Olives (18 page)

I wondered
what would happen when my refusal to get what Lynch wanted filtered
through to his contacts in the British Business Group. A
Carpe Diem
moment led me to ask Robin for a raise and, to my
absolute consternation, he agreed instantly.

Aisha dropped
by at my desk for a chat, a smile breaking out on her lovely face
as she looked down at me, holding a file pressed up against her
left breast.

‘
What are you grinning about,
ya
Brit? You’re
supposed to be in court tomorrow. Shouldn’t you be biting your
nails or something?’

‘
I just got a
raise.’

‘
Clever boy!
Listen, I have to get on. Do you fancy coming over to our house for
dinner?’

I grinned all
the more widely. Stokes the Cheshire Cat.

‘
That’d be
great.’

‘
Nothing
fancy, just family, but I thought it would take your mind off
tomorrow.’

I laughed.
‘I’m done worrying, Aish. It is the will of Allah now.’

‘
And maybe
you could ask Daoud if he would allow you to take me over to see
Mariam at the farm at the weekend?’

A momentary
wave of concern hit me, an alarmed thought about how safe I would
be, but it had been quiet since the Jericho bomb and the inevitable
reprisals, a gunship attack on a car in the ruined, dusty streets
of Gaza that killed four people. That had all been two weeks ago,
just as Anne had left for home without a word. Two weeks. It seemed
like a lifetime ago. One of my childhood games cut in: if you get
off at the trial, you’ll be safe at the farm.

‘
That’d be
great. But what if tomorrow goes badly?’

She frowned.
‘It won’t, Paul. Ibrahim’s on top of it. He says it’ll be over and
done with quickly. You still have your passport and you’re free to
travel. Don’t worry. Seriously. How about eight
o’clock?’

‘
Eight,’ I
confirmed, taking her hand and squeezing it. I wanted to scoop her
up in my arms, but we had agreed on our ‘Ministry
Rules.’

‘
Thanks,
Aish.’

She
exaggerated the swing of her hips as she left me, turning and
flashing me a glance that made me shiver.

I went back
to brooding about my day in court. I hadn’t been strictly truthful
with Aisha about my feelings on that one. Robin’s agreement to pay
me almost eight grand more had brought the first smile to my face
that day, but I had been up most of the previous night staring into
the darkness and playing out likely scenarios as I tried to sleep.
I was worried sick about returning to a stinking jail
cell.

Nour smiled
knowingly as
I helped her to
take back the dishes to the kitchen after the meal. ‘Aisha’s very
happy these days, Paul,’ she said, her eyes on mine as she put the
pile of plates onto the drainer. ‘Things must be good at
work.’

‘
The
magazine’s going really well, yes. Aisha’s been a fantastic help. I
couldn’t have got the project together without her.
Honestly.’

‘
That’s good.
It’s given her something to get… involved in.’ She smiled. ‘And you
mustn’t worry about Daoud.’ She put her hand on my forearm. ‘He’s a
good man.’

Well, there
at least we disagreed. Daoud still worried me, his intensity and
seriousness always had me on edge. The fact he had almost been
genial throughout the evening was even more worrying. Daoud left
the table and came over to me as I walked back into the dining
room. I noticed Aisha and Mariam had left the room.

‘
Let’s get a
comfortable seat,’ he said. He smiled, a new sight to me. Nour
brought coffee in gold-decorated porcelain cups arranged on an
ornate tray.

Daoud sat
back and lit a cigarette, offering me one. I took it. Damn the
Jordanians and their smoking.

‘
Harb thinks
a lot of you. He was singing your praises the other day, wondering
whether I’d met you yet.’

Harb. First
names for the Minister, a member of the Cabinet, a Minister of
State and a moment of sheer disassociation for Paul Stokes. I
imagined myself sitting back with a fag, puffing out blue smoke
saying to someone in the UK: ‘The PM noticed you in the Commons
today. He really loves your nails, Marjorie.’

I smiled at
him. ‘I like him too. He’s very frank.’

‘
Maybe too
frank sometimes. It’s lonely being a reformer, even though there
are more of them these days. This government’s still very
conservative.’

‘
So he said.
But they seem to have committed to the whole idea of
liberalisation.’

I really did
have to be careful about my big and expanding head. It’s a long way
from being Robin Goodyear’s bitch to chatting about government
policy over coffee with Arab millionaires.

Daoud smiled.
‘Yes, they are. We’ve got quite a lot riding on that right now,
there are some big contracts being talked about. We’re well
positioned to win them. We’re investing a lot. It’ll be good for
Jordan.’

I wondered
how many salary raises this conversation would be worth and hated
myself just a little bit more. I sat and talked with Daoud about
the water contracts and about the interviews I’d done with the
various players, the ministry people and the consultants who were
working on the privatisation project.

I found
myself relaxing and chatting freely, whether a result of the
whisky, Daoud’s own relaxation or the comfortable warmth of the
room I wasn’t sure. My outsider’s view of people he had known all
his life obviously tickled Daoud and he laughed out loud when I
told him about the disastrous interview I’d had with the Minister
of Planning that morning.

‘
So you thought he was
haughty
? That’s a
good word, haughty.’

I pulled
myself up from the depths of the sofa, my elbow on my knee and
chopping the air with the flat of my hand, speaking in heavily
accented Arab English. ‘You are going too deep with this question.
You will drown us with details. Focus on this good for Jordan, not
always the broblems. Always you British bress you focus on the
broblems. You must to open your mind.’

Daoud laughed
at my impersonation, but his laughter died quickly. ‘He’s a good
man, though, Paul. His heart is good.’

‘
Oh, I’m
sure. But Harb is more my idea of a progressive man, a reformer. I
suppose he’s more... sophisticated.’

‘
Oh, don’t
underestimate Qasim. He’s leading the whole reform movement. He’s
just a little older. But he’s closer to the conservatives, to the
street. He gets more done with less conflict than Harb.’

I sipped at
my little cup of strong coffee. ‘Do you think you can take the
water bid?’

‘
Yes. I know
we can. We’re a million miles ahead of the British when it comes to
our technical bid and they know it. In fact, it’s something of a
worry. The British don’t always play fair in Jordan, you
know.’

Ah, the
cunning British. The Arabs have never lost their view of the
‘
Breets
’ as cunning, Machiavellian strategists. What I
found odd was how such a bunch of muckle-headed chinless wonders
with their classical educations, convictions of racial superiority
and love of brown boys’ pert arses could ever be seen as
cunning.

I said as
much to Daoud. ‘Ah,’ he said, smiling a rueful smile. ‘But maybe we
have to demonise them. Imagine, if we took your view of these
people, the Storrs and Glubbs, Philbys and Lawrences. Imagine how
little it would make us, to have been conquered by these creatures.
We’d rather build them up to be cunning and forceful. At least it
would explain how they could take everything away from
us.’

Which is one
way of looking at it. I smiled, but Daoud’s expression stayed
serious and earnest and his voice urgent.

‘
Paul, we
have found new ways to gain access to deep water resources that
will help to rebalance Jordan’s position on the water map of the
region. We’ve been using some of the most sophisticated deep
geophysical mapping systems in the world, systems developed to
explore for oil and gas in the Gulf. Because of our partners, we
can combine that ability to see further underground than ever
before with cutting edge French micro-boring technology. We know
where the deep water is and where it flows and that it flows
through Jordanian land. We can tap into those aquifers before they
rise across the border. You see? We can keep our water, we can
seize it back from them.’

I was taken
aback by the fire in Daoud’s voice. ‘Can you make it work? I mean,
you’ve not only got physical constraints but political ones
too.’

My question
merely fanned his passion. Daoud’s hand was on my shoulder as he
leaned forwards, his eyes locked on mine and his fervour drawing me
in.

‘
I know we
can do it if we win the privatisation bid. I know we can make it
work. Together with the backing of our government, which we
absolutely have, we can do it. And it’s vital, not just for the
consortium but for Jordan’s future. We can get back most of the
water they took from us in 1967 and the same technology will let
the people in the West Bank reassert their right to their own water
so their farms can live again. Farms like our own, on the very
border with Israel and divided by that wall, will die unless we get
water. And I can give it to them, I know I can. I can make water
flow throughout the land.’

He was
mesmeric, his passion both contagious and persuasive. At that
moment, I was with him, watching the trails of fresh, clean water
sparkling between the olive trees on the Dajani farm as they
brought the desert back to life. I was watching glittering droplets
flying in the sunshine as children played in the cool
shower.

Daoud stubbed
out his cigarette in the heavy crystal ashtray and I took the
opportunity to slip in my request. ‘Aisha mentioned visiting the
farm. She is keen for me to go there and perhaps to understand more
about what shapes people in Jordan. I wasn’t sure if it was…’ I
struggled for the right word. ‘Appropriate.’

Daoud
positively beamed. Paul is learning, his expression said. Paul is
asking my permission and even doing it like a good Arab, slipping
it in at the end of the conversation. ‘I think it would be a good
idea. Tell me when you would like to go. We can help to ease the
crossing.’

‘
Wasta
.’

‘
Yes.’ He slapped my leg delightedly. ‘
Wasta
.’

‘
We were
thinking of going at the weekend.’

‘
Great. I’ll
let Hamad know. Mariam will be delighted to meet you, I know. Don’t
worry about the paperwork. Selim over at my office will get you all
the permits and passes sorted out.’

‘
Thank you,
Daoud.’

Standing,
Daoud put an arm on my shoulder. ‘Paul, I don’t want to make Aisha
unhappy. I wouldn’t see her harmed for anything, in any way.’ He
turned serious again. ‘Please, Paul. Take care of her.’

Daoud was
smiling, his words meant kindly and so I thanked him, as much to
hide my confusion as through any sense of gratitude.

‘
I will,
Daoud. Thank you.’

Thank you for
trying. Thank you for being so direct. Thank you for smiling. Thank
you for letting me know at the same time you’ll break every bone in
my body if I let her down without actually saying a word about
it.

As if on cue,
the women appeared to say goodbye. I caught Aisha’s calculating
glance at Daoud. An instant later she was beside me on the
doorstep, a look of pure delight on her face.

‘
Clever
Brit,’ she whispered. ‘Good luck tomorrow.’

Fast and
light as a darting bird, her lips brushed mine and she went back
inside. I was left alone on the doorstep wondering where I’d find a
Lonely Planet guide to the West Bank.

FOURTEEN

If I had
expected my court case to be a grand affair, I was to be
disappointed. For weeks I’d worried about the outcome of this day
and yet it seemed like any other, a little sunnier perhaps, but a
cool Amman October day for all that.

Ibrahim met
me outside the courthouse accompanied by his lawyer, Tariq Al
Bashir. We all shook hands and made small talk on the broad stone
steps leading up to the courthouse building as Ibrahim smoked his
cigarette. Al Bashir had pretty impressive credentials – Aisha had
told me he had managed Daoud’s case after he was picked up by
the
Mukhabarat
on the Syrian border. It had been Al
Bashir’s brilliance, together with Ibrahim’s influence, that had
secured Daoud’s release and had the charge of conspiracy against
him dropped. I could only hope the same would be true in my
case.

Al Bashir’s
predatory stare, heavy eyebrows and curved nose reminded me of a
bird of prey. I later discovered his nickname was in fact
Al
Saqr
– The Falcon. He
was confident the case would be thrown out on today’s hearing alone
but no matter what his reputation, I could not bring myself to
share his certainty. I was consumed by visions of disaster, wearing
my only suit, uncomfortable and sweating despite the cool breeze.
Although I had prepared myself as much as possible over the past
few days, I was frightened, my nerves were shrieking and my senses
heightened so every touch or sound made my heart jump. I felt
Ibrahim’s hand on my shoulder as I mounted the stone steps. It was
more of a comfort than his bluff attempts at reassuring me. An even
number of steps confirmed my concern. I had banked on odd for a
good result.