Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

  In October 1974, the Arab League at its meeting in Rabat, Morocco endorsed the PLO as the sole legitimate representative of the Palestinian people. One month later, U.N. General Assembly Resolution 3236 endorsed the right of the Palestinian people to independence and sovereignty, granted the PLO observer status at the United Nations and reaffirmed to the Palestinian people the inalienable right to return to the homes and property from which they had been displaced.

  In the month between these events, Emily Desai and Tony Shallal met in Le Bristol Hotel on Madame Curie Street in the heart of Beirut. Le Bristol had catered to the world’s elite for several decades. Ideally it was where the most sought after people visiting Beirut congregated to forget the terrors of the outside world. The Lobby Bar, where the couple sat, offered an array of fine French cognacs and as Tony discovered, one of the most extensive cigar bars in the world. Later that evening they dined in the southern part of the city. They ate raw kibbeh, made with extra fine lamb mixed with cumin, onion and mint, fresh creamy hummus with soujouk sausage and spinach filled pastries, all of which had been specially prepared for Shallal by the wife of an old friend who owned a small, darkly-lit eatery in the Palestinian community. The couple feasted with his old friends, sharing gossip and legends of the new leaders in the camps on the edge of the city. Revolution was in the air and the owner, whose name was Fouad, was convinced that when the fighting did break out it would be the end of the life that he and his family had enjoyed for decades. Long known as the intellectual capital of the Arab world, Beirut boasted more universities and centers of Arabic culture than any other city in the region and there was no doubt that the key to its universal success as the largest commercial and tourist center in the Middle East was its ethnic diversity.

  Like every seaport in the world it had its sleazy side, exotic nightlife, cheap bars, prostitutes and every possible kind of perversion. Whatever you wanted was available for a price. But Beirut had a certain dignity not to be found anywhere else, a pride in each community and an acceptance of the rights of others. These was a peaceful coexistence between Christians and Muslims, with only occasional flare ups, and an overall respect for privacy had been sustained until the onset of the Arab-Israeli war of 1967. Tensions escalated with the coming of Palestinian refugees, the Lebanese Government’s attempts to suppress rising Muslim militancy and Israeli attacks on Palestinian camps. With the beginning of civil war only months away, Tony Shallal and Emily enjoyed what little hospitality remained in the southern part of the city.

  After dinner they strolled around the fashionable Verdun area which boasted ultra-chic bars packed with young wealthy Saudis. The couple found a lively looking bar on Rashid Karamu Street. It looked by contrast startlingly European in design and offered French wines, German beer and several brands of good Scotch. This place, Shallal told Emily, clearly made most of its money during the International Festival at the Baalbeck Roman Temple where for decades tourists came to visit during July and August. The world’s finest performers, people like Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald, Jean Cocteau and The Royal Ballet with Nureyev and Fonteyn had all appeared there and when one could not find accommodation at the Hotel Palmyra, one sought out the more fashionable places in the city of Beirut. In high tourist season places like this euro-chic bar were very popular. Emily, recalling her last stay in Beirut was intrigued that such a place existed. When she thought of Beirut she recalled only Ghulam’s oppression of her spirit and the long arduous labor she had suffered birthing Mason. Nightclubs and bars were not top of the list of her memories.

  Once inside, Emily could not help but notice how loud the young Saudi men were, as opposed to the rest of the clientele. They acted, Emily commented, as though they owned the world. Their clothes were European and magnificently tailored. Their hands, rapidly moving in exaggerated gestures, were obviously manicured, with fingers sporting diamond rings and expensive Swiss watches and thick gold bracelets on their wrists. They reminded Emily of peacocks. There was one who looked vaguely familiar.

  “I’ve seen him before, Shallal. Who is that?”

  “Which one?” He turned around to face the group of young men across the bar now laughing exaggeratedly and pushing each other off the bar stools, oblivious to the rest of the bar’s clientele.

  “Tall, skinny one. He seems quieter than the others. Actually he looks a little embarrassed.”

  “Ahh yes, I see him now. Actually he looks a little like one of the bin Ladens.”

  “That’s it! That’s who it is. The quiet one, Osama.”

  “Interesting family, you know,” Shallal continued, still blatantly staring at the group with disgust. “Best builders in the Arab world. Tons of cash of course. I understand one of them partied so hard in Beirut that he had to do penance in the desert to appease his father. Old man bin Laden was a very conservative Wahhabi and was somewhat disenchanted, as I understand it, with the rumors surrounding his sons.”

  “I know. I did a research project for a client who was after a contract with them.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Sorry, I can’t discuss my clients with spooks. I’d get killed for less.”

  “Very funny, Amina. What are you having to drink?”

  “Scotch on the rocks.”

  “Good grief, Amina. This is Beirut!”

  “Do they serve scotch?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then that’s what I’m having. I’m Euro-trash, remember?”

  “One Scotch on the rocks and one demitasse Arabic.”

  “Coffee, Shallal? Not the usual virginal mango juice?”

  “One of us has to keep sane, I suppose. Just in case the place gets raided by the taste police.”

  “Ah yes. I hear that’s going on all over the Middle East. Men with long beards and equally lengthy robes carrying sticks to beat up women who are unaccompanied or flaunting their Euro-trashiness. Bloody sickening! All bastards, the lot of them! Terrorizing people.”

  “That, my dear, is our ancestry. Oppressive men, intolerable religion and suppressed women,” Shallal handed her the scotch while he sipped his Arabic coffee in its tiny cup.

  “I’ll drink to that,” she said and raised her glass.

  The noise from the other side of the room had reached annoying proportions. Two girls had joined the group of five or six men. Both of the girls were Asian, probably imported labor from the Philippines. The girls weren’t bad looking, but they were, as Shallal had pointed out at first sight, “bar flies.”

  “Now this should get interesting,” he whispered, leaning across their booth table. The girls were sliding towards the quiet one who was now dead center between the two. One of them was smiling down on him, the other massaging the back of the handsome young man seated next to him. The least attractive girl put her head on the shoulder of the tall man, the one Emily had thought was Osama bin Laden. Emily noticed that the moment this happened, he recoiled as if touched by a cattle prod.

  “Now that’s telling,” she whispered to Shallal, “He’s obviously ill at ease in this situation.”

  The girl was now fondling the back of his neck. He jerked away looking angry and said something to her. She sneered at him in reply. The man seated next to him started to laugh, reveling in Bin Laden’s discomfort and embarrassment. Before another word could be said a fight broke out between the two. Their friends leapt off their barstools and divided the two men instantly.

  Without realizing it, Emily and Shallal had automatically gotten up from their seats and darted towards the foray. Emily reached Bin Laden first.

  “Are you alright?” she asked, “Do you need medical help?”

  The young man stared at her. Seeing what appeared to be a fashionably dressed European woman addressing him in elegant Arabic obviously surprised him further. “No Madam, I am a little shaken, nothing more,” he replied in perfect English.

  “Would you like to sit down with us?” The others had taken the argume
nt outside and made no attempt to come back for their wounded comrade.

  Shallal ordered a glass of brandy and asked for a bowl of warm water and some napkins.

  “Here, you’re not in shock or anything? It’s cognac. It’ll steady your nerves.”

  “No really, I’m alright.” His large expressive eyes fixed on Emily. “You speak Arabic well. This is most unusual for a European.”

  “My father’s ancestors were Moroccan Berbers but he lived most of his life in Cairo. He’s an antique dealer. My mother is English. I’m comfortable in both cultures.”

  “Alas, I am not, but I admit that I have given it my best attempt. I am Osama bin Laden. You may be familiar with my house.”

  “There is no one in the Middle East who is unfamiliar with the house of bin Laden. They are surely the greatest builders in the Arab world,” Emily added as she ordered coffee for them all, “I am Emily Desai, but my Arab name is Amina and this is Yassir Shallal, my friend and associate.”

  “What are you doing in Beirut?” he asked them, staring intently at Shallal.

  “We are investigating the death of an Afghan man last seen in a training camp outside of the city,” Shallal answered.

  “This man was close to you?” bin Laden asked, staring directly now at Emily, his luminous dark eyes seeming to penetrate her soul.

  “He was my husband.”

  “This must be hard for you. There are many ways to serve God here. One is to bring glory to him. Perhaps your husband died to free us from all of this.” He looked around the bar. “Young Arabs sow their seeds here, wench and propagate, living the high life because they are rich and bored. Then it becomes time to return home and settle down to a more sedate life. The braver ones, like your husband, find a cause on which to base this futile existence. If he has died for our struggle then accept this and honor his memory. I have seen your country Madame. It didn’t impress me. Your people were discontent with their lives. The young women were wild, and of course many of my family members enjoyed this rare opportunity. I found Europe, particularly England, a sad and decadent place. The people, I believe were living on their former glory and their insatiable appetite for material things. They are without hope, Madame. They have no beliefs, and they have turned away from God.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. You talk of God and higher causes but you have just been involved in a fight at a bar over two whores. That’s somewhat far removed from religious practice, if you’ll forgive my pointing it out.”

  “Amina, you insult our guest!”

  “Oh come on Shallal. Mr. Bin Laden here is all of…what, eighteen years old? How much insult penetrates one’s psyche at this age? If my candor offends you, Mr. bin Laden, then I apologize. However, I dislike double standards. You and your friends obviously enjoy western decadence, western alcohol and above all western sexism. You’re really no different from any European teenager, living loud and hard until the parents stop paying the bills or the adolescence ends. What are you going to do later on Mr. bin Laden? Join the family business?”

  “Madame Desai, I am returning soon to Jeddah where I will attend university, study economics and very probably marry a woman from my mother’s family. It is not as easy for me as you imagine. My father was very rich, but also a very religious man with many wives. He was honest, decent and pious. He left a very large family with many sons. My brothers have been educated in Europe and all embrace the western lifestyle. I am, as the British say, their black sheep. For what its worth, my mother Alia was not the first wife or even a favorite. My brothers called her a concubine. She is Syrian and not an Islamic fundamentalist, very well traveled, educated and, you will no doubt enjoy this, she does not wear traditional dress but much prefers Chanel suits, as it seems do you. Not the sort of thing that would endear her or her offspring to the bin Laden family. She is a strong woman and an excellent mother. You see, Madame Desai, our homes are actually run by women, not men, which enabled me to develop a more intellectual side, weaker perhaps in the opinion of my brothers. Their lives were overshadowed by male family members, as befits the children of favorite wives. We on the other hand had more academic freedom, better tutors and learned to appreciate what we had. As for the incident here this evening, it was of no matter or consequence. I am not interested in “soiled” women and told the girl in question precisely that. I will save myself for my wife-to-be and honor her as befits a Muslim man.”

  “What can you tell us about training camps here in Beirut?’ Emily asked him, tiring of the piety he was extolling.

  “Absolutely nothing. I was too young to be involved and I was living in Jedda. But there are people who can help you find out what happened. Two years ago when the fighting started again in Beirut between the Lebanese Army and the Palestinians, the camps were full of freedom fighters from all over the Islamic world. There were many Pakistani and Afghan students who came in to help the Palestinians. We heard about this at our school in Saudi. Even my brothers as far away as the Victorian College in Alexandria knew of this. If you want to know what happened to your husband, stay here and make friends with the local people in the Palestinian quarter. They will help you. As Muslims, they cannot fail to help a widow. It is rather like the Egyptian legend of Isis, is it not? The woman who seeks her husband’s mortal remains, in order to be free of him perhaps?”

  “Perhaps, indeed, Mr. Bin Laden.”

  “I must go, Madame Desai,” he said, bowing respectfully to Tony Shallal.

  “Do stay and have another drink with us.”

  “I do not drink, Madame.”

  “But earlier, I saw you drinking.”

  “Just water, Madame, nothing more. My cousins and brothers all drink and tease me when I refrain. It is harmless. We are young! I wish you luck in your search, Madame. Peace be upon you,” he said, turning toward the door.

  “Ma a Salama,” she replied, “Go without fear.”

  “Ila l-liqa,” he replied with a smile. “Until the next time.” Then he closed the door and was gone.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE

  “Well, that was strange! What do you make of young, ‘I drink no evil’, Mr. Bin Laden?” Emily drained her glass and ordered a third scotch.

  “I think there’s more to him than what we’ve seen at this meeting.”

  “Do you how much he’s worth, Shallal?”

  “Not sure I want to know actually.”

  “That young lad is worth somewhere in the area of two hundred million pounds. Can you believe it? Not only that, but he’s one of the last in line of the relatives. That was a lesser amount!”

  “Christ, and he’s single. I might marry him myself,” grinned Shallal.

  “He might have you, but you’d have to fight me off first. He’s strangely attractive for a teenager. There’s something awfully sad about him. It seems like he’s searching for something the rest of us would be terrified of.”

  ‘He’ll find it. She’s probably about fourteen and waiting to be his first wife as we speak.”

  “No, not that. He’s looking for his greatness. He knows he has a certain power over people. It’s in his eyes. You get lost in them. All great leaders, good or bad have it. Saladin, Napoleon, Rasputin, Hitler even Jesus, if the Nag Hammadi scrolls are correct in their description. They hypnotize, they change color when he speaks or when his emotions vary. Do you know that they’re starting a program in the FBI called the Behavioral Sciences Unit. It’s being developed to familiarize law enforcement with psychological principles. It’s a sort of criminal personality profiling thing. They’re trying to forecast the behavior of a criminal based on the patterns of other criminals in the same situation, I think. It began with studying serial murderers. You know, forensic psychology.”

  “Maybe they should just hire psychics instead.”

  “Seriously, Shallal. It sounds absolutely fascinating,” Emily replied, swigging back her drink to the horror of several men in the bar.

  “I wonder what they’d think of yo
ung Bin Laden,” Emily laughed ominously. “Heed my words, Double-O-Seven. We’ll hear of that boy again. He’ll make his mark on the world.”

  “Oh right, Amina! He’s al Mahdi, come to rescue us. He’ll rule over us, fight our oppressors and unite all Muslims, bringing peace and justice to the world and lead a prayer in Mecca with Isa, sorry, Jesus.”

  “He just might. That’s what the legend says, right? Just before the day of judgment, Al Mahdi, the Islamic guided one will materialize when the believers are oppressed.”

  “And you think the Mahdi is this kid, Amina? The ancient Arab redeemer who’ll save us all?”

  “No. I think he’s probably a psychopath, but very likely when he’s grown up and given that he has a purpose, real or imagined, he may impress the Arab world considerably. Maybe he thinks he’s the Mahdi. Seriously, Shallal, consider this. He’s handsome and rich, with a family that has a proven track record of success and who are internationally known. He’s extraordinarily intelligent, comes across like a gentleman and he has that something that when he speaks, he holds your attention. It’s captivating and bloody near hypnotizes you.”

  “You know something, Amina Desai? You’re weird.”

  “Not just weird Shallal, probably bevied as well.” She got up with difficulty, took a deep breath and steadied herself as she smiled directly in the faces at the outraged Muslims drinking their alcoholic beverages.

  “Fucking hypocrites,” she sneered as she left the bar ahead of Shallal, who was nervously paying the bill and hoping no one would comment on her condition.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO

  After several days of scouring Lebanon’s Palestinian ghettos for information, the only thing the pair could come up with was a Red Cross worker who’d stayed behind after the conflict to organize a first-aid center that subbed as a hospital near Chtaura. The worker told Shallal that she vaguely remembered an Afghan man looking like the photograph he’d presented to her. The man had been blinded in an explosion, she told him, at least that’s what they thought at first. She remembered him because she’d worked in Afghanistan and had learned Dari. They had spoken in Dari most of the time. The man had kept saying that his “darkness” was a blessing and that Allah would give him light again. His blindness was temporary of course, but, she told Shallal, he was horribly scarred down one side of his face as a result of the explosion. Interestingly enough, Shallal thought, the woman mentioned that when he first arrived, things were in such confusion that he might well have been reported as dead. Palestinians had arrived by the truckloads and they didn’t discriminate who was a civilian and who was not, and no records survived the shelling of the days that came after. The Afghani had himself thought he would die. His pain, as she remembered must have been extreme, as there was hardly any morphine left to dispense in local hospitals much less Red Cross outposts. Someone had come in to visit this fellow though, she told Shallal, another Afghan fellow, squat and somewhat crude looking. He brought supplies, medicine and bandages obviously stolen from somewhere. She thought that he might have also brought morphine but she couldn’t be sure. The wounded man had improved in the days that followed, his visitor having cheered him considerably. The second one, she remembered, had stayed and worked very hard in the kitchens and on the temporary wards. He helped out everywhere, almost as though he had a mission. Then just as suddenly as he arrived he left. The wounded one slowly began to heal and as he got better he would talk to the other injured men, often reciting verses from the Holy Qu’ran. The patients gave him the name Abdul-Samad which means ‘Servant of the Eternal’. When he was better, he took his stick and his bag, a small thing that looked like a carpet or saddle bag, nothing like you would see in Lebanon, and just left, walking like a beggar down the road until he vanished. It was, she thought in retrospect, very strange. He acted like he was possessed! The people here talked about Abdul Samad for ages after that. Some said he was a spirit and that he’d died of his injuries but remained with them before he went to paradise just to give them hope for recovery.