I had opened the door and was down the steps before she even as much as moved. What sixth sense told me it was Nadi I never knew, but the scene outside confirmed it. Fifty yards away a car lay on one side, wheels still spinning and flames belching so fiercely from its underside that it would be gutted in minutes. Nadi knelt in the roadway nearby, cradling a man in his arms. Even from that distance I could see blood on the man's face and the dark red stains on his shirtfront. One of Nadi's wicker baskets rolled in the dust and a dog ran away, its barking suddenly drowned by a burst of rifle fire. Hemeh, Nadi's eldest son, rounded the far comer, running and half turning at the same time, scuttling like a crab, his attention fixed behind him. He carried one of those old Lee Enfield rifles in one hand and a bandolier of cartridges bounced on his shoulder. Nadi saw him in the same split second as I did and shouted something, but the words lost themselves in the breeze. Hemeh called back, something about getting off the streets I think, but I missed most of it.
By this time I had reached my car and was starting the engine - it was the quickest way to get to them. After that it all happened so quickly. I glimpsed men on the rooftops, half seen from the corner of my eye as I shoved the car into gear; just two or three shadows moving quickly. Then the crack and splutter of gunfire. Hemeh was lifted a foot in the air and sent spinning backwards. Nadi was up and running toward him. Then he too was caught in the hail of bullets, sudden blotches of red perforating his shoulders to throw him face down in the dust. I slewed the car across the road with some crazy notion of putting it between Nadi and the line of fire from the rooftops, but I need never have bothered. Hemeh was dead when I got there and Nadi was dying fast. I propped him up, hugging him in the wild hope of trying to save him. But my first glance had been right. At least three bullets had passed through his chest and blood pumped out in gushes. Just once he looked at me, a moment's flickering recognition in his fading eyes. "Haleem - and Negib." It was all he said. I nodded and promised to take care of them and his eyes brightened, but then went so dim he might have been blind. He tried to smile, but blood spurted from his lips like vomit. Then, thankfully, he was gone.
Haleem ran all the way. She either stumbled or threw herself into the dust beside me, her arms reaching for her dead father, cradling his shattered body against her breast. I watched some of his blood transfer itself to her white blouse and felt my heart break at her sobbing. Doors opened up and down the street and people scurried to help. I looked up at the rooftops, deserted now, just empty parapets, so much white stone against a cloudless blue sky. The incident was over. It had lasted all of two minutes - three at the most.
I suppose I took over that afternoon. I remember carrying Nadi's frail body back to his villa. Every step of that fifty yard walk is etched in my memory. Neighbours carried Hemeh between them while others supported Haleem and tried to comfort her. Relatives were fetched from far and wide and half an hour later Haleem's younger brother Negib returned from some guard post or other. He was seventeen then, big and strong, an uncomplicated boy whose proudest possession was his black moustache which had taken six months to grow. Helplessly I watched his solemn eyes fill with tears and his body shake with grief. But not all were so quiet, and the villa groaned with wails of grief for hours afterwards.
By evening most of the mourners had returned to their homes and families. The men were needed on and off during the night to stand their turn on guard duty. I forget who suggested I stay the night, but I suppose it was logical enough. Someone had to watch over the bereaved and I was the only non-combatant. So eventually I closed the door after the last of them and let the silence of the house dose over me. Haleem and Negib had retired to darkened rooms to nurse their personal miseries, and the bodies of Nadi and Hemeh lay in state in the next room, washed and cleaned and ready for the funeral in the morning.
By ten I had finished the whiskey Nadi would have offered me had he been able to and, feeling drained and worn out with the hopelessness of it all, I went up to bed. Crossing the landing outside Haleem's door I hesitated, drawn by the sound of her weeping. There was so much pain and loneliness in those sobs, so much suffering and sorrow, like a child's misery, defenceless and hurt, vulnerable and alone. I had to comfort her. She was face down on the bed, still in her bloodstained clothes. I bathed her face and stroked her hair and held her. Words would have been an intrusion even if I had trusted myself to speak. So I held her and let her cling to me. She cried for a long time, but gradually her sobs became interspersed with long periods of silence. At one time I thought she had fallen asleep, and I began to ease from the bed, but her arms gripped me with all the urgency of somebody drowning. It was as if she was scared to lose contact, or perhaps she was just terrified of facing the hours of darkness alone. So I stayed.
When I awoke, pale shadows were squeezing under the shutters and Haleem was moving gently in my arms. Her blouse had come undone and my hand was inside the silk, cupping her breast and feeling her trembling response. There was no plan to it - no seduction - no conquest. Just an overwhelming sense of relief as our hands removed clothes and our bodies joined our minds in a state of union.
Was that blasphemy? Was that disrespect for my dead friend and his murdered son? To make love together on her bed, in his house, for the one and only time in our lives. Was it wrong to seek release from the agonising terrors of those last few hours? I've asked myself a hundred times, but never have I believed that one single act deserved such terrible consequences.
Neither of us heard the door swing open. There was no sound, no movement other than those we made ourselves. Just a growing light flooding in from the open door. Haleem stirred under me, her legs splayed, our bodies still moist, hearts pounding and my chest heavy on her breast. And Negib stood framed in the opening, his face contorted with misery.
"Whore!" he screamed. "Fucking British whore!"
I can hear him now. Full of outraged suffering. His father and brother killed and now this - the final betrayal. He threw himself at us, punching and kicking, wanting to hurt her every bit as much as me. I had to stop him. Not to harm him, God knows he'd been hurt enough, but just to stop him. Otherwise he would have gouged her eyes out. It was a nightmare, wrestling with Negib, trying to calm him, Haleem weeping in the background with a sheet hurriedly pulled from the bed to cover her nakedness. Finally he threw me to the floor and stormed from the room and out of the villa. But not before he had ripped the cover from her trembling hands and spat at her. She stood shaking like a leaf, weeping, his spit running down the side of her face as the front door crashed shut behind him.
Negib missed the funeral. There were questions of course, and dark looks, and afterwards the uncles moved one of their number into Nadi's villa, so I was free to return to the hotel. I felt disgraced and sick and baffled, and my mind was spinning because so much had happened so quickly. But Haleem wanted me to leave, I sensed it, so I went.
Back at the Imperial I concentrated on getting drunk. I would have succeeded too - but for the Jews. A Jew in the bar at the Imperial was a rarity, but two of them joined me as soon as I got there. I told them to shove off, leave me alone, let me drown myself in whiskey. But no matter how I insulted them they stayed their ground, all the time talking quietly and gently of Nadi. Other Jews joined them, all come to praise their dead friend. A steady procession, Jew after Jew. They gave me the words they were afraid to give to his family for fear they would be shot down by the extremists - Arab extremists or Jewish extremists, Arab and Jewish extremists. It was the Jews who put me to bed in the end, because despite their entreaties I had put away more than a bottle of Johnny Walker. They got me to my room and helped get my clothes off. Then I fell asleep, to dream of Haleem and Nadi, Hemeh and Negib - and the whole sorry mess that was Palestine.
CHAPTER THREE
"Politicians are the same all over. They promise to build a bridge even where there is no river.” Nikita Khrushchev, comment to reporters, Glen Cove, N.Y., October 1960
The Third Day
0700 Thursday
Liam Reilly had forgotten to mention the rain. But it had rained all night and as dawn lit the creek with a flickering light it was still raining. She stood at the window and watched enough shadow lift to reveal the fishermen's cottages on either side, single-story buildings with high pitched roofs and ghostly white faces looking down to the boathouses.
She shivered suddenly and wondered why? True she was quite naked but the room was warm, peat still smouldered in the hearth, wisps of smoke still floated up the chimney. Perhaps it was Ireland? Perhaps it always rained here? Twenty-four hours and every minute raining. Perhaps it was last minute nerves? They were so close now, so near the end of the road. Two years she had waited for this. Her chance to free an entire people - her chance to avenge the Catastrophe - to return to the Palestinians that land stolen by the Jews. listening and watching and learning as Abou had put the Plan together. She glanced to the bed where he lay sleeping. He was two people she thought - three really. Abou her lover who could make an animal of her whenever he chose, who made her crave the things he did to her and made her do in return. And then Abou the planner - the cold remote man who had listened to her dreams for the restoration of Palestine and given her the means to bring about a miracle. One single act that would make the world gasp at its audacity.
She smiled as she imagined her triumph. It was the prospect of that which made her shiver. To succeed where so many had failed. To create unity while others squabbled. The bitterness between Arafat and George Habash, the ineffectiveness of the Palestinian Communist Party, the futile PFLP killings, the endless accommodations offered by Sadat. And above all the never-ending whining of the mullahs who wanted nothing more than to turn the clock back to an Islamic Brotherhood. And all the time Arab fighting Arab as the Jew stood back and laughed.
Abou stirred and rolled over on his back. She thought about the third Abou, the even more shadowy Abou, the almost invisible Abou. Abou the non-Arab, Abou the agent of a foreign power, Abou who would rip her tongue from its roots if ever he thought she would betray the little she knew. Oh, cruel, cunning, vicious, wonderful Abou - as if I ever would?
A sudden commotion outside the door spun her round and the guard's shouted warning was drowned by Reilly's throaty bellow as the door burst open and the big man's bulk filled the entrance.
His eyes focused on her body silhouetted against the grey morning light. "Well now? And isn't that a fine sight to start the day with?" His gaze flicked sideways to where Abou reached under his pillow. "Leave that, Mister, if you know what's good for you." Abou froze. Reilly looked back to the girl at the window. His lips curled as his eyes explored her body. "And they call you a terrorist? What do you do to them my pretty puss - screw them to death?"
She fought the urge to cover herself and stifled her angry words. Instinct overcame fear, or perhaps merged with it, so that she shifted her weight, slowly and deliberately, moving her feet a yard apart and turning to face him squarely.
"Sometimes," she said, smiling. "When they're man enough." Even in that poor light she saw his eyes widen. She laughed. "Well, Big Reilly - did you just come to look or are you man enough to touch?"
She heard the sharp intake of breath and in the same split second saw the gun in Abou's hand.
"Cassidy's been taken," Big Reilly ignored the gun. "At two this morning."
"Taken?" Abou shifted his weight onto one elbow, the revolver still in his hand.
"By the police. They've got him in the Holy Cross Jail."
"Will he talk?"
"No," Reilly growled with more conviction than he felt. "Anyway, it's next to nothing he knows."
But it was the next to nothing that worried Abou. "Why Cassidy? Are they on to us?"
"Impossible. It's routine harassment. He's arrested on suspicion that's all."
"Suspicion of what?"
"Of sympathising with the movement - of being one of us." Reilly's huge shoulders rose in a shrug. "Police intimidation, that's what it is. They've been this way ever since Ewart Biggs got his. It's the Dail's way of humouring Westminster."
"Will they hold him?" Abou asked.
"Maybe. They could do - under the new regulations anything up to fourteen days."
"Fourteen days!" Suzy was halfway into her robe. "But we need him on Saturday."
"And isn't that what I came to tell you," Reilly snapped. "I'm away to Cork now to find a replacement. And that'll not be easy. Not with him their most trusted driver."
"But is it possible?" Suzy asked.
"We made a bargain didn't we?" Reilly said angrily. "The guns you've delivered are no damn good without the—"
"You'll get the ammunition," Abou cut in. "When we get our driver - and his lorry."
The girl watched the two men stare at each other with open hostility. Big Reilly still nursed a suspicion or two about his brother's death. That was obvious. But what good were suspicions when Reilly only ranked as a local commander and had to take orders from Dublin? And Dublin said to cooperate. Abou had seen to that.
"So we'll send our cargo to Pallas Glean today," Abou said, "as arranged."
"Reckon so," Reilly nodded. "The truck will load up in an hour's time. Four of your men travel in the. back - the rest wait here, indoors and out of sight, until I get back."
"And when will that be?" Suzy asked, the robe gaping open as she moved to the bed.
"Tonight some time," Reilly eyed her carefully.
She let the robe slip from her shoulders and stood facing him. "Well," she smiled, "we'll see you then. And if you could knock next time - I'd be grateful."
Reilly left the room, scowling furiously and slamming the door to drown her mocking laughter. Abou pulled the girl down on top of him, gasping with pain and pleasure as her hands reached under the sheets to cover his body. Minutes later he was delighting in the only pleasure he allowed himself since meeting her. The pleasure of making her body respond to his wishes. But even in those moments of mounting ecstasy, one part of his body remained aloof. That part of his mind which was ever the Plan. Even as he entered her, his thoughts were miles away - at a Health Farm on an island in the Mediterranean. Then Suzy's desires demanded all of his concentration and for a while he gave it to her.
1030 Thursday
Ross was very angry. I had seen him throw tantrums before, but they were giggling fits compared to this. His face fairly tensed with fury and a line of spittle edged his lower lip. He thumped the desk with his tin fist, so that the coffee cups tinkled with fright and the ash rearranged itself in the ashtray. I wondered if he knew he was foaming at the mouth.
"It came this morning," he snapped. "In the ordinary mail - two hours ago."
I looked at the letter on the other side of the desk. More than a letter really, a couple of dozen sheets of A4 creased once down their length the way lawyers fold writs. The envelope next to it was heavyweight manila and I could see Ross's name and Spitari's address scrawled across it in green ink. The writing looked vaguely familiar, but I was on the wrong side of the desk to see it properly.
Ross was still boiling. "Addressed to me! Here!"
"That would explain it," I said.
Elizabeth walked behind his chair and began massaging his shoulders. She stared at me reproachfully from above his head, and my eyes bobbed like cork floats, choosing whose face to focus on. They chose Elizabeth's because she was prettier.
Ross said, "We've been penetrated."
I leered at Elizabeth and said, "I bet," but she didn't even blush.
"It's from her," Ross said.
"Her?" I said absently. Elizabeth's eyes fascinated me. They really were the greenest eyes I had ever seen. Liquid pools of green. A man could drown in them. If he broke the ice first.
"That bitch of a goddaughter of yours!"
"Suzy?" I snapped out of it. It was after ten in the morning and the three of us were alone in Ross's office. I had slept late after being dragged up and down memory lane for half the night by LeCl
erc and the doctor. "You've heard from Suzy?"
"I just said so, didn't I?"
"Is she all right?"
"She didn't say," he said drily. "It wasn't a postcard wishing I was there."
"Where's there?"
"Libya. Postmarked Tripoli, yesterday morning." He pulled a face to show his disgust. "Gaddafi country - wouldn't it just have to be?"
I was still frowning, trying to make sense of it. Not that Suzy in Libya was any more surprising than me in Malta really. The whole thing had me punch-drunk.
"One mad dog," Ross growled. "That's all it needs. And they don't come madder than Gaddafi." He seemed a shade calmer, the result of Elizabeth's soothing touch no doubt. I wished she would have a go at me, my nerve ends were like frayed shirt cuffs. Ross cupped his head in his hands and squeezed flesh into his eye sockets until he looked like Confucius. "I'll tell you a story about Gaddafi," he said. "It happened back in '73. Israel was twenty-five years old and throwing a party, so five hundred British and American Jews boarded the Q.E.2. and sailed to Haifa to celebrate. Remember?"
"Yes." I could even guess which story he was going to tell me.
"The papers were full of it," he jeered. "Remember the headlines? Bomb scare aboard Q.E.2. Well, we swept that boat cleaner than a Hilton hotel room and found nothing. So the trip went ahead. Everyone had a ball in Haifa, returned to Southampton, wished each other mazel tov and went on their way. The real story didn't leak out till later." He took a long pull on his orange juice. "How two submarines seconded to the Libyan Navy tracked the cruise ship all the way from Gib. Submarines with enough torpedo power to sink Cunard's ship twice over - skippered by Egyptians but under the direct command of Gaddafi. It was Gaddafi who ordered them to sink the Q.E.2." He laughed. "Can you imagine those submarine commanders? Anyway, they signalled Base for confirmation and Sadat did his number - told them to get the hell out of there and get back to harbour." He scowled, shaking his head from side to side. "Could have been another Titanic even worse - could have started another war."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 8