Gordon Stevens - Peace on Earth

If Haddad was to end it, Nabil had thought to himself in Damascus, then Haddad may as well start it. He flicked between the channels, catching the same report on CBS and NBC. Haddad had now started it.

He showered, took a light supper of cold meats and salad, and went to bed.

He woke at four, a combination of the time difference between Damascus, London and New York, and the air conditioning, which he found oppressive, slept fitfully for another two hours and rose at six. He left the hotel and spent the next ninety minutes walking the streets. The weather was brisk and cold. On the corner of Times Square he bought copies of the New York Times, the International Herald Tribune and the Wall Street Journal.

He was getting hungry. In a delicatessen six blocks from the hotel he took lox and bagels, sitting in the seat farthest from the window. The service was friendly, he wondered for the briefest of moments what the shabab, the boys, would have thought, how the owners would have reacted, if they had known that he, Abu Nabil, planner of death, executioner of violence, survivor of at least three Israeli attempts on his life, was breakfasting in a Jewish deli in New York, served by a smiling Jewish waiter whom he called David and whom, as he left, he would tip and who would tell him to have a good day. His battle, however, had never been personal. Besides, the lox was good and the second cup of coffee was free. And the place was warm and crowded. He thought, not for the first time that day, of the photograph he had again left in the emptiness of his flat in Damascus and turned to the newspapers.

The assassination in London featured on the front pages of both the Times and Tribune and the international page of the Journal. On the front page of the Herald Tribune there was also a photograph, taken two nights before, of the moment in Northern Ireland when a British soldier had saved the life of the son of a leading member of the IRA. The British government, the article said, had declined to comment on press speculation that the soldier concerned had been a member of the Special Air Service, the SAS.

The waiter refilled his cup. He drank it slowly then rose to leave, paying the bill and leaving a good tip. As he left, the man he had called David told him to have a good day.

At eight thirty that morning, Paris time, the head of arms sales for the French government, General René Audran, was shot dead at his home outside Paris. An hour later, in a communiqué to the Paris and Rome offices of Agence France Presse, responsibility was claimed jointly by Action Directe and the Red Brigades. Forensic tests conducted within twenty four hours established that the weapon used appeared to match that used in the murder of a magistrate in Turin the preceding August.

Two hours later a West German industrialist, Hans Martin Schneider, was murdered when he answered the door to an attractive young woman claiming to be a friend of his daughter.

In the next forty-eight hours there were bombings in West Germany and Belgium; in West Germany the targets were the American companies of Litton, MAN and Honeywell in that order; in Belgium the targets were the American companies of Litton, MAN and Honeywell, also in that order. In all the attacks, it was suggested, the explosives came from the same source: 816 kilos of plastic explosives stolen at Ecoussines, in Belgium, six months before.

The meeting with the industrialist Ahmad Hussein was at ten; it was almost seven weeks since they had met on the quai at St Germain-en-Laye, on the outskirts of Paris. Nabil walked to Macy’s, enjoying the Christmas decorations, and bought two gifts, one of them a chess set, asking for both to be wrapped, then took a cab to the block which housed the offices of the businessman. His host was waiting. He poured them coffee from a percolator in the corner and asked whether Nabil had breakfasted. Nabil confirmed that he had without saying where.

The room was comfortable, well furnished, a Persian rug on the floor and three paintings of Jerusalem by Suleiman Mansour on the walls.

‘A sad affair in London,’ Hussein suggested, handing Nabil a coffee.

‘A sad affair indeed.’

For the next ten minutes they discussed the implications of the London assassination; when they had finished Hussein unlocked the top right drawer of his desk and took a file from it.

‘In January,’ the industrialist began, establishing the background, ‘Ronald Reagan will officially begin his second term as president of the United States. He will be seventy-four years old when he starts, seventy-eight at the end. For reasons of his age, and because he cannot, under the Constitution, hold office for a third term, many people believe the next four years will be what Americans like to call a lame-duck presidency.’ He paused. ‘In Paris, we agreed this would not be the case. In Paris, we agreed that, partly because of his own background, partly because it is what every president wants, Reagan will seek to do something that will allow him to go down in history. In Paris,’ he concluded, ‘we also agreed that the obvious area is foreign policy. Within this, we agreed, Central America was too controversial, too many comparisons with Vietnam. The obvious area, therefore, other than any agreement with the new Russian leadership, was the Middle East.’

He moved the file to the centre of the desk.

‘You wanted two names. Firstly, the name of the man who will be the president’s foreign policy advisor in the foreseeable future, the man who would run his Middle East policy for him, who would do the negotiations. Secondly, you wanted the name of the person most likely to have influence with that man.’

He opened the file. ‘As regards the first,’ he said, ‘there are three possibilities. The first, and luckily for us not the favourite, is pro-Israeli, strong connections with the Jewish Lobby here.’ Nabil listened intently. ‘The second,’ continued Hussein, ‘would be a strong candidate, except that his wife is seriously ill. It may be that she recovers by the dates we are discussing, it may also be that she is no longer with us.’ His voice had dropped slightly. ‘In which case,’ he said, ‘the man in question might have both the time and motivation to do something.’

‘But?’

‘But he would be preoccupied with his wife’s illness during the lead-up to that period, during the time he would have to be convinced that he wanted the job and others persuaded that he was the man for it.’

‘And the third candidate?’

Hussein pulled a photograph from the file and handed it to Nabil. ‘Henry Armstrong is fifty-six years old. He was associated with Reagan, albeit at a distance, when the president was governor of California, he is also reported to have had links with George Bush when the vice president was head of the CIA.’

‘Does that go against us?’

Hussein shook his head. ‘Henry Armstrong is a wealthy man, a prominent businessman, a success in his own right. Fortunately for us, he is also a very practical man. His companies have close connections with companies in the Middle East, Arab companies.’

‘How will you manage it?’ asked Nabil.

Hussein looked up from his coffee. ‘I have already started,’ he smiled, knowing Nabil wanted to know more. ‘A little financial backing where necessary,’ he began to explain, ‘sometimes a long way from the target itself, even from the people who will have influence when it matters, but to the people who will influence those people.’ He laughed. ‘Sometimes you don’t even say he’s a good man to have around, sometimes it’s better to say he’s a real bastard and the last man they should let anywhere near the Oval office.’ His eyes gleamed at the thought.