Peace on Earth

‘Name?’ The voice was harsh. He knew the other two men at the desk were looking at the woman and gave the name in his false passport.

‘What are you doing in London?’

‘Business. I’m a petroleum analyst.’ He thought about the appointments he had arranged in case they questioned him, knew it was a formality, felt himself relax, did not let it show, controlling the degree of eye contact that would give the woman away even though she was entirely innocent. Abruptly the official stamped his passport, snapped it shut and handed it back to him. Forty-five minutes later he had retrieved his one suitcase, cleared customs, collected his hire car, and was driving down the M4 motorway into London. Behind him, he knew, the first tentacles of the security net were beginning to tighten round the woman, the first arrangements for a Special Branch surveillance, the first requests, formal or informal, for a telephone intercept wherever she was staying.

By two thirty he had checked in at the Holiday Inn in Swiss Cottage, unpacked his suitcase and showered. The telephone in the room was direct dial. He checked the number he had been given in Damascus, and phoned the London office of the Palestine Liberation Organisation in Green Street.

‘Good afternoon,’ he spoke politely. ‘This is Mohsen Masri from An-Nahar.’ He named a prominent Middle Eastern publication. ‘Is it possible to speak with Mr Nabulsi?’

The receptionist was equally polite. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Nabulsi is away at the moment, can anyone else help?’

He thanked her, but said he needed to speak to the PLO representative personally and asked when she suggested he should phone again.

‘He flies in tomorrow and will be back in the office on Friday. Can I get him to contact you then?’

‘Don’t worry.’ Haddad kept his voice friendly and informal. ‘I’ll try him then.’

‘Make it early,’ she answered. ‘He’s busy after eleven.’

He thanked her and put the phone down. Abu Nabil was right, he thought, Abu Nabil was always right.

The traffic in London’s West End, where the offices of the PLO were situated, was congested, made worse by Christmas. It took Haddad twenty minutes to drive from the hotel to the office and another ten to find a parking space, even though it was on a yellow line. If a traffic warden came, he knew he would only have to move.

The black Ford Granada was parked outside the building which housed, amongst other offices, that of the London office of Yasser Arafat’s faction of the Palestinian movement. It was interesting, he thought, that the chauffeur came to work even when the representative himself was away, even more interesting that he came in the Granada. On a car radio he heard the sound of a Christmas carol. He waited, lost in the crowd of shoppers, the afternoon losing its light and the Christmas lights already on, shining in the dusk.

At five o’clock a man he supposed was the chauffeur left the building and unlocked the car. The man, he noted, checked neither around nor underneath the vehicle. Either, he imagined, because the car was visible from the front windows of the PLO office, or because the man assumed that because the representative was away, there was no security risk.

It was interesting, thought Haddad, how often people made the wrong assumption.

The traffic was heavy. He followed the car across Oxford Street, skirting behind Marylebone station and through the side streets to the west of Regent’s Park. At the intersection on the corner dominated by the cricket ground at Lord’s, he had checked on the street map, the chauffeur should drive straight on, towards the representative’s house in St John’s Wood and the security of the garage, electronically protected, at the side of the house. He knew what the man would do, that when the end came it would be so sudden and unexpected that the chauffeur would have no time to question when he had made his mistake. In front of him, the man turned right, away from St John’s Wood, towards Camden Town.

Ten minutes later Haddad watched the chauffeur reverse the Granada into the garage below the mews flat where the man lived with his wife. In front of the entrance to the flat was a Ford Escort which he assumed was their own vehicle. He parked the hire car and walked down the mews, the air cold, his hands pushed into his pockets, taking his time, as if he had every right to be there. The chauffeur was concentrating on his driving, taking care not to scratch the Granada as he backed it into the narrow space, giving Haddad plenty of time to see what he needed to know. No security, no tell-tale wires, not even a burglar alarm, or the pretence of one. Just the wooden door with the Yale lock.

He returned to the hotel, had another coffee, and waited till it was time to make the telephone call. The same number, Nabil had instructed him, the same time each evening.

At seven o’clock exactly he dialled the number. To his surprise, the voice which answered was American. West Coast, he thought. ‘Hello, John,’ he began, using the names of the code. ‘Is that you?’

‘Yes,’ replied the American in the public telephone kiosk. ‘Is that you, Peter?’ The same public telephone kiosk, his masters in Belfast had told Jimmy Roberts, the same time each evening.

‘Yes, it’s Peter.’ Haddad wondered why it surprised him that the IRA contact was an American. Definitely West Coast, he was thinking, the accent too soft to be anywhere else.

Roberts waited for the next part of the code, and wondered why the IRA should give a bomb to the Arabs, why the Arabs needed it, had asked for it specifically, even the type, when he knew they had plenty of their own.

The same thought had occurred to Haddad when he had been briefed by Nabil in Damascus. He had not queried it, assuming there was a reason; with Abu Nabil there was always a reason. ‘Look, John,’ he continued the coded conversation, ‘I’ve got a couple of girls and I need someone to help me out with them.’

‘When?’

‘Tonight.’

The Arab was in a hurry, Roberts thought. ‘Do I get the blonde or brunette?’ Blonde for a straightforward meeting, brunette if he needed to bring the explosive device and detonator.

‘They’re both brunettes.’

Christ, Roberts thought, the Arab really was in a hurry. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in the saloon bar at eight thirty.’

The first report came in at four. The car carrying the men from Dublin had crossed the border and was heading north. Three hours to go, thought Enderson. The second report came in half an hour later. The car carrying the men from Londonderry had left the city and was heading south. Two and a half hours, thought Enderson. He went through the plan again, how the man in the roofspace would tell them what was happening, who was arriving, how they were protected, the signal for the moment the unmarked cars would close in, which of his team would cover the back, the ways out, who would go in the front, what they would do when they were inside.

‘Michael leaving his house with his wife and son, getting in cars.’ Enderson heard the voice of the man in the roofspace overlooking the street. McDonald the IRA planner, he thought, the man whose house was less than thirty yards from the drinking club where the informant had said the meeting was to take place. He wondered why he was leaving and what he was doing, why he was taking his wife and son, thought for a moment that the informant was wrong then knew that he was not, realised what McDonald was doing. Putting on a front, acting normally, covering himself for what lay ahead. Two hours to go, he thought. Stand-by, the voice in his head told him, stand-by, stand-by.

The second report from the south came in at five, the men from Dublin closing on the city; he checked with the tail on the car from the north and heard the confirmation. An hour, less than an hour, then he and his men would move into position, any later and they would be too late, any earlier and they would be noticed.

The car from the south entered the city, the car from the north closing fast. They seemed to have been waiting for ever, Enderson thought. It had been dark two hours. Time to move in. Except where the hell was McDonald?

‘Vehicle check, urgent.’ It was the voice of the man in the roofspace. Enderson took the make and registration number of the car and passed it to Lisburn; knew they would only take seconds to run the computer check. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Probably nothing, but the car’s been up and down the road twice now, first day I’ve seen it.’

The computer check came through.

‘Stolen three hours ago from the city centre,’ Enderson told the man in the roofspace. Not kids, he thought, not the sort of car the teenagers stole for their joy-rides.

‘Passing by again.’ He heard the voice. ‘Slowing in front of Michael’s house.’

The other reports were coming in, the men from Dublin driving through the city, the men from Derry just entering Belfast. He wondered what the car was doing, who it was. Not the Provos, definitely not the Provos.

‘Three men,’ said the man in the roofspace. ‘Windows wound down.’

He knew what it was, began to radio the information back to Lisburn.

‘Michael’s car in street, slowing down. Stopping outside house. Michael and wife getting out.’

He saw what was going to happen.

‘Car coming again. Opening fire, front and rear seats.’ The voice of the man in the roofspace was cold, clinical, factual.

He knew the operation was off, that the men from Dublin and Derry would already have been warned.

‘Michael and wife OK, sheltering behind car. Other car still firing.’

He knew they could not move, could not betray their positions, could not disclose the fact that they had been waiting for the men from the north and south. ‘Alert RUC and army,’ he was informing Lisburn. ‘Probably ambulance as well.’

‘Bomb going in,’ said the man in the roofspace. ‘Car catching fire.’

The kid, Enderson was suddenly thinking, the IRA man’s bloody kid: he wasn’t there, the man in the roofspace hadn’t seen him. He knew that McDonald had expected trouble, had left the boy somewhere.

‘Boy in car,’ he heard the voice, still dispassionate. ‘Mother trying to get door open, door seems stuck. Car on fire. Attackers’ car moving off.’

‘Move it,’ Enderson was saying, the driver already accelerating, tyres screeching as they turned off the street. The women were already on the street, the crowd already gathering. ‘Fire spreading in car,’ the man in the roofspace was saying. ‘Can see boy inside.’

He knew what they would say when he returned to base, how they would tell him he shouldn’t have blown the operation, knew the Special Branch people would accuse him of endangering their informant. They were in the Falls, the driver cutting between the crowd, he could see the car, the flames beneath it. ‘Cover me,’ he was saying, the driver braking hard and the men moving fast.

Eileen McDonald heard the sound and knew it was the car again, knew they had come back for her and her husband, ignored it, pulled at the door, tried to get her Liam out. On the other side she could see her husband, picking himself off the ground, coming round, trying to help her. The car behind her was stopping, she half turned, waiting for the bullets, the next bomb, saw the men, faces blackened, British army uniforms. No insignia, she saw, no markings, knew who they were, did not have to think what they were doing there. The flames were spreading, the door handle jammed. The man was coming forward, the others protecting him, not looking at the car, looking out, guarding him. She saw the weapons on his body, the sawn-off shot gun in his hand. He was pushing her out of the way, pushing her husband out of the way, blasting the door open, pulling her Liam out, the fire licking at the petrol tank.

The door was only half open; Enderson reached in, trying to open it, felt the tearing and burning in his arm as he pulled at the door, the flames on his jacket.

She saw the man pulling the boy out, saw he had been injured, one of the other men coming forward, putting out the fire. She saw the injury to his arm, tried to move to help him, watched as he pulled her son away from the car, the men round him moving with him, everyone moving back, away from the car, away from the explosion. She was looking at her son, at the way the man was laying him on the ground, seeing the red, so much red she was suddenly thinking, the blood pouring from her son’s body, knew he was not breathing, knew he was dying, his insides pouring out, his tiny lungs giving up the fight for breath. Somewhere, she did not know where, she heard the ambulance, knew they would not know what to do, would not know how to save her son, knew they would be too late.

The man with the blacked-out face was reaching to his gun belt, pulling out a pack, inserting the tube into her son’s mouth, clearing the airway, enabling him to breathe, pulling his body together, ramming the padding and bandages on his wounds, stopping the red pouring from him. Just like the accident unit at Birmingham Hospital, Enderson was thinking, just like when he had done his six months on the emergency unit, just like the night they had brought in the first victims of the motorway pile-up.

The photographer was parking his car by the drinking club on the corner, his camera on the seat beside him. He had been on the nightly tour, hoping for a picture, knowing there would be nothing so close to Christmas, when he had heard the shooting, known where it had come from. He heard the sound as the car blew up, knew he had missed it and ran anyway. The crowd was parting, he saw the woman kneeling over the boy, knew who the man treating the boy was, not who he was, not his name, what he was. The ambulance was pulling up, the ambulancemen pushing through the crowd. One chance, he thought, was reacting automatically. Seven thirty, he checked the time, worrying about the deadlines, if he would make them, if the photograph was as good as he thought.

Within twenty-five minutes he had developed the film and alerted the picture desks in London.

The image began to appear, he tilted the tray, letting the liquid run evenly over the print, and watched the details emerging, growing stronger, saw that the photograph was even better than he had remembered, knew without thinking what he would call it, what they would all call it. It was so close to Christmas, he thought. Knew the impact the photograph would have, the impact the three words of the title would have.

The saloon bar of the public house in Charlotte Street was busy, it would get even busier later. The walls were draped with decorations and a sprig of mistletoe had been pinned on the ceiling by the fireplace. Walid Haddad arrived five minutes early, bought himself an orange juice and stood against the bar, sipping it. Behind him a group of men he could not help overhearing were talking to two attractive young women he assumed were their secretaries. At eight thirty he made his way across the room, through the door at the side of the bar, and followed the signs to the gents’ toilet. A man in a business suit was leaning against the urinal singing to himself; he looked up, his eyes red and blurred, then turned back to the wall. The cubicle was empty, Haddad closed and locked the door and felt behind the cistern. The envelope was taped in place, he pulled it off, flushed the toilet and left.

Fifteen minutes later he collected the briefcase from the left luggage locker at Euston station and returned to the Holiday Inn, stopping at a chemist shop in Camden Town to purchase a pair of surgical gloves and a torch. Only when he was in his hotel room did he open the case, pull on the gloves, and examine the contents. The four ounces of plastic explosive were in a soap container, the transmitter, receiver unit, detonator and battery wrapped separately. He connected the receiver unit and battery to the bulb from the torch, and activated the transmitter, seeing the bulb light up and confirming the system was working, then he disconnected the bulb, replaced it with the detonator and began to assemble the bomb. At twenty minutes to ten he locked his bedroom door and left the hotel.

The mews in Camden Town was quiet and dark, the only light was through the curtains of the windows of the flats on the first floors and the street lamp thirty yards away at one end. It took Haddad less than a minute to open the garage door and another eight to attach the bomb to the petrol tank of the Granada. By eleven thirty he was back in his room. He helped himself to a drink and turned on the television, searching the channels for the in-house feature film. As he passed BBC 2, a late-night news flash caught his attention; he flicked past, then back again.

‘We are receiving more details of the terrorist incident in Belfast earlier this evening,’ the announcer was saying.

He turned up the sound.

The rain outside was heavy, the windows were running with condensation. In the corridor outside she could hear the clamour of the children as they began their morning break. In the corner someone was smoking, they had tried to ban smoking in the staff-room, but some people had objected. She joined the queue for tea, enjoying the atmosphere, and sat down. The morning newspapers were on the table in the centre of the room, the men amongst the staff were talking about them. ‘Amazing,’ she heard one of them saying, ‘absolutely amazing.’ She hadn’t seen the papers, been too busy to look at them. End of term, carol service that evening, the reports for her English class to finish. And the Christmas shopping, all of it, for her and the kids. One day, she sometimes thought, she ought to sit down and work out how she managed it all by herself, except there wasn’t any time. In the far corner the men were still talking about the newspapers. ‘Incredible,’ one of them was still saying, ‘absolutely bloody incredible.’ She took a cup of tea and sat down.

‘What are they on about?’ she asked.

‘Haven’t you seen the photo in the papers today?’

She said she hadn’t had the time; a colleague reached across, pulled one from the pile and gave it to her.

The picture filled the entire front page; it had been taken at night, she knew, the image grainy, almost unreal.

In the centre, lying, screaming, on the ground, was a small boy. He was burned, she could see, horribly burned and shot, the insides of his body seemed to be pouring from him, the remnants of his clothes hanging from his limbs. He was looking up, white-eyed with fear, at the two people bending over him, at the woman – she knew instinctively it was his mother – kneeling beside him, holding his hand, looking at the other figure, the man in the camouflaged clothing of the British army. She looked at the man, not aware she was sipping her tea; not aware of the noise in the staff-room. His hair was long and his face was streaked with black. He was bending over the child, his hands pulling the remnants of the shattered body together, stemming the blood that was flowing from the boy’s arteries, soothing the terrible burns. Even in the photograph she could see he was treating the child as if he was a doctor, as if he himself was a father. From his left shoulder hung a short squat weapon, she did not know what it was, a belt of cartridges across his chest, the pistol and grenades hanging from his belt. His left arm appeared to be injured, she could see by the way he was holding himself, see the way his own clothing had been burned away. The woman beside him was looking at him, appealing to him. She stared at the picture then read the handful of words below.

Late the previous evening, the single paragraph stated, a British army unit had gone to the help of a Catholic family who had been bombed and shot in their car. Both the father, a leading member of the Republican movement who was high on the Protestants’ wanted list, and the mother had escaped unharmed.

She read the words a second time, still not hearing the conversations around her, then looked at the three words of the headline across the top of the page, ‘Peace On Earth’.

It was almost Christmas, she remembered.

‘Anyone noticed this chap here?’ The deputy head was looking out the window. ‘He’s been standing there since half past nine.’ She put down the newspaper and went to the window, wiping away the condensation. On the pavement opposite the school entrance was a man, his hair was long and he was wearing a mackintosh, the collar turned up against the weather. The rain had flattened his hair and soaked through the shoulders of the coat.

The left sleeve of the mackintosh seemed empty.

The school bell went, she finished the tea and returned to the classroom, not concentrating, thinking of the photograph in the newspaper and of the man on the pavement. When the bell went for lunch she hurried back to the staff-room, left her books on the table, and pulled on her coat. At the last moment she remembered that those staff not on duty were going for a Christmas drink and that she had said she would go with them. They were waiting for her. She apologised to them, waited till they had gone, then went to the car park and started the car. It was still raining. She drove out the gate. The man was still there. She pulled across the road, stopped and opened the door for him.

‘Hello, Grah,’ she said.

‘Hello, love,’ said Enderson.

* * *

Haddad knew every inch of the route from Heathrow. He had driven it that morning, again and again, till he was sure.

He looked at his watch and decided to check it again, make sure there were no last-minute obstructions, no hold-ups.

He started the car, left the short-stay car park, and followed the road through the tunnel from the airport towards the M4. At the precise moment he pulled onto the motorway he pushed the indicator to record the mileage, remembering that he was accustomed to thinking in kilometres and forcing himself to think in miles. The traffic was light and moving quickly, he slid into the centre lane and headed towards London, noting again the marks he had identified earlier. One mile, first bridge over motorway; two miles, A312 exit and second bridge; three miles, service station. He ignored the time it took and concentrated on the distances. Four miles, fourth bridge; five miles, fifth bridge. Not much time anyway, even at the speed limit of seventy miles an hour, and the PLO driver wouldn’t stick to the limit. Six miles, three-lane carriageway into two lanes. And the cameras, the bloody cameras. Two of them, two hundred yards apart, the first facing west, the second east, towards London. He assumed they were for traffic control, that at the time of day he would follow the PLO car along the motorway the police would be paying little attention to them, knew nevertheless that they might be recording the pictures on tape, that it was a risk he could not afford to take. Seven miles, onto the flyover. Plenty of distance, he thought, as long as nothing went wrong; not much time though, he also thought, wondered what would go wrong. Eight miles, off flyover, almost into the suburbs. Nine miles, traffic lights at Hogarth roundabout. If it wasn’t over by then there would be problems. He circled the roundabout and turned back for Heathrow.

The black Granada arrived thirty minutes before Tunis Air flight TU790 was due. Haddad followed it into the airport complex, overtaking it as it slowed outside the terminal, then drove back to the short-term car park. The driver of the Granada parked outside the main entrance of the building, in front of a policeman, got out of the car, showed the man his credentials and disappeared inside. Haddad confirmed it was the man he had followed to the mews in Kentish Town the evening before and watched as the uniformed policeman spoke into the radio he carried on his left shoulder. Two minutes later an unmarked white transit van pulled up thirty yards behind the Granada. Ten minutes later the chauffeur came out, spoke to the policeman, and pulled away, the unmarked transit remaining in position.

The chauffeur had stepped up the security level, thought Haddad, was acting as he should do. Except that it was already too late. He sank back into his seat and looked again at the newspaper he had bought in the hotel foyer that morning, the picture covering the entire front page, the image of the man stemming the boy’s life as it flowed away from him. After fifteen minutes the black Granada returned and parked in front of the unmarked transit. The chauffeur got out and went again into the terminal building. Haddad laid the newspaper on the front passenger’s seat of the hire car, pulled the transmitter from beneath the seat, placed it on the newspaper, and folded the paper over it. The picture of the man in Belfast, he could not help notice, was staring at him.