Leon Uris (59 page)

Farid Zyyad buttoned on a tunic replete with the ribbons and decorations of a proper Legion colonel. He inspected himself in the mirror, moistening his white teeth with a brush of his tongue, and retired behind his desk.

‘Send him in.’

As Haj Ibrahim entered, Colonel Zyyad made the unusual gesture of arising, offering his adversary a chair, and ordering coffee. Ibrahim knew at once that it was to be a stick and carrot situation.

‘Where are Sheik Taji and Charles Maan?’ Ibrahim demanded.

‘They have been released, with apologies.’

‘My son, Jamil?’

‘He is in safekeeping for the moment, along with the other boys.’ Farid Zyyad glanced at a paper on his desk. ‘Fifty-two of them.’

‘It is a deliberate provocation. Are you looking for an uprising in the refugee camps?’

‘I doubt that one will take place unless you incite it, and I doubt that you will incite it so long as these boys are in custody.’

‘For safekeeping?’

‘For safekeeping.’

‘You are aware that the foreign press may not be very kind to His Majesty over this incident.’

‘While I applaud the clever way you three have manipulated this meeting and the press, two can play that game. We have given a release explaining the situation.’ He handed Ibrahim a sheet of paper.

‘I do not read English.’

‘I shall read it for you, then. “Today’s roundup is the culmination of months of investigations into a situation that has disturbed King Abdullah and the Jordanian authorities. Gangs of youths have gone on a rampage of terror in the refugee camps, encouraged by older gangster elements. Among the charges against these gangs are black marketeering, grand larceny, blackmail, extortion, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

‘Does the foreign press know that any of these charges could be made against almost any Jordanian official on the West Bank and that your splendid Arab Legion has collaborated with and encouraged these activities?’

Zyyad went back to his desk and held up his hand. ‘That is what I wanted to speak about to you, Haj Ibrahim. I recall our first meeting in Nablus in the home of the late Clovis Bakshir, may Allah retrieve his noble spirit. I found you to be an extremely intelligent man. You have tweaked my nose now on three occasions, yet I bear you no grudge. However, you have made your position extremely clear. It is no longer tolerable.’

‘So the boys are being held hostage to curb our tongues and blunt our aspirations.’

‘That is an extreme choice of words. Yes, they will remain in custody. We will continue to interrogate them about their activities. In due course there may be a trial or there may not be a trial,’ Zyyad said, shrugging with newborn innocence.

‘Depending on the outcome in Zurich,’ Ibrahim said.

‘Such is life. Even now, within hours, some of them are volunteering information ... on the reasonable provision that they will inform on the others if we drop the charges against them.’

Zyyad’s maneuver was clear. What to do? Bellow and roar? Make it clear there would be massive uprisings? Or calm down and listen? Zyyad wanted something. He would find out.

‘You have my absolute attention,’ Ibrahim said.

‘Good,’ Zyyad responded with the slightest glimmer of a smile. He zipped open a pack of cigarettes, offered Ibrahim one, and lit both of them.

‘You recall our conversation in Nablus, Haj?’

‘In detail.’

‘Then you recall that I confided in you at that time that His Majesty Abdullah is not your typical Islamic fanatic on the matter of the Jews. He entered the war, largely against his will, for the sake of Arab unity. All of his recent utterances against the Jews are mostly for public consumption and to let the world know that the Arab leaders have a solid front. Can you go along with me on this point?’

‘Let us say that for the moment I accept your statement.’

‘Good. So we can understand each other’s situation. We find no great pleasure in having you remain in the camps. We have done more than any other Arab state. We offered immediate citizenship, freedom of movement, jobs, government offices.’

‘And suppression,’ Ibrahim said.

‘Yes, of course suppression,’ Zyyad agreed. ‘We cannot entertain the anarchy of upward of a half-million people running loose like an unchecked flash flood.’

‘We have rights,’ Ibrahim said.

‘Certainly you do. Whatever the king grants you.’

‘You are not happy that we did not fall on our knees and look upon Abdullah as our savior,’ Ibrahim shot back.

‘Frankly, we don’t care at this stage. Nor do we care for your rights. We have gotten what we want from the Palestinians. The rest of you will come along when faced with the realities. Let me speak to you with the candor for which you are famous. In our analysis we feel that the Palestinians do not have the fire of rebellion in their guts. You and your brothers are amazingly easy to control and you have never amounted to a damn as fighters. We do not think you are going to change more than thirteen centuries of history.’

Ibrahim held his temper. ‘We have never been locked up like this. What you see happening with these young boys, the Leopards and the Sharks, is only a forewarning that this next generation of Palestinians may be of a different ilk. After all, Colonel Zyyad, we all once believed that the Jews were a passive lot, easy to trample upon. Generations do change. I think it is a lesson you had better heed.’

‘We don’t intend to let these boys run wild. We will put nice uniforms on them and channel their misplaced energies into hatred of the Jews and convert it into disciplined guerrilla action against the Jews. It will supply further proof to our Arab brothers that we are in the fight with them, no? As for the vast majority of Palestinians, I believe they are disposed to sit in these camps and rot forever. They have no spirit and less dignity. They are weepers and beggars.’

Ibrahim rose from his seat and leaned forward on Zyyad’s desk, coiled to strike, but words did not come. He blinked and slowly sank back down. It was horrible to hear such truths. That was why they were never spoken.

‘Good,’ Zyyad said. ‘We recognize a chronic condition.’

‘I hear your words,’ Ibrahim rasped.

‘Why must we continue as enemies? When we narrow our goals down, you will see there are ways to resolve our differences. No, I am not going to try to bribe you. I learned in Nablus that does not work. You are a man of principle. So rare. I have a reasonable offer.’

‘I have reasonable ears,’ Ibrahim said.

‘Good, Allah is blessing this meeting.’ Zyyad opened his bottom drawer and produced his omnipresent bottle of Scotch and offered Ibrahim a drink.

‘No thank you, whiskey would burn my insides out,’ he said in an automatic refusal, then reconsidered. ‘Perhaps a little, very little.’

‘The point in question is that nothing is going to stop King Abdullah’s march to a Greater Syria—nothing. Not harsh words from the Arab leaders, not the refugees, not the Jews. It is destiny, divine destiny. The point is, we both have use for the Jews, so let us see them.’

‘If the king is to fulfill his destiny,’ Ibrahim said, trying not to make a mockery, ‘does he think he will destroy the Jewish state?’

‘Incorporate it.’

‘Incorporate it?’

‘Yes, as a province of Greater Syria.’

‘Do the Jews know about this?’

‘They will learn in good time. Give them a decade of isolation along with the realization that as a loyal province under Abdullah their own future is secured.’

‘In the Prophet’s name, they will never agree to such a thing. Jews and Arabs as allies?’

‘Not as allies, as subjects. But what is so farfetched? In ancient times we in Jordan were Gibeonites and Gibeon was a province of Israel. King David’s court itself had Moabites, Hittites, and a castle guard of Philistines. Solomon had Celts and Rhinelanders!’

Farid Zyyad’s voice had suddenly risen and become shrill and his eyes rolled wildly. Haj Ibrahim stared at the man in disbelief. Then it became terribly clear. He, Colonel Farid Zyyad, who had been a Bedouin under the British, now saw himself as a general in command of the Jewish province! In that instant Ibrahim recognized all the insanity of Arab politics rolling from the tongue of one man.

‘I am to assume,’ Zyyad continued, ‘that since you left your cave you have made contact with Gideon Asch. Before you deny it, let me observe that you would not have spoken as you did in Bethlehem today if you didn’t have something in your pocket, some kind of understanding.’

‘I don’t confirm, I don’t deny.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Please go on, I am filled with fascination,’ Ibrahim said.

‘What is it that you refugees want? To return to your homes? So make your deal with the Jews in Zurich. Take a thousand, fifty thousand, two hundred thousand back with you. We don’t want the burden of these camps. The Jews will house you and feed you and educate you. That is their weakness. And when the time is ripe for the Greater Syria, we will have many more thousands of our brothers in place to force a peaceful takeover of Israel. However, whatever deal you make, you must make it quietly. The world is not to know. Break down your camps slowly and steal out of them silently.

‘In public, Jordan must continue to denounce everything,’ Zyyad continued. ‘We will denounce your delegation in Zurich, for we must keep up the show of Arab unity.’

‘What do you want in exchange?’ Ibrahim asked.

‘Stop your activities against King Abdullah, do not let Charles Maan go bleating to the foreign press, and above all, your deal with the Jews is to be secret. Now, isn’t that reasonable?’

‘I must think about it. I must talk it over with my friends. What about the boys you have under arrest?’

‘Are we still dazed by the perfume of candor?’ Zyyad asked.

‘Speak openly.’

‘If you make any noise in Zurich, some of those boys will not live long enough to grow moustaches.’

‘I wish to see my son,’ Ibrahim whispered.

‘Certainly, please use this office. I will have him brought to you.’

As Farid Zyyad stepped outside he had made the judgment: Haj Ibrahim was probably willing to take the loss of the boy Jamil. It was another son, the little Ishmael, he would move mountains to save. As soon as Haj Ibrahim left for Zurich, Ishmael would be taken into custody, as well ... for insurance.

Jamil seemed to have found some kind of greater glory in his arrest and in being singled out as a leader.

‘I am going to Zurich in a short time, Jamil,’ his father said. ‘The Jordanians will continue to hold you as a hostage. Bear in mind that they do not have British law as we had it in Palestine. The law is what the king wants, and they can charge you with anything they care to. You have no chance in a Jordanian military court: I urge you to keep your boys quiet. The Jordanians boil fingers. Do you understand?’

Jamil’s eyes looked very weird. ‘Do not worry about me, Father. You do what you have to do in Zurich, no matter what becomes of me.’

‘I think you enjoy this whole business,’ Ibrahim said.

‘Enjoy it? I don’t know. I think it makes no difference if I live or die.’

‘Come now, no one wants to die.’

‘I and all my friends will have to die sooner or later for the struggle you have imposed on us. What else is there for us to do except die? We can go no place; we can do nothing; we are told to think of nothing except the vengeance and the return.’

‘I am trying to make a better life for you.’

Jamil erupted with a maddened laugh, tossing his head back and spitting futility. ‘It makes no difference to you if I die, my father. It would even help you if I became a martyr.’

‘Shut up.’

‘So, beat me up again.’

‘Jamil, you are my son. I am trying to get you out of this.’

‘For what? Don’t bother. I am not your son. You have only one son. Ishmael. Isn’t that right, Father?’

Ibrahim slapped his face. Jamil got to his feet. ‘I hit you once, Father, and I still feel the ecstasy from it. Jailer! Jailer! Take me back to my cell!’

A few days after Father returned to Aqbat Jabar, he took me into Jericho, to the office of Professor Doctor Nuri Mudhil.

‘I received eight thousand dollars for your treasures,’ the archaeologist said. ‘Here are the air tickets for yourself and Sheik Taji. We thought it best for you not to go to Amman again, so you will take a small plane from East Jerusalem to Cyprus and then continue on to Zurich. I have had to fly many antiquities out of East Jerusalem and I know the people at the airport well. The air tickets and special attention to certain officials have eaten up over twenty-eight hundred dollars. These here are your travel papers. The visas are attached.’

‘But they are not passports,’ Father said.

Mudhil shook his head. ‘There is no nation of Palestine. There is only Jordan, and Jordan will not give you passports. You must travel on these.’

Father scanned one of the documents and handed it to me. ‘What does it say?’

‘It says you are a stateless person and this is a visa to Switzerland and back, good for thirty days,’ I said.

‘Unfortunately, I had to pass off a thousand dollars for each of these documents,’ Nuri Mudhil said, running his fingertips against the tip of his thumb. ‘Baksheesh, the standard bribe. We could have given you Israeli passports at no cost, but you would never have received credentials for your delegation in Zurich. The Arabs would have blocked any recognition.’

‘How much does that leave?’ Ibrahim asked me.

‘Thirty-two hundred dollars,’ I said.

‘Less another five hundred. It is illegal to carry cash. I had to transfer your money through the church charities. It was necessary to pay one of the priests in the archbishop’s office five hundred dollars. So, with new clothing for yourself and Sheik Taji, that should leave you about a thousand dollars each for room and food.’

‘But this forces me to leave my family penniless except for Sabri’s salary. If they have to depend on Red Crescent rations alone, they might starve. And what if I run out of money in Switzerland?’

Nuri Mudhil opened the drawer of his desk and took out a packet of Jordanian currency. ‘I am making you a personal loan for the expenses of your family. You do not have to worry about paying it back. As for yourself in Zurich, Gideon Asch will keep you floating if you run out of funds.’