Stateless (44 page)

‘Let me first of all apologise to you for delaying your return to Palestine by asking you to come here. I know you were on the way to the airfield at Domodedovo village, but I wanted to meet you before you returned to the vital work you are both doing for us in the Middle East.'

At the sound of his voice, tiny Vered began to whimper in her cot. Molotov looked down and smiled. ‘Do you need to feed her, my dear? There's a private office next door.'

Judit smiled. ‘No thank you, Excellency. I fed her just before I left the hotel. She will soon settle.' Judit reached down, picked up her daughter, and gently rocked her on her shoulder.

Molotov smiled tenderly. ‘I have two grandchildren, you know. One of my great pleasures, something which I love and do far too infrequently, is to return to my home town of Kukarka, and cuddle my daughter's babies.'

Anastasia, still dumbstruck at meeting the Foreign Minister, sat and listened, almost shaking her head as if this moment, indeed this entire occasion, was a dream.

‘Fear not; the pilot will wait for you under my orders. I have for you a very specific instruction that comes direct from Comrade Stalin himself.'

Anastasia beside her was silent and impassive and Judit had no idea if what Molotov was about to say was known to her or not.

Molotov continued. ‘The removal of important and influential Jews who would oppose our plan can soon be brought to an end.' He sat back in his chair, shifted his gaze and seemed to change topic.

‘There are many people we have been watching in Palestine over recent years. Many of them will be well known to you. David Ben-Gurion, Yitzhak Shamir, Golda Meir, Menachem Begin . . .

‘Shamir is currently in France, after his exile in Africa, but be assured that he will return soon to Jerusalem, and we believe that when we put the proposition to him, he will support our plans. Even though he hates the Poles, he has shown a certain warmth towards Mother Russia.

‘Menachem Begin is a different matter. I have my doubts. Before the war with the Nazis, our NKVD stupidly arrested
him as a British spy and sent him to the gulags. He wasn't there long but I think his internment may steer him away from us.' Molotov's voice contained not a hint of sarcasm.

‘But we have many candles burning brightly now in Palestine and none more brilliantly than you, Judita. I call you all candles as it is you who will be a beacon of Soviet glorification in that troublesome and benighted region. And as you know, with warm and fraternal relationships such as we hope to have with a new government in Israel, our fleet of ships will be offered a permanent port in the Mediterranean, and will be an everlasting deterrent to the imperialism, expansionism and colonialist hegemony implicit in the empire-building of the United States of America.'

Judit couldn't help but think Molotov was reciting some sort of pre-rehearsed speech. But she remained impassive. Surely she was not asked here to meet with Molotov himself simply to be told what she already knew.

Judit could not help herself and spoke up. ‘Mother Russia is supplying both the Jews and the Arabs with guns and armaments. Aren't we in danger of alienating both groups by playing one side off against the other?'

Molotov smiled. He'd been told of her sharp tongue and her fierce intelligence. ‘It is in our interests for there to be war between Arabs and Jews, both before and after the British withdrawal. There are great advantages in this for us. Egypt and Syria, Jordan, Iraq and Lebanon will inevitably launch armed assaults against the Jews, though we're assured by our man there that Lebanon will not participate other than to show their Arab brethren that she's done something. Of course, this is all predicated on the United Nations voting to create Israel.'

‘But how does that benefit us?' Judit was genuinely puzzled.

‘If there is full-scale war and Arab invasion after Israel is created, then the UN will be . . . how shall I put this? . . .
encouraged . . . to ask us to place our troops in between the two forces. America may be asked, but they will refuse because they've seen the mess that Britain made of it.

‘By having our troops in Palestine, we'll outflank the Americans in Greece, Iran, Turkey, and control the entire Eastern Mediterranean. It's what the Americans fear most, even though neither their feeble President, nor their weary people, have the stomach for another war. But Russia is not so weak-willed. And of course, in the long term there is always the treasure beneath the sand.'

Judit did not have to ask to know that Molotov was speaking about oil. There was no oil in Palestine but Russian influence there could shape the pipelines from the oil-rich nations of Arabia.

‘You may wonder, Judita, why I am telling you these things now – surely things you already know.'

Judit nodded, barely able to say a word.

The Foreign Minister leaned forward in his chair. ‘You will bring about the moment of triumph that we require . . .' Molotov shifted in his chair, almost for dramatic pause. ‘The most capable army in the region that can set itself against Israel is that of Trans-Jordan. However, we know that various Jewish leaders have been in discussions with King Abdullah and there is the distinct possibility that the Jordanians may withhold from any invasion. This is not to our advantage. We need insurance that such an agreement cannot be accomplished by the Jews.'

Judit was aware of how Molotov used the words ‘the Jews' as if she was not one and she remembered what Anastasia had once said to her: ‘Leave the Jewish girl behind. Be what you must be: a daughter of Russia.'

Molotov continued, well used to speaking at length without interruption.

‘King Abdullah must be put under intense pressure from his people to go to war. Blood will bring about that pressure.'

‘Who, then, is the target?' asked Judit, her mind racing through her mental files as she thought of prominent Arab fighters who might be targeted. And quietly she found herself relieved by the idea that she would not be asked to kill another Jew or a civilian.

‘In this case it is as much about how the target is removed as who the target is,' Molotov said. ‘We need you to kill a man in a particular way. And not to be invisible but to be seen to kill . . .'

Judit's confusion was clear on her face. ‘You want me to be exposed as the killer?'

Molotov smiled, and shook his head. ‘No, you'll arrange everything; we want the killers to be visible, and immediately known.' He stood and paced the room as he spoke.

‘I assume you know Immanuel Berin? Regional commander of the Irgun?'

Judit was stunned but finally found her voice. ‘A Jew? But I thought you wanted an Arab target to bring the Jordanians into the coming war.'

Molotov shook his head. ‘No, we want Immanuel Berin to die and for the Jordanians to be blamed. We want the investigation of his death to show that it was a Jordanian army commander who did the killing. Then because Lehi and the Irgun are tinderboxes, it will be the spark that will make them retaliate. They will commit an atrocity across the border, and it is this retaliation that will leave King Abdullah with no room to manoeuvre. He will have to go to war.'

A field outside Paris

15 August 1096

T
hirty thousand foot soldiers, all wearing tunics with the Cross of Christ emblazoned on their breasts, as well as ten thousand noblemen and chevaliers on horseback, had gathered together in a vast army and now waited in fields outside the walls of Paris. They had walked there from all parts of northern France, from the lands of the Dutch, from Britain, Germany and the cantons of Switzerland. As each group arrived, it was directed into the fields of assembly south of the River Seine. The gathering grew and grew until the last cohort of soldiers, who came from a distant part of Bavaria, finally arrived.

On the day of their departure for the great adventure, they were blessed by Pope Urban, sprinkled with holy water by dozens of priests, provisioned with food and drink. They gathered, and despite different languages, dress and foods, there was good nature and bonhomie in the fields. Their commanders, Raymond of Normandy, Godfrey of Bouillon, Raymond of Toulouse, Stephen of Blois, Baldwin of Boulogne, Robert of Flanders and many others, sat in their separate tents with their priests and confessors, their treasurers and advisers, and talked
at length about the campaign ahead, what rewards they could expect from their participation.

Pope Urban had originally determined that the Crusade would leave for Muslim lands on 15 August. It was to begin on the Feast of the Assumption, but holy madness had spread like a wildfire throughout the Christian lands, and the official Crusade of soldiers for Christ was pre-empted by a rag-tag collection of some forty thousand men and some women, and many lesser noblemen and third sons of barons, intent on making a fortune denied to them by their birth. Inflamed with the divine mission of freeing Jerusalem, this rustic crowd of peasants, armed with pitchforks and clubs, set off in April from the city of Cologne, completely unprepared for the rigours of the journey, or the reality of the armies they would face on the way. They were led by Peter the Hermit, who had whipped the mob into a hysterical religious frenzy. But anyone more experienced in war believed few, if any, would return alive. Sadly, it was the cause of much laughter and joking in the fields outside Paris.

In the early morning, when their tents had been folded and packed alongside provisions and arms onto wagons, it took the entire army over three hours to file out of the fields and on to the road that led to the south-east. First to leave were the dukes, earls, barons and their attendant squires, who rode on wagons; then chavaliers on horseback followed by foot soldiers slipping and sliding through the increasingly muddy grass, walking two by two in a line stretching as far as the eye could see. Citizens from Paris had come out to stand beside the road and to cheer on the army of heroes of the Catholic Church. Girls dressed up in pretty dresses handed flowers to the soldiers as they marched.

In the first days of the march, while they were still close to Paris, the men would burst spontaneously into song at night. But as the weeks wore on, singing was replaced with shouting and
fighting and then bronchial coughs and, at times, debilitating silence. Paris and their homes became a distant memory.

For their part, Nimrod and Jacob were well separated from the foot soldiers, but the stench the troops generated wafted on the wind.

Both of the Jews slept together in a tent, erected by the duke's squires, and had comfortable straw rolls on which to rest from the exhaustion of the day's horse ride. The ancient seal, which Nimrod had always put under his pillow, now remained securely around his neck. Theft and assaults were commonplace. Being away from his chambers, he wouldn't risk some stranger creeping into his tent in the blackness of the night and stealing it. And so he went to sleep, his hand grasping the replica of Matanyahu's seal, made in the time of the Romans by a young boy called Abram, Nimrod's distant ancestor.

The village of Ras Abu Yussuf

Nine miles west of Jerusalem

T
he steel wrench felt like it might snap in his hand before the bolt would loosen. Lying flat on his back in the dirt underneath the old truck, Mustafa pushed with all his might but the nut was rusted tight. Exasperated, Mustafa tossed the spanner aside and lay his head back down on the dirt. For too many years he'd been able to keep the truck running, knowing the village was too poor to buy another. But as he lay under the vehicle, in the shade cast by its rusted body, he resigned himself to the idea that her engine may never splutter again.

‘Are you working under there or just hiding from your mother?'

Mustafa could just make out a pair of sandalled feet and slid himself out from under the truck.

Shamil was short and pudgy with the scraggliest beard of any man in the village. He reached down with a hand and helped haul Mustafa to his feet.

‘I think the truck's gone this time. Rusted through and we don't have the parts.'

‘Allah will provide,' said Shamil but both men laughed at the unlikely idea that God had even noticed.

Shamil handed Mustafa a water bottle. ‘From your mother,' he said grimly. Mustafa took the bottle and swigged deeply.

‘I'm surprised you're around to try and fix the old truck,' said Shamil.

‘Why do you say that?'

‘So often you are out digging in the dirt with your Jew-friend.'

Mustafa shrugged. He had spent a lot of time with Shalman at the caves and had revelled in both the discovery and the learning that his friend shared with him. But he also knew that the people of his village were talking, and the one thing nobody wanted to be in an Arab village was the centre of gossip.

‘Where is he? The Jew? Not seen you with him for some time.'

Mustafa shrugged again. ‘Who knows?'

Shamil picked up the wrench from where it lay in the dirt under the truck and twirled it absently in the air. Mustafa sensed there was something unsaid and waited for Shamil to continue.

Finally Shamil spoke. ‘Don't think the Jew is your friend, Mustafa.'

Mustafa caught the wrench mid-air as Shamil tossed it up, and lowered himself to crawl under the truck once more.

‘This is Palestine. I'm happy to call anyone a friend who isn't aiming a gun at me.'

Shamil caught Mustafa's shoulder with his broad hand. ‘What about one who points bombs not bullets?'

Mustafa pushed the man's hand away in annoyance. ‘What are you talking about?'

‘I was there, Mustafa . . .' Shamil hesitated for a moment, but looked Mustafa dead in the eye. ‘I was there that night on the airfield. I stayed outside. The British don't like Arab men but they like our children. That's why I took little Munir with me. I sent him inside while I stayed outside on the edges of the airfield. I saw everything.