Resurrection Day (13 page)

Once she had left the safety of the UN area behind her and crossed the 'rat-line' — a dusty road into Israeli territory protected by heavy barbed-wire runs and minefields on either side, helicopter gunships patrolling overhead — it was a different matter. She and her car were thoroughly searched, her papers examined and re-examined at dozens of checkpoints for the first ten miles inside the Jewish border, and with every trip she had to run a gauntlet of nervous young soldiers and trigger-happy Orthodox settlers who regarded her with a mixture of suspicion and contempt.

Throughout her journey her mind was preoccupied. Not only by the thought of seeing her son again for the first time in three months, but by Nikolai Gorev's visit. Seeing him alive and after so many years had stunned her completely, and she was still trying to get over the shock. She remembered the day they had met, when she had arrived in Moscow with over thirty other Palestinian and Arab students to study at Patrice Lumumba University. She remembered the wonderful times she had spent in Moscow, and the love she had felt for Nikolai — a glorious, tender passion they had shared and which she had never forgotten — and it made her think of a life that she had long ago put behind her, and about the secret she had kept, a secret that no one could ever know but herself, which would go with her to the grave.

It disturbed her almost as much as the distressing shock of the plan Nikolai had outlined, and his appeal for her help, but difficult as it was she tried to put such troubled thoughts from her mind. This was a day she had been looking forward to for three long months. It was almost two when she reached the prison. Set on a hill, it was a grim and daunting place, a vast security complex built of breeze blocks, protected by razor wire and concrete watchtowers. She parked her car in a dirt lot outside and walked up the hill to the first barrier, where her business was queried, her papers examined and her name checked against a list of permitted visitors before she was ordered to step through a metal detector and was frisked for weapons. Once inside the steel prison gates she was led into a room where she was strip-searched by two uniformed female Israeli wardens wearing surgical gloves who probed every intimate part of her body, before she was escorted by two male wardens through an underground passageway to the visitors' room.

It was a bare white-walled chamber, twelve feet by twelve. A barren, sterile place divided in two by a brick wall, with a small window in the centre, fitted with bullet-proof glass. Communication was through microphones, one on each side of the divide.

As the two wardens took up their positions directly behind her, Karla sat on the single wooden chair in front of the window, and waited for her beloved Josef to appear.

Her heart was beating as the steel door opened on the far side of the glass. She gave a tiny cry of recognition as Josef was led in. His hands were shackled by loose steel chains and he shuffled to his seat with the aid of crutches. He was sixteen, a slim, handsome youth with dark tousled hair and pale olive skin. In the last year his attempt at growing a beard had produced a few fuzzy hairs, but Karla knew that the effort at manliness was wasted. The moment her son smiled he looked such a child. 'Hello, Mama.'

'How are you, my love?'

'Well, Mama. And you?'

'I've missed you.'

Josef nodded, flicked a look at the guards behind her, and his smile faded. Karla had become used to the fact that her son never admitted to missing her. It was almost as if the disclosure would make him less manful in the eyes of the Israeli guards, whom she knew he despised. She would have loved him to say it, even once, just for her sake, but she knew that was asking too much. 'Tell me what you've been doing, Mama.'

It was Josef's usual query, every time she visited. Forbidden from discussing events in the prison, or any aspect of his internment, it was all he could really ask. Those were the rules and they were strictly enforced: the guards spoke fluent Arabic. She knew that her conversations with her son were recorded, every nuance pored over afterwards by the prison authorities, just in case their words might somehow be coded to convey secret messages. Breaking the rules would mean an end to the visits, and so she stuck to them, just as Josef did, even if it meant their conversation was severely limited.

Karla always lived for these few fleeting minutes in her son's company. But as always the experience was traumatic. Not being allowed to hold him in her arms, embrace the flesh she loved so much, broke her heart every time she saw him. And as always she forced herself to hide her trauma, told her son the mundane, harmless things that she always told him: about her work in the office in Tyr, how she had tended his father's grave and left flowers from them both, how the villa's gardens were overgrown and needed attention, or how she had had to endure some minor problem with her car that no doubt Josef could have helped her fix.

The important things, the intimate things that she longed to tell him, were as always left unsaid: that sometimes when she looked into his childish face she remembered him as a baby, suckling at her breast, or vainly attempting his first steps, or suffering his first tiny teeth, and that more than anything in the world she desperately wanted him to be free. That the thought of her beloved child being locked up like a caged animal was becoming too much to bear. The unsaid things, the things she couldn't express because of Josef's bravado or prison rules, always broke her heart, took her to the edge of despair.

'You're eating, Josef? You're sleeping OK?'

'Yes, Mama.'

'How are your wounds? Are you in any pain?'

'No, they're fine, Mama. There's no pain.'

It was a lie, Karla guessed. The bullets that had ripped into Josef's body had wounded his right arm and completely shattered his right thighbone and knee. His arm had healed, and only a rutted scar remained, but despite three operations by Israeli surgeons he still couldn't walk without the aid of crutches. But at least her son was alive.

'Do you need anything? Extra clothes? Food?'

'No, nothing.'

Karla could hear the stubborn defiance in her son's voice. Prison had not lessened his rebellious streak. His answers to such queries were always the same: Josef would never admit to needing anything in the face of an enemy. One of the guards touched her arm. 'A minute more, please?' Karla begged.

'I'm sorry. Time's up, lady. That's the rule.'

The Israeli guard wasn't an unkind man, he wasn't a beast, and she saw a hint of compassion in his eyes, but he was determined to do his job, and at that moment Karla could easily have hated him. She touched the glass with her palm. Josef did the same. The guard gripped her arm. 'Please, lady.'

She stood, scraping back her chair, the remains of her handprint engraved fleetingly on the glass, mirroring Josef's. She blew her son a kiss. He waved back. 'Goodbye, Mama.'

Moments later he was shuffled out of the room, his chains rattling, and Karla was led out by the guards.

On the drive back to Tyr, Karla Sharif's mind was in turmoil. After her visits to the prison she felt fragile, emotionally drained, and it was an effort not to be overwhelmed by despair. The thought of Josef being imprisoned for many more years, the agonised frustration of not being able to see him when she wished, tore at her heart.

Not a day or night went by when she didn't picture him huddled alone in his tiny cell, or fret about his health, his loneliness and despair, or wonder whether he was in pain. She was fearful, like any mother, that her child could not possibly remain sane, locked up for twenty-three hours a day. She had heard of Arab prisoners in Israeli jails committing suicide because they couldn't endure the distress of harsh confinement, and the image of Josef being found hanged in his cell tormented her with worry.

Her mind was distraught as she drove back over the Lebanese border. Two miles inside the Hezbollah-controlled zone she came round a bend in the road with chalky white hills on either side. She saw the roadblock up ahead, guarded by half a dozen black-masked men armed with Kalashnikovs, a couple of dusty four-wheel-drive jeeps blocking the road. She had no doubt the men were Hezbollah; they controlled the area. One of the guards waved her down. Karla halted, rolled down her window.

'Step out of the car,' the guard ordered.

'Why? What's the matter?'

'Do as I say,
emraa
. No arguments.'

Karla stepped out, puzzled. As soon as she did one of the men jumped into her Renault and moved it off the road. 'What do you think you're doing?' Karla protested.

'Shut up.' The guard brandished his weapon. 'Just do as you're told. Move this way.'

With one of his armed companions he marched Karla up the hill on the opposite side of the road. They came to a clearing at the top. A man sat on a boulder, under the shade of some cedar trees. He was peeling an orange with a deadly-looking pearl-handled flick-knife. He appeared to be in his late thirties, stockily built, with a thin, cruel mouth and murderous dark eyes. A flash of malice in them that suggested he was capable of extreme brutality. He wore a crumpled linen suit, and with his hooked nose, jet-black beard and hair and olive skin was obviously Arab. He pointed to another boulder opposite. 'Sit down.'

'Who are you? Why was I stopped?'

'Sit.' The bearded man's tone was arrogant. Karla sat on the rock. The guards moved back down the hill and out of view. The man stopped peeling the orange, studied her face. 'You don't recognise me?'

'No.'

'We met once before, a long time ago. My name is Mohamed Rashid. Does that jog your memory?'

The moment Karla heard the name, she remembered. A fleeting encounter in Beirut many years ago. He was Egyptian, an Islamic terrorist with a fierce reputation for savagery who had once helped run the PLO training camps in Libya. 'Yes. I remember.'

'You haven't changed much. The years have been good to you.'

'What do you want?'

The Egyptian ignored her question, sucked at a fleshy segment of orange, the juice running down his beard. 'You're a remarkable and interesting woman, Karla Sharif. Born in America of Palestinian parents, you returned with them to Lebanon when you were twelve. You're a graduate of the American University of Beirut, you speak fluent English, French and Arabic — '

'I asked you a question — '

'I haven't finished. At nineteen, if I recall rightly, outraged by the plight of your people, you joined the PLO and later became one of the few volunteers privileged to be sent to Moscow's Patrice Lumumba University to receive a terrorist education by the Soviets. There, you earned the reputation of being one of their finest pupils. First in your class in weapons training, bomb-making and intelligence-gathering. You outshone even the PLO's very best male recruits. I hear Carlos the Jackal was so impressed he offered you a place within his terrorist cell, an offer you declined, much to his disappointment. Yes, you're a very remarkable woman.'

'What is this? Why am I being held against my will?'

The Egyptian tossed away the remains of the orange, wiped his beard and, retracting the blade by pressing a button on the pearl handle, slipped the knife into his pocket. 'Once you had a fire in your belly for the Arab cause. Not any more, it seems. No doubt the Israelis know that too. Which is why they allow you to visit your son. What happened to you, Karla Sharif? Did you grow tired of the cause? Have you become a coward?'

Karla stared back at the man's face, suddenly aware of why he was here. 'This has to do with Nikolai Gorev's visit, doesn't it?'

The Egyptian nodded.

'What do you want of me?'

'Your commitment.'

'I told Nikolai. I live a different life now. I haven't wanted to be a part of your fight for many years. The answer's no.'

'None of us want to fight. We do it because we must, and in the name of Islam. Just as you must. Once, you took a solemn vow ... '

'A long time ago.'

The Egyptian's dark eyes flashed dangerously. 'That's of no consequence to the Brotherhood. Do you remember the words of the Koran? "And if they turn back from their vow, take them and kill them, wherever ye find them.'"

Karla said quietly, 'Are you threatening me?'

'The logic of your vow is simple. Those not with us are against us. And if they are against us, they will die. Besides, you know too much already about our plans.'

'Killing me would achieve nothing.'

'Perhaps.' The Egyptian stood. 'But there is another consideration. Your son Josef. Some of the men you met below have friends or brothers in the same prison.'

Karla was suddenly pale. 'What are you implying?'

'It would be easy to arrange an accident. Your son might be found hanging in his cell, or have a knife slipped between his ribs.' The Egyptian shrugged, gave a malicious grin. 'Sadly, such unfortunate things happen all the time in prisons.'

'You bastard.' Livid anger erupted in Karla Sharif's eyes. She moved to claw at the man's face but his hand came up, gripped her arm, and with his other hand he slapped her across the face. With one swift movement Karla twisted free and punched him hard in the mouth. The Egyptian staggered back and hit the ground, blood on his lips. In an instant he had scrambled back up, his hand dipping into his pocket, bringing out the flick-knife, clicking the button. The blade flashed.

'That was very stupid. Why don't we see how good you really are, Karla Sharif?'

The Egyptian lunged towards her like a raging bull, his arms wide open, but instead of moving back, Karla sidestepped, brought her hand down in a swift chopping movement, knocking the blade from the Egyptian's grasp. Another swift blow struck him on the back of the neck and he went down again, harder this time. Karla moved in, grabbed the knife, stamped a foot on the man's neck and stood over him, the blade pointed at his face.

'Does that answer your question?'

Suddenly the guards appeared, scrambling up the hill, cocking their weapons. The Egyptian raised his hand. 'No. Don't harm her.'

The men lowered their weapons. Karla stepped back and threw the blade, which stuck point first in the dirt next to the Egyptian. He pushed himself up, dusted his clothes.

'Leave us,' he ordered the guards. 'Wait below.'

The men left. The Egyptian took out a handkerchief, dabbed his mouth, gave a pained grin.

'You're still good, Palestinian. I like a woman who's capable. In different circumstances, someone such as you might even excite me.' He looked at the blood on his handkerchief, glared up at her. 'At least your training wasn't in vain.'

'Harm my son and I'll kill you, I swear.'

The Egyptian felt his jaw for loose teeth, put away his handkerchief. 'If I have to, I assure you I will do what I must.'

Karla stepped forward threateningly.

The Egyptian said, 'Don't be a fool. If you value your son's life you'll do exactly as I say. When Gorev calls tomorrow, you will pack what belongings you need and go with him. False papers have been arranged, everything you will need.'

Anger raged on Karla's face. 'Who's behind this? Who are you really working for, Mohamed Rashid?'

'You'll find out in good time. For now, it's enough to know that there will be three of us taking part in the operation — me, you and Gorev. And that there are difficult journeys ahead and much hard work. First, two weeks of training and planning, so that you'll know what's expected of you. Your friend Gorev is a first-class terrorist with no equal. We are fortunate to have his services.'

'And what then?'

'Gorev and I have some business to attend to in Moscow. Then you and I travel to America, to do the groundwork. Gorev will join us later, when our mission begins in earnest.' The Egyptian grinned. 'You should feel honoured, Karla Sharif. You're about to be part of the most daring terrorist attack ever committed, more audacious than anything the world has ever seen. And it happens in the land of your birth, on American soil. Ironic, don't you think?'

Karla was silent, tried hard to control her hostility as she stared back at the Egyptian. He bent to pick up the knife, retracted the blade, slipped it into his pocket. 'One other thing. You don't ever mention our conversation to Gorev. It would be better if he thought this decision was entirely your own.'

The look on Karla Sharif's face was nothing short of furious contempt. 'Anything else?'

'You may go now.'

Moscow 31 August 9 p.m.