Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  After a time Farida took Suzy to the bedroom, while Idris and I talked. He seemed suspicious, even hostile, which surprised me until I tried to see it from his point of view. Legally I suppose they had no claim on Suzy, and if I challenged their right to keep her what would happen then - in a camp with too many mouths to feed?

  I tried to explain what a good friend Nadi had been, and how much I had liked the whole family. How they had helped and befriended me when I had arrived as a young man strange to their land. I explained the promise made to the father and something of the debt owed to the daughter. Idris listened politely, his eyes watchful, warily waiting for the trap. There was no trap. They wanted to go to France, I would help them; they needed money, I would arrange for some. After a while Farida could no longer bear to listen from the bedroom and she rejoined us. She stood next to Idris, one hand on his shoulder, the other smoothing Suzy's hair. Three pairs of eyes watched me, doubt and anxiety written all over their faces. I found myself wishing Negib had stayed instead of leaving so soon after the introductions. Negib carried authority, not just with them, but throughout the entire camp. I had seen young men stiffen with respect, just at the sight of him. Negib was PLO - or the camp's equivalent.

  Idris and I talked for an hour and then I returned to Beirut, not knowing whether he had accepted or rejected my offer. But I spent the rest of the day organising my end of things as a show of good faith, hoping that when next we met we could make plans to get them out of the place. Money was no real problem, the paper didn't pay a fortune but I lived well and mostly on expenses and was able to bank a good part of my salary each month. And the United Nations Relief and Works Agency officials were quite helpful when I went to see them, so by the following morning it was all set as far as I was concerned. All the Muhairs had to do was to pack their pathetic bundle of possessions and come with me. So the next day I returned to that hell-hole not knowing what to expect, but determined to get them out, one way or the other.

  Suzy saw me when I was fifty yards away. She dashed into the shack and emerged a second later dragging Farida by the hand. Initially Farida looked astonished to see me, then her expression changed to something like fear. She clutched the child to her body and then pulled her back through the open door. It was as if a signal had sounded. Dozens of Arabs emerged from doors and alleyways to fall into step alongside me, jostling violently, knocking me one way and another - not punching or kicking, not even looking at me, pretending that any contact was quite accidental. But twenty yards from the shack the pressure about me had grown so great that I was lashing out just to keep from being trampled underfoot. Then someone shouted and the whole performance stopped as abruptly as it started, bodies sprang back from mine as if I carried the plague. Ahead of me Negib stood in the doorway and beckoned me in.

  "What the bloody hell was that all about?" I demanded angrily.

  He smiled. "Palestinian unity Harry, that's all."

  Idris emerged from the other room and I could see Farida and Suzy crouched by the curtain between the beds. Without any preamble Negib said: "Idris told me about yesterday. Perhaps he got it all wrong - why don't you tell me what's on your mind?"

  So I did and he let me finish before he smiled. "Poor Harry, how simple life is for you."

  "What's complicated? I've spoken to the United Nations people and—"

  "No, Harry!" Negib flashed with a show of the quick temper I had seen in my room back at the Normandy. "No damn you, no! You're as bad as the rest! Will you people never learn? You want to talk about the welfare of the Palestinians? Okay that's fine- you come and talk to us. Us understand, not the UN! Not the bloody Americans! Not the fucking Red Cross - but US, US, US! Understand?"

  He trembled as he shouted and spittle flecked his lips. Next to him Idris looked sick, and in the back room Farida buried her head in her hands.

  I allowed a long minute of silence to pass before I said coldly, "All I understand Negib is that I want Suzy out of here. And Idris and Farida. And you - if you'll let me help. It's as simple as that."

  He sneered. "You'd like to think so, wouldn't you? You and your kind. What is it, Harry - some newspaper stunt? Something to run a headline about? Capitalist press saves young girl from fate worse than death. Is that it?"

  "Oh, for God's sake! Don't be so ridiculous!" I was angry enough to be on the point of striking him when the knife appeared in his hand. And that cooled me down like a bucket of water. A crude wooden table separated us, and behind me the Arabs crowded into the open doorway, listening to every word we said. I calmed down and tried to make the best of it. "All right Negib - just who the hell should I ask?"

  "It's been decided," he turned to Idris. "Tell him."

  Idris looked like a whipped dog. "We didn't think you'd be back," he began apologetically. "Farida and I - neither of us thought you'd be—"

  "Tell him!" Negib shouted. "Tell him what's been decided."

  Clutching the back of a chair for support Idris threw a quick glance at the bedroom before turning to face me. He licked his lips nervously. "We would like to go with you, Mr. Brand. We would like to be free - free of this place - but most of all we'd like to return to Katamon."

  I stared at him, not understanding. Next to him Negib shouted, "Or Idris - or - tell him the alternative."

  Idris seemed on the verge of collapse. "Farida's family come from Beersheba," he said softly. "If we could return there—"

  "But that's impossible," I interrupted. "Both places are out of the question. Idris you know that's impossible. That's Israel now. I could never get—"

  "Never get?" Negib shouted. "Never get? Never get what Harry? Permission? Permission from the Jews? Permission for a family to return to their homes?"

  "Idris," I said urgently. "I was in Beersheba some time ago. It's changed. Many of the old houses have been pulled down. There are Israeli settlements there now - you wouldn't even recognise the place."

  "There's still the land!" Negib shouted. "They can't change that, can they? It's our land - our land - our land!"

  They were all chanting it, shouting at the tops of their voices. The noise was deafening in that little room. Only Idris remained mute, misery and despair written all over his face.

  I shouted to make myself heard above the din, "Idris, I can get you into France. It's what you wanted isn't it? Think of your wife - think of Suzy - eight years old and never seen the inside of a schoolroom, in danger of—"

  Negib gestured with his hand and the mob behind me stopped chanting as if in response to a conductor's baton. "You've had your answer, Harry," he snarled. "Now get out!"

  His arm swung upwards in a sudden curve, the knife still in his hand.

  I heard the hissed collective intake of breath from the doorway behind me as his arm came over and down like a whiplash - and the knife buried its blade into the bare tabletop. In the moment of quiet which followed I could hear Farida sobbing in the back room, while the child uttered small whimpers of comfort.

  Helplessly, Idris groped for the words of apology. "We never thought you'd be back - I'm so sorry Mr. Brand - so very sorry."

  Dazed and shaken I turned away. A passage opened in the sea of bodies and I passed through it and out into the fresh air.

  What could I do? I had heard the stories of course. Of how the PLO and the PFLP and others were tightening their grip on the camps. Of how the refugees were refusing to be integrated with the host countries. Of the doctrine which preached that the refugees would lose political negotiating power if the camps were broken up. But for God's sake, we were only talking about one family! About the future of an eight-year-old child. A future instead of rotting the rest of her life away in a camp. The rest of her life? God Almighty, was that really possible?

  I spent what was left of the day in abortive meetings with the UNRWA officials, seeking help, action, advice - but while they had been prepared to bend the rules for me before, now their hands were tied. I even consulted a local lawyer who gave me a lot of guff about
protracted litigation with only a fifty-fifty chance of getting custody of Suzy at the end of it. Hell, was that what I wanted? I was in no position to raise a child. And there was no doubting the love and affection she was getting from Idris and Farida. In the evening I even talked it over with a few of the press boys back at the Normandy, but of course they were no help - so finally I pushed off to bed, bewildered by the whole turn of events and feeling like a beaten man. Then, at one o'clock in the morning, the telephone rang.

  "Mr. Brand?"

  "Who is this?"

  "Mr. Brand, can you get down to the camp right away? There's been - there's been an accident."

  It took me forty-five minutes of fast driving and the officials were waiting at the main gates when I arrived, three anxious faced men who hurried me into a tiny office at the reception compound. A demonstration was taking place in the camp itself and even with the doors and windows closed in the office, the noise from outside was deafening. All that chanting and singing of "It's our land - our land - our land," over and over again.

  The senior official wasted no time in preparing me for the shock. "Idris Muhair was murdered two hours ago. We can only guess what happened, and at the moment our guess is that he changed his mind about the answer he gave you."

  "Murdered?" I was stunned. "And they killed him for that?"

  He shouted to make himself heard above the racket from outside. "We have removed the woman Farida and the child from the main camp. For their own protection, you understand - anything could happen tonight. We've had incidents before, but none as bad as this."

  "What can I do?" I shouted. "Is there anything—?"

  "Farida Muhair and the child should be removed to another camp, Mr. Brand. Any offer to provide transport would be accepted at once." Without batting an eye he added, "Of course, you would be in a position of trust - but if you fail to arrive at the other camp—" The noise outside drowned the rest of his words. Then he shouted, "In a day or two we should report the matter, but meanwhile our priority must be to restore order here." He nodded energetically, as if convincing himself. "Yes, that must be our priority."

  Farida and Suzy were in the other room, both unconscious. Alarmed I said, "They're all right, aren't they? Shouldn't we get a doctor—"

  "Sedated, Mr. Brand. Both are in shock - as would anyone be who watched what happened to Idris Muhair."

  "They watched?"

  "Such killings are ceremonial, Mr. Brand. Idris Muhair had his testicles ripped off before he died. It is customary for the family to be made to witness these rites."

  1700 Thursday

  Beyond the trees the road would dip slightly, still six hundred feet above sea level, but as if anticipating the sweeping descent to Conlaragh four miles away. Meanwhile, the old Ford wheezed up the incline like an old man climbing a flight of stairs.

  Reilly gazed out from the passenger seat and thought about Mick Malone. Sure, wasn't it best this way - for all of them? Best for Molly and best for Mick himself - to go like this instead of lingering on for months at the cottage hospital, with her at his bedside morning, noon and night, watching the strength ebb out of him an inch at a time. And best for the boy too? Reilly exhaled and finally put the thought from his mind - there was a devil of a lot to do before that and hardly the time left to do it.

  At the crest of the hill the panorama of the creek was spread out before them. Reilly fumbled in the glove compartment for the binoculars, while the driver checked the rear view mirror, making sure that the road behind them was as empty as a travel poster. Then he cut the engine and bumped off the road, sliding through a gap in the bushes like a rabbit down its hole.

  From the cover of the trees Reilly swept the binoculars through a wide arc, starting at the mouth of the estuary and going through the village to reach the Inishmore boat-yard on the other side. Twice he paused to adjust the Zeiss lenses, and both times he began his search back at the estuary to make sure that nothing was overlooked. He ticked off the signs, one by one. Old MacCaffety fishing by the blighted elms on the east bank, wearing a yellow waterproof which shone like a beacon in the fading afternoon light. Then a mile upstream to Callan's Butcher's Shop. Sure, and there it was, the red rosette stuck in the corner of the window like Callan had won it this week instead of a year ago at the County Show. Then along to the boathouses, with their wide black roofs and Inishmore painted over them in letters a foot or more high, and nets spread out in the yard as innocent as you please, but a sign for all that. Finally he searched the row of white-washed cottages until he found a back window open to the chill air. And then he knew that all was well at Conlaragh. A police raid might have been swift enough to stop the boys from taking the nets in, but one of them would have got to that window and closed it. And the bell would have sounded in Callan's cold-store for him to take the rosette from the window. And from where MacCaffety fished he saw the whole waterfront. The sight of even one police car would have sent him scurrying away.

  Reilly walked back to the road, checked that it was empty of traffic, waved the driver back quickly and they resumed their journey as if nothing had happened. And wasn't that the truth? Reilly would no more arrive in Conlaragh without reading the signs than cross the border to join the Ulster Constabulary.

  Once at the creek he sent the driver away to park the car, then walked quickly across to the cottages, entering by the back way and checking his men on guard duty as he did so. This time the door to their room was open, so knocking never came into it. The man was studying papers by the light from the window, while the girl sat watching him. Both were dressed in sweaters and trousers and they turned to face him as he entered. He caught sight of her cigarette. "Smoking again? It'll be the death of you, that."

  "Just so long as you aren't, Big Reilly."

  Despite everything he laughed. "You've a bold tongue, Suzy Katoul. I'll say that for you."

  She mimicked his Irish brogue. "And you've a bold enough look in your eye to catch the wrong side of it."

  He grinned and sat on the bed. "It's a good mood I'm in. You'll not be scolding when you hear the news I've got. It's all set for Saturday. The plan stays. I've fixed your driver for you."

  "The police let him go?" Abou asked sharply from the window.

  "No, but I've got a replacement."

  Abou frowned. Any change in the Plan had to be considered carefully, even a replacement driver. Cassidy had been vetted. He was a single man with no relatives to be held hostage. Besides, Cassidy still in jail was worrying enough by itself. What if he talked and told what little he knew?

  "It's a good man I've got for you," Reilly said firmly. "One of the best in Ireland. You'll be proud just to know him."

  Abou's attention sharpened. "This man, he's a friend of yours?"

  "The oldest I've got," Reilly said proudly.

  Abou heard the pride and wondered about it. "He understands the risks?"

  "Naturally."

  "And he's prepared to be smuggled into the States when the job's over? He knows he'll never see Ireland again?"

  "He'll never see Ireland again," Reilly's face darkened with sadness.

  Abou concentrated, focusing on Reilly's words and manner, analysing the change in his attitude. Something had made the job more personal, that much was obvious. "Why?" he asked aloud. "Why do you want your oldest friend shipped halfway round the world?"

  "He'll not be moving anywhere," Reilly said softly. "Not after Germany. He's going to die there." A sad smile flickered at his lips. "Play your cards right and you've another martyr on your hands. How would that suit you - a good Irish Catholic willing to die for the Deir Yassin Memorial?"

  Yes, Abou thought - that might suit very well - very well indeed. He put the papers to one side, reminding himself that the problem of Cassidy was still to be dealt with and allowing none of his rising excitement to sound in his voice.

  "Very well, Big Reilly," he said. "You'd better tell me about this man. Everything about him."

  1900 Thursday<
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  "Farida Muhair and the girl Suzette were stateless persons," LeClerc said. "How did you get them into France, Mr. Brand?"

  "Does it matter?"

  Elizabeth crossed her legs. "Everything matters Harry. Everything and anything."

  I sighed. "Look, you can buy anything you want in Lebanon. You know that. Passports, papers—"

  "You took a risk," LeClerc said.

  "Not really. I fixed Farida up with the necessary papers and then simply escorted her on her journey. There was nothing to connect me with the transaction. Anyway, if they were caught what could the authorities do to them? Send them back to the camps? That's not a risk - not for desperate people."

  "So you went to Paris?" Elizabeth said.

  I nodded. "Farida had friends there who could help, and anyway Paris had the biggest Arab emigre population in Europe. Over a million, even with the Algerian business going on."

  "And then?"

  The early years were uneventful I suppose. A child in Paris, growing up without a father, but with a woman she believed to be her mother. Suzy had a lot of schooling to catch up on, but she was a bright and more than willing pupil. Her IQ was a hundred and forty-eight if you believe IQ tests. Farida had taught her French and English and she just soaked up other languages, adding German in no time flat and even passable Spanish. I was delighted - and relieved that the camp had left no apparent scars. She was quiet and studious, introverted if you like, but she could laugh out loud when things amused her and join in a conversation if it interested her. Farida was devoted to her, of course, and the two of them got along well together. I used to visit two or three times a year, and for me it was like going home. My parents had died by then, and I had no close family anywhere else, so after a while their flat in Paris became a kind of base for me - it felt like home. Money wise they were okay, Farida worked as an interpreter for a French engineering firm with contracts in the Middle East, and what with her income and the allowance I provided, they were comfortable enough.