I took my water into the living room and settled down painfully to scan the news as it ran footage of the ruined nightclub and told me about the ten dead and eighty-five wounded, twenty seriously. The numbers rolled by on the news channel’s ticker and I found myself thinking of how impersonal they were, these tallies of deaths and tragedies, of grieving families and loved ones.
The mobile rang. Lynch.
‘Paul. Are you okay?’
‘Bit stuffed up, but yes.’ It sounded like someone else’s voice, harsh and croaky, muffled by my big lips.
‘Thank God. Look, Paul, have you seen Daoud Dajani?’
‘No. No, I haven’t.’
‘Well if you do, call me. It’s important, Paul. He’s a dangerous man. We’re now certain he’s linked to the Jericho and Haifa bombings and we believe he’s behind this one, too. He’s disappeared, there’s no trace of him. We’re really concerned about what he’s up to. The man’s a terrorist and a smart one at that. Do you understand, Paul? He’s dangerous.’
‘So find him. Arrest him.’
‘We don’t have enough to go on yet, Paul. But we’re working on it with the Jordanians. You’ll let me know if you hear of him, yes?’
‘Yes.’
I got a good whack of scotch and a handful of ice from the kitchen and Daoud’s memory key from my torn jacket and settled down to read his vision for Jordan’s water. Sometime past midnight I finished, stretching painfully and taking my drink to bed with me.
In the blackness, sleep eluding me, I lay wondering what was driving Daoud Dajani. His scheme was breathtaking, his plans meticulously detailed and backed by swathes of research by French experts and Arab researchers who had cut their teeth working on geophysical exploration in the Gulf’s oil fields. His proposal claimed to ensure sufficient water for Jordan’s consumption to increase by twenty-five percent without breaking into a sweat. It would scale back on currently over-exploited resources and tap into new finds of water deep underground, a system of seasonal aquifers and subterranean reservoirs that had lain undiscovered until Daoud’s people had come along with new research based on tracing old Roman water systems. Those deep resources eventually rose up into the depths of Lake Tiberias throughout the winter, drying up in the summer. Daoud wanted to divert and trap the deep water before it got to Tiberias, storing it for use through the dry summer months.
I knew nothing about water, but one thing about Daoud’s whole proposal was quite obvious. Jordan’s gain would be at Israel’s expense and would involve huge volumes of water.
I lay in the dark and tried to reconcile all of the different facets of Daoud Dajani, the brooding presence, the laughing family man, the successful businessman, the visionary with a plan for a nation’s water and the terrorist. I was increasingly certain Gerald Lynch was lying to me but I couldn’t shake the memory of Aisha’s lost bag in the guide’s hand down by the Jordan or of the group of men by my car outside a farmhouse near Ramallah.
We’re certain he’s linked, Lynch had said. I almost wished I could be as certain. I looked up at the ceiling, faint shapes starting to appear as my eyes adjusted. Daoud’s plan for Jordan’s water could be as divisive as the recent bombings had been. The new peace was in tatters and recriminations were already flying.
Israel’s thirst for water had driven land grab after land grab, from 1948 to the insidious alterations in the course of the security wall that curled around springs and aquifers. When the Lebanese had tried to divert the Hasbani River, one of the three that flowed into Lake Tiberias, Israel had threatened war. Israel, Jordan, Lebanon and Syria. These people fought wars for water.
Daoud Dajani was a dangerous man, for sure. I lay in the silence reprising recent events and the people around me. I knew for certain he was no terrorist. He was a water thief, but no terrorist.
I haven’t set the alarm. If I wake before ten he’s innocent.
Aisha’s call woke me. The morning sun’s glow through the curtains filled the room with a soft, peaceful light. I checked the clock. Half past nine. She sounded as beaten up as I felt, her voice was dull and she mumbled.
‘Hey, ya Brit.’
‘Aish. How are you?’
‘I hurt. I can’t believe it. I still think of it as all happening to someone else. I’ve been asleep since they let me go. What about you?’
‘I’m fine, just hurt a bit. How’s Daoud?’
‘We don’t know, Paul. We still haven’t heard from him. Mum’s in a real state. We’ve lost...’ Her voice broke and I listened helplessly to her as she fought to compose herself. ‘We’ve lost so many friends.’
‘We have each other. At least we still have each other.’
‘Can you come around, Paul? I... I need you.’
‘Of course. Give me a while to tidy up a bit. I’m not pretty right now.’
The hint of a laugh through her tears. ‘You never were, habibi.’
I cleaned myself up as best I could, but there was a lot of plaster and some fine bruises were spreading across my shoulder, my side and my leg where I’d hit the wall. I had a splitting headache and my lips and eye were still swollen. I drove slowly, turning the wheel was an effort and my cut and bruised leg made braking painful.
Nour met me at the door, dressed in a light blue and gold kandoura. She had been crying and I took her in my arms. She patted my back, her touch on my bruised body was agony.
‘Thank God you’re safe, Paul.’
‘Have you heard anything about Daoud?’
‘No, nothing.’ She held my shoulders as she looked at me, her eyes moist again. ‘I believe God will take care of him. I have to believe this. I have lost all my lovely men, I cannot lose him, not Daoud, not the last of them. God wouldn’t let that happen.’
Her fierce smile collapsed as she turned to lead me into the house. Aisha sat in the living room and tried to get up when I came in, but she wasn’t strong enough. I went to her and settled her back down on the cushions.
Nour said something about dinner and left us. Aisha’s cheek was bruised terribly, her arms too. I kissed her gently on the lips, the pain from my own damaged mouth mingling with the pleasure of wrapping myself up in Aisha’s softness.
My phone rang. Ibrahim.
‘Paul. How are you?’
‘Well, thanks, Ibrahim. A lot better.’ Aisha raised an eyebrow at me and I shrugged my shoulders back at her.
‘Can you come to the Royal Automobile Club? It is perhaps a little urgent.’
‘Why, what gives? Have you heard from Daoud?’
‘Ask Mohamed at the front desk for me. Thank you, Paul.’
Aisha looked troubled. ‘What’s happening, Paul?’
‘I don’t know, Aish. Ibrahim wants to meet me at the RAC. I’d better go.’
We kissed and I touched her breast but she winced so I let her go and left her lying on the sofa. I said goodbye to Nour who had been crying quietly in the kitchen and made my painful way to Ibrahim’s club, established by King Hussein bin Talal, long may he rest in peace, and a favoured meeting place of Jordan’s terrible, wealthy old men.
Mohamed at the front desk was used to confronting all manner of odd things, his fifty-year tenure evident in his formal greeting as he studied my beaten face. ‘Welcome, seer.’
‘I am meeting Ibrahim Dajani.’
‘Certainly. This way please, seer.’
We walked through the oak-panelled reception area and up the red-carpeted stairs as they curved gracefully up to the first floor. Mohamed stopped by the double door and knocked gently.
Ibrahim opened the door, thanking Mohamed and ushering me in before closing it swiftly behind me and turning the key.
I stepped forward and Daoud Dajani rose from the heavy, studded club chair and took my hand.
‘Thank you for coming, Paul.’
TWENTY-ONE
I sat down with a little difficulty and looked across at Daoud. He seemed exhausted, moving with an injured precision similar to my own. Ibrahim made me a co
ffee from the flask on the sideboard. I stirred sugar into it as I looked across at Daoud.
‘Nour’s very worried about you.’
‘I can imagine. I’m sorry for her, but I don’t have many options right now. The bomb at the nightclub was meant for me, Paul.’
I sat back. ‘Why do you think that? Who would want to bomb you?’
‘I don’t think it, I know it. As for who, I know that, too. I’m not safe right now, Paul. They would actually bomb a busy nightclub just to target one man. These people are not normal, they don’t care for life. At least not Arab life.’
The coffee tasted stewed. ‘What people?’
Daoud stared grimly at me over the rim of his cup. His gold signet ring glittered in the light from the chandelier.
‘Mossad. The Israelis.’
‘Oh, no. Come off it, Daoud. Sorry, that’s just mad. I’m not buying it.’
I got to my feet, but didn’t really know where to go. Daoud motioned with a finger.
‘Sit down, Paul. We have proof. Here.’
He reached across to me with a slim, stapled document. I took it.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s the Mukhabarat report on the Nai bomb.’ Daoud glanced across at Ibrahim, who sat quietly on the sofa to the side.
I remembered the story of Daoud’s capture on his way back from trying to stop his suicide bomber brother. Ibrahim had engineered Daoud’s rescue from the feared Mukhabarat, the secret police. Wasta. Ibrahim gazed benignly right back at me and I turned back to Daoud.
‘So what does it say?’
‘It says the bomb did not explode properly,’ said Ibrahim in his smoky rumble. ‘Only half the charge went off. It is not sure whether by luck or design. These people do not tend to make mistakes. We believe it was meant as a signal, that we were meant to find what we did.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘The explosive is American. It is from a batch shipped to Kuwait for use by the American forces when they liberated the country from Saddam’s army. A large amount of materiel was ‘“lost” and made its way from Kuwait to Israel. There are many documented instances of this. The detonator is from the same era.’
‘But it doesn’t mean the bomb is Israeli.’
Ibrahim ignored me. ‘The explosives were placed in a bag underneath the seat Ghaith Mcharourab had reserved at the club. Daoud was to meet him.’
Daoud’s voice cut in. ‘Ghaith died in the explosion.’
I had been gazing into my coffee. I looked sharply up at Daoud but his face was remained impassive.
‘I’m sorry, Daoud.’
He nodded at me as Ibrahim’s sonorous voice continued.
‘The explosives were arranged with great precision, using military grade tape. It is quite difficult to make a bomb that will not quite explode. It is very easy to make one that will not explode. It is quite easy to make one that will explode. But to make a bomb that does not quite explode. Now this is quite an achievement.’ Ibrahim pulled deeply on his cigarette. ‘At least so I am told.’
I’d been flicking through the English half of the document and stopped at a diagram which showed the spread pattern of the explosion. Its full force had been directed upwards, but the periphery of its outward arc was a few feet from where Aisha and I had been standing when it happened. There were ten crosses marking, presumably, the dead, all in the arc. I put the report down on the coffee table.
‘Okay, say for a moment it was them. Why?’
Ibrahim grunted as he leaned forward to stub out his cigarette. ‘Someone called the police claiming responsibility, a group naming itself The Jerusalem Martyrs. The police treated it as a crank call. The group has never been heard of before.’
‘And you think they meant it as a reference to the company’s name. That’s pretty circumstantial, isn’t it?’
‘They left a one-word message. The caller was most particular it be heard. The word was “water.” The police are puzzled by this. Are you puzzled by this, Paul?’
And, of course, the only possible answer was no.
‘It’s all a bit histrionic, though Ibrahim. Why not just warn Daoud? Why try to kill him? Why involve innocent people?’
Daoud chuckled bleakly. ‘There’s a lot at stake with the water projects, Paul. They’ve gone to war over water in the past. Now they’re going to war again. Did you read the document I gave you?’
‘Yes, I did. And that’s the big question it left me with. How will your proposal affect Israel’s water supplies? It’ll reduce them, won’t it?’
‘Yes, it will. There would be a significant reduction in the flow of water out of Lake Tiberias.’
Daoud paused, his eyes scanning my face in a manner disconcertingly similar to Aisha’s habit of looking from eye to eye when she was uncertain. He sat forward, cupping his hands.
‘The volume of water flowing into Tiberias from the three feeder rivers is actually significantly less than the volume flowing out. It has long been known there are a number of underground springs rising up into the lake from underground seas. We believe tapping these will yield something like a hundred million cubic metres of fresh water a year, mostly during the winter months. That is water Jordan desperately needs.’
‘And so does Israel.’
‘The difference is, Paul, this water is flowing through Jordanian land into a lake that is rightly Jordanian.
‘So, if you’re draining a freshwater spring into Tiberias, the water flowing out of the lake to Israel will be more saline.’
‘Yes. Yes, it will.’
‘So the Israelis don’t just end up with less water, they end up with saltier water. Less useful water.’
Daoud didn’t answer, his hands clasped together and his knuckles white. As I looked across the table at him, I finally understood how much was at stake in this tug of water – the Jordanian fields would blossom as Israel’s gardens withered. Standing in the middle of them would be a great statue of Daoud, Ozymandias with an amphora on his shoulder, tipped to pour sparkling water into a giant irrigation ditch.
I put my cup down. ‘And so you think they want you dead.’
Daoud stood, wheeling to walk across the room away from me, Ibrahim ready to push himself up as Daoud turned again and came towards me, shouting.
‘I fucking know they want me dead, Paul. This is the third bombing, the third time we have been targeted.
I blinked, stupid in the face of Daoud’s passionate outburst.
‘Third time?’
Daoud towered over me counting on his fingers, his hands shaking with furious tension.
‘Ibrahim’s nephew, Rashid, died in a truck carrying tomatoes through Jericho and we all thought he had got involved with the militants, the same way my brother had. He was ten minutes away from our warehouse. Ibrahim and I were waiting for him to arrive. We didn’t realise, Paul. You know that? We didn’t realise it’s about us. We actually thought the poor boy was a bomber. Even when the Hamas people told us he wasn’t with them, we didn’t believe them. His father went through hell and we still didn’t realise.’
Daoud spat the words at me and I dropped my gaze, letting his anger wash over me.
‘Then they put a car bomb outside our offices in Haifa. That is the reason I couldn’t get a call through to them at the time. The lines had been cut for good. They killed the office boy. You know why, Paul? You know why they killed him and not me? Because I had spilt coffee on my jacket and would have thrown it out, but the office boy wanted it. So I gave it to him just before I left. I had to leave early, before I had planned to and so he walked out of the office onto the street the next morning wearing my jacket when they were waiting for me to appear. And you know what? We still didn’t realise. You must think we’re really stupid, Paul, no? To cause all that destruction and not even know it’s all about us. Not to realise. Well, now we do realise because yet more people have died for no reason and this time they thought to leave us a message. They finally realised, didn’t they, ho
w stupid we are. Too stupid to understand the language of violence. The language they thought we understood above all else. Their language.’
I shook my head as I looked up at Daoud. ‘But they killed Israelis. Innocent Israelis.’
Daoud had walked away to stand by the ornate dinner table under the chandelier, his back to me.
‘What? And the infallible Mossad never makes mistakes? The wonderful Israelis would never harm civilians? Have you never heard of The Stern Gang, Paul? The Haganah? Ain Helweh? Sabra? The history of Palestine since the Naqba has been of Israeli killing, of Israeli cruelty and Israeli callousness. Thousands died in Gaza, Paul. Do you think they lost a second’s sleep over a couple of bombs and a few dead Arabs? Do you? Killing is a potent drug, Paul. Kill a few Arabs and you’ll maybe have less of a conscience at sacrificing one or two of your own.’
A knock on the door silenced Daoud as Ibrahim got up and unlocked it. It was Mohamed, his face apologetic and servile and his hands waving ineffectually.
‘Sidi, please. The noise.’
Ibrahim ushered him out and locked the door. Daoud filled his glass from the sideboard and returned to his seat by the coffee table. He took a long drink, gazing at the glass before putting it down and looking up at me, sweeping his hand back over his red-rimmed eyes to his forehead.
‘I’m sorry, Paul, I don’t mean to take it all out on you. I’m a little... nervous right now. I’m sorry.’
‘No, that’s okay, Daoud. I understand. At least, I think I understand.’
Ibrahim’s rumbling voice came through the cloud of a newly lit cigarette. ‘We think we need to make this public, Paul. If it is out in the open, we think we might be safe. If Israel has an issue with our scheme for the water, they should take it up with Jordan. Government to government. Not this way, not the killing. They cannot go on this way if people know.’
I nodded, but my thoughts were a storm of conflicting ideas. The voice of the Armenian priest came to me. ‘We seldom have the benefit of certainties, Paul. It is a luxury we can reserve for our love of God.’
Olives Page 20
