I pulled myself up from the depths of the sofa, my elbow on my knee and chopping the air with the flat of my hand, speaking in heavily accented Arab English. ‘You are going too deep with this question. You will drown us with details. Focus on this good for Jordan, not always the broblems. Always you British bress you focus on the broblems. You must to open your mind.’
Daoud laughed at my impersonation, but his laughter died quickly. ‘He’s a good man, though, Paul. His heart is good.’
‘Oh, I’m sure. But Harb is more my idea of a progressive man, a reformer. I suppose he’s more... sophisticated.’
‘Oh, don’t underestimate Qasim. He’s leading the whole reform movement. He’s just a little older. But he’s closer to the conservatives, to the street. He gets more done with less conflict than Harb.’
I sipped at my little cup of strong coffee. ‘Do you think you can take the water bid?’
‘Yes. I know we can. We’re a million miles ahead of the British when it comes to our technical bid and they know it. In fact, it’s something of a worry. The British don’t always play fair in Jordan, you know.’
Ah, the cunning British. The Arabs have never lost their view of the ‘Breets’ as cunning, Machiavellian strategists. What I found odd was how such a bunch of muckle-headed chinless wonders with their classical educations, convictions of racial superiority and love of brown boys’ pert arses could ever be seen as cunning.
I said as much to Daoud. ‘Ah,’ he said, smiling a rueful smile. ‘But maybe we have to demonise them. Imagine, if we took your view of these people, the Storrs and Glubbs, Philbys and Lawrences. Imagine how little it would make us, to have been conquered by these creatures. We’d rather build them up to be cunning and forceful. At least it would explain how they could take everything away from us.’
Which is one way of looking at it. I smiled, but Daoud’s expression stayed serious and earnest and his voice urgent.
‘Paul, we have found new ways to gain access to deep water resources that will help to rebalance Jordan’s position on the water map of the region. We’ve been using some of the most sophisticated deep geophysical mapping systems in the world, systems developed to explore for oil and gas in the Gulf. Because of our partners, we can combine that ability to see further underground than ever before with cutting edge French micro-boring technology. We know where the deep water is and where it flows and that it flows through Jordanian land. We can tap into those aquifers before they rise across the border. You see? We can keep our water, we can seize it back from them.’
I was taken aback by the fire in Daoud’s voice. ‘Can you make it work? I mean, you’ve not only got physical constraints but political ones too.’
My question merely fanned his passion. Daoud’s hand was on my shoulder as he leaned forwards, his eyes locked on mine and his fervour drawing me in.
‘I know we can do it if we win the privatisation bid. I know we can make it work. Together with the backing of our government, which we absolutely have, we can do it. And it’s vital, not just for the consortium but for Jordan’s future. We can get back most of the water they took from us in 1967 and the same technology will let the people in the West Bank reassert their right to their own water so their farms can live again. Farms like our own, on the very border with Israel and divided by that wall, will die unless we get water. And I can give it to them, I know I can. I can make water flow throughout the land.’
He was mesmeric, his passion both contagious and persuasive. At that moment, I was with him, watching the trails of fresh, clean water sparkling between the olive trees on the Dajani farm as they brought the desert back to life. I was watching glittering droplets flying in the sunshine as children played in the cool shower.
Daoud stubbed out his cigarette in the heavy crystal ashtray and I took the opportunity to slip in my request. ‘Aisha mentioned visiting the farm. She is keen for me to go there and perhaps to understand more about what shapes people in Jordan. I wasn’t sure if it was…’ I struggled for the right word. ‘Appropriate.’
Daoud positively beamed. Paul is learning, his expression said. Paul is asking my permission and even doing it like a good Arab, slipping it in at the end of the conversation. ‘I think it would be a good idea. Tell me when you would like to go. We can help to ease the crossing.’
‘Wasta.’
‘Yes.’ He slapped my leg delightedly. ‘Wasta.’
‘We were thinking of going at the weekend.’
‘Great. I’ll let Hamad know. Mariam will be delighted to meet you, I know. Don’t worry about the paperwork. Selim over at my office will get you all the permits and passes sorted out.’
‘Thank you, Daoud.’
Standing, Daoud put an arm on my shoulder. ‘Paul, I don’t want to make Aisha unhappy. I wouldn’t see her harmed for anything, in any way.’ He turned serious again. ‘Please, Paul. Take care of her.’
Daoud was smiling, his words meant kindly and so I thanked him, as much to hide my confusion as through any sense of gratitude.
‘I will, Daoud. Thank you.’
Thank you for trying. Thank you for being so direct. Thank you for smiling. Thank you for letting me know at the same time you’ll break every bone in my body if I let her down without actually saying a word about it.
As if on cue, the women appeared to say goodbye. I caught Aisha’s calculating glance at Daoud. An instant later she was beside me on the doorstep, a look of pure delight on her face.
‘Clever Brit,’ she whispered. ‘Good luck tomorrow.’
Fast and light as a darting bird, her lips brushed mine and she went back inside. I was left alone on the doorstep wondering where I’d find a Lonely Planet guide to the West Bank.
FOURTEEN
If I had expected my court case to be a grand affair, I was to be disappointed. For weeks I’d worried about the outcome of this day and yet it seemed like any other, a little sunnier perhaps, but a cool Amman October day for all that.
Ibrahim met me outside the courthouse accompanied by his lawyer, Tariq Al Bashir. We all shook hands and made small talk on the broad stone steps leading up to the courthouse building as Ibrahim smoked his cigarette. Al Bashir had pretty impressive credentials – Aisha had told me he had managed Daoud’s case after he was picked up by the Mukhabarat on the Syrian border. It had been Al Bashir’s brilliance, together with Ibrahim’s influence, that had secured Daoud’s release and had the charge of conspiracy against him dropped. I could only hope the same would be true in my case.
Al Bashir’s predatory stare, heavy eyebrows and curved nose reminded me of a bird of prey. I later discovered his nickname was in fact Al Saqr – The Falcon. He was confident the case would be thrown out on today’s hearing alone but no matter what his reputation, I could not bring myself to share his certainty. I was consumed by visions of disaster, wearing my only suit, uncomfortable and sweating despite the cool breeze. Although I had prepared myself as much as possible over the past few days, I was frightened, my nerves were shrieking and my senses heightened so every touch or sound made my heart jump. I felt Ibrahim’s hand on my shoulder as I mounted the stone steps. It was more of a comfort than his bluff attempts at reassuring me. An even number of steps confirmed my concern. I had banked on odd for a good result.
We stood as the judges filed in, the last of the three men and by far the most commanding. I noticed Ibrahim whispering furiously to Al Bashir. He was pale and looked shocked, stroking his grey moustache distractedly.
‘What is it?’
Al Bashir leaned across, whispering, ‘It is the wrong presiding judge. We understood another man would hear this case. I am very sorry. This is not what we had expected.’
‘Who’s this?’
‘This is Ayman Khasawneh.’
I felt as if someone were looking at me and turned to catch Khasawneh’s glare. He barked something in Arabic and everyone sat. My trial had started and I couldn’t understand a word. I looked around the stark room as a court official
got up to speak, presumably reading out the charge. I caught sight of a familiar figure sitting in the public seats, his eyes on the judge. Gerald Lynch didn’t even spare me a glance.
I had never in my life felt so impotent as I did sitting in that courthouse as these men debated my future around me, their guttural Arabic echoing in the bare room. A fat, fussy little man in a beige jacket took to his feet and started reading from a sheaf of papers in Arabic as Al Bashir leaned across to me and whispered, ‘This has all just been procedural. The prosecution will read the charges now.’
The prosecutor’s voice droned on in Arabic for a little before Al Bashir sprung to his feat, making me jump as he slammed his hand down on the table and cried out in rage. Khasawneh shouted back at him, his hand in the air as Ibrahim also took to his feet. The prosecutor was shouting now and the judges were all standing. Khasawneh smashed his gavel into the desktop in front of him. It was instant pandemonium and I sat, bewildered and uncomprehending as the red-faced men shook fists at each other, Khasawneh shouting above everyone else before wheeling around and leaving the room followed by the other judges. Al Bashir and Ibrahim were bent towards each other, talking urgently. Al Bashir pointed across at the prosecutor, who was making a great show of playing with his papers. I spoke, my voice sounding oddly small and thin after the outbursts of furious shouting I had just witnessed.
‘Would anyone mind telling me what’s going on here?’
Al Bashir sat, turning to face me.
‘Yes, Paul, I’m sorry. The prosecutor has laid two charges against you. One of assaulting a police officer and one of possessing a small amount of cannabis. They are claiming the reason the officer stopped you was to search you for the drugs and you resisted arrest. They are asking for the maximum penalty. It is a substantial prison term.’
I looked at him in astonishment, my mind racing to try and find some possible explanation for the charge, every muscle in my body taut and my hands clasped between my legs. My voice was reduced to a hoarse whisper.
‘It’s a total lie. It’s not true.’ I struggled for words. ‘It’s a fabrication. How can they do this? Ibrahim knows, he saw the original charge sheet, saw me sign it.’
‘I appreciate this. The prosecutor has broken all procedure in bringing a charge they haven’t notified us of and I don’t think they’ll be able to make the drugs charge stand in law whatever happens, but it is a very unfortunate escalation of the case. Khasawneh has adjourned the court until tomorrow. Ibrahim will make a written statement now and we will submit this to the judge this evening.’
Something snapped inside me. I sprang to my feet, my arm outstretched in accusation and shouted ‘Liar’ across at the prosecution lawyer. Ibrahim restrained me, his heavy arm around my shoulder and I breathed in his musky aftershave as I leaned on the table, gasping for air. The prosecution lawyer busied himself in his papers before he glanced furtively around him and left the room.
I looked over to the public gallery. Lynch had gone.
The tension left me and I collapsed against Ibrahim’s shoulder, hot tears of rage and frustration shaming me as he patted my back.
I didn’t go back to work, but drove up onto the Citadel, sitting on a fallen column, looking out over the bustling city below me, smoking and reliving the courtroom, reprising my memories of arriving in Jordan and being arrested, replaying the scenes again and again until I had finished the packet, leaving a scattering of white butts around me. I got up and headed for home.
I was fishing in my pocket for my key when I noticed Lars’ front door open at the top of the flight of iron stairs up the side of the house. Finding my key, I was in two minds whether to mind my own business or just nip and check things out. I started up the steps, but stopped halfway and called out to him. His reply was a cracked moan of pain that had me leaping up the remaining steps and standing breathless at his door as the sound died on his lips.
His room was a mess, computer equipment and toppled racks of electronics strewn everywhere. What had been neat minimalism looked like a junkyard. In the middle of it all lay Lars. There was a lot of blood.
I ran over to him and put my hand on his arm, not quite knowing what to do. I waited as his eyes opened painfully and focused on me, helping him to struggle to a seated position. I went to the bathroom and wet a towel and tried to clean up his face as best I could.
‘What the hell happened?’
‘There were two guys here when I got home. I took some time off this afternoon, got here early. They were messing with my gear.’
Lars gulped twice, then turned away and threw up. I got him another towel and a bottle of water from the kitchen.
‘Will I call the ambulance?’
He shook his head, painfully. ‘No, don’t think so.’
‘So you had a go, then?’
‘I shouted at them. I think they will stop or panic or something. I’m not sure what. I never been burgled before. And in daylight. There was a fat guy and a thin guy, like Laurel and Hardy. The thin guy just stayed messing with my gear, the fat guy came over to me. They were wearing face-hats. He came over to me and just beat the shit out of me, deliberate, not angry. The last thing I remember is them trashing the place and kicking me on the way out.’
‘Who were they?’
His face darkened. ‘How the fuck can I know, Paul? They didn’t leave business cards, did they?’
‘Sorry, sorry. Stupid question. But they must have had a reason, must have been after something?’
Lars gestured to the wreckage around him. ‘Whatever it was, they weren’t here to steal stuff. Look, you wanna fix me a whisky?’
When I got back from the kitchen holding two tumblers he’d propped himself up against the wall with his hands on his legs to support him. I righted one of his black and chrome chairs and he eased himself into it before taking the tumbler.
‘Thanks. Glad you came by.’
His face glowed red on one side, his lip split and a livid bruise forming around his eye and temple. He had a gash on the back of his head and his hands were cut. The state of his knuckles told me it hadn’t been an entirely one way conversation.
‘You look awful. Will I take you down to A and E?’
‘No, I’m okay.
I looked around. ‘Why on earth would they want to do this?’
‘I don’t know, but like I say, they weren’t thieves. This stuff is worth thousands. A thief runs, he doesn’t step up to you and start punching.’ Lars grimaced. ‘And the guy doing the punching was good at it. Real good.’
‘Were they trying to get at your computer?’
‘Must have been. But why? There’s nothing special about it, but the encryption software I use and the line down to your place.’
Lars had set up a flylead and a wireless link to my place downstairs – being a telecoms freak, he had a hyper-fast, multi-megabit Internet line and hadn’t paid a bill for it since he had moved to Amman. He’d been kind enough to extend that privilege to me soon after I moved in.
I kept quiet, but his words hit home. There was nothing special about Lars except his connection to me. And it had got him beaten up.
I caught his look. Lars had made the connection at the same time I had. I dropped my eyes.
‘Right,’ he said softly. I heard him drink from the glass I could hear his hand shaking in the clink of the ice.
‘Lars...’
‘Paul, drop it. It doesn’t matter. Whatever you’re up to with your Mr Lynch of the British Embassy, just leave me out of it. You hear? It’s not my problem. The less I know the better off I will be, I think, no?’
My mouth was dry, the drink untouched in my hand. I looked up at his battered face. Lars smiled, a tight, bitter smile.
‘You’re a good man. Just watch your back well, you hear? These people are crazy. Hell, fuck, I’m crazy.’ He grinned angrily. ‘We all crazy, right?’
He drained his glass and got shakily to his feet. To my surprise, he held out his hand. I took it and we s
hook. He turned and slowly, painfully started to clear up. I left him without a word.
I walked down the iron stairs, the handrail cold in the evening air, but didn’t go into my own house. I sat at the garden table, lit up a cigarette and called Lynch.
‘Paul.’
‘I’ve had enough. I want to meet.’
‘Sure, Paul. You just at a loose end or have you got something in mind?’
‘You saw what happened today. You were behind it.’
‘Okay, Paul. Let’s meet at TGI’s, the Marriott. At eight.’
I finished my cigarette, luxuriating in the last rays of the setting sun and listening to the rustling of the vine leaves as the cool breeze caught them. I went indoors to catch the news and freshen up.
The bar was noisy and beery, a warm contrast to the cool evening outside. People chattered over a background of daft pop music and chose from unfeasibly large plastic-laminated menus. I sat in the corner with Lynch.
‘I’ll try to get the Jerusalem Consortium bid documents for you. But only if you have this case dropped.’
‘I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands here, Paul.’ Lynch looked around the bar with a look of mild puzzlement, as if he had just realised where he was. I waited for him to come back but he looked down at his glass for a long time, gently tapping his signet ring against it to the rhythm of the music.
I had been rehearsing this for hours in my mind. The last thing the bastard would expect was I’d push back. And so that’s precisely what I did, although the little Brit in my mind screamed at me to give in, capitulate, throw in the towel. I drew a breath.
‘Well, you’d be wrong, Gerald. You see, I think you’ve pushed it too far. As far as I can make out, I’m in trouble whatever I do. If I tell you to fuck off, I’ll go down for assault. They won’t make the drugs charge stick. If I play along with you, you’ll have me by the short and curlies for all time. And I really don’t want that. So this is how it’s going to be. You want the Jerusalem document, the case goes away. And so do you.’
Olives Page 13
