives for the impending massacre in Karantina?
“What do you want me to do?”
“Take the photos and tell the story to the world, and inshallah the Maronites might be intimidated from carrying out the attack. The Phalangists are particularly sensitive to stories in the French press. They’re bigger than El Khoury’s group and might just be able to pressure him to back off. We know that we can’t defend Karantina for long, but a delay might give us enough time to evacuate the civilians.”
“Okay, I’ll do it, but first, let me talk to the prisoner.”
“Tayyib. Ahmad and Hassan, stay with the foreigners. Yassin, we’re returning to Karantina.”
Hedaya protests, but Abdullah leans over and kisses his wife gently on the forehead. “Kull shee, bitseer khayr—everything will be fine,” he says, reassuring her. But both know that the battle ahead will be deadly and that this could be the last time that they might see each other. Abdullah reaches down to touch his wife’s belly and whispers: “Name him Munir.”
Chapter
21
Beirut – January 1976
MARC IGNORES THE pleas of Hoda to return immediately to Shemlan. First, he must find out what’s in store for the inhabitants of Karantina. He returns to the back room. The young Christian fighter slouches in a corner. He covers his bloodied face with his hands. Marc kneels in front of him.
“Shoo smak?—What is your name?”
The fighter looks up. His face is that of a boy—clean shaven for what little there is to shave.
“Are you a foreigner?” he asks in Arabic.
“Yes, I am French, a journalist.”
The fighter shifts to French.
“Je m’appelle Jean.”
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