Resurrection Day (12 page)

Some sixty miles south of Beirut and less than twelve from the Israeli border lies the island city of Tyr, once one of the busiest maritime ports in the Mediterranean.

From its earliest recorded history, the wealthy settlement had attracted jealous invaders: the Phoenicians and the Pharaohs, the Romans and the armies of Alexander the Great and Constantine, all eager to exploit the trade in dye and glass for which the port was famous. Tyr would eventually become a bustling melting-pot, Muslim and Druze, Christian and Maronite all coexisting within its prosperous walls. Over the centuries, its merchants amassed fortunes trading with Egypt and the North African coast, and as far away as Spain and France, and French architects were brought in to build large villas in the hills overlooking the port, many of which may still be seen today in this most beautiful of Mediterranean ports.

Later, when Lebanon's savage civil war erupted, it was Tyr's inhabitants who were to suffer most from relentless attacks by Israel's armed forces, who finally invaded and occupied the city, intent on destroying the Islamic-backed rebel groups operating in southern Lebanon which threatened its security. Men and women, young and old, regardless of whether they were Muslim, Christian or Druze, if suspected of being terrorists or their sympathisers, were rounded up by Israeli army snatch squads. Innocent or guilty, some as young as fourteen, they were jailed without trial in Israeli-controlled prisons like the infamous camp at Khyam, in southern Lebanon. Hundreds more Arab prisoners still languish in other Israeli prisons to this day, in some cases hostages for almost fifteen years, forgotten captives in the timeless war of Arab versus Jew.

But it was to a peaceful city of Tyr that the visitor arrived that sunny afternoon in late July, almost four months before Abu Hasim's threat was delivered to the White House. He was in his late thirties, a handsome, lean-faced man with fair hair and Slavic cheekbones, one side of his mouth hooked into a slight, perpetual half-smile, as if permanently amused by the world and its inhabitants. He drove up into the hills until he eventually found the villa, an old grey Renault parked outside. It was a pleasant-looking house, a homely place that had once been owned by a French colonial doctor, with splendid views out over the blue Mediterranean, the sweeping gardens planted with jasmine and olive trees.

The man went up the path carrying a bunch of yellow roses. He knocked on the blue-painted front door, and when it opened he smiled. 'Hello, Karla.'

The woman was strikingly pretty, about his own age. Dark haired, with almond-brown eyes and Mediterranean looks, she wore jeans and a pale blue sweater. She gave a tiny gasp when she saw her visitor, her hand going to her mouth in disbelief, a look of total shock on her face, as if she had just seen a ghost. For a few moments she stared back at the man, until finally she tried to speak.

And then she fainted.

Nikolai Gorev dabbed a wet towel on Karla Sharif's face. They were in the kitchen at the back of the house. There were flower boxes in the windows, shelves of glass jars, tea and coffee and spices. He had helped her inside, sat her on a chair. 'Did I really frighten you that much?'

'I ... I thought you were dead.'

Gorev smiled. 'I can think of a few people who'd be more than happy if it were true. Are you all right, Karla?'

She got to her feet, reached out a hand to touch his cheek, as if to make sure she really wasn't seeing a ghost, and then her arms went around his neck to hug him, her eyes wet.

'Oh, Nikolai, it's so good to see you again. So very good.'

'And you.'

When she drew back, she looked into Gorev's face. 'But what are you doing in Tyr? Why are you here?'

'It's not a social visit, Karla, much as I'd like it to be.'

'Then why?'

Gorev smiled again, picked up the flowers he'd brought. 'How about I put these in some water and make us some coffee — Russian style, like the old days in Moscow — and then we can talk.'

Karla found a vase and Gorev filled it with water from the kitchen tap. He placed the vase of roses in the centre of the table, took the coffee jar from one of the shelves, heaped four spoonfuls of the aromatic coffee into the aluminium percolator, and turned on the stove. He came to join her at the table, took out a cigarette and tapped it on the pack.

'How long has it been?'

'Over seventeen years. The last time I saw you was on the platform at the station in Moscow, waving goodbye.'

Gorev nodded. 'A long time ago. So much has happened to us all since then. You really thought I was dead?'

'A Palestinian I knew at Patrice Lumumba told me he'd heard it from someone in Moscow. That was over a year ago. I cried for days.'

'At least I'd have had someone to mourn my passing. And how was I supposed to have died?'

'In a shoot-out near Grozny. You and your Chechen comrades against the Russian special forces.'

Gorev threw back his head and laughed. 'That's a good one. The Russians would have had their work cut out.'

'All the things I've heard about you, are they true?'

'That depends on what you've heard.'

'That you had become a maverick terrorist, someone who killed without compunction for the Chechen cause.'

'What do you think?'

'If you are, you're not the man I used to know. The Nikolai Gorev I loved in Moscow was kind, sincere. One of the finest people I ever knew.'

Gorev reached across, touched her hand in a gesture of friendship. 'Then you should know better than to believe all you hear. And what about you?'

'I work as a secretary in a lawyer's office in Tyr, four days a week. It pays badly but I love the work.'

Gorev shook his head. 'Someone as brilliant as you, I would have thought you'd have left here a long time ago. A masters from the American University in Beirut, your fluency in languages. You could have gone anywhere, Karla. Had a glittering career.'

She brushed a strand of hair from her face. 'Now you're flattering me. But my life is here in Tyr.'

'You mean because of Josef ?'

Karla Sharif's face suddenly darkened. 'How did you know?'

'Like you, I have friends who keep me informed.'

'And what did you hear?'

'Your husband Michael died in a car-bomb blast in Beiruit, ten years ago. That a year ago your son was stopped at an Israeli checkpoint near Hedera, in a car driven by a member of Hamas, ferrying weapons and explosives. That he was shot and badly wounded and he'll be lucky to walk again. But unlike his Hamas accomplice, he was lucky to escape with his life. Though not so lucky that he wasn't sent to prison. For a teenager, he's plucky, I'll give him that.'

'What else did you hear?'

'That he had the same hatred of injustice as his father. The same hunger to fight oppression.'

A pink blush stained Karla's face and neck. 'Go on.'

'That he wanted to walk in his footsteps and strive for the same cause. That the Israelis haven't sentenced him yet, but we both know that doesn't really matter, does it? They can hold him in detention without trial for the rest of his life if they want. Either way, he'll never get out. He'll serve thirty years if he serves a day.'

'He's only sixteen.'

'Do you think the Israelis care a whit? There are boys as young as fourteen languishing in their prisons. Even younger in their detention centres — eight-year-olds from Gaza and the West Bank. And for what? Throwing stones at Israeli patrols. Children have been shot dead by them on the streets for the same reason. Where's the justice in that?'

She almost broke down then, and Gorev saw the despair in her face, the tears at the edges of her eyes. He touched her arm. 'I'm sorry, Karla. I can imagine how much you love your son. He's all you have. It must be hard to bear.'

Karla wiped her eyes. 'You've no idea.'

'Don't I? You're allowed four visits a year, ten minutes each visit. You cannot touch your son, cannot embrace him, can only talk through a metal grille in the company of two Israeli guards who listen to your every word. You're searched before entering the prison room and searched after leaving. Every word, every whisper, every loving word between you both is overheard and recorded ... '

The percolator bubbled. Gorev let go of her arm, crossed to the stove, poured a cup for each of them, heaped sugar in each. Standing at the window, looking towards the sea, he noticed dark summer clouds drifting in, heavy with rain. Karla said quietly, 'How did you know all this?'

He came back to the table. 'The same friends who told me where to find you.'

'So why did you come here? Why did you want to see me after all this time?'

Nikolai Gorev put down his cup, said earnestly, 'Because the Brotherhood needs your help.'

She frowned. 'I don't understand. Why would they send you?'

'A long story. Too long to go into now. Let's just say that certain Arab acquaintances of mine have engaged my services.'

'To do what?'

Gorev smiled. 'Something highly dangerous but infinitely rewarding.'

Karla shook her head. 'I'm no longer involved, Nikolai. Not any more. Not for many years. I'm not a Kalashnikov-wielding PLO freedom fighter any more, manning the barricades at Chatila, or training recruits to fight the Israelis. The Brotherhood knows I left that life behind me. I'm a woman who wants a quiet existence, a peaceful life. One that I've worked hard to build.'

'But you're still a Muslim.'

'Who never goes to the mosque, and hasn't in years. I was never one for religion, you know that.'

Gorev smiled again. 'OK, so you're a modern woman. But the Arab cause was always dear to your heart, as it was to your husband's. You can't escape your past, Karla. It's in your blood.'

'You're wasting your time, Nikolai. Whatever it is. The answer's no.' She balled her fist, beat it against her breast. 'Of course my heart rages against what has happened to the Arab people. But it's no longer the only thing it rages against. I couldn't get involved again, not ever. Not for you, not for the Brotherhood. Not for anyone. For me, the war and the killing and the struggle are over.'

'Even if there was a reward?'

'Money doesn't interest me.'

'Not that sort of reward. A different kind.'

'Then what?'

'Remember Moscow? You and your Palestinian friends believed you were different, believed you were special. And you were. Anyone destined to graduate from Patrice Lumumba, the most infamous university in the world, was bound to be. You were being groomed to spread terrorism and anarchy. Remember the radical ideals you all had, how you dreamed you were going to change the world? Well, what if I told you of a way you could?'

'Change it how? For whom?'

'For the Arab peoples. Give them control of their own destiny. Free them once and for all from the Western yoke, change the world irrevocably. And for you, personally, there would be another reward, one just as important.'

'What?'

'Your son's freedom.'

Karla Sharif looked back at her visitor, totally stunned. 'Tell me how.'

And Gorev told her.

The dark clouds had drifted in from the Mediterranean, bringing heavy rain, and it came in a sudden downpour, drenching the windows. The room was very silent when Gorev finished, the only sound the rain flailing the glass with its silken lash. Karla Sharif looked back at him, incredulous, shaking her head. 'What you're suggesting is madness. Completely crazy. Something like that could take the world to the brink.'

'Crazy or not, it can work, Karla. And free Josef and many others like him. And it's not going to fail. Too much work has gone into the plan, too much is at stake.'

'Who put you up to this? Who are you working for?'

'You don't need to know. Not yet. Not until I know where you stand.'

'Then why me?'

'There aren't many Arab women with your experience or qualifications. It might surprise you to know that there are still people who talk about Karla Sharif with nothing short of awe. How she ran the women's training camps with a fierce discipline, turned out some of the best, most highly trained and committed recruits for the Palestinian and Arab cause. But there's another reason. You're someone I'd trust with my life. Which is probably the most important qualification of all.'

Karla stood, again shook her head. 'I still can't believe what you're proposing. It's deranged.'

'But exactly what's needed if the world is to be changed,' Gorev answered. 'The war between Arab and Jew has lasted thousands of years. Do you really think it will end tomorrow with some peace agreement the Americans might broker? That the Israelis or the Americans won't stop trying to kill your people, to crush their aspirations, make martyrs of their sons and daughters? Or that the West will stop treating the Arab peoples everywhere like serfs, or cease controlling their destiny? Power is the only thing the West understands. This plan will take away their power. Force them to give in to every demand we make of them.'

'It's too daring, Nikolai. Far too dangerous. Surely you must see that?'

'What I see is the decisive moment the Arab people have been waiting for. Not to seize the opportunity would make a mockery of everything they've fought for.'

'And what happens afterwards? Have you thought of that? Do you think the Americans would allow you and your friends to walk away without punishment? They'd destroy you, Nikolai. And me if I helped you.'

Gorev offered her another smile. 'That's the beauty of the plan. Once we achieved what we set out to, it would be a fait accompli. There'd be no way the Americans could turn back the clock. They'd have been defeated. And if everything goes the way it is planned our safety won't be an issue. We simply do the job and walk away, with no one the wiser.'

Karla Sharif shook her head. 'I can't be part of this, Nikolai. I'm sorry. You're asking too much.'

Slowly, Gorev stood. He crossed to the door, opened it. The rain still fell outside, a cool wind brushed his face. He shivered, came back, Karla Sharif's brown eyes rising to meet his stare. 'Can I tell you something? Something I've always wanted to tell you?'

'What?'

'Eighteen years ago in Moscow, when we first met, I fell in love with you. Of course, it wasn't to be. It was all too complex. I couldn't commit myself to you, much as I loved you. And besides, you were engaged to another ... '

Karla blushed, saw something close to pain in Gorev's face. 'Nikolai ... there's no need ... '

'I know. I shouldn't rake over old coals. Moscow was such a long time ago. But it was a happy time. I think of it often.'

'So do I.'

'Perhaps I just wanted you to know that. And know that I still care, and have never forgotten you, Karla. If there's ever anything I can do ... '

'Thank you.' Karla Sharif looked away, smelled the roses, as if to avoid the thrust of Gorev's conversation. 'I never thanked you for the flowers. It was very kind of you, Nikolai.'

'The least I could do for an old friend.' Gorev paused. 'Do something for me, Karla? Just think about all I've said. Think about how Josef can have his freedom and you can have your son back. Think about how he wouldn't have to martyr his life to a cause any more, because there wouldn't be a cause. The war would be over, the Arab world liberated.'

'Nikolai ... I can't — '

Gorev gently put a finger to her lips. 'Don't decide. Not yet. Sleep on it. Consider all I've said. But just remember, everything you've heard is for your ears only. I'm staying in Tyr tonight. I'll come by in the morning. You can give me your final decision then.'

That same day, in the early afternoon, Karla Sharif made a journey, a pilgrimage of fifty miles over the border to Israel, to a high-security prison outside Tel Aviv.

The border between Lebanon and Israel was a no man's land, a danger zone that she had to negotiate with every visit to her son. Patrolled by fanatical, gun-toting Islamics on one side and vigilant Israeli troops on the other, it was buffered by the UN area in between, a perilous mission for the peacekeepers, who often had to suffer lethal shelling from both sides. At Hezbollah checkpoints on the Lebanese flank her papers would be scrutinised and her business questioned. But once they learned the reasons for Karla's need to cross into Israel, they were always immediately sympathetic, almost reverential.

'Pass,
emraa
. And may Allah protect your son. He is a martyr to the cause.'