“Sure. What do you want to know?”
Nicholson flipped open a notebook. “Full name, date and place of birth.”
“Pierre Joseph Cormier. Born January 29, 1960. Saida, or Sidon, in the southern part of Lebanon.”
“And you’re what now…”
“Canadian citizen.”
“Since when?”
“I came here as a refugee in 1983.”
“Date?”
“September. The sixteenth. My name on arrival was Haddad. Pierre Joseph Haddad.”
“You changed it?”
“I was living in a small East Coast community. I was anxious to fit in.”
“I can imagine. And what was the basis of your refugee claim?”
“Well. There was a civil war in Lebanon at the time. I had good reason to believe that my life was in danger. The refugee board agreed.”
“So why did you think your life was in danger?”
“I had been a member of a militia. It was a complicated situation.”
“A militia?”
“Yes. The central government was unstable to say the least. The military and civil authorities were ineffective. So there were a number of militia groups, officially called Lebanese Forces, quite separate from the national army. The militias were mostly based on religion or family loyalties. I was in a Christian militia group but I defected. I was being hunted.”
“You’re a lucky guy. It isn’t easy for a combatant to get status as a refugee.”
“There are exceptions.”
The officer flipped through his notes. “We’ll come back to that. I believe you said that you were associated with an individual called Hobeika. Elie Hobeika.”
“Yes.”
“And this Hobeika was assassinated in…2002, January, I believe.”
“Yes.”
“So how close was the association with this Hobeika?”
“From 1976 until 1978 it was very close, I thought. Then it deteriorated.”
“What happened in 1978?”
“A military operation that went wrong. From my point of view.”
“From your point of view?”
“Yes. But of course you realize that in a war the individual point of view is irrelevant. Can be dangerous even.”
“Not just in war, my friend,” said Nicholson. He sighed. “At the time of his death, I understand, this Hobeika was co-operating with a…Belgian…investigation into alleged war crimes by some fairly high-level political figures in Israel.”
“Yes,” Pierre said.
“You got in touch with the Belgian investigator?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I have certain information that I thought might be useful to them if they wanted to renew their investigation.”
“I see. And your information deals with what?”
“Mostly the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in June 1982. The assassination of the Lebanese president-elect, Bashir Gemayel, in September that year. And the subsequent massacre of Palestinians in the Beirut camps.”
“You said you might have run across a person here in Toronto who could have been mixed up in the assassination of this…Hobeika fellow.”
“I have a hunch, that’s all.”
“That’s okay. We specialize in hunches. So where did you run into this fella?”
“In a bar.”
“What bar?”
“A little out-of-the-way place in the east end. The Only Café.”
“The what?” Nicholson laughed and made a note. “Can you tell us what, if anything, you know about this fellow from the bar?”
“I can only repeat what he told me. He’s a Canadian who grew up in Israel. He’s a former member of the Israel Defense Force, IDF. Intelligence, I believe. He possibly served in an elite anti-terrorism unit.”
“And does he have a name?”
“I’d rather not give it to you just now. In any case, I believe it’s not his real name. I suspect that he might be a fugitive bomb-maker who was known in security circles overseas as ‘Charon’ or perhaps ‘Benarik.’ ”
“Ben what?”
“Benarik. Spelled like it sounds. As you know it was a bomb that killed Hobeika.”
The officer finished writing, then looked at Pierre sternly. “So let me ask you this. What was your involvement with this Hobeika fellow?”
“I lost my family early in the war. I was sixteen. I was kind of adopted by the militia group Hobeika belonged to. He knew my mother’s people.”
“This militia group was what?”
“It was a section of what was called the Kata’ib, which has different spellings.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“You have?”
“We did a bit of homework on our own before we came to see you. Now this guy in the bar. What made you suspicious?”
“Certain things he seems to know. Matters have come up in conversations.”
“You’re worried about this guy?”
“Not really. A lot of time has passed. But we never know, do we?”
“Well, there isn’t much to go on without a name. So when you feel ready…”
“Roloff. Ari Roloff.”
“Spelling?”
As Pierre spelled the name, Nicholson and the silent officer named Andy exchanged glances and Andy nodded. Nicholson wrote briefly in his notebook, then stood.
“I suggest you keep this under your hat for now. For your own good. Right? We have a few things to check out. We’ll be back in touch. Okay?”
“Yes, and for the record,” Pierre said, “I wouldn’t want my company dragged into anything.”
“Absolutely. Just sit tight for now. We’ll be able to reach you here at Draycor?”
“No. I plan to take some time off, go away for a while.”
“Any place interesting?”
“Probably some boating on the East Coast.”
“Ah. Prince Edward Island.”
“Why would you think PEI?”
“I guess because there’s a lot of Lebanese there. I think the premier is a Lebanese guy.”
“The Lebanese are everywhere,” Pierre said. “Including Cape Breton, which is where I’ll be.”
“Ah, Cape Breton,” said Nicholson. “I believe that’s where my family originated.”
“I didn’t know that, Ron,” said Andy.
Nicholson looked at him and smiled. “People would be shocked, Andy. Shocked by all the things you guys don’t know.”
They laughed and they all shook hands. Pierre handed them his business card after writing his personal cellphone number on the back. Nicholson wrote a number on his own card and gave it to Pierre.
After they had gone, Pierre sat staring through the window at the sky. His office was spare, unrevealing, the desk almost always clear, but for the photograph of Lois. There was a painting of a stylized cedar, unrecognizable as a tree, hanging on the office wall, along with his framed university degrees. He studied the cedar, remembering the pride with which he once wore that symbol on his shirt pocket, the profound loyalty he’d once felt to the country and the cause it represented.
He picked up the phone and rang Ethan.
When he answered, Pierre said, “I need to see you about something. It’s kind of private.”
“Sure. Do you want to go out?”
“No. Let’s say tomorrow morning here in the office. A couple of things I want to draft for you to notarize before I leave. On a client to solicitor basis.”
“Fine. As long as it doesn’t involve the company.”
“Not at all. Not remotely. A brief instruction in the event anything should happen to me. And a power of attorney to Lois.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’m okay. Just some personal housekeeping.”
“Tomorrow morning. Say nine thirty. When are you leaving?”
“Soon. I’ll bring the coffee.”
“Excellent.”
“And Ethan.” He hesitat
ed. “Let me just say my life is really complicated now. It isn’t only Puncak. I’ll try to fill you in a bit tomorrow. Client to lawyer, right?”
“Absolutely,” said Ethan.
28.
How could he not have understood the fundamental symmetry? Surely what was going on around him had resonated somewhere in his memory. Or was it possible that he had so successfully walled off his past that he had forgotten elementary survival skills? Was it possible that he had come to believe his own deceptions—that he really was a reinvention? That the world that he’d inhabited since 1983 was on another moral planet, unlike the world he’d lived in for the first two decades of his life—the world in which he had developed all the instincts and reflexes that had enabled him to survive so much so long when tens of thousands like him hadn’t.
He studied the horizon. The Magdalen Islands were off to the northwest. He could probably blend in there, revive the French he’d allowed to lapse for such a long time now. Or carry on, hook down the inland waterway and really disappear, somewhere in the Caribbean. Briefly he regretted having thrown away the Browning, his one physical connection with the turmoil of his distant past, perhaps a hedge against the unexpected.
No, he thought. That was wise.
Tonight, he told himself, I will speak with this Margaret Rankin off the record, get a sense of her reliability. Tomorrow I will drive to Halifax and from there fly home. He would tell nobody, he resolved, not even Lois. He would surprise her. He would surprise them all. From now on he was on his own.
He asked himself: How much will I tell this journalist when we talk? How much do I really know?
HK told him once: “Our advantage lies not just in what we know, but in what people think we know.”
But experience had also taught HK that there is real danger when others think we know more than we should.
What do I really know? I made a phone call. There are eight people dead.
But he also knew why he’d made the phone call. He knew the context and context is full of variables and as the context expands so do the variables. Each one implicates more people, draws more people into the dark realm of accountability. And he, Pierre, was at the centre of the circle once again.
He checked for messages. There was one. Will call at nine your time. Looking forward. Thanx. Margaret.
Beirut, September 7, 1982. He was surprised when HK had invited him to the private dining room, presumably to celebrate with him and half a dozen of his most loyal and trusted commanders. He’d had little contact with HK for years now; there had been a chill between them for too long to remember. But things were changing rapidly and there was much to celebrate. Their sheikh was now the country’s president. Arafat was gone and with him thousands of his terrorists; the Syrians were gone.
A week earlier the young sheikh faced down the Israelis who had demanded a peace treaty by year end, the ultimate repayment for chasing out the terrorists. But the sheikh knows it wasn’t peace the Jews wanted, at least not peace for Lebanon. They wanted the optics of a treaty, diplomatic recognition by another Arab state. And the sheikh knew that a peace treaty with Israel would mean war with Syria and the ultimate dismemberment of Lebanon. But even in the absence of a treaty they are too close to the Israelis, owe them far too much.
Pierre listens to the animated talk as the wine flows. There are many platters heaped with food. He has lost his appetite for wine and food and politics: these men, his mentors and protectors, once his friends, have grown rich on the fruits of chaos. Peace for them will mean a return to the rule of law, but they owe their wealth and power to anarchy. He knows now, from the liquor-loosened conversation, that this is not a celebration. This, he thought, is crisis management. The sheikh was much too strong. Political stability could cause a crisis worse than war.
Bashir, beside him at the table, was trembling. “I need to talk,” he whispered. “Outside.”
The night was hot, dripping with humidity and yet Bashir looked like he was freezing. “You know what’s going to happen, yes?”
Pierre shook his head.
“They have asked me to find Habib.”
“Habib. The bomber.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“There is a rumour. Habib is plotting with the Syrians against the sheikh.”
“Why does HK want him?”
Bashir smiled weakly. “I am to bring him in.”
“For what reason?”
Bashir shrugged. “To be killed perhaps? To kill? Who knows?”
“Sit,” Pierre said. They sat on a low stone wall. Pierre removed a package of cigarettes from his pocket. Bashir accepted one, lit it.
“I am a coward,” Bashir said.
“No.”
“If I wasn’t I would stop this thing at any cost. If I knew how.”
“It would be the end of all of us.”
“Yes. But it will be the end in any case.”
Pierre studied the cigarette between his fingers. “We are pawns in this. Others decide, we follow orders.”
“Listen to me, Pierre. HK has kept you close—out of the field. You must know this. It is because he no longer trusts you. Four years ago you questioned him about the Zghorta operation. Nobody questions HK and survives. You are only alive because you have Damour in common. But I have heard it said that this life insurance will expire for you too. You must be alert. He will find a reason. You have seen and heard too much, as I have. The end will come without warning.”
Pierre said, “I will speak to HK. We will send you out for as long as you need. To Israel or France. You have a brother in Boston? It can be arranged.”
“No,” he said. “There is already an arrangement.”
Pierre gripped his arm. “You are nearing burnout.”
Bashir looked away. There was a helicopter circling above. “Our friends from the south,” he said, “looking for a target that hasn’t yet been destroyed.” He laughed. Then he sighed heavily. “We are creating a desert.”
Pierre draped an arm across his shoulders. Bashir spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “About Elias. Watch him carefully. He has spoken against you to the boss. About Chamoun and the Syrians. He has whispered that you have been in secret meetings with Dany and the Tigers…”
“Those are lies.”
“Yes, of course,” Bashir said. “But lies can be helpful for whatever outcome is required. Be careful around him. When your time comes, it will be Elias. If the sheikh dies many others will follow in the aftermath. Be on guard.”
Bashir stood, dropped the cigarette, stepped on it. He studied the crushed cigarette, as if it had inspired another thought. He caught Pierre by the hand, stared silently into his face. But his eyes were vacant.
“The sheikh believes he has the Americans behind him. But against the interests of the Israelis, he is nothing. Isolated from the Syrians he is finished before he starts. He will not even survive to the inauguration.”
Pierre said, “Come back inside. We will have a drink together. Plan your holiday.”
Bashir shook his head and backed away into the darkness. Pierre watched until he was gone, then turned away to go back inside. He was in the doorway when he heard the pistol shot. He paused, heard heavy footsteps, people running. And he thought, how odd that a single gunshot in a place where guns are never silent can cause such a reaction. Anger? Panic? Curiosity? His mind followed the irony until it settled on another thought: that he, Pierre, was feeling nothing.
He had ceased to pay attention, distracted by too many useless thoughts. The sheikh is finished before he starts. Could he have imagined it? The sheikh was at the pinnacle of power, the entire country under his control, his inauguration just days away. The Americans needed him, supported him, gave him the confidence to stand up to the Israelis, ignore the menace of the Syrians.
He reflected on the last words of his friend. The sheikh is finished before he starts.
He was wrong. He had to be. The sheikh was too experienc
ed, too wily, too well connected to fall victim to lesser men.
HK was terse. Get Habib. Bring him to me. Tell no one.
“What am I to tell Habib?”
“You will tell him nothing.”
“And what if he resists?”
HK sighed, placed a hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “Surely you know how to overcome resistance.”
“Why? Why Habib? He is with the Syrians.”
HK looked away. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“Get someone else.”
“What?”
“Someone else can find Habib.” For only an instant there was fury in HK’s eyes. Pierre turned away. Then HK drew him back and smiled.
“Perhaps we have been together for too long, my friend. Go then. But do not speak of this. It will not be difficult to find Habib.”
Habib. The bomber who was blamed by history for what happened on September fourteenth—the explosion that destroyed the sheikh, the saviour; the explosion that brought down an office building and the hopes of more than half the country; that touched off a cascade of consequences that no one had anticipated. No one, perhaps, but HK and his inner circle.
September 15, 1982. Bikfaya, the Gemayel stronghold. The place was packed. It was a wake, but it had the atmosphere of a convention. Food, alcohol, floral tributes, important people. Everyone was there, old Sheikh Pierre, grey and sombre and immaculately dressed, accepting condolences and pledges of fealty from family and loyalists, Israelis and Americans, Saad Haddad, the warlord and Israeli proxy from the south. Amin, the younger, weaker brother of the dead sheikh, the president in waiting. Life goes on. War goes on.
And had Pierre imagined it? HK and Elias watching him, then whispering, then drifting off? Was it possible that his bitterness and cynicism had metastasized to paranoia?
If the sheikh dies many others will follow in the aftermath. Be on guard.
Outside, among the dispersing mourners HK approached Pierre, face grave, embraced him, face to his ear, whispered: “If you had found Habib, perhaps we wouldn’t be here. This, you must live with.” Then took Pierre’s face in both his hands and kissed him.
29. September 18, 1982
The Only Café Page 23
