Purpose of Evasion (5 page)

6

AN OLD MERCEDES SEDAN
raced along Avenue du General de Gaulle atop the palisades of West Beirut past the bombed-out hulks of hotels and high-rises that had once made the city the Riviera of the Middle East; the place where wealthy Arab women worked on topless tans and shopped for French perfume and couture while their men traded oil for tankers and tactical fighters between visits to the gaming tables at Casino du Liban.

Katifa sat behind the wheel, her hair snapping in the wind, her face aglow with the anticipation that had been building since the cable from Saddam Moncrieff arrived the previous evening. She guided the car through the sharp bend at Ras Beyrouth onto Avenue de Paris, past the British and American embassies, and parked on a promontory high above the Mediterranean.

A twisting wooden staircase led to the Bain de l’Aub, the beach at the base of the palisades.

Katifa hurried down the steps and set off across the sand with long, graceful strides. She had gone about a quarter-mile when she saw the stylishly dressed man near a rock jetty up ahead, saw his eyes tracking her, his smile growing in anticipation.

Moncrieff had spent the night at Arafat’s villa. After a three-hour flight from Tunis, he had arrived in Beirut late morning, then took a taxi from the airport.

As the Saudi watched the beautiful woman with the silken complexion and model-fine features coming across the sand toward him, he began reflecting on that day in Cambridge five years before, when he had last seen her.

They were graduate students and lovers, living together at MIT at the time. Katifa was dedicated to the Palestinian cause. Moncrieff had sworn to uphold Saudi law, which forbade members of the royal family to marry foreigners; he had also sworn another allegiance, an allegiance he couldn’t discuss. They walked the
banks of the Charles on that humid Sunday afternoon, knowing it wouldn’t work, and said good-bye.

Now the Saudi took a few steps toward her and opened his arms, and Katifa ran into their embrace.

“Moncrieff,” she said, leaning back to look at him. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”

“I was concerned you wouldn’t come.”

“And if I hadn’t?” she asked with a smile.

“I would have pursued you relentlessly,” he replied with a grin; then, in a more serious tone, he added, “I would have had little choice.”

She studied him for a moment, recalling his habit of gently working a conversation to convey that something was on his mind. “This is business, isn’t it?”

Moncrieff nodded, offered her a cigarette, and took one himself, glancing about cautiously as he lit them. As he had anticipated when selecting Bain de l’Aub for the meeting, they were alone on the long stretch of sand. “I’m looking for your brother,” he finally said.

“Why?” Katifa asked, darkening.

“I have to see Abu Nidal.”

“My brother is dead,” she said, forthrightly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“He died for our cause. He’s not to be grieved.”

“Then I’ll tend to business,” Moncrieff said, taking the opening. “This meeting with Nidal is of the utmost importance,” he began, his tone sharpening as he explained the arms-sanctuary-hostage exchange.

“What makes you think Abu Nidal has the hostages?” Katifa challenged when he had finished, concealing that, like Arafat, she thought the idea had merit.

“Does Article Seventeen ring a bell?”

“I think it might,” she replied.

They were in their last year at MIT when Katifa wrote
Intifada
as a tribute to her father. With eloquence and moving emotional fervor, her treatise not only called for the liberation of Palestine, but outlined a strategy to achieve it, a strategy of terror and intimidation designed to force the United States into pressuring Israel to provide a Palestinian homeland.

That summer, she left MIT and returned to Bir Zeit University, where she had done her undergraduate work. Located on Jordan’s
west bank fifteen miles from Jerusalem, it was a center of PLO radicalism. When Katifa’s mentor in the political science department read
Intifada,
he knew his protégé had fulfilled her promise. A high-ranking PLO adviser, he brought the document to Yasser Arafat’s attention; and it was soon adopted as the PLO’s official manifesto.
Intifada
was more than brilliant; it was written by the daughter of a martyred leader.

Article 17, titled “Human Currency,” advocated hostage-taking and urged the creation of fictitious radical Muslim groups who would claim responsibility for the kidnappings: a tactic to cause confusion and deter rescue attempts, a tactic which the ruthless and cunning Abu Nidal had refined to an art.
He
had kidnapped them all; not to force the release of political prisoners, not to trade for money or arms, but to ransom Palestine.

“And if you’re wrong about Abu Nidal holding the hostages?”

“I have it on good authority that I’m not,” Moncrieff replied, quietly confident.

“State your source, Mr. Moncrieff,” she said, as if challenging one of her students.

“Chairman Arafat,” he said, playing the card.

Her eyes widened at his sagacity. “I had a professor like you once. No matter how I argued, he always had an answer.”

“You didn’t learn very much.”

“But
he
did.”

Moncrieff laughed. “My White House contact has to know,” he said, purposely invoking his sanction.

“He’ll have to wait until tonight.”

“I’ll be here,” he said, taking her hand.

They walked along the surf to the staircase and climbed to the palisades where Katifa’s Mercedes was parked, then drove to her apartment on Tamar Mallat in the Al Fatwa quarter. They spent the afternoon reliving old times and drinking araki, a sweet local liqueur distilled from wine. They talked for hours before their words gave way to desire, before Moncrieff gently pressed his lips to hers. Katifa had had no interest in having a lover since her brother’s death. The self-denial served as a form of punishment and emotional insulation; but the Saudi had always been a special and reassuring presence, and she surrendered willingly.

Soon they lay naked on her bed—Katifa lanquid and adrift in the sensations that began surging through her like gentle bursts of current; Moncrieff exploring the planes of her smooth torso,
tending to every square inch of copper velvet, until her flesh quivered and the first explosion broke over her; and as the second rose, he brought their glistening bodies together, timing his entrance to the instant it crested. Katifa gasped at the sudden surge in intensity, lost in the way it used to be and hadn’t been since they were last lovers.

THAT EVENING,
they drove to the Turk Hospital on De Mazraa, where Katifa picked up a package at the pharmacy. Sporadic flashes of gunfire winked in the darkness as the Mercedes crossed the Green Line at the Patriarche Hoyek checkpoint, heading north on Avenue Charles Helou and up the coastal motorway to Casino du Liban.

A group of Palestinian sentries met the Mercedes at the entrance and escorted Moncrieff and Katifa down the gangway to the dock.

Hasan, the terrorist who had been her brother’s lieutenant, signaled with a flashlight that they had arrived. The throb of diesels rose as the gunboat emerged from the blackness and nosed into the slip, slowing with a noisy reversal of its engines. Armed sentries were deployed on deck. Then Abu Nidal came from below, joining Moncrieff, Katifa, and Hasan on the dock. He had been grooming Hasan to assume leadership of the casino-based group, and gestured for him to accompany them as they walked along the rows of empty slips.

“No,” Nidal said after Moncrieff had revealed the three-way proposal. The terrorist had listened without comment, his expression noncommital throughout. “We don’t want another territory,” he said calmly. “We want our homeland. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I’m aware of that,” Moncrieff replied, undaunted. “As I explained, this would be a significant step in that direction. I strongly urge you to consider it.”

“I’ll say this once,” Nidal responded evenly. “The currency you seek will be used to ransom Palestine, not to lease Libyan desert.”

“
Unoccupied
Libyan desert,” Moncrieff corrected, with the cool detachment of a diplomat brokering a treaty. “A viable alternative to living in police states; an end to violence and the slaughter of your young.”

“And the destruction of our homes, and confiscation of property,
and demeaning identity cards,” Katifa interjected, bitterly rattling off the list of injustices.

“You overlooked curfews and unlawful detention,” Moncrieff said gently. “My point is, your people are tired of fighting tanks with stones. It’s hard to believe they wouldn’t flock to a sanctuary where they could lick their wounds and heal.”

“And become soft and complacent,” Nidal said in a derisive tone. “It’s the inhumanity that drives them.”

“Yes, in lieu of leadership. As I understand it, there are those who believe reuniting Palestinians with their leaders is vital to your cause.”

“Ah,” Nidal said knowingly, his face a haunting mask in the moonlight. “Arafat . . . you’ve spoken with him, haven’t you? Of course you have.”

Moncrieff nodded matter-of-factly, unshaken by the challenge. “He views the proposal favorably.”

“I’m not surprised. We’ve often differed on these matters.”

“With good reason, I’m sure. But the fact remains that despite your having the currency in hand, neither the Americans nor the Israelis have budged.”

“Yes, they’re still chasing Hezbollah, aren’t they?” he said with a sly smile. “They’ll do more than budge when they find out who really has the currency.”

“I disagree,” Moncrieff said, maintaining his cool demeanor. “It’s becoming clear that a strategy based on lawlessness will ultimately fail.”

“We think of it as courage,” Nidal snapped angrily. “We’ve fought for forty years and we’ll fight for forty more if need be; without the interference of outsiders. And if seven hostages aren’t sufficient . . .” He paused, letting the words trail off ominously.

“We’ll acquire more,” Hasan said intensely, unable to resist finishing his mentor’s sentence.

“Abu Nidal is right,” Katifa chimed in. Despite thinking the proposal of some value, despite her feelings for Moncrieff, her almost lifelong allegiance to Nidal gave undue weight to his argument. “The Americans and Libyans wouldn’t accept inequities. Why should we?”

“For your people. ‘A nation’s leader should never put his pride before them,’” Moncrieff answered, paraphrasing. “Mohammed.” Then, shifting his look to Nidal, he said, “The offer
stands. Though I’m not sure for how long. Let me know if you reconsider.”

The terrorist glared at him with cold hatred, then broke it off and took Katifa aside. “Binti el-amin,” he began, addressing her as My loyal daughter to emphasize his disappointment, “why did you bring this shetan to me?”

“Because I don’t presume to speak for Abu Nidal.”

His eyes softened in approval, then drifted to his watch. “The Saudi is wrong,” he declared in conclusion. “Pragmatism is a poor substitute for passion.”

Katifa nodded dutifully and handed him the package of pharmaceuticals.

Nidal went up the gangway into the casino, continuing through the main gaming room to the amphitheater where he entered a backstage room that served as a communications center. A radio operator sat at a console. It was precisely 9:00
P.M.
when the radio crackled.

“This is the Exchequer,” the caller said, using the code name Nidal had given the Palestinian in charge of the hostages. “This is the Exchequer. Do you read?”

“Yes, go ahead,” Nidal replied, taking the phone.

“Your currency is secure,” the Exchequer reported as he did daily at this hour, reciting the cipher that meant all was well with the hostages.

“Very well,” Nidal said, clearly pleased. He had no questions or instructions to impart and abruptly ended the transmission to minimize the chance of intercept.

AFTER LEAVING CASINO DU LIBAN,
Katifa and Moncrieff drove back to the city in stony silence.

Far from beaten, the Saudi was keenly aware of Katifa’s divided loyalties and decided to let her live with the ambivalence for a while before provoking her.

“Arafat was right,” he finally said as they entered her apartment and settled on opposite ends of a sofa in the living room. “Nidal is addicted to the violence. The day this is settled, he becomes nothing; a terrorist without a cause.”

“He just wants what is best for Palestinians.”

“No. That’s what your father wanted,” Moncrieff replied slyly, baiting her.

“My father?” she asked indignantly. She had often spoken of him when they were students and resented the inference. “What does he have to do with this?”

“If he had lived, Katifa,” Moncrieff replied, starting to reel her in, “if he had been captured by the Israelis, what would have happened?”

“They assassinated him,” she snapped bitterly.

“Humor me. What if they hadn’t?”

“He was respected by both sides. If anyone had a chance to resolve the differences between—”

“Right.
He
would have compromised,” Moncrieff interrupted; then he locked his eyes onto hers and pointedly added, “That’s why Nidal executed him.”

“What?” Katifa leapt from the sofa and hovered over him angrily. “How can you make such an accusation?”

“I have it on good authority.”

“Arafat?” she ventured cautiously.

“He was there, was he not?”

“So was I,” she retorted, lighting a cigarette.

“He doesn’t remember it quite the way you do,” Moncrieff said gently. “He told me the story just yesterday; he said that your father and Nidal were holding off the Israelis while Arafat loaded the settlers into a helicopter. As soon as they were aboard, Arafat began firing at the Israelis, pinning them down so that your father and Nidal could run to the helicopter. Nidal managed to get aboard; then the Israelis began firing at it. The pilot panicked and lifted off, leaving your father behind. When Nidal saw he was about to be captured, he went to the door with his machine gun and shot him.”