The Devil's Light (22 page)

“What are you smiling about?” Anit asked as the elevator door opened.

“The human comedy, Chandler-style.” He kissed her forehead. “When all else fails, give yourself up to laughter.”

Anit mimed a dubious look, and they proceeded to his parents' door.

Somewhat to Brooke's surprise, it was opened by Peter Chandler himself. He gave Brooke a handshake that managed to be ceremonious yet warm, then did the same to Anit. The look he gave her was appreciative of her beauty without any trace of lasciviousness. Watching Anit relax, Brooke appreciated his father's innate gentility.

The former Isabelle Brooke awaited them on the sofa, her elegant pose worthy of the book-jacket photograph of an author of high-society
romances. Then she rose briskly, kissing her son on both cheeks and according Anit a limpid handshake and a swift but thorough once-over cooler than her husband's. It reminded Brooke of her memorable reaction when a girl had made an unsolicited appearance at his sixteenth birthday party. “How lovely to see you, Jennifer,” Isabelle had said in her most arid tone. “Had we only known you were coming, we would have invited you.”

Now, the greetings performed, Anit and Brooke sat across from his mother while Peter Chandler brought them drinks. Brooke watched Anit absorbing her surroundings—the sleek Art Deco furnishings, the carefully placed antique vases, the panoramic view of the park, its denuded trees skeletal in winter. Then, politely enough, his mother began to quiz Anit about her life, evoking equally polite but sketchy descriptions of her family, her service in the army, her educational pursuits, her sojourn at NYU, and her worries about the political situation in Israel. At this, Isabelle leaned forward, fixing Anit with a look that combined skepticism and concern. “Do you plan on returning?”

In her perplexity, Anit smiled. “Of course. Israel is my home.”

Isabelle glanced at Peter for reinforcement. “What I meant was
should
you go back? Considering the danger.”

“But there's never been a time when there wasn't danger, Mrs. Chandler. It's just a matter of degree. What feels more important is that my country is in danger.”

“‘Isabelle,' please,” Brooke's mother said airily. “Your attitude is very admirable, of course. But I worry about the nature of your enemies, seething with resentment of your manifestly superior culture. Especially given the daunting numbers at which they reproduce.”

Anit sipped her Chardonnay. “There are many concerns,” she answered. “But I think most Palestinians would be content to live a normal life. Part of the burden of making peace falls on us. More hope for the average Palestinian means more security for Israel.”

Isabelle gave a vehement shake of the head. “It strikes me that your enemies are a different species altogether, with very different values and no respect for life. These suicide bombers exemplify all one needs to know.”

Brooke glanced at his father for clues, as he sometimes did during his mother's remarks on the state of the world. Often, as now, he wondered whether Peter's blank expression suggested situational absentmindedness, or the stoic suffering of a martyr nailed to the cross. Despairing of
his help, Brooke told Anit drily, “I've spared my mother any disquisitions on the Arab mind. She's far too well informed.”

Peter betrayed what might have been a smile. Then, to Brooke's surprise, he placed a hand on his wife's knee. “I thought that's what we pay tuition for, Isabelle—so that our son can know more about the Middle East than we do. Though not quite as much as someone who lives there.”

After a moment, Isabelle had the grace to smile. “I don't lack for opinions,” she told Anit. “But I pride myself on keeping up with important issues. One thing that disturbs me is that Israel's location is so dreadful. I wonder if some of the original alternatives, like Uganda, would have been safer.”

“Perhaps not,” Anit said mildly. “It seems there were people there as well.”

“True, though locating Israel in Uganda would have spared us Idi Amin. It's just that starting a new country for the Jewish people is a remarkable undertaking—even under the best of circumstances. And the neighborhood your Zionist forefathers chose is a bad one.” Isabelle spread her arms in a gesture of helplessness. “As matters stand, you're surrounded by enemies. Surely you worry they'll get their hands on nuclear weapons.”

Anit regarded her steadily. “It's a worry, yes. In the hands of a country like Iran, it might move them to further encourage terrorists like Hezbollah. Nor can you assure that any country with a bomb will be rational.” Pausing, she turned to Peter Chandler. “When it comes to nuclear weapons, what scares me more are nonstate actors. It's easier for them to strike, and harder for us to find them.”

Peter nodded. “I think of the people who attacked the USS
Cole
. There seem to be a lot of young men in autocracies like Saudi Arabia who are turning to radical ideas and religious extremism. Sunnis and fundamentalism strike me as a bad combination. I'd hate to see such people with nuclear missiles, or the components of a dirty bomb.”

Anit's look of surprise mirrored Brooke's. “I agree,” she said. “But most people here don't know that Sunnis are different from Shia.”

“I'm one of them,” Isabelle said bluntly. “They're all terrible characters, oppressive to women. By our value system, is there any difference that matters?”

A bell rang, the announcement of the dinner prepared by the Chandlers'
personal chef, breaking the conversation. In Brooke's mind, this mercy was compounded by the courteous way in which his father shepherded Anit to the dining room.

The first course was sautéed calamari on spinach—organic, at Isabelle's insistence. In the candlelit room, Peter sat across from Anit; Brooke from his mother.

“We were speaking of Middle Eastern culture,” Peter said to Anit. “I, for one, know little about it. But I do have the sense that the countries in the region were carved out by colonials, like Winston Churchill, and don't much correspond to how their people see themselves. Am I off-track?”

Smiling, Anit shook her head. “Not at all. Traditionally, Arabs have viewed themselves through the prism of family, then clan, then tribe—and only after that, whatever nation-state they find themselves in.” Anit adjusted her gaze to include Isabelle. “As Brooke could tell you, their social bonds are very tight, in contrast to Americans. The role of women is, as you say, subordinate—a terrible waste of human potential. But there are lovely aspects to their culture, including their sense of hospitality. When Arabs invite you to spend time with them, they feel a deep responsibility for your comfort and well-being. And Islam as generally practiced does not inspire violence.”

“What about this Sunni–Shia business?” Isabelle inquired. “
Is
there any difference?”

Anit turned to Brooke, inviting him to answer. “Not to the West,” he told his mother. “When Churchill started carving up the Middle East with a straight razor, he blithely asked an aide whether the leader he planned to install in Baghdad was a Sunni with Shiite sympathies or vice versa—he could never keep them straight. But to the two branches of Islam it matters profoundly.

“With the death of Mohammed, his followers couldn't agree on his successor. Those who became the Sunnis chose Abu Bakr, the Prophet's advisor, to be caliph—the leader of a Muslim state. The dissenters selected Mohammed's cousin and son-in-law, Ali, to become what the Shia call the imam.” Brooke turned to his father. “The hatred between them dates back to the seventh century, when Ali's son Hussein had the third Sunni caliph murdered. In turn, the Sunnis killed Hussein—”

“That was thirteen hundred years ago,” Isabelle interjected with rhetorical astonishment. “Why on earth are they killing each other now?”

“Because the violence and estrangement have only deepened.” Brooke glanced toward Peter. “Dad mentioned Sunni fundamentalists. The enemies of Israel include the Iranians and the Lebanese group Hezbollah. Both are Shia—dangerous, to be sure, but also rational. But ninety percent of Muslims are Sunnis. At their most extreme, Sunni fundamentalists imagine destroying ‘the unbelievers'—including the West—in order to restore a mystic vision of the caliphate—”

“Magical thinking,” Isabelle said with a wave of the hand. “Fit only for children and the insane.”

“So one might argue. But the group responsible for the
Cole
attack, al Qaeda, imagines that very thing. And their leader, Osama Bin Laden, is neither a child nor insane.” Pausing, Brooke regarded his mother with deep seriousness. “People with strong belief systems try to create their own reality. Sometimes they succeed.”

Isabelle accorded Anit a look of fresh concern. “As I said at the beginning, Anit, all this seems to have profound implications for your country. In their own minds, the Palestinians are displaced.”

Anit shrugged. “In the Middle East, Isabelle, displacement is common. Fights over water; the Ottomans' moving people here or there; genocide against the Armenians; the British cramming tribes into artificial countries. All that's different here is that Arabs were displaced by Jews. We're a determined people, but Arabs are a patient one.”

“So they have a different sense of time?” Peter asked her.

“Very much so,” Anit replied. “To the leaders of Hezbollah and Hamas—and al Qaeda—a few hundred years are nothing. All we can do is endure.”

Her words induced a moment of silence. Then Isabelle said, “Thank God we're in America, land of the impatient. Our Supreme Court may have given us Bush, but in four years he'll be an accident in America's rearview mirror.”

“Are you that sure?” Brooke asked.

“Absolutely,” Isabelle rejoined. “He's Dan Quayle in waiting. In the meantime, with luck, the janissaries of the right will have him too tied up protecting frozen embryos to do any real damage. And he seems to have no taste for foreign adventures.”

Looking at Anit, Peter Chandler seemed to register her mood. “For my part,” he told her gently, “I hope he'll revive Clinton's efforts at achieving a genuine peace.”

Anit smiled at him. “Thank you,” she answered. “I pray for that.”

Brooke's father raised his wineglass. “Then let's drink to peace,” he said.

They did, Isabelle stealing a glance at Brooke as he touched his glass to Anit's.

In the taxi home, Anit rested her head on Brooke's shoulder. “So?” he asked.

Anit hesitated. “It was fine,” she answered. “Your mother is much as you described her, but she means no harm. The one who surprised me was your father. Beneath that pleasant surface, he takes in more than he lets on. And you may be more your father's son than you believe.”

The observation interested Brooke. “What else did you think?”

He felt Anit inhale. Softly, she said, “That all through dinner I felt homesick.”

F
eeling officebound, Brooke and Terri Young decided to walk through the agency's leafy venues, thinking aloud to each other.

Brooke knew Terri, in a casual but friendly way, as an astute analyst of Israel and its neighbors. Like Brooke, she had learned to view the world through the eyes of Israelis, Lebanese, Syrians, and Palestinians, as well as Hezbollah, Hamas, and al Qaeda. This had led to her suggestion that the architect of the bomb theft might be Amer Al Zaroor. Now, Brooke needed not just her expertise, but her support.

“Lebanon?” she repeated tartly. “You've certainly got that theory to yourself. Nearly getting killed there must have made a lasting impression.”

Walking beside her, Brooke shoved his hands in his pockets. “This is about the people who tried to do it,” he responded. “Lebanon is very sad, very beautiful, and extremely volatile. It's been a parking lot for outsiders since the dawn of time—Phoenicians, Romans, Muslims, Christian Crusaders, and the French. In the last thirty years you can add Palestinians, Israelis, Syrians, Iranians and their surrogate, Hezbollah. The men who killed my agent were affiliated with al Qaeda, and came from the refugee camp at Ayn Al-Hilweh. A very dangerous place in a dangerous country.”

Terri glanced at him, obviously curious. “At some point, I'd like to hear more about what happened to you. But from the longer historical perspective, you can blame the French. They created what we call Lebanon by taking territory controlled by Maronite Christians and adding a stretch of Syria that included both Shia and Sunni—”

“Always a good idea,” Brooke interjected drily.

“Then they proceeded to impose a ridiculous constitution that apportioned power among the Maronites, the Sunni, the Shia, the Druze, and fourteen other subsects. What we've got now is an enfeebled state, hopelessly split between factions who distrust if not despise each other. Which is your point, I guess.”

“One of them. The Lebanese army is also fragmented, and so is their intelligence service—Sunnis versus Shia versus Christian versus the Druze.” Brooke stopped beneath a shade tree. “I spent the first six months there figuring out who I could trust. Frank Lorber never had a clue. But the essence is that Lebanon is paradise for terrorists.”

Terri contemplated a patch of grass. “As I understand it, your theory starts with the wars between Israel and the Palestinians. When Israel was founded, a hundred thousand Palestinians fled across the border. The Lebanese government didn't want them, but was too weak to expel them. Many were peaceful. But a hard core within the PLO wanted to use refugee camps as a base for attacks on Israel. Hence the Lebanese civil war.”

Brooke nodded. “Exactly. To protect themselves, the Israelis supported the Maronite Christian militias against the PLO. The result was a bloody stalemate. So the Israeli defense minister, Ariel Sharon, decided to invade Lebanon in order to destroy the PLO's power base.” His tone became sardonic. “Sharon was never known for his restraint. When someone killed the leader of the Maronites, he directed his army to let the Maronite militia into the refugee camp at Sabra and Shatilah, helpfully lighting their way with flares. The Maronites didn't care who they killed or raped.”