by Judith Gould
Abdullah no longer wore his black robes, and was dressed in green fatigues and combat boots, but on his head he wore the traditional Arab headgear. He stayed outside his tent and waited for Najib to come up to him.
Najib walked proud and locked eyes with him. 'I have come,' he said simply, wondering if his half-uncle could hear his heart pounding. 'I am ready to swear my oath.'
Abdullah stared at him and then raised his hand in a signal. Immediately a small crowd of men pressed around them both. 'My half-nephew, Najib al-Ameer, has asked to join our Palestinian Freedom Army,' he announced to them all. 'He wishes to become your brother. If any of you have reason to doubt his intentions, now is the time to speak your piece.'
There were murmurs and Najib felt two dozen hard, appraising sets of eyes on him. A few of the men he recognized from the oasis, but most were strangers.
Abdullah placed his hands on Najib's shoulders. 'I have your word, then? You will obey all orders I give you, whether you like them or not and whether you agree with them or not? You will accept each of these men and others who join us as your true and only brothers?'
'By Allah I swear.'
'I advise you to think well before you swear, half-nephew,' Abdullah said softly. 'If you are treasonous, or we so much as suspect you of being unfaithful to us, death will come not only to you and your immediate family but also to all generations thereof. Your entire bloodline will cease. Do you understand?'
Najib drew a deep breath, astonished at the harshness of the threat. He took a deep breath and nodded. 'I understand,' he said tightly.
'Then let it be done. These men will be witness.' Abdullah slid his knife from its scabbard. 'Hold out your hand.'
Najib held out his right hand. He did not make a sound as the knife flashed and its blade slid softly into his flesh. Immediately he could see his warm blood spurting forth in a thick spray.
Without hesitation, Abdullah then held up his own wrist. Najib saw that it was heavily crisscrossed with thick raised scars from a multitude of other such oaths. Then Abdullah sliced it open, his bleak eyes dancing with an unholy joy as he held Najib's gaze. 'Do you swear, by almighty Allah, to champion the Cause of the Palestinian Freedom Army, to accept me as your absolute leader, and count each one of my men as your true brothers, till the moment after your death?'
Najib held himself proudly. 'I swear so by Allah,' he whispered, his eyes aglow.
Abdullah rubbed his wrist against Najib's, kissed him on both cheeks, and drew back. 'Our blood is merged!' he announced for all to hear. 'Now we are truly brothers.'
Najib glanced down at his blood-smeared wrist and then looked around at the other men. He felt the swelling of pride come up within him. He was one of them. He would fight at their side. Now he could at last avenge the death of Iffat and seek vengeance for the ruination of al-Najaf. He turned back to Adbullah. 'I thirst for blood.'
Abdullah shook his head. 'You will wait until permission is granted,' he told him impassively. With another gesture he dismissed the other men, and they went about their business. He looked at Najib. 'Come, let us walk while I give you your first orders.'
Najib fell into step beside him.
'You will spend two weeks in training here,' Abdullah told him, 'during which time you will be forged into a man and learn to be a soldier. Then, at the end of the summer, you shall leave again, this time for America.'
'No!' Najib grasped Abdullah's arm. 'I must stay to avenge the dishonour brought upon us! I must fight!'
Abdullah's voice left no room for argument. 'You will do as you are told!' he said coldly. 'Mere minutes ago I warned you of the punishment for treason! Do you have such a death wish that you wish to die already?'
Najib was silent.
'You need to complete your education,' Abdullah said briskly. 'You will attend a fine university. Harvard.'
Najib stared at him. 'Harvard!'
'It is one of the finest schools in America. Now, I want you to listen carefully. Most of our men are . . . impressionable. Uneducated. They tend to see only the short-term gain: the next skirmish, an attack on a schoolyard, a few sniper shots at a kibbutz, the bombing of a synagogue.' Abdullah made an irritated gesture. 'They are fools! They do not realize that we are in for a lifelong battle, and that it can only be won on the economic battlefield.' He slid a sideways glance at Najib.
Despite himself, Najib's interest was aroused. 'Go on,' he said slowly.
'My plan is twofold,' explained Abdullah, the quiet in his voice belying his own excitement. 'The short-term part of it will be the constant harassment of this so-called nation which calls itself Israel. That will appease our people's immediate bloodthirsty need for revenge, and it should also keep the Jews from getting too comfortable—a little tension now and then, and they will constantly have to look over their shoulders.'
Najib took a deep breath. 'And the long-term part of it?'
'The long-term plan.' Abdullah nodded. 'It is far more important and complicated, and I have been planning it for many years now. That is why I diverted funds donated for the procurement of weapons and used them to finance your education at Eton instead.'
'You!' Najib stared at him. 'You paid for Eton?'
Abdullah nodded.
'But I thought my grandfather—'
'With what?' Abdullah's mouth became a sneer. 'You know Naemuddin has no money.'
Najib found himself nodding. He realized that he should have known. But even in his wildest dreams he had never suspected that Abdullah had any plans in store for him. Especially since he had hardly ever given him the time of day.
'But how does my education fit into your plans?' Najib asked, curious.
'It is said that to Westerners an education at a fine university is like gaining entry into an exclusive club.'
Najib couldn't help but show his surprise. He would never have suspected that Abdullah was so knowledgeable about such things as education. The only thing that he had ever seemed interested in was weapons and violence.
'The plan is this,' Abdullah continued. 'At Harvard you will make friends with people you would otherwise never have an opportunity to meet—friendships that will serve us well in the far-distant future. You will meet the young men who will eventually become powerful forces in business and occupy the highest seats in government, and eventually may whisper important secrets in your ear. And you, in turn, will on certain occasions be able to help swing their thinking in a certain direction. Ours.'
Najib stared at him, impressed by the boldness and far-reaching consequences of the plan.
Abdullah smiled and his lean face regarded Najib thoughtfully. 'So you see, your part in this is quite indispensable. It is not easy to befriend our enemies and know them intimately, or to understand the way their minds work, or to be able to influence them and gain their trust and respect. But only by doing that can we truly exploit the Westerners to our purposes. Think of the vast possibilities! If you start a business, a legitimate business that is successful and respected, but is actually a cover for our activities, the Western banks, and even Jews'— he gave a low laugh—'can unknowingly finance our cause, and we can then buy all the weapons and politicians we need. Their factories can even supply us, however indirectly, with bombs! Their ships can bring them to us! We will be able to undermine the very foundation of Israel and, if it so behoves us, the countries of the smug Westerners as well.'
'There is only one problem,' Najib pointed out. 'From my experience at Eton, I have found that Westerners do not like Arabs. They are contemptuous of us and consider us beneath them.'
'Then it is up to you to change their way of thinking. You will be a rich student and therefore a popular one. You will become even richer afterwards and thus even more popular. The Westerners worship the money in their banking temples more than they do their god in the churches. They are dazzled by riches. There comes a point when they are ready to forgive someone anything—murder even—as long as millions of dollars are involved.'
&nb
sp; 'It is not easy to come up with millions,' Najib cautioned.
'With seed money, a fortune can grow as long as it is tended carefully and the right people guide its growth.'
'But we do not have money.'
'We have. I will provide it, as I have provided for your education. There are many rich Arabs who dare not speak out publicly for fear of losing American investments, but who have offered to help finance this. And you, Najib al-Ameer, will be at the head of it all. You will keep this secret and tell no one. You will report only to me. Just think! With true power— economic power—we can accomplish more than with all the guns and knives in the world combined! Eventually . . . Who knows?' He shrugged and smiled slightly. 'We might even become a world force to be reckoned with.'
Najib looked at Abdullah with rising respect. 'It's . . . awesome. Brilliant.'
'Yes, it is.' Abdullah paused. 'So you will do as I bid you to do?'
Najib hesitated. Abdullah seemed to have it all worked out—except for one thing. 'But the Jews from the settlement. The ones who murdered my sister and stole our water. Will I never be able to avenge what they have done?'
Abdullah's face darkened with fury. 'My plans for you are far too important to let simple vengeance interfere with them!' he said coldly. 'Get the sand out of your eyes and be not so blinded! You will make them, and a million others, pay a thousandfold! Do you not see that?'
'But I have vowed vengeance,' Najib said stubbornly.
'So you have.' Abdullah looked at him. He could see the hungry unforgiving face, the dark liquid eyes turning cold as ice, and the intractability in the set jaw. But he saw far beyond that; the young man was his most potent weapon. The future depended upon him, and nothing could be allowed to get in the way of that. If Najib did something foolish now, it could ruin all the years of careful planning. 'We will discuss your personal vendetta when the time is right,' he said flatly, intending to put an end to the subject for the time being.
But Najib smiled. He was sure of himself now. Abdullah had let him know that he was indispensable. 'I will do as you wish, half-uncle,' he said quietly, 'but one thing you must promise me. I will wait for my vengeance until the time is ripe, and I will do nothing which might jeopardize your plans. But when the time comes that the Jewish settlement and its leaders and families are destroyed, I want to be part of it. In person. I intend to fulfill the vow I made.'
'Very well.' Abdullah nodded. 'That can be arranged.' He was pleased, but made a point of not showing it. 'Just remember one thing,' he warned, 'and never forget it, half-nephew. You will have one foot in the Western world and the other in ours. You will grow rich and powerful, but do not let it seduce you. Never forget for a moment where your allegiances lie. For if you should . . .'He left the threat dangling.
I will be destroyed and so will my immediate family, and all generations thereof. My entire bloodline, those born and yet to be born.
The last week in August Najib again exchanged his ghutra and his robe for his Western suit and left for the United States. He remained there for the entire four years until he graduated from Harvard with honours. His address book was filled with the names of friends which brought to mind former and current presidents, ambassadors, Supreme Court justices, bankers, law firms, corporations, and countless millionaires from all arteries of business.
In the meantime Abdullah had grown stronger and his band of guerrilla terrorists began to make such a reputation for themselves that they were mentioned in Western news broadcasts with regularity.
The runway raced forward to meet the aeroplane, and then the tires touched down on the concrete, sending puffs of friction smoke squealing up from the rubber. A shudder passed through the fuselage. Najib tore himself away from the memories and came back to the present as the plane taxied up to the terminal, the propellers spinning slowly now.
The stewardess was standing atop the mobile stairs when he got off. She smiled her professional smile at him. 'Good-bye,' she said. 'We hope you have a pleasant stay in Beirut.'
Najib winced at the almost visible blast of heat as he hurried down the steps. Once again he had forgotten just how furnace-like this climate was, and how blinding the light. Silently he cursed the constricting, sweat-soaked seersucker suit he wore. He hated Western clothes. They did not let him breathe. He much preferred the long, cool, flowing robes of his people, which made far more sense in this arid climate.
He smiled to himself. He had been gone far too long. It was good to be back.
He wondered what plans Abdullah would have in store for him.
Chapter 2
'Mr. Najib al-Ameer . . . MEA passenger Mr. Najib al-Ameer. Please come to the information desk,' a disembodied female voice called out over the paging system.
Karim Hassad's eyes scanned the customs area. When Najib came breezing through, suitcase in hand, and headed for the information desk, he moved forward to intercept him. He fell neatly into step beside him, matching his stride. 'Was there fog in London?' Karim asked softly.
Najib missed a step. Slowing, he eyed the man curiously. 'London was sunny,' he murmured carefully, replying to the elaborate password which Abdullah had arranged for him four years earlier.
'And Barcelona?'
'I did not visit Barcelona, though I was once in Lisbon.'
'And the Portuguese ladies, are they as beautiful as the Spanish?'
'If they are without their dueñas, they are.'
'Greetings,' Karim said solemnly, acknowledging Najib's correct replies. 'There is no need to go to Information. It was only so I could identify you. Let me take your suitcase. The car is waiting outside.'
Najib handed the suitcase over and followed him through the terminal and outside into the white glare of sunshine. Karim was a huge man, over six feet tall, and he had extraordinarily wide shoulders and thick, powerful legs. Even his neck was massive. Although he was dressed in the Western fashion, he wore a short white headcloth with a shiny black coil. His pockmarked olive face sported a drooping bushy moustache. He looked like a bodyguard.
The car, a dented black Mercedes dressed as a taxi, was waiting at the kerb. Karim tossed the suitcase into the trunk and Najib started around to the front passenger door. Karim shook his head and unlocked the rear door for him. He held it open. 'It is best if you look like an ordinary passenger. I hope it does not inconvenience you, but our mutual friend would like to see you before you are driven to the house of your parents,' Karim told him as he switched on the ignition and pulled out into the traffic.
Najib nodded and let himself relax, looking out at the passing scenery. Everywhere, there were signs of a booming economy. A lot of construction had gone on during the four years since he had been here last. Modern balconied apartment blocks and glittering new high-rise hotels made Beirut look far more European than Middle Eastern. And everywhere, more big buildings were under construction. Western and Arab women were dressed in the latest Paris fashions. He could almost smell the prosperity in the air.
They headed to the north, past the city limits to an exclusive residential suburb. Here, high walls enclosed quiet villas, and the urban hubbub seemed far away. Birds chirped happily from hidden gardens.
Karim turned off into a driveway and came to a stop in front of a pair of tall, imposing gates. They were topped with lethal spikes which even the elaborate Oriental motif of the wrought iron could not hide. He honked the horn twice and waited.
An armed sentry in traditional robes and headgear appeared, Karim signalled, and the gates swung open electronically, and a pair of rust-coloured Dobermans came galloping to meet the car. They split up, one taking the left side of the car, the other the right, and they ran silently beside it all the way up to the house. The security precautions seemed to be formidable.
Najib couldn't help but feel a pang of envy. It was a small but beautifully tended estate. To either side of the patterned tile drive were young palm trees, hedges of cacti, stands of sisal plants and, sheathing the inside of the walls which c
ompletely surrounded the estate, lush bright cascades of fuschia bougainvillea. The sprinklered lawn was almost blue-green and sparkled from a recent watering. The drive ended in a circular sweep around a water fountain in front of a big white stucco villa with large arched windows and a gently sloping tile roof.
Karim stopped the car and got out slowly, allowing the Dobermans to sniff him. Then he held Najib's door open. 'Come out slowly and stand still so the dogs can smell you,' he said.
Najib did as he was told; after a moment, the dogs loped off.
'I will wait here,' Karim said. 'Just knock on the front door and you will be taken to see our mutual friend.'
Najib nodded and went up to the glossy door. Before he could lift the brass gazelle's-head knocker, the door swung open. He froze: another guard in robes and headcloth stood in front of him, a semi-automatic rifle aimed directly at his midsection.
Without moving his weapon the guard took four steps backward and gestured with his head for Najib to come in. Najib stepped in slowly, cautious to make no sudden moves.
'Close the door,' the guard said. 'Slowly.'
Without taking his eyes off the weapon, Najib reached back and pushed the door shut. Then, while the guard still covered him, a second guard, also in traditional dress, patted him down expertly, checking him thoroughly for weapons. When the hands felt around his crotch, Najib's eyes narrowed. 'Let's not get personal,' he growled.
The guard ignored the gibe and continued the search. Finally satisfied that Najib was unarmed, he announced, 'He is clean.'
To Najib's relief, the semi-automatic was moved aside.
'Take off your shoes,' the guard told him. 'Then follow me.' Najib did as he was told, noticing that both guards were barefoot. He left his shoes beside the door and followed the man through an apricot-silk-draped doorway into an immense sybaritic living room. Low couches with cylindrical tasselled cushions made up four separate white-silk seating areas on the expanse of pink marble flooring. Tufted scatter cushions of metallic silver fabric shone richly. Floor lamps—eight-foot-tall silver palms with glowing, opaque globes as their coconuts— provided muted lighting. It was a Spartan room, cool and luxurious and impersonal. Along two walls, Moorish-arched windows with diagonal latticed panes looked out on the gardens. From somewhere nearby came the luxurious sounds of a gurgling fountain and the cooing of turtle doves.
