Peace on Earth

Book Two

CHAPTER ONE

The MORI poll predicting a landslide victory for Ronald Reagan was on the second page of the International Herald Tribune. The man reading it sat in the chair in the corner of the room farthest from the window, between the sofa and the desk. The paper, one day old, had arrived that morning; he had not stopped reading the article, not stopped thinking about it, all day. The only person he had spoken to during that time, the only person he allowed to be in his presence, was the young man seated on the sofa.

The room, on the third floor of the complex, was neat and sparsely furnished, the walls a bare white. The only ornaments on the desk on the left side of the window were a chess set and a framed photograph of a young family, the children in the arms of their parents. Abu Nabil had aged almost thirty years since it was taken, though he could still be recognised in it; he kept and treasured it because it was the only photograph he had of his wife and sons; others kept and valued it because it was the only photograph of Abu Nabil known to exist.

At the side of the young man on the sofa lay a submachine gun.

It was two hours to midnight.

‘The car in ten minutes,’ Nabil told him. ‘Saad at eight, Sharaf at nine.’ The bodyguard went to the telephone and dialled two numbers, passing on his master’s instructions. The young men who took the calls, to be passed in turn to their masters, were surprised neither at the contents of the order not at the time it had been issued.

At fifteen minutes past ten Nabil left the safety of the complex in a black Mercedes, accompanied by three escorts, two to stay with him wherever he went and one to remain with the car. Even in Damascus, which he had made his home and base for the past six years, it was as unthinkable that his car should be left unattended as it was that he himself should not be protected. Not because of what might be missing from the car when he returned; rather for what might be added to it, as the Israelis had demonstrated during the maelstrom which had swept Europe after the massacre at the 1972 Munich Olympics, as the IRA and, he suspected, the British army itself, had proved in Northern Ireland.

The café to which he led his shadows was in a maze of alleyways and passages in a quarter of the city they did not normally frequent, the entrance almost hidden behind a street hoarding. They left the car and completed the last fifteen minutes on foot, not knowing where he was going or why he was going there.

The room in which they finally settled seemed smaller than it was, the air filled with smoke, the floor packed with tables surrounded by men, mainly old, drinking arak and playing tawli. Nabil settled himself against a side wall, almost lost in the semi-gloom of the room, as if it was the place he always sat, while a waiter in a dirty white shirt and floppy grey trousers brought them their drinks. They took them, no one seeming to notice the newcomer or the two men who sat at either shoulder, no one seeming to notice the weapons which hung beneath their loose-fitting coats.

Nabil sat for half an hour before he chose his man, then he ordered more drinks, rose from his seat, leaving his escorts against the wall, and made his way to the table he had selected, ignoring both the game in the middle of the room, where the shouts seemed the loudest, and the one in the corner which attracted the most spectators, easing his way through to the inner circle of men so quietly and inconspicuously that they did not even register his presence.

The two men at the table had skin like parchment; they sat facing each other, rolling the dice from a worn leather cup, counting their moves, checking each other’s moves. The game lasted another fifteen minutes, then the players began stacking the pieces in the wooden boxes at the side of the board, one of them finishing his drink and the other looking up at Nabil.

‘You would like a game, I think.’

Nabil knew he had chosen wisely. ‘I would like a game,’ he confirmed.

It was the beginning of the new day.

They played for thirteen minutes under the hour; when they finished it was not clear whether the old man had won or been allowed to win. The crowd began melting away till they were alone at the table.

‘One question, old man,’ Nabil asked politely, respectfully.

The old man knew it was why the stranger had come, why he had played him. ‘One answer,’ he agreed.

From the wall at the back of the café, the shadows watched intently.

‘We have just played,’ said Nabil, ‘and you have just won.’ His voice was quiet, yet the old man did not have to lean forward to hear the words. ‘If someone told you that you have just won and I have just lost, what would you say?’

The old man’s eyes shone with a sudden pleasure. In the night outside, he knew, something was stirring, beginning, did not know what, had no way of knowing, knew that most people would say he would never know. Knew, in his wisdom and his years, that one day he would.

‘My father,’ he began, ‘was a good man, a wise man. He was also an Arab. If a man took him outside at night and showed him the moon, then took him outside the next morning and showed him the sun, he would wonder why the man was telling him that the moon rose at night and the sun shone during the day.’ He saw that the stranger was nodding his understanding and reached for his drink. The glass was empty; Nabil slid his own across the table. The old man took it and sipped from it, then placed it between them.

‘Compared with your question,’ he went on, his voice faint with age, ‘such matters are simple.’ He looked down at the tawli board. ‘If you ask me whether I have just beaten you. I would answer no. I would answer that you have just beaten me.’

‘Even though everyone would tell you that you have just won?’

The old man’s eyes shone again. ‘Especially if everyone tells me I have just won.’

‘Why?’ asked Nabil. He was so close to the truth that only he would understand, that only he could know.

The old man fingered the tawli pieces.

‘With you,’ he said, ‘nothing is as it seems. If the world tells a man he has won and you have lost, then he has lost and you have won.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you are more than an Arab,’ replied the old man, ‘you are a Palestinian.’

‘Thank you.’ Nabil rose to leave. At the wall at the back, the old man saw the two men with the loose-fitting coats rise to follow.

‘I only told you what you already knew,’ he said.

Nabil thought of the article in the newspaper, the plan that had been born of it, the single factor that would decide whether or not the plan would succeed. ‘That is why I thank you.’

* * *

Abu Nabil was fifty-three years old; his father had been a merchant, his two brothers were still prosperous businessmen on the West Bank, he himself had qualified as a doctor. For the past thirty years, however, his profession had been the exercise of whatever means he considered necessary to secure the return of his people to the land called Palestine. Others referred to the craft he practised as terrorism.

He had played a role, at first political, later military, both in the main body of the PLO and, increasingly, in the factions which splintered from it, till he himself headed one of the so-called extremist groups which opposed what it saw as Yasser Arafat’s increasing and self-imposed impotence. He had been involved in most of the acts of terrorism from the late sixties through to the mid eighties, from Dawsons Field and Black September, to the Vienna OPEC hijack, to Mogadishu. More recently he had been at the centre of the power struggle within the ranks of the Palestinian movement itself, his organisation being held responsible for at least some of the assassinations which had spread from the Middle East across Europe. He had operated his forces in the Lebanon during the various stages of that country’s civil war, and had played a key role in forcing the exodus of Yasser Arafat and his mainstream PLO grouping from their headquarters in the Northern Lebanese port of Tripoli in 1983.

The available information on him, however, was less than skeletal, the merest details of his birth and education, of his marriage and of the death of his family, though this was rarely mentioned, especially by his enemies, who feared how even the barest details of the massacre of such innocents would feed the legend which had grown around him.

His name, Abu Nabil, was itself a nom de guerre. There were even those who questioned whether he, in fact, existed, whether he was the person his enemies, and his friends, thought him to be, or whether he was a committee who used his name, his reputation, to further their various causes. Others accepted that he had existed, but maintained that he had died some years previously, probably in an Israeli rocket attack on a house in which he had reputedly been staying. In the past eight years there had been four reports, all reliable, that he had died of cancer, two of them stating that he had died despite treatment in Moscow, and three more reports, equally reliable, that he had died of a heart attack.

* * *

By eight that morning Nabil had slept for a little over three hours, showered and taken a light breakfast, then had gone again through the elements of the plan that was now taking firmer shape in his mind. Precisely on the hour, the first of his appointments arrived.

Malik Saad looked the accountant that he was, small, a sharp nose, heavy-rimmed spectacles. He had headed the organisation’s finances, welcoming its income and quarrelling over its expenditure, for the past five years; during that time he had also invested its money wisely, ensuring a fruitful return both in terms of finance and obligations, spreading its resources not only through the multitude of Palestinian companies which played a major role in the engineering and construction industries of the Middle East, but also into Europe and North America, both the United States and Canada. For the four years before that he had been imprisoned for his part in a bomb attack on an Israeli patrol on the West Bank.

Nabil watched him arrive, then welcomed him to the flat on the third floor, and offered him coffee. For ten minutes they discussed areas of future investments, Saad outlining what he saw as potential returns for the future; when what they both recognised as the formalities were completed, Abu Nabil turned the conversation to the reason for the summons.

‘I need to know how our finances stand at the moment. I am considering a medium-term strategy which will require, at certain points over the next few months, the transfer of substantial amounts of money to various organisations, probably within Europe. I will need you to ensure that the monies are available when needed, and that the transfers are completed with a minimum of complications.’

Saad had only one question. ‘You are anticipating a budget request. When will you approve it?’

‘I just have.’

Twenty minutes after the accountant had left, the soldier arrived. Issam Sharaf was thirty-nine years old and had been with Nabil since the bloody days of Black September fourteen years before; his body bore the scars of a lifetime of fighting, there were the traces of shrapnel near his spine and his left arm had been rebuilt round a metal rod.

The conversation was even shorter, even more to the point, than that with the accountant; it was how both men had grown together, how they preferred to operate. It was also, Sharaf thought, as if Nabil had already decided what was to be done, how it was to be done, as if he had also decided there was little time in which to do it.

‘I was wondering,’ Nabil began, ‘how Europe was.’

Sharaf knew the man well, knew how he approached a subject, even when time was short; he settled back onto the sofa and accepted the coffee.

‘Quiet,’ he said, the inflection in his voice suggesting that Europe had been too quiet for too long. ‘People have been re-grouping, we have been training them, giving them a little finance. As you know.’ He was already wondering where Nabil had decided the conversation would end.

For the next few minutes he listed the activities of the various European groups with which they had contact, giving updates on changes in personnel and philosophies, as well as a breakdown of the strengths and weaknesses of each. In West Germany the Red Army Faction, the descendants of the Baader-Meinhof group of the seventies, and the lesser-known Revolutionary Cells, the RZs; in Italy the Red Brigades and, again, the less known Prima Linea; in France, Action Directe; in Belgium the CCC, the Cellules Communistes Combattantes; in Portugal the Popular Forces of April 25th; in Spain the Basque separatist movement, ETA, plus the anarchist group GRAPO and the Catalan separatist movement, TL.

‘Four questions,’ said Abu Nabil when Sharaf had finished. The soldier waited, knowing that the first would be the easiest, as the first always was.

‘Firstly,’ asked Nabil, ‘how would we persuade the various groups with whom we have contact to launch a coordinated campaign throughout Europe?’

‘Easy. We agree to finance them.’ He knew the other questions would increase in complexity.

‘Secondly, how easy would it be to demonstrate that the campaign was, in fact, carefully coordinated rather than a series of isolated incidents?’

The soldier sensed again that Abu Nabil had already worked it out, ‘Equally easy.’ His mind was already anticipating the next question. ‘Exchange of weapons between groups to link assassinations, use of explosives from the same source for attacks in different countries, same targets or type of targets, joint communiqués between various groups, tied in with the exchange of weapons and sharing of explosives, claiming responsibility for actions. It would be simple to leave a trail all over Europe.’ He could see why Nabil would want it, could see the type of fear a coordinated campaign would create, wondered what Nabil had conceived for the next stage of the escalation of that fear.

‘Thirdly,’ said Nabil, ‘a hunger strike.’

It was, thought Sharaf, as if Nabil was establishing a background against which a specific event could take place, but it was also as if, when that event took place, it would appear to be merely a consequence of what had gone before rather than the reason for it.

With you, the old man had told Abu Nabil less than five hours before, nothing is as it seems.

Why? Nabil had asked him.

Because you are more than an Arab, the old man had told him, you are a Palestinian.

‘West Germany would be the obvious place,’ he suggested. ‘The groups there have the right history, the right commitment.’

‘In that case,’ said Nabil, ‘I will need a set of demands.’

Connected to the hunger strike, Sharaf knew. He thought for the last time that Nabil had already planned both where it would start and how it would end. It was not yet ten in the morning. ‘Why?’ he asked.

Nabil told him. When he had finished he had only one question. ‘When can you leave?’

‘This afternoon. I’ll need a budget.’

‘I have already approved it.’

Abu Nabil was planning something else, Sharaf thought, something connected with what he himself would set in motion, something, however, which did not concern him. Like the pieces on the chess board which Nabil kept on the desk, each piece playing its part, each piece allowed to know its part, but no more.

‘About the hunger strike,’ said Nabil. ‘There is one more thing.’

Six hours after the meeting, Issam Sharaf left Damascus to begin his arrangements, four hours after that Abu Nabil himself departed. He took with him only one bodyguard whom he would in turn leave during the most delicate moments of the weeks ahead, his driver and other shadows remaining behind so that they could be seen in the city during his absence, another figure behind the smoked windows of the Mercedes confirming that Nabil was still in Damascus.

As if this was not enough, he also left behind the one personal item he was known never to travel without, the photograph of the young family which he kept on the desk by the window.

* * *

The day after Nabil and Sharaf made their separate departures from Damascus, Yakov Zubko and his family left Vienna for Israel. Their stay in the city had been kept as short as possible, for reasons of finance: the Jewish Agency did not enjoy a limitless budget. And the address at which they stayed had been kept a secret, for reasons of security: Jews such as themselves were still considered targets for the Palestinian groups which lay waiting in Europe.

The El Al flight was crowded and they remembered little of it, each of them too excited to accept any of the food or drink they were offered. At fifteen minutes past seven in the evening the Boeing landed at Ben Gurion, at twenty-five minutes past seven they stood for the first time in the land for which they had sacrificed so much. The representative of the Jewish Agency in Tel Aviv was waiting for them; Yakov Zubko shook the woman’s hand then asked to be left alone. The representative understood, remembering the day she had arrived, knowing she would never forget it.

Quietly, ignoring the sound of the engines and the bustle of the airport, Yakov Zubko and his family looked across the concrete of the runway to the purple of the hills beyond, the smell of the orange blossom drifting to them, filling the night air. B’shavia Huzu a b’Yerushalaim, he thought, this year in Jerusalem. No more lying, he also thought, no more thieving, no more risks on the black market, no more people always waiting for him and the likes of him.

‘We are home, Alexandra Zubko,’ he said at last, the first tears filling his eyes.

‘We are home, Yakov Zubko,’ she said.

* * *

Three days later Abu Nabil began his entry into Europe, having spent the intervening time further concealing his departure from Syria. In his fifty-three years he had learned that it was as necessary to protect himself from those who called themselves his friends as from those he knew to be his enemies. He spent time in Amman, a seemingly unlikely choice given his role in Black September but one which could only be viewed accurately in the light of what was to come, as well as Cairo and Rome, crossing and re-crossing his tracks, making the telephone calls to arrange the appointments he was seeking in the capitals of the West, before his flight to Paris.

Five days after he had left the flat in Damascus, he flew into Charles de Gaulle using a false name and passport issued in Kuwait, both of which, had the authorities checked, would have been found to be correct. Nabil was a careful man.

His first appointment was the following morning. He took a cab to the Georges Cinq, which had been booked from Rome, and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening walking the streets. He knew the city well, though he had not visited it for many years, not since he had taken his lonely road after 1970. The places he visited in those hours, therefore, were places which he, though not necessarily others, considered shrines to the fallen, the streets and backstreets where the Israelis had executed their storm of revenge following the Munich massacre in 1972. By the time he returned to the Georges Cinq, he had made his penance; subconsciously, he was wondering how many more he was about to ask to take the same long road to martyrdom.