Olives (33 page)

Harb paused
and Lynch’s urgent voice filled the gap. ‘They’re bombers. The
Dajanis. They’re destabilisers. They’re the whole Al Qaeda model.
Trigger a war, trigger a conflict. That’s Daoud’s purpose in all
this.’

I half
turned. ‘Fuck off, Gerry.’

His voice was
close enough to my ear for me to feel his boozy breath. ‘Is there a
problem with that, Paul? Did you honestly never stop to think it
all through? The Jericho bomb? The Arafi boy?’

‘
The problem
is acute. The challenge is real. We have to manage and maintain our
country’s water resources with every tool at our disposal if we are
to give our people access to the most fundamental building block of
life. And yet we are not alone. All around us, other nations face
the same challenge. So we must make the most out of our own
resources while bearing in mind the need for our neighbours, our
partners, to make the most out of their own resources, too. That
partnership is critical for success moving forwards. We must seek
mutual benefit from our mutual challenges.’

‘
Did you
think it all a coincidence? That Daoud’s a good guy just trying to
drive Israel into the ground by stealing their water? Oh, he got
you good, Paul. He got you good. Jaysus, but he’s a cute hoor, all
right.’

Harb was a
master orator. The room was silent as he spoke, his eyes like a
lighthouse passing around the room, its beam taking everyone in,
his voice melodious and paced as he carefully enunciated
commonplace phrases and trotted out the language of corporate
communication. Now Harb introduced a new urgency, patting the
lectern to emphasise his words. ‘Partnership means shared
responsibility, however. It means recognising the needs that drive
us all. It means respect. And it means building trust between
partners. The peace we concluded in 1994, the peace that has
brought Jordan to the attention of the world as a nation seeking
advancement and prosperity for all, was built around this trust.
And water. Water for all. A shared challenge and
resource.’

Lynch’s skin
touched mine. ‘He tell you he’s in danger from the Israelis, Paul?
He tell you that? Did he tell you he tied the green ribbon around
his brother’s head before sending him off to destroy a busload of
children, Paul? Or that Daddy raised money for the PLO until he got
blown to fuck by the third Israeli mission sent to do for his
worthless fucking life?’

‘
Jordan does
not have access to the water resources it needs today, let alone
tomorrow. We need to address that issue across every possible stage
of the life cycle of this most precious commodity. We need to
educate our people to use their water wisely and sparingly. We need
to build programmes that help to make agricultural water use more
efficient. We need to use our sustainable resources wisely. We need
to recycle wherever it is not only feasible, but
possible.’

‘
Well,
whatever happens, I suppose you could count yourself lucky not to
be doing time in an Israeli jail. You’re a lucky boy,
Paul.’

I kept my
voice steady to deny him the satisfaction of getting to me, but his
words had driven cold doubt into every part of me. ‘What do you
mean, Israeli? They had nothing to do with my dumb court case. It
would never have been a problem if you hadn’t been involved and we
both know it. Get to the point, Gerry.’

‘
The point?
That is the point, Paul. I’m not talking about you going down for a
silly assault charge. I’m talking about shipping highly
sophisticated Czech explosives across the King Hussein crossing,
Paul. I’m talking about bombs that killed innocent Israeli citizens
because you helped the Dajanis ship the stuff in your car,
Paul.’

I lost track
of Harb’s words. My tongue felt thick in my dry mouth. The room
swam in and out, coming to me through a haze I realised was tears.
I suppressed the urge to wipe my eyes. Lynch would see me brush the
tears away, but he couldn’t see them trickle down my cheeks. Harb
continued, drawing applause three or four times before I brought my
thoughts back to the here and now of the darkened auditorium. My
dry lips pulled apart painfully as I spoke.

‘
Daoud is
going to win this, Gerry. Jordan is going to win it.’

‘
We also need
to find new and sustainable sources of water to underpin our
country’s development and our people’s needs. And it is this
element, this crucial element, that has driven our evaluation of
the bids for the privatisation of Jordan’s water
resources.’

‘
You brought
her in your car. She ask you to carry anything here, Paul? Your
mo’? Your bird? She bring any presents or cuddly toys for anyone’s
kids? Any extra luggage?’

‘
No,’ I spoke
too loudly, making the woman two rows in front of me turn because
of course, yes she had asked me to carry an extra piece of luggage.
A flight case with a camera in it. I clamped my lips shut. I wasn’t
going to give Lynch the pleasure.

Lynch
chuckled dirtily. ‘You know what we think, Paul? Ghaith Mcharourab,
the kid who died in the nightclub bomb. Remember him? He was the
bomb maker. We reckon he was handing a device over and muffed it.
That bomb was no more Israeli than I am. We think he’ll do it
again, Paul, because he needs instability between Jordan and
Israel. Daoud wants a war to play with and the way he’s going, he’s
going to get it.’

Harb was
smiling, his arms spread. ‘...have decided to award the management,
operation and exploitation of Jordan’s water resources to the
Jerusalem Consortium.’

The room
erupted, the audience taking to its feet and applause breaking out,
swelled by cheers.

Lynch
squeezed my shoulder. ‘Stay away from them, Paul. For the love of
God, stay away. This is not over and it’s going to turn ugly. I
don’t ask you to like me, or to love me. But just listen to me.
Stay away. I’ve sent you home, son. So go while you still
can.’

I finally
summoned the anger and guts to turn and face him, ready to strike
out at him no matter how public the brawl would be, to silence his
sinister hissing. But Gerald Lynch had gone.

The
exhibition area was empty, everyone packed in the auditorium as I
strode through the shell-scheme stands to get to the press office
and send out the news Daoud had won control of Jordan’s water
resources. I operated on autopilot, Lynch’s skewed version of
events too much to allow, too much to even consider. If he was
right, everything had been a lie and everyone a liar, including my
lover.

I sent the
file off to the Petra news agency and the Royal Court public
relations people before I packed my stuff into my shoulder bag.
Walking back out through the exhibition area, I watched the crowd
streaming out of the auditorium and heard the clink and clatter of
the china cups laid out across the glass-topped coffee stations.
The whole area was buzzing, happy-faced people shaking hands and
clapping each other on the back. I looked for Aisha, but she was
lost in the throng, her mobile off. I ached for her, for the warmth
of her presence and the certainty we were doing the right
thing.

I pushed my
way into the auditorium, the house lights were up and the massive
room was emptying fast, a few small groups of people left behind
holding their conference bags and chatting. I reached the technical
desk, where Aisha had stood during Harb’s speech. The engineer said
she had gone back to the hotel.

I made my way
out through the crowd in the exhibition area, groups of people
knotted around the high cocktail tables, drinking coffee and
chattering, the sound of a thousand voices echoing in the high,
glass-roofed foyer area. I was almost at the front door when the
world went dark, a momentary eclipse. I looked up in time to see
the shattered glass opaque above us before the crazed panes
collapsed into a scintillating hail, scattering the crowd with tiny
bouncing shards skittering on the marble floors. The explosion came
a moment later, a bass concussion that shook the ground. I was
surrounded by the sounds of breaking crockery, screams and loud,
confused voices.

I shoved
through the immobilised crowd, breaking through the edge of the
throng as they started to flee in panic, people losing their
footing and bringing tables down with them, exhibition stands
collapsing as the crowd heaved. I ran out into the daylight and
heat, up from the driveway onto the road in front of the convention
centre. I could see the dark cloud rising above the car parking
area, sirens already wailing all around me, cars glittering in the
sun, the hot air shimmering over the massed metalwork, flames
leaping high in an area of blackened, twisted shapes that had been
cars, stick people staggering and holding their heads in their
hands.

The police
cars started to cordon off the area, an army warthog barrelling
down the road towards me and bouncing over the central reservation.
Barked commands rang out in urgent Arabic, distorted by the
bullhorns. I wheeled away and ran towards the hotel, a few hundred
metres to the right of the convention centre.

My laptop bag
banged against my hip as I ran, passing groups of stunned-looking
people, one guy throwing out an arm as if to stop me. A car had
mounted the pavement, the driver standing and looking around him,
bewildered. For a second the sound of my own ragged breaths and the
pump of my feet on the paved walkway were all I heard before the
wailing sirens blocked out all sound. One car slowed, the police
waving at me to stop. The distinctive whump of a helicopter beat in
the distance as I pressed on, ignoring them. There was a painful
stitch in my side and an odd, iron-tang taste in my rasping
throat.

Turning into
the hotel grounds, I ran downhill and into reception, careening
through the pandemonium that filled the reception area, people
arguing with staff at the reception area, concerned-looking groups
standing around and officials shouting at their
walkie-talkies.

Running to
the lifts, I slammed against the wall, hitting the call button.
Waiting, the sweat on my shirt cooling and clammy against my hot
skin, I bent double and drew shuddering breaths.

The lift took
a silent eternity. Reflected in the mirrored wall, I was sweaty, my
collar pulled open by the laptop bag and dark patches on my chest
and down my sides.

I hammered on
the door of Aisha’s room. She opened it, the security chain fixed.
It shut again before she let me in, walking away from me as I
entered.

She had been
crying, her eyes were smudged and her face tear-streaked. She
looked up at me, her mobile in her hand. I hated her, then, more
than I hated myself. Her betrayal of me seemed so complete and
profound. She had used me, as cynically as she had used her own
self, given her mind and body to me while she was following her own
purpose. She had used my stupidity, exploited my vanity, torn me
apart and left me with nothing.

We stared at
each other. She looked scared, shocked and vulnerable. I burned at
how she could look like that, how these deaths could bring her to
tears after so many others had gone before.

She lifted a
hand to me. ‘Paul…’

I stuttered,
but then the words flowed. ‘Don’t. Don’t use my name. Don’t pretend
any more. It’s there outside. They told me you would. They told me
and I ignored them. You’ve done it again, haven’t you? You used me,
Aisha. You’re helping him to bomb them, to kill women and children.
And you’ve been using me.’

She shook her
head as I shouted at her. ‘It was the car, wasn’t it? You just got
me to drive you around and carry your bombs for you.’ I counted off
on my fingers. ‘Jericho. Haifa. Nai. And now the Dead Sea. The
camera box. You used me to kill them and you fucked me to use me
and I went along because I loved you and you were laughing at me
all the time.’

Her face was
in her hands and she shouted my name but I shouted louder, jabbing
my finger at her. ‘You helped him bomb, you helped him kill. You
lied to me. What for, Aisha? For your precious fucking Palestine?
For your father? What turned you into a fucking whore?’

Aisha took
her hands from her face, screaming at me, mascara streaked across
her eyes like stage makeup. She whirled around and I caught a
silver glitter, ducking just in time to avoid the flight case as it
smashed against the wall, the shower of plaster as the case burst
open and the black body of a camera flew out of the foam interior,
lenses tumbling to the floor as I lost my balance and fell
sideways, hearing her hoarse voice scream, ‘
Daoud’s dead.
’

I rose
unsteadily to my feet, using my hands against the wall. Aisha stood
at the open door.

‘
Aisha.
I’m—’

Her soft
voice trembled and her lips curled down in an ugly grimace. ‘Get
away from me. Fuck you, Paul. Fuck you.’ She took a choking breath,
wheeled around and fled, slamming the door behind her.

I slid back
down the wall to the floor, exhausted and confused, scrabbling
through the pieces of foam and camera parts, the tears streaming
down my face.

I picked my
way back through the chaos of the hotel lobby and out into the
street, past the wailing police cars and ambulances and against the
flow of disoriented people walking from the conference centre to
the hotels. Some had cuts, others were being supported as they
walked. Police were starting to direct the flow and one uniform put
out a hand to block me but I pushed past him and he didn’t follow
me.