Minh Chau looks through the window as the Airbus makes its descent to Beirut. From the sky, the city is as beautiful as ever. The cars race down the Corniche, as if to escape from the nightmares of the past war and make the most of the present. There’s a sense of eternal youth in the city. She’s looking forward to the weekend in Beirut before her conference starts on Monday. Soon she’ll not be able to fly. A small bulge is already noticeable, and she’s been questioned by the airlines about how far along she’s in her pregnancy.
Minh Chau reflects on the last message that Leyna sent her from Marie. She looks at the old photo. She, too, sees the resemblance between the young man and Taragon, and also one between the young woman in the picture and Marie. Minh Chau won’t fail her friend. She’ll find Selima and obtain the answers that Marie is so desperately seeking.
Elie has selected the small café in Jounieh to be away from the prying eyes in Bikfaya. But even here, people recognize him and come over to shake his hand. No matter. When she arrives, he’ll suggest that they walk down to the marina. It’s quiet there at this time of the year. He’ll share what he’s discovered, but not all of it.
Elie takes out of the envelope reports in Arabic, French and Hebrew. The conclusion is irrefutable. Hoda ‘Akkawi, Selima’s sister-in-law, was a courier between the Social Nationalist leadership and the Druze leader Kemal Jumblatt. In 1979, she disappeared. There was one sighting after that—in Bsarma in northern Lebanon in the company of Marwan Kanaan, a fellow Social Nationalist. The Bsarma report contains a blurred photo, in which Hoda ‘Akkawi holds the hand of a very young child. It isn’t clear if it is a boy or girl. In 2005, a civil rights association obtained the right to dig for mass graves in the refugee camps. More than thirty bodies were found. There the searchers found a copy of Hoda ‘Akkawi’s UN laissez-passer on the decomposed body of a young woman.
“Hello, Monsieur Elie.”
He looks up. Wallahi (by God), she is beautiful.
“Madame ‘Akkawi, you are radiant today.”
“Merci. You’re too kind.”
“Would you like to take a walk to the marina in Keslik? I know a spot there where we can talk freely.”
Selima watches Elie put the papers and photographs on the table back into the manila envelope. She manages to get a glimpse of one of the photos—a young woman with a child. Could that be Hoda?
The streets of Jounieh are quiet. The party-goers from the night before are still sleeping, and the tourist buses from Beirut haven’t yet arrived. As they descend the steep street, the Casino du Liban across the bay comes into view. It’s a massive structure, a monument of defiance to all the bloodshed that has plagued Lebanon. Selima looks at Elie, who stares ahead. Today, there’s a serenity to the man. The haunted, hollow look is no longer there. It’s as if he’s come to grips with his demons.
When they turn on to the seaside road, Elie says: “It’s not far.”
They walk along the seawall to a small blue boat. On it, an old man is unknotting a net. Elie nods to the man, who jumps ashore, shakes Elie’s hand, bows to Selima and walks to a café across the road.
“We can talk on the boat,” Elie says as he steps aboard.
She hesitates, looks around. There are a few older men taking their morning stroll along the seaside. Some fishermen are repairing their nets on nearby boats. She steps on board.
“It’s my cousin’s boat. He’s in Canada now. I pay that man to take it out occasionally so we can keep it registered as a working boat.”
“We’re not going out to sea, are we?” Selima asks.
“No, we can discuss everything here.”
Elie spreads the documents on a small table in the galley.
“Do you want to read them first, or should I summarize them?”
“I’d like to read them myself.”
“Go ahead, please.”
“Can I keep these copies?”
“No, I have to return them. They can’t fall into the wrong hands.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Elie, for helping me.”
“It’s nothing, only my duty.”
Selima looks again at this man, who’s detested by much of the Lebanese population, but considered a hero by others. Has she misjudged him? Who is she to judge others for what they did during the war? She and Nabil had the good fortune to escape to France. There Nabil’s art earned him international acclaim. In a small town outside of Paris, they discreetly married in a civil ceremony, one never recognized in Lebanon. Some fanatics decried her marriage to a Palestinian Muslim as an act of treason against the Christian cause, but Monsieur Elie wasn’t one of them. She remembers an article that he wrote in a Lebanese newspaper praising Nabil’s work as a fine example of Middle Eastern impressionism. It was only after her husband’s death that she was able to return to Lebanon and live under the protection of her relatives in Bikfaya. Many of them had stood by Monsieur Elie when the Maronite leadership passed him over for the sons of the old oligarchs. She doesn’t share his politics, but he’s more honest than the others who emerged from the war rich and arrogant.
She works her way through the documents as Elie prepares them coffee. A tale of espionage and intrigue emerges. She never realized how deeply involved Hoda and her cousin Marwan were with the Social Nationalists. The reference to Hoda being in Bsarma perplexes her. What was she doing there with Marwan? And who was this child?
Elie places a small cup of coffee in front of her.
“Have you found what you wanted?”
“Some of it, yes. Do you know who Ari E. is?”
“Who?”
“The man who filed one of the reports in Hebrew.”
Elie hesitates. He hadn’t anticipated she might be able to read the Hebrew documents. And there are many secrets that he isn’t prepared to share with Selima.
“How well can you read Hebrew?”
“Some, but it’s rusty. I studied linguistics at university. So do you know who Ari. E. is?”
“Does it matter if I do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He might know more of what became of Hoda.”
Elie realizes that Selima hasn’t grasped the meaning of all the evidence. Perhaps, she overlooked the report from the NGO? He hesitates before saying: “Your sister-in-law died in Sabra. Many others died there, including children. It was a bad time.”
Tears begin to well up in Selima’s eyes. His confirmation of Hoda’s death is the deepest of cuts. Then une petite espérance comes to her.
“I think that I may have found the child.”
“Pardon?”
“The child from Bsarma.”
“I see.”
“There’s a young Canadian woman who bears a resemblance to Hoda.”
“A Canadian?”
“Yes. Monsieur Elie, what happened to the orphans from Sabra?”
Elie drew a breath. Did he really want to relive it all?
“I mean, could some of the children have escaped?” she asks.
“Of course, not all the children were killed. I know that some of the orphanages took in young children after what happened. During the war, families from abroad would adopt orphans from here.”
“So it’s possible that this young woman could be Hoda’s daughter?”
“Anything is possible.”
“Will you help me find the records from the orphanages?”
“I can help with those in East Beirut. I’d not be welcome at the others.”
“Can we start tomorrow?”
Before he could answer, Selima’s cell phone rings.
“Hello. Yes, this is Selima ‘Akkawi. I see … Are you in Beirut? Of course, I can meet you. Tomorrow at 3 p.m. at the St. George Hotel.”
Elie looks at her.
“That was a friend of the Canadian girl. She’s something to show me.”
“I’d like to meet her too.”
“Monsieur Elie, I think I should meet her alone. Believe me though that your help is impor
tant to me.”
The words warm his heart. He’s done so many cruel things in his life. So much blood in the name of protecting his community and the avenging of his fiancée. Perhaps, he could atone for some of it now.
Chapter
41
Beirut – May 1979
THE FIRST TRIP TO DAMASCUS GOES WELL. The local representatives of the Social Nationalists agree to intercede with Assad. The old man has shown more willingness to compromise since Operation Litani. The ease with which Israel was able to flex its muscle and flaunt international opinion disturbs him.
Hoda and Marwan soon find their courier services in high demand. A relatively small group, the Social Nationalists rely heavily on diplomacy to achieve their objectives. Fouad Saadeh has managed to maintain good relations with the PLO and most of the dissident Palestinian groups. Damascus is now happy to provide the laissez-passers for Hoda and Marwan to move freely through any checkpoint of the Syrian Army and its surrogates. While both have qualms about how quickly their party has forgotten Jumblatt’s assassination, the first trip to Damascus convinces them that Fouad knows what he’s doing.
For Marc and Riley, who together have developed an impressive network of contacts among most of the warring factions, Lebanon has become a journalistic Eldorado. Both have received substantial raises from their employers, who are syndicating their stories to a world enthralled with what will happen next in the Middle East. Marc and Hoda decide to put off their plans to move to France. Instead, they decide to take another vacation in Cyprus to escape the stress of Beirut.
During the holiday, the house of cards collapses.
The party’s leadership in Damascus invites Marwan to speak to Aleppo’s Maronites. The community there is divided between joining the ranks of the Syrian Social Nationalists, like many of Syria’s Christians are doing, or sending aid to their co-religionists in East Beirut. As a Maronite Social Nationalist, Marwan is seen as the ideal candidate for making the case for the party. Marwan arrives in Aleppo on June 16, the day that the Muslim Brotherhood orchestrates the massacre of thirty-two Alawite army cadets. Assad’s security forces go on a rampage. When they stumble across Marwan walking in the Salaheddine quarter, where Muslim Brotherhood support is strongest, they immediately take him into custody. Marwan hides his real reason for being in Syria and disappears into the notorious Syrian prison system.
Hoda smiles as she reads the latest letter from Nabil while Mark showers. Her brother has just had a fantastically successful exhibition at one of Paris’ best art galleries. His paintings have sold for fifty thousand francs. He’ll send half of the money to their parents in Sabra. The rest he’ll keep to rent a larger apartment for Selima and him. They’ve decided on a date for their wedding but don’t know how to tell their parents. Hoda jots a quick note to tell them to keep the marriage secret for the time being. There’ll be time enough to make it public when the fighting in Lebanon subsides.
Hoda hears a knock on the door. She opens it to the grandson of the owner of the pension.
“Madam, there’s a call for you downstairs. Can you come now?”
Hoda follows the boy down the narrow staircase. She hands him the letter to Nabil with money for an envelope and stamps.
“Mail it today please.”
At the base of the stairs, the septuagenarian owner of the pension stands by a small table with a telephone. He hands Hoda the receiver.
“Hoda?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Fouad.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Marwan has disappeared.”
“Where? How?”
“It’s my fault. I sent him to Aleppo to help out our Syrian friends. Have you heard the news about what’s going on there?”
“Yes, it’s horrible.”
“Marwan got caught in the middle of it.”
“Who has him?”
“We think that he’s held by Syrian military intelligence.”
“I can help. Send me to Syria. I have a lot of contacts there.”
“It’s too dangerous. Our comrades in Damascus are feeling the pressure since the killings in Aleppo. Assad’s brother Rifaat is going after all non-Baathists. His paramilitary forces are ruthlessly eliminating anyone suspected of supporting the insurgency, and Rifaat still sees us as a threat.”
“I want to go. I’ve relatives there who can help. Trust me.”
“I’ll think about it, but you should come back to Beirut first.”
Hoda puts down the receiver. The names of dozens of party contacts in Damascus race through her mind. Many of them will help if they can. And then there’s her cousin, Mustapha, a Sa’iqa commander. She met Mustapha several times as a child. She remembers him as being a gentle man. That was before his parents died in an Israeli air raid. Abdullah also knows Mustapha as well as many Popular Front sympathizers in the Yarmouk refugee camp. With their help, she might find a way to free Marwan. She feels a hand on her arm. She turns to Marc, his hair still wet from the shower—a quizzical look on his face.
“That was Fouad Saadeh. Marwan has disappeared in Syria. I need to find him. I need to go to Damascus.”
“Did Fouad ask you to?”
“No.”
She looks at him, her eyes imploring him to understand.
He brushes the hair on her brow behind her ear, looks into her eyes, and says: “Then I’ll go with you.”
The director of the foreign prisoners wing, Abu George, puts his notebook aside. The Maronite had refused to cooperate so they intensified the interrogation, moving it from constant beating of his feet to cramming his body into a tire. It’s a technique that usually breaks a man in minutes. The Maronite still maintains his cover story. Abu George scratches his day-old beard. Could it be the man is just who he says he is—a tourist, taking a break from the stress in Lebanon? Abu George shakes his head. The man’s story doesn’t jive. Syria is the last place that Maronites would holiday in.
His subordinates are asking permission to move to the next step—the metal chair and electrical cables. Abu George abhors this method. The smell of burning human flesh nauseates him, and the permanent damage to the prisoner’s genitals repulses him. But he has his orders, and he can’t trust his guards not to go over his head.
Since coming to Sednaya Prison, he’s been able to end the practice of rape here. The first time a prison guard suggested it, he shoved his pistol against the guard’s genitals. Still, Abu George is careful. Although a Baathist, he’s a Christian. It’s one thing to stand up to a Sunni prison guard, but another to defy the Alawite intelligence officers, who demand quick results. And since the massacre of the cadets in Aleppo, they’re more demanding than ever. His thoughts are interrupted by the appearance of his adjutant.
“The Maronite is ready.”
Ready, yes ready for another round of interrogation, one that would lead to nothing. Abu George has had enough.
“Bring him here.”
“Here?”
The adjutant looks at the director’s pristine office, with its beautiful Persian carpets.
“Should we clean him up first?”
“No, just bring him now.”
Abu George has decided that he’ll give the Maronite one last chance to confess or find someone who can raise the twenty thousand Syrian pounds he can hand over to his superiors to secure the prisoner’s freedom. The alternative to these two options is bleak. Without making a confession or paying the money, the prisoner will be crippled by the beatings and then disappear into the notorious network of prisons. And few come out of it alive. Abu George is not ready to let this happen to a fellow Christian, even a Maronite.
The adjutant returns with the prisoner, whose clothes are caked with blood.
“Sit here,” Abu George orders.
He scans Marwan’s face for some recognition that he knows what his fate will be if he continues to resist.
“Listen to me. I’m a Christian like you. I know that you can’t be supporting thos
e Muslim fanatics. But you’re also not a tourist. Why don’t you just tell me why you were in Aleppo. Are you a smuggler? A thief? A spy? Who were you going to see in Aleppo?”
Marwan looks at his interrogator. He doesn’t sense in Abu George the sadism that the guards have shown him, but he can’t trust the man. The Syrians will pick up any persons he names and subject them to the same torture he’s just gone through.
Abu George shuffles the papers on his desk.
“Look, if you don’t want to talk, then you can pay for your freedom, but it’ll be costly.”
Marwan perks up.
“How much?”
“Twenty thousand pounds.”
Marwan knows that Fouad will pay that amount and even more, but how can he get a message to him without compromising their network in Syria? The Syrian jailer still doesn’t know who he is and who his contacts are. He looks at the man’s face for a sign of honesty.
“You say you’re a Christian. Is that true?”
“Why would I lie to you? I’m a Christian and a Baathist.”
“Then bring me a priest from your church, and I’ll tell him who to contact for the money.”
“Why do you make it so hard on yourself? You know that I can’t do that. I’ll give you one last chance. Tell me who you are and what you were doing or tell me who to contact for the money.”
“I can’t.”
“Guard! Take the prisoner back. And bring out the chair.”
Evan O’Shea reads the telex from Nicosia again. Marc and Hoda are coming to Syria and need his help. He’s been at the Australian embassy in Damascus for only three months and hasn’t consolidated his network yet. He’s unsure about how much he can help. He still needs to secure his cover as the agricultural attaché before he can start nosing around and asking Syrian officials for favours. Besides, his Ambassador is a moron and doesn’t have a clue what Evan’s real responsibilities are. Robinson in Beirut is still his control officer, and he’s ordered Evan to lie low for the first six months, enough time to lull everyone into having confidence in him. Well, Robinson is a prick, and Marc is his friend, so Evan feels no compunction in disobeying his superior.
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