What Will Survive

by Joan Smith

  ‘Stephen. Michael’s just asking whether you’re still on the FAC.’

  ‘The — yes, for the moment anyway,’ he said without thinking.

  ‘We must have a little chat about Central Asia,’ the former ambassador said, the slightest alteration in his expression suggesting he had noted Stephen’s slip. ‘Take my card and give me a call. I must be on my way — meeting with the PM.’ With a slight nod, he moved away.’

  ‘Give him my love,’ Marcus called after him, and then, lowering his voice, ‘Christ, Stephen, get yourself back to planet earth. Michael’s in line for chair of the JIC.’

  Stephen snorted, unimpressed by this inside information about the next head of the Joint Intelligence Committee. ‘You know I keep away from all that spook business.’ He made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Thanks for this, Marcus. It was good of you.’

  ‘Going s-so soon? Oh well. I might just wander over and say hello to old Geoffrey.’ As Stephen rose, he leaned forward once again. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything rash.’

  Stephen looked down at his old friend, who suddenly seemed like an inhabitant of an alien world. ‘If I do, you’ll be the first to know.’

  Marcus pushed back his chair. ‘Stephen —’

  ‘Only joking.’ They shook hands, Marcus giving Stephen’s arm a squeeze. Stephen said, ‘Lunch is on me next time.’

  If there was one, he thought, going down the grand staircase, past portraits of earls and marquesses. Mobiles were banned in the club and he took his out but did not switch it on until he had stepped into the afternoon sunshine. Immediately it rang and he began walking with it pressed to his ear as it connected to his voicemail.

  ‘Dad, are you there? Dad? Where are you?’ Francis’s voice, tremulous and upset. Stephen winced, forcing himself to listen to the rest of his messages before returning his son’s call.

  ‘Uh — sorry.’ He moved round a young man, a backpacker who was studying a map of London.

  ‘Excuse me, you know where is Green Park station?’

  ‘What?’

  By the time Stephen had given him verbal directions and pointed to it on the map, his messages had stopped playing. He had to listen to Frannie’s distress call again, followed by two messages about non-urgent constituency business. He would not miss that, Stephen thought, thinking of the thousands of letters he had dictated to Social Security, the housing department, the Home Office and all the other bodies his constituents had dealings with. Especially the seemingly endless visa problems...

  ‘Stephen, this is Iris Benjamin.’ A red bus rumbled past and he pressed the phone to his ear, straining to hear: ‘...to Ricky... need to do something about the trust. He wants to carry on his mo... if you might be interested. He sounded better than I expected. Just to warn you, Stephen, I don’t mean warn you, but he knows who you... might know more than you think. He’s working in West... Shepherd’s Bush I think, and I could come up to London next week. Evenings... for Ricky, would Tuesday or Wednesday suit you?’ She left her numbers, which Stephen already had, but he saved the message anyway.

  Anticipation, relief — Stephen was not sure what he felt. He glanced down at the screen, ducked into the entrance to a shopping arcade to escape the noise of the traffic, and scrolled down his address book to his younger son’s name. Then, sheltering in the doorway of a shop that had recendy closed down — ‘cashmere sweaters at unbelievable prices!’ someone had scrawled on the window in uneven white letters, but all there was to see was a pile of brown envelopes and empty boxes — he pressed a button and waited.

  ‘Hi there, Frannie,’ he said a moment later, his voice as cheerful as he could make it. ‘It’s Dad. I just got your message — what’s up?’

  Charles Street

  28 August 1997

  Dear Carolina,

  I hope you will read this letter, as we don’t seem able to talk to each other at the moment. I’m not trying to justify anything I’ve done, it seems more than likely that most of the fault is on my side, but I don’t think it helps if we remain in this state of open warfare. Obviously it’s not for me to tell you what to do, but I do think things would be easier if your father wasn’t so involved — he left another message on my mobile last night. That’s fine, if he wants to abuse me that’s his prerogative, but I am worried about the boys. We have to come to some sort of arrangement for their sake, and it’s no good leaving it until the divorce — these things don’t happen overnight, as you know.

  I feel I’m walking on eggshells and I’m very conscious that everything I say seems to upset you, but there are some things that can’t be put of indefinitely. First, I haven’t made a decision about when to give up my seat and I’d be grateful if you would keep it between the two of us until I do. I don’t want to stay in the House but finding something else to do, something that seems worthwhile and pays enough for us all to live on, is not going to be easy. Don’t laugh, but after all this time I’d like to do something a bit more useful — I’m talking to one or two people, putting out feelers. There’s a project connected with Right Thinking, it wouldn’t pay much but you know I’ve always wanted to do more writing. I am passionate about modernising the centre-right but I know this stuff bores you, and I won’t say any more for now.

  I hope you agree that the best thing, while I’m working it all out, is if I go on living here in Charles Street. I’m going to Tashkent tomorrow — it’s been in the diary for months and I thought it might give us both a bit of space. When I get back, I’d like to start coming down every other weekend to see Frannie and Nicky — keep things as normal as possible. If you don’t want to be there, fine, although obviously I don’t want you to feel driven out of your own home. In practical terms, I’ll have to go on doing those bloody surgeries for the moment — at least that’s one thing I’m not going to miss. For God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t talk to any reporters — I haven’t had anyone sniffing round so far but you know how these things get out. No matter how angry you are with me, please, please think of the boys.

  The other thing I want to do, and I know this is dangerous territory, is clear up a misunderstanding between us. You were very upset when I said I shouldn’t have married you, for which I apologise, but I honesdy didn’t mean it in the way you thought. I blame myself, not you — I was in love with you, you shouldn’t have any doubts about that, but looking back I also realise I was thinking too much about myself. To be brutally honest, I was dazzled by you and your family and I never asked myself whether I could give you what you needed — what you still need. One of the reasons our marriage has to end is that you are still young enough to find that with someone else. I would like you to be happy, Carolina, and I know that for much of our marriage you haven’t been, as I haven’t either.

  I’m not expecting you to reply straight away. Think about it for a day or two. I don’t want to cause you further pain, but we have to reach some sort of civilised arrangement for the time being. I’m desperately worried about Nicky — Frannie calls me a lot but on the rare occasions I’ve got hold of him Nicky is monosyllabic. That’s one of the things we will have to talk about — you can reply to me at Charles Street (not the office) if you don’t feel able to speak on the phone.

  All the best,

  Stephen

  Amanda started and opened her eyes, which felt like sandpaper. She groaned and pulled down the sun visor. ‘Ugh — how long have I been asleep?’

  Ingrid smiled. ‘As soon as we left the cafe, you began to snore.’

  ‘I don’t snore!’

  Ingrid gave her an amused glance: ‘It was not so loud.’

  ‘It must be the air conditioning.’

  ‘I was about to wake you anyway. See what you are missing.’ She waved towards the precipitous mountain road, the lush fields of the Bekaa Valley — browner now than in Aisha and Fabio’s pictures, after weeks of broiling sun — left behind while Amanda dozed.

  She put a hand up to her head. ‘I shouldn’t have drunk so much last ni
ght. They’re generous with the wine at these embassy parties.’

  ‘People do not drink in public in Damascus, it is not like Beirut.’

  Amanda reached to the floor for a bottle of mineral water, unscrewed the cap and drank from it. It was warm and she pulled a face. Then she brightened: ‘I really want to go back for a holiday, see some of those Crusader castles.’

  Ingrid’s eyebrows arched. ‘In that case, be careful what you say in your article about Syria.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not going to write anything about the government. I mean, everyone keeps telling me how awful it is, but that’s got nothing to do with Aisha.’

  The car rounded a bend and Ingrid braked, throwing Amanda forwards. ‘Shit!’ she exclaimed. ‘Who are they?’

  In front of them, men with guns were fanning out across the road. A military jeep was parked at an angle, its rear wheels close to a steep drop. Within seconds, two of the men were running towards the car, cradling rusty machine guns.

  Ingrid said, ‘Have you got your passport?’

  ‘Yes, but —’

  Ingrid reached for hers. ‘Probably they do not speak English. If they do, you are a teacher, OK?’

  ‘What?’

  Ingrid held out her hand. ‘Passport — hurry, Amanda.’

  She pulled her bag from the floor and fumbled inside. Ingrid wound down the window as the soldiers approached, speaking to them in a strained voice in Arabic and handing over both passports. The men huddled over them, their eyes flicking suspiciously to the two women, and Amanda gripped her mobile, although she could not think of anyone to ring. Ingrid was answering questions, smiling and nodding, but the veins stood out like cords in her neck. After a moment, she began to relax and one of the soldiers stepped back, peering under the car, more bored than suspicious. Then it was over: the soldiers returned the passports and waved the car on, and Amanda heard the engine of the jeep start as it prepared to make space for them to pass.

  ‘What was all that about?’ she asked.

  One of the soldiers began walking backwards, his machine gun held casually in one hand, guiding them past the military vehicle.

  ‘Oh — they’re the UN,’ Amanda said, noticing the faded markings on one of the doors. ‘You’d think they’d have more modern equipment.’

  Ingrid’s hands gripped the steering wheel and her eyes flicked up to the rear-view mirror. The soldiers were watching them as the car pulled away, and she pressed her foot down on the accelerator, despite the winding road. ‘They are not UN, Amanda. I knew straight away they were SLA. That’s why I told you not to say you are a journalist.’

  Amanda said, puzzled: ‘Who are the SLA?’

  ‘The South Lebanon Army. General Lahad’s men.’

  ‘Oh God, not another lot I haven’t heard of. Who’s General Lahad?’

  ‘Antoine Lahad. A Lebanese general who was sent down here to deal with the militia. Instead he joined them. His men are —’ Her mouth turned down. ‘I think you say a law unto themselves.’

  ‘Blimey.’ Amanda looked back over her shoulder, even though the jeep was long gone from sight. ‘You don’t think they’ll come after us?’

  ‘I hope not. Did you see how old their jeep was? Sometimes there are fights between the SLA and UNIFIL. The SLA hijack their jeeps and take their uniforms.’

  Amanda turned in her seat, making herself comfortable again. ‘Why doesn’t the government just arrest this guy?’

  ‘Last year they tried to take him to court but Israel stopped them. The Syrians protect Hezbollah and Israel protects General Lahad — that’s how it is down here.’

  Ingrid reached across to turn up the air conditioning, which was struggling with the late afternoon heat. A thermometer fixed to the dashboard showed eighteen degrees, a lot cooler than outside, but Amanda’s jeans were damp with perspiration. Ingrid was wearing loose linen trousers and a long T-shirt, and she had tied her hair in a loose ponytail before they left Damascus.

  She checked the mirror again. ‘I think we are OK. I did not expect to see them in this part of the country, mosdy they operate around Tyre and Jezzine.’

  Amanda gazed out of the side window, finally aware of the ravishingly beautiful landscape which she had first seen in Fabio’s photographs. Blue-green mountains stretched as far as the eye could see, shadowed in places by the dark shapes of clouds. The highest peaks were bare granite, touched with pink now that the sun was beginning to set, and she thought that somewhere beyond them must be the sea. The car slowed as Ingrid changed down a gear, beginning a winding descent towards the floor of a valley. About a hundred yards to the left were the remains of a house, collapsing into what looked like a bomb crater. The ground was rough and uncultivated, and there were no animals to be seen.

  ‘Landmines,’ Ingrid said, before Amanda could ask. She pointed to a cluster of houses on a distant hillside. ‘Don’t worry, that’s where we’re going.’

  ‘Already? Fantastic.’ Amanda stretched her arms behind her head. ‘I hope they’ve got something cold to drink.’

  Ingrid smiled to herself. Not long after, she drove into the village, stopping to ask where the Hadidi family lived. A man dressed in rough clothes, like a shepherd, explained in a gruff voice where to find the house. A moment later, Ingrid drew up near some metal gates set in a high wall and turned to Amanda, one hand on the steering wheel.

  ‘Do you think it will take more than an hour? Because if you want also to see the car today...’ She sounded tired. ‘I would like to be in Beirut in time for dinner — Riad has to leave early on Sunday morning.’

  ‘Well, maybe it isn’t absolutely essential.’ Amanda looked sheepish. ‘I’ve got a bit of a hangover, to be honest, and I wouldn’t mind an early night myself.’

  Ingrid took out her mobile. ‘Let me call Riad. It will only take two minutes.’

  Amanda opened the passenger door, got out and peered up and down the street, committing the details to memory: crumbling houses, some of them little better than in the refugee camp, telegraph poles with peeling posters, a thin dog sitting next to a dripping tap. Amanda went to the gates and tried them, breathing faster as they opened with a faint creak. She peered inside, finding herself in an empty courtyard. The single-storey house was painted white, forming a square with the wall which bordered the road. Shrivelled plants in olive oil cans stood against the peeling walls, giving the place a neglected air.

  ‘Hello? Marhaba?’

  To Amanda’s left, a door swung open. A young woman appeared, saying something over one shoulder. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, pretty much like Amanda in fact, and her dark hair was shoulder-length. She looked wary, suspicious even, and Amanda wished she had waited for Ingrid.

  ‘Do you speak English?’

  The girl responded in Arabic.

  ‘I’m sorry —’ Amanda looked at the girl, not sure what to do. Behind her the gate creaked again and she was relieved when Ingrid appeared beside her, putting away her mobile. ‘Ingrid! Can you tell her why we’re here?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Ingrid smiled and pointed at herself and Amanda in turn. Amanda waited, expecting the girl’s suspicion to melt away, but she continued to regard them through narrowed eyes. When Ingrid had finished, she shook her head and lifted a hand to her eyes, not saying anything. It looked as if she was about to cry, but instead she took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Amanda whispered.

  Ingrid put out a hand to silence her. The young woman had pulled herself together and she was able to answer Ingrid’s questions, gesturing with one hand beyond the gate. Ingrid’s face darkened, and the exchange speeded up, the girl responding several times with single emphatic words. Eventually she glanced behind her, said something to Ingrid and went inside the house. Amanda heard raised voices, then the girl returned with an older woman, her brown face heavily lined, her hair covered by a grey scarf. Everyone began speaking at once, in Arabic, and Amanda’s head swivelled from one to anot
her as she tried to understand what was going on.

  She said, ‘Is this the right place? Did Aisha—’

  Ingrid brushed the questions aside. ‘I do not understand,’ she said. ‘They say Marwan —’

  The old woman was openly weeping now. Feeling uneasy, Amanda gripped Ingrid’s arm. She remembered the bomb damage in the valley: ‘Has something happened to him?’

  Ingrid glanced round the courtyard. She wiped her brow, damp with perspiration, and said something to the two women. The girl darted across the courtyard to a door, opened it and stood back.

  ‘In there,’ Ingrid said, sounding exhausted. ‘At least we can sit down...’

  Amanda followed her into a square room, blinking as the girl turned on a light and dust motes danced in the heavy air. Somewhere, in the distance, a baby began to cry. ‘Is there any chance of a drink?’ she whispered. ‘Water, tea, anything?’

  Ingrid lowered her bag to the floor and sat down on a bench which ran round three sides of the room. She said something to the young woman, who nodded and left the room, switching on a ceiling fan as she went.

  Amanda went to a wall unit, picked up a photo frame and held it aloft: ‘Look! It’s Marwan. So we’re in the right place.’

  ‘Of course, that is not the problem. Please, Amanda, sit down.’

  Amanda put the picture frame back in its place, among a collection of family photos. She moved a couple of kelim cushions and settled herself next to Ingrid. ‘All right, what’s the big mystery?’

  Ingrid breathed out. ‘First, from what I can gather, Marwan is in Khiam.’

  ‘Where’s Khiam?’

  ‘It is a very bad place — a prison run by the SLA.’