by Alan Gold
Eventually a servant entered the chamber and told him that the Caliph would give him an audience. Zakki followed the man and realised that without being ordered or instructed, the guards had pivoted on their heels and were surrounding him in perfect formation.
He walked down seemingly endless corridors, glancing into rooms where important people were meeting and discussing matters of consequence. Yet unlike the arguments and discussions conducted at the House of Wisdom, these conversations were hushed, almost reverential, so that none could overhear what was being said. Nobody even glanced up from their deliberations as Zakki and his guards walked past.
Eventually, they entered a huge hall, the Caliph’s official office, whose open windows faced a garden somehow built within the structure of the house. Zakki, knowing only Jerusalem before coming to Baghdad, had never seen such a construction. It appeared to be outdoors and yet was within the building; it was open to the skies but constrained within the walls of the palace.
What was even more remarkable was that the garden contained a wondrous fountain, its water lapping over a series of statues and rocks until it fell from the height of a tall man onto a large blue pond of water.
Walking around the garden were the most unusual and remarkable birds Zakki had ever seen. Birds that seemed to be wearing crowns on their heads, birds whose feathers were blue and gold, green and yellow. Some stood with their heads bowed to the ground, their massive coloured tails in a huge fan that looked like a painting containing a hundred eyes. Then Zakki looked upwards into the trees and saw monkeys jumping from branch to branch. It seemed to him like the Garden of Eden.
The servant leading him came to a stop at the far end of the hall and Zakki stood there, surrounded by the guardsmen, the vast room before him.
Zakki’s amazement turned to an acute focus as he fixed his gaze on the far end of the room where the Caliph sat on a throne. The slender man looked resplendent in his multi-coloured gowns and his turban emblazoned with enormous white and blue feathers. Of all the colour in the room, and outside in the garden, it was the Caliph whose clothes were the most vivid.
Beside him sat a young boy not more than nine or ten years of age, dressed in the pure white of a Muslim holy man giving way to a cloak of deepest crimson.
Beside the thrones were the important men of the court, advisers to the Caliph, men who would listen to any nuance or gossip if it would advance their wealth or position.
It was these men, in this moment, that Zakki feared. These men were those closest not only to the Caliph but also to his Vizier, Hadir ibn Yussuf ibn Gibreel, the man Zakki had come to denounce.
Nervously, Zakki surveyed the assembly. Though they were dressed almost identically, he couldn’t discern Hadir’s face among all of the others gathered at the feet of the Caliph. The absence of Hadir gave him confidence.
The guard allowed Zakki to walk up to the raised dais where the Caliph sat with the young imam. Zakki looked from right to left and the closer he came to the advisers, the more certain he was that the Vizier wasn’t there. Was it just luck?
As Zakki bowed, the Caliph spoke in a voice of authority and power. ‘You are the doctor that my wife has spoken of? The one who can prevent assaults of the effluvium of the body?’
‘Yes, Great One.’
‘You wish to speak with me?’
‘Yes, Great One.’
‘Well?’
‘Great One, I wish to speak with you about a matter that is for your ears and for the ears of none other.’
There was silence but, with his eyes still lowered to the ground, Zakki could not read the silence and pushed on. ‘It concerns a person within your court, close to your throne, who wishes to do harm to this great city, and the empire you and your father have built. To say these things, however, I need to speak with you, and you alone.’
‘Who is this man of whom you speak?’ asked the Caliph.
‘Great One, I cannot –’
Zakki raised his eyes for the first time to look at the Caliph. There was silence for what seemed to Zakki the longest time until finally the Caliph held up his hand.
‘I will accede to your request and grant you a private audience. All will leave my court until I command your return. All except his Holiness the imam, and the captain of my guard.’
The guard captain looked sternly at Zakki, a gaze that could melt stone, and Zakki knew it was a warning. If he moved too fast or in the wrong way, Zakki would die there on the steps at the feet of the Caliph without another word.
Zakki bowed in respect and then waited for the others to leave. When the room was empty the Caliph beckoned him forward until he stood close enough to be able to speak in a voice that could not be overheard in the galleries above.
But before Zakki could speak the Caliph whispered to him, ‘I know why you are here this day. You have a friend in the House of Wisdom who is also a friend of somebody close to me. He has made your concerns known to my ears.’
The words stole the air from Zakki’s lungs and with it the words he had to say to the Caliph.
‘Your fellow Jew is not here. I have sent him away. You have nothing to fear.’
Zakki felt dizzy and struggled to comprehend his position. Was he about to be killed or did the Caliph really already know what Zakki had to say?
The Caliph smiled as if reading the doctor’s mind.
‘Do you see the Vizier in court today? No. I have ordered him to go to the eastern deserts to collect tributes from the tribes. What you tell me is not new to my ears, Doctor. There is nothing you can tell me that is not already known to me. Do you think I have no knowledge of what is happening in my court?’
‘No. No, Great One. I came to warn . . . I came because I was afraid . . . I came because . . .’
The Caliph waved his hand for silence. ‘The Vizier has done well for me, and my city is richer now than at any time. And as I have grown wealthy, so too he has grown wealthier. But I know my people. And I know my faith.’
His eyes drifted for a moment to the nine-year-old boy-imam at his side, who sat silent, listening carefully, judging Zakki.
‘You are aware of the Silk Road, which brings great things from far in the East to our city. At the far end of the Silk Road is a land called China. We have brought many books and scrolls from that land and they have been translated by our scholars, by ones such as you. One of the books, written more than a thousand years ago, was by a great warrior called Sun Tzu. His advice was to keep friends close, but enemies closer. This is wise council, Doctor. For knowing where the Vizier is and what he is planning makes me safer. For aiding him in his plots is someone even closer to me, someone who wishes to sit on my throne, to usurp me. No doubt you will know of whom I speak.’
Zakki nodded.
‘Then you will also know that my brother has a large following and, were I to move against him, the bloodshed would be great. And the risk to the imam . . .’ he turned and reached over to hold the arm of the young lad, ‘ . . . would be immense. Things will happen in my court, Doctor, but at a time of my choosing, and my discretion.’
Zakki drew in a deep breath.
‘That is why I have not moved against the Vizier, because it would precipitate bloodshed at the very doorstep of my palace and my forces are not yet strong enough to ensure my victory against the militants that my brother could call upon, forces which are only interested in their own wealth and not the good of the empire.’
The Caliph smiled. ‘I placed great trust in you, Doctor. I know much about you. I knew from the imam’s uncle that you’d been to see him; and I knew from your friend Hussain of your concerns. I trusted that when you came to see me, you would ask to see me alone. I was right to trust you, for had you told me of your conversation with the Vizier in the presence of my court, then all would have been exposed. Those who are not loyal to me among my advisers – and I know who they are – would have scurried to inform the Vizier. But in the coming months, perhaps years, my brother’s base of power will be diluted. Then
I shall deal with him and all who try to bring discord to the House of Allah.’
But Zakki knew in that moment that conflict and destruction would come. The divisions were too deep and the layers of power struggle too complex. The greatest of learning and everything the House of Wisdom represented might be brought low when Sunni and Shi’ite were set against each other for the inheritance of Mohammed.
Did the Caliph know this? Or was he too caught up in the machinations of his own power to see the future of his people with clear eyes?
‘I’m sorry to say that your presence here in Baghdad is likely to cause trouble for me. You will become an object of division, which is why I am commanding you and your family to return to Jerusalem, and to have no further contact with my court. You have nothing more to fear from the Vizier but your time in the House of Wisdom, Doctor, has come to an end.’
RAF Station, Lydda Airfield,
between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem
1947
Shalman made certain that the rope tying together the hands of the British Tommy was secure enough for him not to escape, but loose enough for proper blood circulation. The ball of fabric in his mouth would prevent him from shouting out for help and the ropes that tethered him to the wall-heater would keep him warm in the cold night air.
Satisfied that until he was discovered the man would be safe, Shalman stood and found himself speaking when he knew that he probably shouldn’t.
‘I’m sorry to do this to you . . .’
Shalman thought he heard the British conscript mumble, ‘Fuck you.’ It was the least Shalman deserved for the crack on the head he’d been forced to wield. But it gave him access to the fuel truck, which is what he needed.
The massive Avro York military transporter was sitting out on the No. 3 runway of the airfield like a giant bird of prey at rest, waiting to be fuelled so that it could carry its cargo of supplies to British forces stationed in Egypt. The mission Shalman had been given by Dov was to take command of the refuelling vehicle, initiate the timing mechanism of the bomb, drive it to the underbelly of the aircraft , and then crawl away unnoticed.
Wearing a stolen British uniform, Shalman climbed into the cabin of the fuel truck and turned the key. It roared into life, making a terrible rumbling noise in the confines of the hangar, and Shalman said a quick prayer to himself. Odd, because he otherwise thought of himself as an atheist. But what did the American soldiers say, ‘There’s no atheists in foxholes’? If there wasn’t a God, then at least the prayer made him feel better; if there was a God, maybe the Almighty would help Shalman survive. Either way, he felt he’d covered his bases.
He drove the truck away from the hangar, along the periphery of the airport until he came to the end of Runway 3. Then he turned hard left and travelled down the runway towards the aircraft. He checked carefully through the windscreen and saw there were only three or four men standing nearby. Earlier, there had been at least twenty.
Shalman put the lorry into second gear so that it was trundling along slowly. Slow enough to be thought of as casual and ordinary, not so slow that anybody might easily see Shalman’s face and wonder who he was. He pressed his knee up under the steering wheel to hold it on course and free his hands. Beside him was a small satchel and from inside he removed a heavy brick. He placed in on the floor near his feet. Then, with his eyes flicking regularly up to the view through the windscreen to check his slow, trundling trajectory, he reached deeper into the bag. His fingers found the mechanical mass of explosive and wire that was the bomb.
Something so small, yet inside a fuel truck it would radiate out to cause immense damage. These thoughts stayed with him as he thought about what would happen on the tarmac of the airfield.
His fingers slowly and dextrously felt around the explosive for the switch. It was rudimentary, just a break connector that would join two wires and begin a clock countdown. But he’d always been told the best bombs were simple. He pressed his finger against the switch, felt its resistance, then he pushed and felt a distinct click.
Two minutes. Not long, but enough.
From around his neck Shalman loosened a thin woollen scarf and, looping it around the steering wheel, he tied the other end to the thick door handle and pulled it tight so the wheel would not turn either way. Satisfied the truck would hold its course, he eased his foot off the accelerator and leant down awkwardly to feel the brick on the floor. He manoeuvred the brick into position to lean against the pedal, maintaining the pressure to keep the lorry moving forward, inexorably, slowly, and aimed squarely at the aircraft.
Shalman had no idea whether the bomb would explode before or after the truck crashed into the plane, but it didn’t matter. It was full of fuel, and there was no way that the British could stop it happening. Double-checking that the truck was driving itself and was on the right course, Shalman opened the driver’s door and jumped out onto the tarmac. The driver’s door faced away from any of the few soldiers on the airstrip, and being late at night with the truck lights turned off, he was reasonably certain nobody would see him or the truck until it entered the umbra of the lights surrounding the aircraft.
His feet hit the ground and he rolled as he’d been trained, taking the impact and momentum in the tumble. The truck was moving slowly but still the force of the jump blew the air from his lungs and, as he came to a crouch in the thin, long grass by the side of the airstrip, he struggled to find his breath.
Shalman flattened himself down further and lay stationary, watching. He took out a small pair of binoculars from a pouch at his waist and adjusted the screw until he could see the underside of the plane clearly. There were four British soldiers standing underneath the plane, smoking and chatting to somebody. He couldn’t quite see who and shifted the lens side to side to find the other figure. The truck rolled closer. Any minute now one of the soldiers would see the truck and become concerned that it was not slowing. Shalman continued to look through the binoculars, taking in each of the men. He remembered Dov’s words, ‘No civilians, just hardware.’ In that moment he realised Dov’s play on words. Shalman had accepted blowing up a plane but not four soldiers and his heart sank as he breathed out slowly. Soldiers, not civilians . . .
And then he saw the boy.
A short boy, his distinctly Arab clothes and dark skin visible through the binoculars under the lights of the airfield. Shalman was overcome with dread as he watched the boy hold up a jerry can. One of the soldiers seemed to be laughing with him, and patted him on the head. The boy was asking for fuel . . .
Shalman had no idea who the boy was, no sense of where he came from, but the simple act forced his mind to race through a narrative – the son of a local farmer, sent to the airfield to scrounge for scarce petrol, a boy known to the soldiers, a familiar face . . .
Shalman wanted to scream to the boy to run. He never intended for anyone to get hurt, just for the plane to be destroyed as the orders stated. But because the soldiers were laughing and joking with the boy, they hadn’t noticed the truck moving quietly towards them, shrouded in the darkness of the airfield, its cabin empty, the bomb’s mechanism slowly moving forward in time and space, on a collision course with the plane.
Shalman watched in horror. The only way for them to escape would be for Shalman to shout a warning. But he couldn’t bring the cry to his lips. He half stood in a crouch and moved to run away from the tarmac. But he couldn’t and felt compelled to turn back and watch. He raised the binoculars once more. The idiots still hadn’t heard the truck coming towards them. It was now so close, they surely must . . .
But it was all too late.
Shalman turned and ran towards the outskirts of the airfield. There was only a rudimentary barrier surrounding it, and it was easy for him to climb over. As he slipped to the other side of the fence Shalman looked up once more to the distant aircraft. The truck had almost arrived at the target. It had veered slightly to the left, but would still collide with the right-hand wheel of the massive undercarriage. It was then t
hat the British Tommies noticed the truck coming towards them without lights,; and they began to shout when they saw that nobody was driving it.
The soldiers scattered away from the plane to protect themselves. But the Arab boy was just staring, transfixed, rooted to the spot. Shalman screamed out, ‘Move!’ in Arabic, but he knew that he couldn’t be heard from such a distance.
The British soldier furthest away raised his rifle and began firing into the cabin of the truck. It must have been an instinctive reaction because all he accomplished was to shatter the windscreen and side glass panels. And then the truck careened into the wheels of the undercarriage, at the same time as the timing mechanism of the bomb counted down to zero. A massive ball of flame erupted out of the truck’s cabin. The momentary inferno spread to the cargo of fuel, exploding with an almighty boom, lighting up the entire airfield, the hangars, the control buildings and the periphery where Shalman was standing.
He couldn’t see, but he knew that the fireball had engulfed not just the plane and the truck but the young Arab boy, and almost certainly some of the soldiers. He screamed, ‘NO!’ at the top of his voice, but nobody was listening.
The heat from the explosion hit him and he smelt the heavy, greasy stench of the kerosene. The plane was on fire and the remaining fuel in its tanks exploded, adding a second fireball to the sky.
His only thought now was escape and so he turned and ran.
With the explosion and flame behind him, Shalman’s feet carried him across the grass to where he’d left his bicycle: his only means of escape. As he pedalled furiously away he saw in his mind’s eye the body of a young Arab child, alight in a pyre of aircraft fuel.
Jerusalem
1947
Shalman now counted the times of happiness in the house in terms of hours, rather than days. He looked at his wife, Judit – beautiful, confident and calm – and knew that things had changed for them both.
Since he had come back from the archaeological site with Mustafa, the change in Judit was subtle yet noticeable. Something had happened to her and the more she brushed aside his concerns, the deeper they grew. What he had always seen as a deep calm in her now struck him as a certain coldness. She seemed driven and focused in a way he couldn’t understand. And at night she disappeared, returning sometimes by dawn and at other times not for days.