What Will Survive (36 page)

‘I was horrified to hear that children as young as fifteen, and a man of over seventy, have been detained in the prison,' said Ms Thompson. ‘I was also told that a number of inmates have died in Khiam, including one man who was suspended naked on a cold night and found dead in the morning. I call on the international community to act immediately to ensure justice for the remaining victims of this cruel and unacceptable regime.'

Note to editors:
Al-Khiam Detention Camp was set up in 1985 in a complex originally built by the French in the 1930s. It was run directly by the Israelis for two years, after which they handed control of the prison to their proxy militia, the South Lebanon Army. Former detainees say that Israeli interrogators continue to take an active role in Khiam, and Israel's defence ministry has admitted training members of the SLA. The International Committee of the Red Cross was not allowed to visit the prison until January 1995, since when conditions have improved. But more than one hundred and forty Lebanese and Palestinians are being held in extra-judicial detention at the facility; the longest-serving is Suleiman Ramadan, who has been held without charge since September 1985.

Amanda looked up and said, ‘This is happening near where we were yesterday? I can't believe it.'

‘There are many other reports, but that is the sum of it,' Riad said, putting down his paper. He was about to say something else when Ingrid ended her call, snapped her phone shut and came to join them. She flopped into an armchair. ‘My daughter,' she said, ‘she wants to go back to college but she has no money and her youngest child is only six months old.'

Amanda gazed at her, startled to hear that Ingrid was a grandmother.

‘Did you sleep, Amanda?'

‘Yes, but I had weird dreams.'

‘It is the adrenalin.'

A phone rang in the next room. ‘Excuse me,' said Riad. A moment later he returned with a rolled piece of fax paper, which he held out to Amanda.

She took it and smoothed it out. ‘Fabio?' she said, puzzled, glancing up from a familiar face.

Ingrid said triumphantly: ‘Abu Thaer.'

‘What?'

Amanda flattened the shiny paper and studied it. The Syrian's resemblance to Fabio Terzano was undeniable, although on closer inspection their expressions were quite different. The terrorist had been snapped turning towards the camera, one hand coming up to shield his face, and he looked angry. Amanda wondered how the photographer had managed to get away in one piece.

‘Where did you get this?' she asked, and Ingrid explained that it was one of only two confirmed images of the bomb-maker, which she had asked someone to fax from a picture agency in Amman. ‘Can you get the original?' Amanda continued. ‘I mean a print, not a fax?'

Ingrid nodded. ‘Sure. Come, let's eat. You had a very long day yesterday.'

‘So did you — and I've just had a massage.'

She explained about her visit to Séverine as they moved to the table where they had eaten supper the previous week. Amanda ate ravenously, only half listening as Ingrid fretted over her daughter's personal and financial problems.

‘That boyfriend, he is not good for her,' she concluded, clearing away their empty plates and bringing a bowl of fresh fruit to the table, peeled and cut into slices. Turning back to the stove to make coffee, she took out her mobile as she waited for it to heat up.

‘Nazik has not called me back,' she said, frowning over the screen. Riad suggested that the woman might be out of town. ‘No, her mother is unwell. This is my friend whose husband is in the government,' she added for Amanda's benefit.

Amanda looked at Ingrid, then Riad and Samih. They sat in silence, waiting for her to speak. ‘All right,' she said finally, ‘I'm convinced about Marwan being in this awful place, and I agree we need to do something about it.'

Ingrid's face brightened and she started to say something. Amanda held up her hand. ‘But first I'd like to know he hasn't done anything terrible — that he isn't involved with Hezbollah or blowing people up.'

‘I have his aunt's number, and we can find his tutor at AUB.'

‘Fine.' She spoke directly to Ingrid: ‘But I do have problems with the rest of it. Obviously you know a lot more than I do about what goes on here, but you've had time to think since last night. You don't really believe it was an assassination?'

Riad said, ‘The Israelis—'

Ingrid stopped him with a glance.

‘Amanda's questions are reasonable,' said Samih unexpectedly. ‘Someone who is not from this part of the world — why should they believe that such things happen?'

Amanda remembered Séverine's reaction, and how foolish she had felt. She leaned forward, fixing her eyes on Samih. ‘Has Ingrid told you what they said, Mrs Hadidi and her family?'

‘Yes.'

‘All of it?'

He nodded.

‘And?'

Ingrid moved behind Riad, her hands resting on his shoulders. Samih had not taken his eyes off Amanda.

He said, ‘If you are asking me whether your friends were killed — deliberately killed, I cannot tell you.'

‘They're not my—'

‘If you ask me a different question, whether it is possible that this thing happened — then I would have to say yes. In this country, in my country, life is cheap.'

Amanda glanced at Ingrid, who was still standing behind Riad, one of her hands now stroking his arm.

‘Who is going to investigate?' Samih's voice continued. ‘Our newspapers are not free, our governments are corrupt. At least you should tell your editor this — I know what you are going to say, perhaps he will not believe you. But you should tell him anyway.'

Amanda was aware of a tightness behind her eyes. She hoped it was not the beginning of a headache.

Samih dipped his head: ‘Whether you can get evidence to convince him — that is another matter.'

Behind Ingrid, the coffee began to splutter. She turned and lifted it from the hob, looking for somewhere to put it. Riad stood, pushed a rush mat along the counter and guided her hand to it. He slid his arm round her waist, saying something quietly in Arabic, and she replied with a shake of the head.

Amanda glanced round the room. Her gaze settled on Samih, her eyes drawn to the evidence of torture on his arms. She thought of Marwan's graduation photograph, of that smiling boy huddled on the floor of a tiny cell, his clothes torn and stained with blood. She put her hands up to her face and let out a long sigh.

‘Amanda?' Ingrid stepped towards her.

She dropped her hands. ‘I'm fine. I've got a headache, that's all.' She reached for her notebook. ‘We don't have much time. We'd better decide where to start.'

The morning air felt chilly. Amanda looked up and saw more rain clouds approaching from Syria, although she did not think there was going to be a storm like the one on Saturday morning. She shivered and went back inside her hotel room, taking the remains of her breakfast and closing the door to the balcony behind her. On the dressing table, the faxed photo of Abu Thaer was clipped to one of Aisha's pictures of Fabio, next to her notebook — full of notes she'd made after an afternoon on the phone — and the pale blue volume of Samih's poems in French. When she had finished work the previous day, he had invited her to go with him to see an Iranian film at the AUB, leaving Ingrid and Riad to have some time alone.

After the movie, they had gone to a cafe where Samih introduced her to some of his friends, one of whom was a reporter for local TV and another an exiled Syrian writer like himself. They had talked for hours, the topic jumping from Iranian and Kurdish movies to a cult novel and then to a heated political discussion which Amanda found hard to follow because it was conducted in a mixture of English and Arabic. Eventually an Egyptian journalist had joined them, quite drunk, squeezing in next to Amanda — she could smell the wine on his breath — and demanding to know whether she had read Mahfouz, Edward Said, Joseph Conrad, Frantz Fanon. She caught Samih's eye as the Egyptian's knee pressed harder against hers and he understood, rising and saying he must get Amanda back to her hotel.

In the lobby, they had made an arrangement to meet the following evening, which might be her last in Beirut, and Amanda had gone to her room and flipped through some of his poems before going to bed. One of them was still in her mind this morning, an elegy for a lost woman — lost, rather than dead — and although she did not understand every single word she could tell it was suffused with loss and longing; tender and sharp with regret. Amanda wondered if the woman was his wife and wished she had had more time to talk to Samih on his own. At least she knew his age now: forty-three, younger than she had guessed when they first met.

Now she picked up the pictures, holding the prints of Fabio Terzano and Abu Thaer side by side, and turned her head when the hotel phone
rang. She answered it at once and recognised Ingrid's voice.

‘Amanda? Your mobile is switched off.'

‘I haven't turned it on. Did Riad get his flight?'

‘Yes, I am just back from the airport. Have you heard the news?'

‘What news?'

‘Lady Di has been in a car crash.'

‘No, you're joking.'

‘Turn on your TV, you must have CNN.'

‘Where? When? Is she all right?'

‘She is dead.'

‘Dead?' Amanda sat down on the edge of the bed. Her robe was coming undone and she made a clumsy attempt to tie it, the rough towelling resisting her efforts.

‘Her car hit a wall. In a tunnel in Paris.'

‘But — there was nothing on the news last night.'

‘It happened very late. Her boyfriend is dead, and the driver.'

‘What? You mean Dodi—' Amanda peered round the room, looking for the remote control. ‘I'll ring you back.'

She found it and started flicking through channels with one hand as she took a bottle of mineral water from the minibar and drank it. Game shows and movies dubbed into Arabic blared into the room, followed by a newsreader speaking in French, the screen cutting almost immediately to a still photograph of the mangled wreckage of a dark saloon car. ‘She was the people's Princess,' a familiar voice began, fading as a woman translated the Prime Minister's tribute. The scene switched to a TV studio, where three people with solemn expressions were waiting to take part in a live discussion, a caption running along the bottom of the screen:
‘La Princesse de Galles morte a Paris... La Princesse de Galles
...'

Amanda's fingers hit the buttons almost at random until she heard an American accent. A woman with a mass of tawny hair was speaking to the camera, indicating a set of railings behind her:

‘A crowd began to gather here outside Kensington Palace, the Princess's London home, early this morning. Some came straight from work or nightclubs, wearing their party clothes, as first reports suggested the Princess had
been seriously injured in the Place d'Alma underpass in the centre of Paris. Initially, their hopes were raised by claims that she had walked from the smash in which Mr Fayed and a driver from the Ritz Hotel died. But hope quickly turned to despair as later reports suggested that she was fighting for her life — and then came the news we all feared.' The reporter paused, a catch in her voice. ‘Princess Di, the woman who lost a Prince but won millions of hearts, is dead at the tragically early age of thirty-six. Jim — back to the studio.'

‘Thanks, Shawna, this is of course a very emotional moment for us all.' A man with short hair and an angular face stared glassily from the screen. ‘Already, led by their Prime Minister, who was elected only four months ago, the people of Britain have begun paying tribute to an extraordinary woman. Princess Diana knew she would never be Queen, but after an acrimonious divorce from the Prince of Wales she found a new role as a humanitarian—'

The hotel phone sounded again. Amanda muted the TV.

‘Ingrid? I'm watching it now. I can't believe — when did you hear?'

‘On the way to the airport. I did not call you because they said she had survived.'

On TV, Diana was walking into a crowded room in a cocktail dress, her eyes sparkling as cameras flashed. Then the screen reverted to still photographs, freezing on one of a very young Diana Spencer in a bright blue suit with a scalloped edge. Diana's face was chubby and Charles looked a head taller, although they were the same height in real life.

Amanda exclaimed, ‘I remember that suit!'

‘What do you want to do? Would you like to come over?'

‘I suppose so — sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. Yes please.' Amanda got up and walked to the window. ‘I can't take it in. I'm not even dressed.'

She switched on her mobile and wandered round the room, picking up clothes and struggling into them as she listened to messages from friends in England. She took the lift to the ground floor and was crossing the lobby when one of the hotel staff lifted her head: ‘Miss Harrison? You have heard? I am sorry about Lady Di.'

An American woman in dark glasses was waiting while her husband paid their bill. She turned to Amanda at once. ‘You English? I am so sorry. We just loved that woman, didn't we, Stan?'

For once Amanda was thankful that the taxi driver who drove her to Ingrid's apartment did not speak English. She gazed out of the window of the cab, hardly noticing the streets through the fine rain, unable to understand how such a thing could have happened to the Princess of Wales. Didn't she have detectives, bodyguards, to keep her away from danger? Amanda remembered her recent article on Diana and grimaced, thinking about the flippant remarks she had made about holiday romances. She was not the only one, of course, but she couldn't help feeling a twinge of guilt now that the Princess and her lover — Amanda had not really taken that in yet — were dead. She started along the path to Ingrid's apartment, distracting herself from these uncomfortable thoughts by looking for the cat, but there was no sign of him until Ingrid came to the open door and pointed to a corner of her office where the animal was curled up on a heap of old clothes.