BEIRUT, 1983

It was 6.12 am on 18 April 1983.

Issa woke in a nasty mood. He’d worked himself up over the last few weeks to feel this way. Brittle, full of hate. Spitting venom. Even abusing the poor peasant boy who came each morning with a basin of water to wash his face and feet and hands, towel him, hand him glasses of tea. This morning he waved the boy away. He wanted nothing to eat or drink. He wanted to sit alone on the floor in the corner of the room and pray. Read the Koran. Believers, why is it that, when you are told, ‘March in the cause of God,’ you linger slothfully in the land? Are you content with this life in preference to the life to come? He wanted to meditate on the next twenty-four hours. Maybe he’d even let himself cry. Just this once.

He told himself his motives were purely political. He wanted the peacekeeping forces to know they were defeated; helpless in Beirut’s maw. He’d been sucked in then expelled; why shouldn’t they? He wanted the Americans, British, Italians and French to know their stupid little sortie in Lebanon was doomed. And what better way to do it than by bombing the US embassy? He too would die, but round-armed virgins awaited him. And he was sure his mother would be proud and grateful, if only for the best Iranian rice, flour, sugar and coffee Islamic Jihad would give her in compensation. And the cash he’d negotiated? He was sure she’d share it with Sanaya. Sanaya had told him she was pregnant and at first he’d been frightened, worried for them all. Then, as he watched her quieten over those days, and soften toward him, all he’d felt was tenderness and regret that he had to leave her and their unborn child. He knew his death would shock Sanaya into loving him completely, drive his memory straight into her heart so she would never be able to forget him.

But there was more to it than that – and he only allowed himself to admit so when he was in the barn with Selim, watching the beatings. He must sacrifice his earthly joy with Sanaya to gain eternal life. Only by being a martyr for Allah could he hope to be with her forever. Her face would be in that of the houris chosen to wait upon him. Her hands would caress him through their pearl-tipped fingers. He would taste her mouth through the fruits of immortality. Her arrival in Paradise by his side would be inevitable as long as he kept his given promise in this life.

His only twinge of doubt was in the impossibility of seeing his child born before he died. To see its tiny rosebud fingernails, its ten perfect toes. His own tinsel eyes staring out at him from another face. Some days he thought Allah compensated for his approaching death by giving him the gift of prophecy. He could see his earthly future in front of him as he slept, hold the gurgling baby and at the same time breathe in the fragrance of Paradise. His dreams were sharp, clear-cut as reality. They were spiritual dreams, sent down by Allah, not the mere inventions of a tired brain. He saw huge phoenixes with green plumage taking him up into the clouds, an inky sky that flaunted all the arabesques and flourishes of a Koranic inscription. The birds sang in classical Arabic, Chosen one, you will see your child in Heaven. Even with these manifold spiritual gifts, some days he feared the inevitability of his own annihilation. Yet he was committed to Islamic Jihad, had told them he would do it. And he knew now that violence was the only valid path to freedom. There was no other way.

He was chosen for the job long ago, although he hadn’t known it until now. From the beginning of his appointment to the organisation, he was marked for suicide. He was given the easy jobs, the sure battles, in case he accidentally died in combat and ruined their plans. His decision to accept this project months ago reverberated higher and higher up through the organisation into Iran. To back out now would mean certain death. Death without glory. At least this way he would be a holy warrior for the cause and be lifted straight up to Paradise. He would also wipe out the stain of his weakness with the commander, the memory of his cowardice down south.

It was a hushed spring morning, the beginning of Easter Holy Week for the Christians. The fervid light of the Beka’a Valley had woken him too early. He walked outside to the well, pumped up some brackish water and splashed his face. Unbarred the barn door and kicked Selim into consciousness.

‘What are you doing, pretty boy?’

He saw Selim swallow, force the thick sounds out of his mouth through dry lips. ‘Praying. Praying you’ll spare me today.’

‘You’ll need it,’ Issa answered. ‘Pray for all you’re worth, which isn’t much.’

Selim groaned and turned to face the wall. His chains clanged, giving off a vile smell. Issa muttered under his breath, ‘No more French cologne for you, pretty boy.’

It was 9.30 am. Sanaya woke later than usual and banged her alarm clock down on the side table. Dead again. She sat on the side of the bed. Sleep pooled around her, dragging her down once more, caressing her heavy eyes, melting her limbs under warm flesh. Ever since her pregnancy had become established and the nausea had abated, all she wanted to do was sleep. Sleep and dream of Issa and the baby. Together in a sunlit field of flowers. Red poppies, irises, forget-me-nots. The cleansing aroma of thyme, its miniature purple buds. Blades of wet grass sticking to their bare legs. She contemplated lying down for a few minutes longer, until she remembered. The shock each time she woke and remembered Issa–Selim, Selim–Issa always paralysed her for a few minutes.

Today she stood up and decided to do something, anything. If she surrendered to despair, she might as well die now. She set her jaw, opened the blinds. It was a shimmering spring morning and she dressed lightly, packed some toiletries in a bag, wrote a note for Rouba which she would leave under her door. Not sure when I’ ll be back.

She was sure Issa had taken Selim to the Beka’a Valley. She read in the newspapers that this was where Islamic Jihad took all their victims eventually. She had only to make it across the Green Line without some trigger-happy sniper shooting her in the back, and grab a taxi. She had only to mention Issa’s Arabic name to one of the Muslim drivers, or to mention Selim’s Armenian surname to one of the Christians. Her dilemma was to decide which was the wisest choice.

She ran downstairs and placed the note under Rouba’s door. Coming upstairs to get her bag, she felt a swell of nausea and rushed to the bathroom.

It was 10.37 am when Sanaya gathered together her bag and keys and made for the door. As she opened it, the proximity of Rouba’s face made her utter a small, confused yelp.

‘Come on, Sanaya, I don’t look that bad when I’ve got no make-up on.’

‘You startled me. I thought you were at work.’

‘I just got your note. Where are you going, may I ask?’

‘To visit some friends for the day.’

‘Which friends? Do I know them?’

‘I need to get out of the city.’

‘Do I know them?’

‘No—no, they’re old friends from school.’

Rouba walked to the divan and threw herself down on it.

‘You’re pregnant; you’re not thinking straight. And I know you’re lying.’

Sanaya crossed the room and sat alongside her, holding her travelling bag to her stomach.

‘There’s no point going anywhere, Sanaya. They’re going to kill him anyway. For all we know, he could be dead already.’

‘Selim?’

‘No! What are you talking about? Issa. He won’t be doing exactly what they tell him, I assure you.’

At 1.03 pm she hurried to the taxi rank on the Corniche. Bombed apartment buildings rose against the flat, yellow sky. The streets had been smashed so many times by shells the tar had turned to dirt, brown dust coating her arms and face whenever a car drove past. She’d been fighting with Rouba for what seemed like hours. Rouba had insisted Sanaya eat something. She took her downstairs and packed her a lunch.

Now she rushed through the crowds – why did they all seem so frantic? – her handbag upending and spilling all its contents. She left the lunch on the ground. As she bent with difficulty to gather the rest, she was shaking. My God, it may be too late to get through the border into east Beirut. I may be shot. Killed. And my baby. She hesitated, pressed two fingers to her yielding belly. A taxi driver smoked a cigarette as he waited, saw her and opened the car door.

‘Merhaba. I need to go to east Beirut.’

The driver shook his head.

‘No way, madam. I haven’t been over there since the beginning of the war. Eight years!’

‘Please. I need to get to the Beka’a. It’s important.’

He ignored her, pointing upward. Black smoke curled into the sky from all directions. Down near the embassy road, a red flame as tall as a building uncoiled itself from the earth. She left him and ran in its direction without knowing why.

It was 1.03 pm. Issa had been given a Chevrolet pickup truck in unintended irony. American made, built to last. There was a militia car in front of him, in case he grew frightened at the last moment, blocking any escape. Another car behind, with more explosives in case his attempt failed. He waited around the corner for a while, composing himself, breathing in exhaust fumes, dust, the momentous air all around him, deep into his lungs. My lungs, my heart, my lips, my body. He opened his Koran and read aloud a few soothing suras. Each soul is the hostage of its own deeds. Those on the right hand will in their gardens ask the sinners: ‘What has brought you into Hell?’ He couldn’t concentrate. He put the book down. My body the weapon. He passed his hand over his eyes. After a short time, he took a piece of paper out of his pocket. The instructions were typed in bold block letters.

BEFORE DRIVING INTO THE EMBASSY, PRAY:

Oh, Allah. Open all doors to me.

Oh, Allah, who answers all those who seek help.

I ask you to light the way and lift the burden of this life from me.

He pulled out from between the two other vehicles, manoeuvred the truck, smiling and with eyes closed, straight into the front doors of the embassy building.

Now it was 1.13 pm. She slipped in pale blood mixed with water and smashed glass. She fell onto a suited torso and was helped up by a faceless man in a surgical mask.

‘Are you family?’ he demanded.

‘No. I mean, yes.’

‘Just get out of here.’

So many parts of bodies the horror did not touch her. They weren’t people; they were only leering heads and severed arms and legs tangled in a sick fantasy. The live ones were more frightening. They convulsed, they lashed out at each other, clutched at her ankles and pleaded with a stranger’s name on their lips. She shook her head at them, trying to breathe normally, trying to wipe away the water that flowed down her cheeks. She wasn’t aware what the liquid was that blurred her vision, and continued wiping it from her face, not conscious of crying, walking through the wreckage, swollen feet through her sandals shiny with blood.

When it was 1.17 pm, Selim was shot in the back of the head by the Algerian guard. He lay face down near the wall he’d been chained to for the last two months. He didn’t make a sound, but his right hand spread itself out after he stopped breathing, as if attempting to contain the dark pool of his existence.