Celestine dried her tears and took a deep breath.
“It’s Hakkim,” Azizza said. She busied herself lighting candles. “He’s funny.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s changed. The minute I was in the door he came at me and I thought, Oh, he’s going to torture me until I cough you up. But it wasn’t that. He was frightened.”
“Hakkim, frightened?” This was something, this was news; come on, old girl, sit up, take notice.
Azizza blew out the match with which she’d been lighting the candles. “He said he’d been cheated and there was something you had to know.”
“And you believed him?” Celestine found it hard to keep an edge of scorn from her voice.
“Of course not, stupid, not until he mentioned the money.”
“What money?”
“He’d been hauled in to back this hijack thing. A business, like any other; those were his exact words, imagine! He put up the cash for training, weapons, tickets, hotels, everything! But he stands to lose the lot.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he’d only tell you. But I wasn’t having any of that, I pretended I hadn’t seen you since you came to his house yesterday. He didn’t believe me, of course, but he told me to pass on a message to you, and when I heard what it was I actually started to believe him.”
“What message?”
A man’s voice from the passage. “The Israelis were in it from the beginning.”
Both women shrieked. Celestine jumped up, one hand held to her throat, the other clutching Azizza for support. It took her all of ten seconds to realize that she knew this voice; it was Hakkim’s.
So he’d followed his housekeeper back to Kharif. “Oh, Izza,” she murmured, but there was no harshness in the reproach. Being duped on occasion was the price you paid for God’s gift of an upright nature.
“Don’t worry,” Hakkim said agitatedly, pulling a chair up to the table. “Ai, what a day!”
“Chafiq,” Celestine said, forcing all the urgency she could muster into the one word. “Do something useful for once in your life, and help me save Robbie.”
“Yes, yes. Let me get my breath. I’ve brought coffee, some wine—”
“Does Feisal know you’re here?” Celestine barked. “Did he send you?”
“No, to both questions.” Hakkim used his teeth to extract the half-drawn cork from a wine bottle.
“Is he tailing you, then? You follow Izza, he follows you…. ”
From the look on his face she deduced he hadn’t thought of that. More interestingly, the notion frightened him. There was silence for a while. Celestine found herself in no hurry to break it. Let him stew!
“Feisal’s hit a rock,” he said at last, before taking a swig of wine.
“The hijack’s gone wrong?”
“Badly. You want some coffee?”
He unstoppered the flask, allowing the aroma of fresh coffee to permeate the room. Celestine had to force herself to say, “Later.”
“Someone tried to stop Leila,” Chafiq said, “just before she took the plane. Someone who knew she’d be there. When Halib heard about it he ran a check. The man who attacked Leila is called Rafael Sharett. He’s a Mossad man. Very high: a director.”
Celestine frowned. “So what?”
“So one day soon this mess is going to end, right? And the papers are going to get the story, and if Sharett’s still alive he’s going to talk to his people.”
“I imagine so.”
“Celestine.” Chafiq leaned forward across the table, hands folded across his chest. She noticed that his forehead was running with sweat. “I can’t afford to upset them in Jerusalem. When I went into this I spelled it out to Feisal: ‘Look,’ I said, ‘no Zionist dimension, okay?’ And he said okay, so I went in with my share. But if they ever once so much as suspect…”
So Banker Hakkim had done business with Tel Aviv, had he? Celestine thought that must be a dangerous game. If he was telling the truth, she could understand his fear. If.
“But they have found out, haven’t they?” she remarked gently. “They put an anti-hijack team aboard that plane, so by now they know all they’ll ever need to. I don’t follow your logic, Chafiq. If you’re dead, you’re dead already.” She paused, keen for the timing to be perfect. “Already.”
Hakkim breathed heavily. Suddenly he smashed a fist down on the table, making bottle and flask jump.
“Maybe the Mossad don’t know Sharett’s aboard,” he said.
“They put a man on the plane, to stop the hijack … and they don’t know he …? You’ll have to help me, I don’t understand.”
Celestine became aware of a shadow at Hakkim’s elbow. She heard a noise and, although the banker appeared not to have noticed, Celestine knew that Azizza had picked up the flask. Good. She really could do with some of that coffee.
“Follow it through with me,” he said. “One. There’s been nothing in the papers, the TV or radio, to suggest that anyone knows there’s a top-ranking Mossad man aboard that plane.”
“But they’d deliberately keep it a secret, wouldn’t they? To preserve the element of surprise.”
“The Mossad would. But others would be only too keen to broadcast it. The Syrians, the Iraqis: their press would be crowing it from the hilltops.”
“Maybe the Mossad just managed to keep this secret well.”
“You don’t understand. If Tel Aviv knew Sharett was aboard, they’d storm the plane and get their man out. And they’d have done it before this.”
“But what does it mean?” she said slowly. “Sharett was on that flight for the purpose of foiling the hijack. Why wouldn’t this man tell his own people what he was up to?”
“Perhaps he knew they’d forbid it.”
“You mean, he’s on his own … it’s a private party?”
“Yes.”
“Even though he works for an organization whose job it is to stop people like my grandchildren? Oh, come on, Chafiq!”
“Look. We know this man is on that plane, we know that his own side isn’t interested—”
“Prove to me that this man is on the plane, that he’s who you say he is.”
When his hand shot to an inner pocket her first thought was, Allah! He’s got a gun!, until she saw him hold out a square of cardboard. She took it warily: a photograph of a man sitting slumped in what looked like a plane seat, his face streaked with blood.
“That’s Sharett,” Hakkim said. “It was taken immediately after the plane landed in Yemen and flown out to Teheran next day. It came to Feisal along with a request that he try to identify this man, because he attacked Leila when she made her move on the cockpit. They sent him photocopies of his passport, too: false, of course. Here.”
He gave her some folded pages. She looked at them. “These could all be faked,” she muttered.
“It’s not a fake.”
“This snap could have been taken before the hijack.” She peered closely at it. “How did you get hold of these? Did Feisal give them to you?”
“Are you mad? He’d slit my throat if he knew I’d gotten them.”
“You stole them?” Celestine asked sharply.
“I have a good friend on Feisal’s staff.” Hakkim’s eyes were bulging now; he was thinking of what would happen if Feisal caught up with him. “He borrowed them.”
“You’ll have to show these to the Mossad if you’re to have any chance of making them believe you.”
“Forget it!” He snatched the photo back from her.
Celestine became aware of the shadow again standing at Hakkim’s shoulder. She hadn’t seen Izza for a while. Had she gone somewhere? Or had she been there all the time, listening?
“Why are you telling me this?” she demanded.
“The whole thing’s going to come out; the Zionists will know I’m involved; they’ll finish me.” He was almost in tears.
“So how can I save you?”
“Make the Israelis believe Sh
arett’s on the plane. I can help you get to Tel Aviv, I have … ways.”
She stared at him, too astonished to speak.
“They’ll send a team to rescue everyone, Robbie, everyone.” Hakkim’s voice, so enthusiastic until now, suddenly faltered. “But unless they think there’s one of their high-ups aboard, they won’t do a thing.”
Azizza slowly lifted the coffee flask and waved her forefinger above its stopper, shaking her head. Then she floated backward into the shadows that were starting to fill the room with the onset of dusk.
“Some of your best friends,” Hakkim was saying in a voice heavy with irony, “are Israelis.”
“Yes,” Celestine acknowledged, after a pause. “I know one or two.”
In the silence that followed she tried to work out the best thing to do. Azizza was warning her that the coffee contained a drug; goodness knows how she’d found out, perhaps she’d seen him do this before, with a girl. A boy, more likely. So the whole thing was a setup.
Why?
If he was truly Feisal’s man, all he had to do was trail Azizza at a distance and report back as soon as he saw her enter the house. But if he’d already reported to Feisal before bringing the wine and drugged coffee, why hadn’t Feisal come to pick her up yet?
One thing she did believe: if he’d been telling the truth about this man Sharett, then once the Israelis knew it they would move heaven, hell, and earth as well to get their agent out. They would storm the plane. They would kill the terrorists. Kill her own granddaughter, perhaps kill Robbie too. But unless somebody did something she would never see Robbie again, because his mother would steal him away.
A terrible thought struck her. “Chafiq,” she gasped, “does Leila realize who this man Sharett is?”
“I don’t know.”
What would she do if she knew? What would she do?
“I’ll need to take the photo,” Celestine said with the brisk manner of one who decides. “And the copy of Sharett’s passport.”
“Impossible. They have to be back in Feisal’s office by this evening.”
Hakkim was terrified. He might, just, be telling some small part of the truth. If his story was true and she could convince the Israelis of that, she could get him off the hook, because the vital information would have come from him.
If. Might. Could. Perhaps. Maybe.
She would have to take the photo and the passport copy. Without them, no chance. But he would never relinquish them voluntarily.
“Chafiq,” she said wearily, “my head is going round and round. Can I have some of that coffee, please?”
22 JULY: EVENING:
AL MAHRA, SOUTH YEMEN
DR. DELAHAYE sat back on his haunches and shook his head. “Getting worse,” he murmured. “Do you know when he last injected insulin?”
“Sorry, no.” Colin was sitting in the window seat; Robbie had the aisle. Tim Campbell lay between them, breathing in rapid pants, his eyes shut. Colin cradled Tim’s head against his chest. “Will he die?” he added quietly.
The doctor nodded. “Unless we can get him to the hospital soon and fix him up with a potassium drip. Normally I wouldn’t worry too much about a young chap like this, but thirst’s even more of a problem for him than the rest of us, and he seems like a high-anxiety type. He’s already severely acidotic, I’d guess … look at that rapid breathing.”
There was nothing more Dr. Delahaye could do for Tim, so he went back to his own seat, several rows behind. Colin gently propped Tim’s head against the seat and stood upright. Selim saw. He motioned with his hand for Colin to sit down again.
“I want to talk to you,” Colin said clearly.
Selim stiffened, but he came down the aisle. Colin stared into his eyes. “Do you wish to be responsible for the death of an innocent kid?” he said, more quietly.
When Selim made no reply, Colin continued, in the same even, almost monotonous voice, “Is this what the Koran teaches? Please tell me, I would like to be advised. Is there glory in heaven for acts such as these? I wish carefully to understand your religion, so that I may respect it and learn from it.”
Selim bent down low, leaning across Robbie and Tim Campbell. “Do not defile what you can never understand,” he breathed. “What is it you want?”
Colin reached out to place a hand on Tim Campbell’s inert wrist.
“This boy is diabetic.” He did not raise his voice, or cringe, or soften, or change his manner in the slightest respect. “This boy ran out of insulin some time ago. He is in a coma, from which he will not recover unless he receives medical care promptly. He will die. The world will know that he died, and why. They may not understand the Koran, they may be deaf to the word of Allah, but this at least the world will understand.”
Robbie was continually wiping the sweat from Tim’s pale face. Now he looked up at Selim and said, “I want to see my mother. Please.”
“Be quiet.”
“I know you do what she wants, sometimes. I know she can help. She promised she would help. Speak to her, or let me.”
While Selim’s gaze floated between the three of them, Colin went through the calculations again, testing each link, fighting down the dread. He could save Tim Campbell’s life. The strategy was simple, also very dangerous.
He’d go to Leila and say that unless she allowed the sick boy to go out on the helicopter, he would tell Robbie of his mother’s true role. Somehow he had to find a way of communicating this threat to Leila and then prevent her from having him quietly killed before he could carry it out. Colin believed that she would not kill him because the risk of Robbie’s discovering who had given the order was too great. But she would undoubtedly separate them. Up to now she had left them together, calculating that this way there was at least a chance that Colin might persuade Robbie to leave quietly with his mother. Once he threatened to tell Robbie the truth, however, she would realize that her tactic had failed and move the boy. Then Colin wouldn’t be able to talk to his son. He might never see him again.
So how could he put pressure on Leila without cutting his own throat?
What if she called his bluff and he was forced to tell Robbie that his mother was a terrorist? Suppose Robbie said he didn’t care, that she was his mother and he loved her? Why in Christ’s name hadn’t he told the boy the truth earlier, when there wasn’t all this pressure?
Colin clenched his fists. Selim still stood there, seemingly undecided. Such lack of resolution was unusual in him. A break in the pattern. Good.
“Listen to my son,” he choked out. “There is a lady in first class. Consult her.”
Selim stood upright. He turned to the back of the cabin, where another of the five gunmen stood guard, and uttered a few words of Arabic. The second man nodded.
“Wait there,” Selim muttered. “I’ve given orders that the two of you are to be specially watched. You could bring down a lot of death here. Think about that.” Now he was talking to Colin. “You personally are safe, for the moment. You know why: you have a job to do.” His gaze skated sideways to Robbie. “A lesson to teach. And you detest the thought of innocent lives being lost.”
He stalked away. Colin noticed that his shoulders seemed hunched. Was it an illusion, brought on by fatigue? No. Selim was tiring.
Colin turned to look out the window. It was nearly dark. The desert floor stretched away to the black foothills, sterile and empty. Nothing moved. He felt himself familiar with every stone, every grain of sand, every spike in the distant, dark horizon. Mars must look like this. The sun was setting, thank God! During the day-time, its fierce light was mitigated by the Perspex windows, specially designed for high-altitude flying in thin atmosphere where ultraviolet light would otherwise scorch and destroy living tissue, but it was nowhere near strong enough to protect the passengers from the furnace that roared silently outside. Even nightfall brought little relief from that. Colin tried to sit perfectly still and control his breathing, tried to forget the thirst that constricted his throat.
&
nbsp; When Tim’s head lurched against his shoulder, Colin at first thought it another symptom of his deepening illness, so he concentrated all his attention on the boy. Then, seeing his pallid face unmoving, he looked up to realize, in panic, that Robbie had risen. Colin’s brain worked slowly. Of course, his son wanted to stand up so he’d pushed Tim onto his father…. Why was Robbie in the aisle when Selim had expressly ordered them to stay put?
“Sit down!” he cried, but Robbie was running.
The guard at the back of the cabin shouted. People started to scream. Robbie yelled something, his words lost in the hubbub. When the gunman fired a single round through the ceiling, the noise echoed like thunder presaging the Last Days and the screams rose to hysterical pitch; other passengers were standing up now, convinced that this was the start of the massacre, each man for himself. A woman catapulted from her seat into Robbie’s path, but the boy thrust her aside, racing on toward the curtain at the front of the cabin, behind which, he knew, was his mother.
Colin stood up. He cared nothing for the melée developing ahead of him. Alone among the terrified passengers, he turned to the back of the plane. The gunman was down on one knee, aiming along the aisle. By now there were so many people between him and Robbie that his chances of hitting the boy were nonexistent. It didn’t matter. Colin knew he was going to fire.
He gripped the seat backs on either side of him and vaulted over Tim’s motionless body. “Sit down!” he shouted. “For God’s sake—sit down!”
Nobody paid him any attention. Colin found himself looking down the aisle into the muzzle of the M3A1 twenty feet away, less. He took a step forward. The barrel jerked up. Now he was the target.
The world came to a stop. His last seconds upon this earth. Would it hurt? he wondered. And then: Please let his aim be accurate, I don’t want to lie here wounded, don’t let him shoot me in the stomach, it takes an age to die and the agony is beyond description….
He spoke his last words.
“Shoot me.”
The gunman could not hear him. His mouth extended into what might have been a smile or an expression of concentration, and Colin braced himself. And at that moment, silence overwhelmed the plane, a silence so unexpected, so complete, it was an almost audible thing.
Blood Rules Page 26