The Levanter (4 page)

“What was all that about?” I asked.

“We have entered the military zone,” she said. “Because this is near the Syrian and Israeli borders the army polices the area. You see how it is? Those cowards in Beirut use the army to oppress the
fedayeen.”

“Those fellows didn’t seem very oppressive. They didn’t even ask for our papers.”

“Oh, they know me and they know the car. It is my father’s. He has a chalet in the hills here. I said that you were an American friend of his.”

“Is that where we’re going, your father’s chalet?”

“Only until it is time to go to the rendezvous. That is at another place.”

We had passed through an Arab village and were climbing steeply again. Although it was May, up there in the mountains the snow was still unmelted in
the gullies. Soon after we left the roadblock behind us she switched on the car heater.

“You didn’t tell me I
might be needing a topcoat,” I said.

“Someone at the hotel might have thought it curious if you had left with an overcoat to go to the museum in Beirut. But it is all right. There are coats at the chalet that we can use.”

The chalet proved to be a sizable house with servants to welcome us and a wood fire blazing in a big stone fireplace. Sandwiches had been prepared and there was a well-stocked bar.

“I know it is early for dinner,” she said, “but we shall get nothing to eat where we are going.”

“Which is where?”

“There is
a village two kilometres from here, and above it an old fort. That is the rendezvous. What will you drink?”

“Can I say that the interview took place in an old fort near the Syrian frontier?”

“Of course. There are dozens of them in the mountains here.” She smiled. “You could call it a ruined Crusader castle if you like.”

“Why?”

“It would sound more romantic.”

“Is it a ruined Crusader castle?”

“No, it was built by Muslims.”

Then it’s an old fort. Thanks, I’ll have Scotch.”

Over the drinks she tried to pump me about the sort of questions I was going to ask. I
replied vaguely and as if I had not given the matter much thought. She became irritated, though she tried not to show it. Conversation flagged. I ate most of the sandwiches.

When the sun began to set she said that it was time to go. She donned a voluminous, poncho like garment, which looked as if it had been made out of an old horse blanket, and black felt ankle boots. I was handed a fur-lined anorak belonging to her father that was uncomfortably tight across the shoulders. The Buick had been put away and we travelled now in a Volkswagen fitted with snow tyres. She had a haversack with her. I carried the tape recorders on my knees. The two kilometre journey over weather-scoured tracks took twenty minutes.

We stopped just short of the village by a ramshackle stone barn that smelled strongly of animals.

“From here we must walk,” she said and produced a flashlight from her haversack.

It was still light enough to see the outline of the fort; a squat, ugly ruin perched on a ledge of rock jutting out from the hillside above. It wasn’t far, but the way up to it was rough and we needed the flashlight. In some places there were stone steps and these were dangerous because most of them were broken or loose. Unimpeded by having to carry tape recorders, Miss Hammed bounded ahead, however, and was obviously impatient when I failed to keep up with her. Finally, as the track straightened out and we approached the scrub-covered glacis of the fort, she told me to wait and went on alone. At the foot of the glacis she made some sort of signal with the flashlight. When it was answered from above she called to me that all was well. I plodded on up. By then I didn’t much care whether all was well or not. My chief concern was to avoid spraining an ankle.

The stone archway which had been the entrance to the fort had long ago collapsed, and stunted bushes grew in the rubble. There was, however, a path of sorts through it, to which she guided me with the light. There was an Arab in a black wool cape waiting. He motioned me forward with the lantern he carried.

Inside there was more rubble and then a clearing. One of the old walls was still intact, and against it had been built, probably by some local goatherd using stone from the ruins, a lean-to. It had a roof made of bits of rusty iron sheeting patched with tar paper, and a door with cracks in it through which light filtered. In the clearing beside the hut were tethered three donkeys.

“I will go first,” said Miss Hammad. “Give me the recorders, please, and wait here.”

She said something in Arabic to the man in the cape, who grunted an assent and moved up beside me as she went to the hut. When the light spilled out from the opening door he peered at me curiously and licked his lips. He had a gray stubble on his jaw and very bad teeth. He smelled bad, too. He asked me in halting, guttural French if I spoke Arabic. I said I didn’t and that was that. Two minutes went by, then Miss Hammad reappeared and beckoned to me.

The light in the hut came from a kerosene pressure lamp standing on a battered oil drum. The only other furniture consisted of a crude bench-like table and two stools; rags had been spread to cover the earth floor for the occasion and a smell of cigar smoke almost masked those of kerosene and goat.

As I entered, the cigar-smoker, who wore a sheepskin coat and a knitted wool cap, rose from one of the stools and inclined his head.

“Mr. Prescott,” Miss Hammad announced with awe. “I am permitted to present to you the commander of the Palestinian Action Force, Comrade-leader Salah Ghaled.”

He was not handsome; he had a beak of a nose that was too big for his head and a thin moustache that emphasized the disproportion, but in his hawk like way he was impressive. The eyes, heavily lidded, were both keen and wary. Although I knew that he had only just turned forty, he seemed to me to be a much older man. A very fit one, however; every movement he made was precise and economical, and those of his hands had a curious grace about them.

He inclined his head fractionally and then straightened up.

“Good evening, Mr. Prescott,” he said in strongly accented, hesitant English. “It is good of you to make this journey. Please sit down.” His cigar hand motioned me to the second stool.

Thank you, Mr. Ghaled,” I replied. “I am glad of this opportunity of meeting you.”

We sat down on the stools.

“I regret,” he said, “that I am unable to offer you coffee here, but perhaps you will accept a glass of arrack and a cigarette.”

He stumbled over the words and they were the last he said in English. Miss Hammad now took over as interpreter.

A bottle of arrack and two glasses stood on the bench beside the tape recorders along with a pack of the cigarettes I usually smoke. Obviously the arrack, the glasses, and the cigarettes had been brought by her in the haversack.

“Mr. Ghaled does not, of course, normally drink alcohol,” she said as she opened the bottle, “but he is not bigoted in these matters and as this is a private occasion he will join you in a glass of arrack made in Syria.”

I happen to loathe arrack, wherever made, but this did not seem the moment to say so.

“I am told that Syrian arrack is the best kind.”

She translated this as she poured.

Ghaled nodded and motioned to the glasses. We each picked one up and took ceremonial sips.

“I will now prepare the tape recorders,” said Miss Hammad. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor now and went on talking alternately in English and Arabic as she set up the microphones and inserted the cassettes.

“Each tape will record for thirty minutes at the slow speed, and I will warn you when I am about to change them. Perhaps it will be as well if I repeat the conditions under which the interview is conducted.”

She did so. Ghaled said something.

“Mr. Ghaled has no objections if Mr. Prescott wishes to take written notes to supplement the tape recording.”

“Thank you.” I put my glass down and took out the scratch pad on which I had already made notes of the preliminary questions I would ask - the easy ones. I could feel Ghaled watching me as I thumbed through the pages; he was trying to weigh me. I took my time looking over the notes and lit a cigarette to extend the silence. If he became impatient, so much the better.

It was Miss Hammad who became impatient.

“If you will say something into the microphones to test them, Mr. Prescott, we can begin.”

“It is an honour to be received by Mr. Ghaled.”

She translated his reply. “It is gracious of Mr. Prescott to say so.”

She played it back on the recorders. They were both working. She pressed the “Record” buttons again and said in English and Arabic: “Interview of the commander and leader of the Palestinian Action Force, Salah Ghaled, by Lewis Prescott, correspondent of the American
Post-Tribune
news service syndicate, meeting in the Republic of Lebanon on . . .” She looked at her watch to check the date before adding it.

It was the fourteenth of May.

Michael Howell

May 15 to 16

On the fourteenth of May I was in Italy, and I wish to God I had stayed there.

Even an airport strike - if it had delayed me for twenty-four hours or so - would have helped. At least my ignorance would have been preserved a little longer. With luck I might even have escaped direct involvement. But no. I went back on the fifteenth and walked straight into trouble.

The fact that the poison had already been in the system then for over five months - ever since the man calling himself Yassin had come to work for me - was something I did
not
know. I have been accused of having turned a blind eye until circumstances forced me to do otherwise. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Unfortunately, those who know me best, business friends, for example, have found the fact that I was both ignorant and innocent hard to accept. My admission that never once during those months had I had the slightest inkling of what was going on seems to them no more than a highly unconvincing, but in the circumstances necessary, claim to incompetence. Well, I can scarcely blame them, but I am sorry. That admission, which I certainly did not enjoy making and of which I am anything but proud, happens to be true.

One thing I would like to be clearly understood. I am not trying to justify myself or my conduct; I
am only attempting to repair some of the damage that has been done. It is not my personal reputation that matters now, but that of our company.

The week prior to the fifteenth of May I had spent in Milan on company business. Having completed that business, I flew to Rome, where I picked up two new suits which had been waiting for me at my tailor’s. The following day, the fifteenth, I took a Middle East Airlines flight to Damascus.

As usual I
had cabled the flight number and expected time of arrival and so, as usual, I received the VIP treatment. At Damascus this meant that I was met at the foot of the stairway from the plane by a Syrian army corporal in a paratroop jump suit, with a Czech automatic rifle, loaded and at the ready, slung across his stomach. Escorted by him, I then went through passport control and customs to the waiting air-conditioned Ministry car.

My feelings about being met this way were, as always, mixed. It was convenient, of course, to be spared the interrogations and searching to which most of my fellow passengers would be subjected. It was also reassuring to know on landing that one was still considered of value to the state, and that no long knives had been out during one’s absence: modern Syria must still be considered one of the 'off-with-his-head' countries.

On the other hand, while there was no denying that Damascus airport was at times a dangerous place, I could never quite rid myself of the conviction that should any of the potential dangers - a bomb outrage, say, or a guerrilla shoot-out - suddenly become immediate, I as a foreigner, a civilian, and an infidel, would be among the first to perish in the crossfire. The corporal, whom I had encountered before, was a friendly oaf who smelled of sweat and gun oil and was very proud of the fact that his firstborn was now attending a village primary school; but to me, his uniform and his loaded rifle seemed as much a threat as a protection. I was always relieved when we reached the car, and the porter arrived with the luggage.

My appointment with the Minister was not until four thirty so I drove first to the villa our company owned in the city - and to Teresa.

The villa was in the old style with a walled courtyard and was part office, part pied-à-terre. Teresa was in charge of both parts of the establishment. With the help of a Syrian clerk she ran the office for me; with that of two servants she took care of our private household.

Teresa’s father had been the Italian consul in Aleppo. He had also been an enthusiastic amateur archaeologist. With Teresa’s mother and members of the Aleppo Museum staff he was away on an archaeological expedition in
the north when the party was attacked by a gang of bandits, believed to be Kurds. Supposedly the Kurds mistook the party for a Syrian border patrol. Teresa’s parents had been among those killed.

She had been nineteen then, convent-educated in Lebanon, and a good linguist. For a time she worked as secretary-translator in the local office of an American oil company. Then she came to me. Having spent most of her life in the Middle East, she knows the form. She has been and is, in every way, invaluable to me.

I have always had to do a lot of travelling around for our company, and whenever I returned to Damascus from a trip there was a set office routine. Teresa would have ready for me a brief summary report on the state of our local enterprises. This report usually consisted chiefly of figures. She would supplement the report verbally with comment and any interesting items of information that she thought I should have.

On this occasion she told me about the manoeuvring of a competitor who was bidding against us on a job in Teheran, That story amused me.

What came next did not amuse me at all.