Opus Dei

By Lyn J Pickering

Pierre Zein, a Lebanese journalist, probes the forces behind the scenes intent on creating a New World Order. He finds himself embroiled in something far bigger than he could have imagined. Islam’s Expected One, the al Mahdi, enters the world scene and engages in a silent battle with a leader who arises like a meteor from Europe. This is the clash of the Titans – a struggle for ultimate power – and only one man can win.
What makes Jerusalem the focal-point of the coming Middle East conflict and what role is played by Egypt and Babylon? The sacred Egyptian texts hint at a hidden chamber or chambers beneath the Giza Pyramid and the Sphinx. If the Great Pyramid is a masterpiece in understated engineering perfection, what of the secret places beneath its foundation? What part do these mysteries play in a soon-to-be-formed World Government? Is the coming world leader a benign dictator or a religious leader, a king, priest, or emperor? Is he the Christ, or Osiris reborn? Does his assumption of power herald a time of peace – or mayhem such as our planet has never before experienced?
From the 70’s to the fascinating years that lie just ahead of us, culminating in 2016. Opus Dei uncaps the mysteries, explores the hidden things and leads the reader into an unexpected and tumultuous future.
Written over a period of more than thirty years, Opus Dei is comprehensively researched, its plot intricately woven, and is guaranteed to challenge. Opus Dei, the work of the hidden god is almost complete.
As fresh as tomorrow’s newspaper, dare you miss this book?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyn J Pickering
• Release date: May 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311077776

Lyn J Pickering

The civil war in Lebanon and the invasion by Israel had a great impact on me as I had left Lebanon only a short time before. My brother and I hitchhiked from London to Beirut in the early '70's and fell in love with the Middle East. Lebanon is an amazing country; dramatic, beautiful, and rich in history. At that time tourism was not at a great height - at least not in the mountain areas where we lived, and the people were warm and hospitable. We stayed in an ancient house that clung to the hillside in a village called Shimlan, below us were silver/green olive groves and, way beyond, Beirut lay like pink coral with one arm reaching out in the Mediterranean Sea.I left the Middle East behind reluctantly, made a bit of money waitressing in London and traveled back to South Africa by Land Rover as chief cook and bottle-washer with a group of guys. At this stage, I was writing only poetry and a shaky travelogue dictated by the rough terrain.My first novel was called The Single Leaf, from a poem by the Lebanese writer, Khalil Gibran; it grew as I watched from a distance, a land engaged in a death struggle.This was still the days of typewriters and my final draft, when completed, was sent without making a copy, to publisher in Lebanon. It was never heard of again. I had earlier copies which I buried in a bottom drawer and left there along with my dreams of a writing career.No writer can be buried forever and I began work on Opus Dei a few years later. Nimrod Twice Born developed in parallel, the two books taking more than 30 years to the point of publication - seriously! Betrayal of Fools, has taken me only seven months to write. It's a far easier read but hard-hitting.

Book preview

Pierre Zein - - - - - - - Journalist

Nazem Eid- - - - - - - Pierre’s partner in Al Akhbar:

Wahib Sa’ad- - - - - - - PLA leader

Abdullah- - - - - - - Sa’ad’s henchman

Faruk- - - - - - - Sa’ad’s henchman

Danielle Belmonte- - - - - - - Pierre’s girlfriend

Jean-Paul Belmonte- - - - - - - Danielle’s brother

Nimmer Hatab- - - - - - -Store owner in Chimlan

Samih Zein- - - - - - - Pierre’s younger brother

Rania- - - - - - - Samih’s fiancée

Imam Hussein ibn Muhammed- - - - - - - Twelfth Ima

Baron Edmond de Rothschild- - - - International banker

David Rockefeller- - - - Chairman Chase Manhattan

Michel Devlin- - - - - - - Dominic’s father

Dominic- - - - - - - Danielle’s son

Rafik- - - - - - - Lebanese Muslim injured in bombing

Eduard Boulier- - - - - - - Snr rep. Rothschild Bank

David Saunderson- - - - - - - Trilateralist

Yasir Arafat- - - - - - - PLO leader

Tannous Peter- - - - - - - Reporter

Adele Belmonte- - - - - - - Jean-Paul’s wife

Estelle- - - - - - - Danielle’s neighbour in Lyons

Nabil Gamashy- - - - - - - Architect, friend of Samih

Iliana and Emil Rezek- - - - - -Friends of Pierre and Danielle

Jamaal Rezek- - - - - - - Daughter of Iliana and Emil

André Roucridy- - - - - - - Pierre’s literary agent

Saddam Hussein- - - - - - - Iraqi President

Autra Gamashy- - - - - - - Nabil’s wife

Musa Ali Ahmad- - - - - - - Man caught in air raid

Lina- - - - - - - Wife of Musa

Maha Eid- - - - - - - Nazem Eid’s wife

Tarif Eid- - - - - - - Son of Nazem and Maha

Bashir Gemayel- - - - - - - Lebanon’s President Elect

Father Miled- - - - - - - Catholic priest

M Vautrin- - - - - - - Freemason Geneva Lodge

Pierre de Clage- - - - - - - Freemason.

Cardinal Montanari- - - - - - - Catholic Cardinal

Basam- - - - - - - Samih’s protégée

Hughes Flaubert- - - - - - - Writer

Claire- - - - - - - Pierre and Danielle’s daughter

René de Bar- - - - - - - Father of Jean de Bar

Pope John XXIV- - - - Successor to Pope John Paul II

Saul bar Lev- - - - - - - Jewish evangelist

Jean de Bar (Lucis) - - - - - - - Jesuit General

Ibrahim Samidah- - - - - - - Iraqi Foreign Minister

Randa- - - - - - - Dominic’s girlfriend

Chaim Bar-Shemer- - - - - - - Right wing Israeli leader.

Nadia- - - - - - - Confidential UN secretary

Salah Douad- - - - - - - President of Egypt

Nicole Lambert- - - - - - - Woman from Mauritius

Krylenko- - - - - - - Russian Consul

Schwarzwald- - - - - - - German Consul

Karl Jeunger- - - - - - German - Arche of 13Rose-Croix

Alexander Moskvin- - - - - - - Russian king

Jules Cauchet- - - - - - - French leader

‘Elijah and Moses- - - - - - - Two witnesses

Guy and Philip- - - - - - - Dominic’s co-workers.

ALL DATES AFTER 2012 RECORDED IN THIS ACCOUNT HAVE RELEVANCE IN TERMS OF THE STORY LINE BUT MUST BY NO MEANS BE TAKEN AS PROPHETIC. NO MAN KNOWETH THE DAY OR THE HOUR….

Opus Dei

Prologue

I

1973

Lebanon was taking its first toddling steps to the brink of the precipice. Rifts between factions were widening into a crevasse too vast to breach. It was in the Palestinian camps, where hatred had been fomented for years, directed not only at Israel, but also against the ineptitude of the Lebanese government, that the men, whose business was trouble, went to incite violence. From small sparks of anger, they coaxed a flame and the fire spread to rage in the hearts of the men in the city.

By the time the first shots were fired from the camp between Beirut and the airport on Wednesday morning, Pierre Zein realised with horror that the city was as ready for violence as a dry pine forest is ready for a spark. By mid morning, the crack of bullets could be heard from areas around the city as the Lebanese army moved in against the rebels. Pierre went into the areas of action armed only with a notebook and pen. In Raouche a roadblock had been thrown up across a main street and soldiers demanded identification. When he handed them his press card, they allowed him through reluctantly and one of the men booted his car as he drove on. Pierre felt the vulnerability of the back of his head, and sweated.

He drove first to the PLO offices where windows had been shattered by gunfire and a reporter killed. Everywhere, among the people he spoke to, he sensed the same high-spirited anger. The streets were unnaturally quiet and only one or two other vehicles passed him. Shops were shuttered, their roll-down frontages firmly padlocked. On some, the conflict had already produced scars. Bullet holes punctured the thin metal.

He did not return to the office. It would be a natural target and he knew Nazem Eid would be avoiding it as well. He did his writing in his apartment, made calls to his contacts in various parts of the country, and hurriedly made himself a sandwich. Nazem arrived as he was preparing to leave.

Nazem Eid was a Palestinian and a member of the Palestinian Liberation Army. Al Akhbar, the magazine he and Pierre Zein compiled and distributed, was directed primarily at a Palestinian readership. Pierre was a Catholic and a Palestinian sympathiser. He wrote as a political commentator without, he reasoned, compromising his stand as a pacifist, but even his moderate association with the Palestinians had served to create a barrier between himself and his family.

In the months prior to the present conflict, costs had risen and both men had been subsidising the magazine from their own pockets. Nazem had brought increasing pressure to bear on Pierre to make Al Akhbar the official mouthpiece of the PLA.

They’ll take over the running costs, he had assured him, and very little would need to change.

Pierre shook his head. I appreciate the help they’ve given to keep us afloat, but I’m not prepared to let the magazine go. Sooner or later, it would mean compromise. You and I work well together, Nazem. We don’t need to have anyone dictating our direction.

Pierre ignored Nazem’s arguments after that, and parried a more direct approach from Wahib Sa’ad, leader of the Palestinian Liberation Army. He had not always agreed with their methods in the past and let Sa’ad know that he had no wish for a more direct association with the PLA.

Two weeks before the outbreak of hostilities between Christian and Islamic factions, Pierre had arrived at his office to find Wahib Sa’ad sitting on the edge of his desk. There were two men with him.

Sit down, Pierre.

Pierre felt a surge of anger at Sa’ad’s invitation. The PLA leader’s tone was patronising and he spoke as though the office was his, and Pierre was the visitor.

What’s all this about? Pierre ignored the request to sit and shot a glance at the other two men. The one was thin, shabbily dressed, wearing a patched jacket over a dirty abaya. His cadaverous face gained prominence in a beak-like nose, underlined by a bloodless slit of a mouth. The face of the second henchman was unremarkable, but he had the body of a night-club bouncer. He was dressed in a black shirt, open to the waist, and shiny silver-grey trousers. A small gold medallion rested incongruously on the tangle of thick hair on his chest.

Who are these guys?

Friends. Not my usual choice of companions, but both skilled in their own business and good people to have around.

Where’s Nazem?

I have no idea. It was you we came to see.

What’s the problem? Pierre asked.

Who mentioned any problem? This is just a friendly reminder of your obligations.

What do you mean?

Sa’ad continued in the same conciliatory tone. You owe us a few favours. Perhaps you’ve overlooked what we’ve done for you since we took over?

Took over what? Pierre had retorted. You may have paid a few of our debts, but that doesn’t give you the right to dictate to us.

Sa’ad looked up and his expression was ugly but his voice remained persuasive. Check your facts, Pierre. You have sold yourself out. If you would like to see who Al Akhbar belongs to, here are the figures. He tossed a sheaf of papers down onto Pierre’s desk.

Pierre stared at him in disbelief. He had never given much consideration to the financial side of the business; he was primarily a journalist and, as Nazem had more of an aptitude for the bookwork, he had been content to leave it with him.

What do you want with us?

Very little. A few articles published…

And if I refuse?

Sa’ad nodded in the direction of his robed companion. Abdullah here is an expert with a knife, as neat as a surgeon. He knows just how to make life uncomfortable without completing the act. Your friend, Danielle Belmonte, is a pretty girl. Abdullah could pattern her face in such a way that she would never forget him.

Abdullah grinned, showing broken, decaying teeth. I’m ready anytime, M Sa’ad.

Leave Danielle out of this! Pierre said, trying to keep his voice steady. Your dealings are with me.

Wahib Sa’ad stood up, lighting a cigarette as he did so, cupping his hands around the flame. Remember who the boss is, Pierre. If you need any further reminders, my friend Faruk can be relied on to demonstrate his own talents. Nodding at Faruk and Abdullah, he moved towards the door. I’m certain that we can find adequate grounds for co-operation, M Zein.

The door closed quietly behind him.

Nazem was wearing the red and white keffieh of the fedayeen when he arrived at Pierre’s apartment, and his dark eyes blazed with intensity.

For the two weeks, since Wahib Sa’ad’s visit, Pierre had spoken to Nazem only when work demanded it. The atmosphere was filled with brooding silences and unspoken accusation. The old exhilaration that had accompanied each publication was lost and Pierre desperately sought a way to be free of the shackles of the PLA. He was afraid that even if he walked away from Al Akhbar, Danielle would still be in danger.

It’s time to make a choice, Pierre. Are you with us? Nazem demanded now.

If I go, it’s as a journalist!

There was contempt on Nazem’s face as he swung round and left.

It was some hours later and already dark by the time Pierre re-entered the road leading to his apartment block. He parked his car in its usual spot behind the building and walked down the alley towards the entrance. The figure that loomed out of the darkness to meet him was illuminated briefly in the headlights of a passing car, but Pierre already knew who it was. The size of the man alone immediately identified him as Faruk.

He leaped aside to dodge the first blow, steadying himself against the wall of the building. The second came faster than he would have believed possible, striking him heavily on the shoulder and throwing him off balance again. He threw up his arms to ward off the fist that shot out towards his face, catching the weight of the punch on his lower arm so that it shaved harmlessly across his forehead.

Pierre swung out and felt his knuckles crack as his fist connected with Faruk’s powerful chest. He could hear the deep breathing of the man as he closed in on him. Pierre grunted as another blow caught him in the solar plexus and he crumpled over his assailant’s arm. Faruk gripped the sagging body by the shirtfront with his right hand and flung him back against the wall, swinging the full force of his left arm into the next blow, snapping Pierre’s head back at the chin. His body slid limply down the wall and came to rest in the gutter. He did not feel the vicious kick that caught him in the ribs.

He stirred. One outstretched arm had lain in a puddle of water. Pierre drew the limb back slowly without moving the rest of his body and, with an effort, hauled himself into sitting position against the wall. His head pounded and he ached in a dozen places. Blood had mixed with the mud from the alley, caking his face. His nose was still bleeding a little and he wiped it with the back of his hand.

All the time, as he tested his body for further injuries, there was a sick nagging in his stomach that he could not identify. He stood up groggily. It was then that he remembered Abdullah. Using the wall for support, he made his way towards the entrance of the block. He had to get to a telephone.

II

Evenings in the mountains were still cold and, before he left, Jean Paul lit a fire for Danielle in the belly of the black coal stove. She sat for a long time after he had gone her thoughts in turmoil. His route to Beit Chaar took him through the outskirts of Beirut and she was afraid for him. But he had reached a decision and Danielle knew he must share it with his girlfriend. He and Danielle intended to leave Lebanon on the first available flight out.

The ancient house had become home to her and Jean Paul. The living room was built of massive blocks of unmortared stone, its ceiling was groin-vaulted and supported by huge stone pillars that jutted into the room, creating natural divisions. A wooden plough, worn smooth by time and use, spanned the ceiling from apex to apex of the vaults, and the walls were hung with wooden yokes and pitchforks. Heavy stone mortar and pestles, once used for grinding coffee, now served as ashtrays. Off the entrance courtyard, stone steps led to an upper room and a terrace, which overlooked the silver-green olive groves covering the slopes. Far below, small with distance, Beirut leaned out into the sea.

Because her thoughts were preoccupied, she did not notice at first when Noirsi growled. He lifted his head off his paws then snarled again, a deep-throated warning.

Danielle leaned forward and reached out a hand to where he lay at her feet. Although still a young dog, he had grown in the months since they had had him, from a pup into a sleek and muscular animal, warm and affectionate towards his owners, but a formidable watchdog.

What is it, Noirsi?

The dog was gazing in the direction of the door and his hackles began to rise. He stood up, growling softly and persistently.

What is it?

She followed his glance and, as she watched, the handle turned slowly and carefully, testing the lock then, just as carefully, it was released. Danielle’s limbs felt heavy with terror. Seizing the stone mortar from its solid pestle on the floor near her, she looked wildly around the room. The windows were shut against the cold, but it would be a simple matter for anyone to break in. There were three windows, two of them higher up at the level of the terrace, the third at a lower level on the southern wall. The only other way in was through the bathroom but the door between the two rooms offered no real security; it was slatted, flimsily made, and it latched from the inside.

The dog looked up towards the terrace window and the growls that had died to a murmur in his throat, suddenly increased. There was a noise, a scraping sound that sent a wash of fear through Danielle. Between the chink in the curtains, she caught sight of a face, white and featureless in the discarded light from the room. She flattened back against the wall as if to become part of it. His hand seemed to come towards the glass in slow motion, smashing the pane and sending shards of glass showering into the room. Danielle screamed and at the same moment, Noirsi broke into savage barking.

The hand reached through the broken pane, releasing the catch and the window swung open on the wind. There was silence. She could see him there, but he did not move. Danielle gripped the mortar, whimpering in fear, her breathing rasped in her own ears. The intruder uncoiled his body and leapt into the room. Noirsi lunged at him, teeth bared; snapping at his naked ankles. The man stepped away from the dog and raised his arm. He was grinning. In his hand Danielle caught the glint of the long stiletto blade of a knife.

Nimmer Hatab picked up the telephone in the shop. He was serving a customer, probably the last before he closed up for the day, and he indicated that she should wait.

Naam? He sounded irritable but as he listened to the caller his expression changed and his tone became brisk.

You say it’s important. Yes. Now let me think. There was a car through here that I didn’t recognise, perhaps fifteen minutes ago. It wasn’t from the village. No, I would have known if it was… His voice trailed off.

Ya Allah! I’ll do something immediately, of course. They’re like my own family. I’ll contact you as soon as there is news. He slammed the phone back on the receiver. Madame Katar, excuse me please. Help yourself to anything else you need and pay me later.

Three youths at the pinball machine watched Nimmer curiously. He seemed agitated as he crossed the road towards them.

We have trouble at the house of the foreigners, he snapped. Call the others and come!

Nimmer ran home to fetch his shotgun, and then on to the house that he rented to Jean Paul and Danielle Belmonte. Parked in the cul-de-sac outside the building was the car he had seen passing earlier in the evening.

The dog screamed as the blade hit him, slicing through the flesh of his back leg. He rolled away from his attacker. Blood rushed to the surface of the wound breaking through the thick fur and spilling onto the floor. Noirsi scrambled to his feet, snarling in fury. Saliva foamed at the corners of his mouth and glistened off his bared teeth. He gathered himself for a leap.

"Noirsi, NO!

The knife was steady in the man’s hand as he waited for the dog to attack.

NO, NOIRSI!

The dog launched himself at his assailant’s throat without hesitation, the weight of his body momentarily throwing the intruder off balance. Noirsi grunted, catapulted backwards and hit the floor heavily. He shuddered twice and lay still.

Danielle sobbed - a ragged sound of impotent anger. She flung the mortar at the intruder and hit him as he turned to face her. He grunted with pain, gripping clumsily at his shoulder with his left hand as he moved in towards her, weaving on his feet. He held the knife in front of him, describing small, sleek arcs on the air.

Danielle leapt aside and grasped the old wooden pitchfork that hung on the wall, wrenching it away from its mounting. She lashed out at her attacker, panting with fear. He parried the assault and the pitchfork went wide. Then he came in again and she could see the rage in him that had not been there before. Danielle lunged frantically and this time felt a thud as the weapon struck his head. He whined, a small sound, but recovered more quickly than Danielle, and leapt at her. She felt the sting of pain from shoulder to elbow before she hit him again. This time he fell and she backed towards the door, turning swiftly, fumbling clumsily with the lock as he struggled to rise. The blood coursing over her hand made her movements difficult. She heard him behind her at the same moment as the heavy latch fell free. As she pulled at the door-knob, he caught her around the neck, dragging her back into the room.

Danielle heard the clatter of footsteps across the courtyard at the same moment as her assailant. He released his hold, looking around wildly for a way of escape. The door was flung wide, and three youths burst into the room. There were more people approaching; she could hear their shouts and the sound of running feet on the road.

When Jean Paul returned half-an-hour later, Danielle had gone, and the youths from the village were grouped around the body of Abdullah.

III

Samih Zein, Pierre’s brother, had thought of very little beyond Rania and France. If Lebanon was beginning to heave underfoot, he was oblivious to it. His personal affairs were his blinkers and they were absolute. They would fly to Europe on Saturday. On Friday evening, he and Rania would again approach her parents for permission to marry. It was a mere formality. Neither of them expected to be given their consent.

They had spoken to Samih’s mother, two weeks prior to buying the tickets. The old lady heard them out in stony silence. It was the first time she had met Rania, although she had known that her son was seeing someone. The fact that he had not brought her home before meant that the girl was unsuitable. When Samih told her that Rania’s family were Muslim, she had risen ponderously to her feet.

I’m glad your father’s not alive to see this day, Samih, she said coldly. With as much dignity as her ailing muscles would allow, she had turned and left the room.

For both Rania and Samih, marrying into a different religious persuasion would prove a challenge. Within Lebanon, where Islamic and Christian beliefs represented political and social barriers as well as a spiritual gulf, it would be almost impossible. Reluctantly, they recognised their need to leave.

Samih heard of the incidents at the airport and the arrests in the city and dismissed the reports without attempting to weigh the implications. They constituted minor acts of violence in a country accustomed to unrest. When the shooting broke out on Wednesday morning, he still believed it to be just another isolated incident that would soon be brought under control.

It was not until their office was closed that Samih grasped his first realisation of the gravity of the situation. The only traffic on Badaro Street was military; otherwise, this section of the city was deserted. Shops were shuttered and the street wore the unfamiliar blank look of early morning or late evening.

A pall of smoke hung over the trees in the direction of the airport, and the air was acrid and filled with particles of black ash. His first thought was for Rania and he drove to the library where she worked. The doors were shut. He found her outside his apartment, looking pale and anxious and he drew her to him, holding her tightly.

Habibti, I’ve been worried about you.

I tried to phone, but there must be something wrong with the lines. It’s bad this time, Samih. The whole thing is escalating. If it’s like this on Saturday, I couldn’t leave my family.

He had anticipated her reaction. At the same time he realised that continued fighting would almost certainly mean that the airport would be closed anyway. He held her fiercely, helpless in the face of the irreversible chain of events that would decide their future. Somehow, he knew, this would be a final decision, not just a postponement.

How did you get here?

By taxi, she said. There are a few still running. I won’t be able to stay, my parents will be worried.

They walked down the narrow stairs of the apartment block and out into the sunlit street. In this part of town, there were a few people about but they hurried about their business and tension filled the air like the high notes of a song.

Samih looked around swiftly before getting into his car. Faint with distance he detected the rattle of a machine gun. He drove steadily, eyes roving the street, his palms damp on the steering wheel. They passed two military blockades, each time having to provide their names and destination.

There’s been trouble in Achrafieh, one soldier told them. Be careful when you go through there.

They had passed the military headquarters and driven on up the hill when the car faltered. Samih changed down, the engine coughed, jerked once or twice and rolled to a stop.

Petrol! Yehri’beitak! he cursed. I’m sorry, habibti. I intended to fill up after work, but with all the disruption, I forgot.

She smiled at him, but her lips were pale. Don’t worry. There must be a filling station open near here somewhere.

I’ll try the one at the top of the hill. Meantime, I’m going to walk you home. It’s not far.

Are you sure?

He kissed her. Come on. Let me deliver you into the bosom of your family.

They left the car and walked quickly along the deserted pavement. From a nearby building, they heard the naked wail of a baby. The sign above a shop swung in the wind and a canvas canopy beat rhythmically against its supports. Rania gripped Samih’s hand tightly. The emptiness of the street seemed eerie and unnatural. There was not a movement as they approached the corner.

Let’s cross here. He spoke softly because of the silence. They did not see the troops stationed just out of sight in the next street until he and Rania were halfway across the road, and it was unlikely that either of them would have thought to look up to where the snipers lay concealed along the rooftops.

Someone shouted; perhaps it was a warning but his voice was drowned out in a volley of fire. Samih began to run, dragging Rania with him. He felt the shock of the bullet through the communication of their hands.

She stopped and looked up at him.

Samih, she said. She looked uncertain. Then her legs buckled and he swung round, catching her under the arm with his free hand.

RANIA!

Her small body was heavy. Samih could hear the odd rattle of her breathing as he lowered her gently onto the road. She looked up at him with her dark eyes great in the smallness of her face. You’ll be alright, habibti, he said. We’re going to France, remember? He turned to look behind him. For God’s sake, will someone help! he yelled.

There was no sign of movement from the vehicles barricading the road.

Will someone come and help? With the back of his hand, he dashed away the tears that were pouring down his face. Oh God, Rania!

She was still looking up at him, but her eyes were sightless. A pool of blood had gathered beneath her back. It appeared black against the tar. He threw back his head and the noise that rent from his throat was that of an animal in pain.

IV

Late on Wednesday afternoon, a curfew was imposed on Beirut. The airport was closed. Premier Amin Hafez accompanied by ten bodyguards and three cabinet ministers, met with Yasir Arafat to work out a cease-fire agreement. Arafat was supported by fifty armed fedayeen. But before daybreak, fighting broke out again at Dbayeh, a Palestinian camp across St Georges Bay. It spread once more like a disease through the city. A thousand fedayeen of the Syrian Yarmuk Brigade crossed into southeast Lebanon in a symbolic gesture of support. They fought a few brief encounters and then withdrew.

The Lebanese government lifted the curfew for two hours during the morning to allow women to buy provisions. Television provided an all day service, but the radio carried only army communiqués and classical music. Just before sunset on Thursday evening, the army launched rocket attacks on the Palestinian camp near the airport and the Hunter jet fighters of the Lebanese Air force made low level sweeps over the camp, strafing it with bullets.

Fighting died down and a cease-fire was reached. Lebanon’s President asked the question, What do our Palestinian brothers want of us?

That weekend, Pierre fetched Danielle from Chimlan and took her for a drive away from the city. Police from the next village had afforded Danielle’s house protection since the attack but the days that had passed since then had been long and terrible.

Close on her own terrifying encounter had come the news of Rania’s death and now the city seemed stained and tainted with blood. Danielle’s injury had been superficial and had already begun to heal, but the emotional wounds were deep and raw.

Almost out of habit, Pierre took the coastal road to the north and stopped at a point overlooking a cove. The sea was a deep green turned translucent over the shallows, and the sky was heaped with mountains of white cloud on the horizon. Pierre kept his hands on the wheel and looked out over the water, drawing on the scene to calm himself before he spoke. Then his words were casual and deliberately avoided the trauma that they were both experiencing.

Some of my articles have been accepted, he said.

Are you going to continue to work freelance?

Until something turns up.

Will they leave you alone?

He turned to her now and she searched his eyes. He could see how frightened she was. Will they? she repeated, fighting the note of hysteria that threatened to work into her voice.

I don’t know, he replied honestly. I think so. They’ve done what they set out to do. Taught me the lesson they wanted me to learn.

But in reprisal for that man?

I don’t think he meant anything to them. His death wouldn’t have been important.

She shuddered and buried her face in her hands. He leaned over and held her.

I wish you’d told me about it before.

It was too complicated to tell anyone. I’m sorry.

Won’t you come to France with us?

Not yet, habibti, he replied softly.

But you’re living like a fugitive. When did you last go back to your apartment?

He smiled at her. I have been back, but it’s better to lie low for the present, until things settle.

Why must you stay? she pleaded. What is there here for you now?

The trouble isn’t over yet, he replied slowly. The way it was brought to a halt, only guarantees that it will flare up again later.

Then leave!

Don’t you see, Danielle? That’s the reason I have to stay. My place is in Lebanon. As a journalist, my work is more important than ever before. Losing my job means I’m free to be my own man again.

I’ll be afraid for you.

He kissed her softly and felt the wetness of her tears against his face.

Should I see Samih before I go?

I think he’d appreciate it.

Danielle looked out to sea. They could hear the caress of the waves against the beach.

Do you think we’ll ever meet again, Pierre?

He took the hand that was lying in her lap, upturned and lifeless.

There’s an Arabic proverb, he replied. We’ve shared the bread and salt of friendship. We’ll meet again, habibti.

Dusk was falling as they drove back towards Beirut. Above them, high on the side of the hill, lights flickered on illuminating the statue of the Virgin Mary stretching out her arms in supplication over the city.

PART I

Opus Dei

Chapter 1

The jeep slewed; its engine labouring. Here in the foothills, sand lay in drifts between the outcrops of lava that had cracked at the surface and broken into fragments. To their left the open desert stretched out relentlessly, a pale undulating sea. The driver fought for a moment with the wheel then, as the tyres gripped solid ground, the vehicle recovered and lurched forward. Pierre Zein drew the soft fabric of his headdress more closely across his mouth. His eyes were prickling against the dust and the sting of the wind, and he was glad of the head covering that afforded him some protection from the harsh elements.

He had been assigned to do a story for a Beiruti magazine on an emergent Shiite leader rumoured to be the Twelfth Imam, but when Pierre had arrived in Riyadh for the interview, a manservant received him with apologies.

The Imam has taken time to go falconing but if M Zein would care to join him at his camp, transport can be arranged.

Somewhat irritated, Pierre had agreed. The desert would at least provide a more ethnic setting for his story. The sun would go down in another two hours but, the driver assured him, they would reach the wadi before then.

What are they hunting? Pierre shouted above the noise of the engine.

Hubaras. Bustards. the driver answered. They come late in the year when there has been some rain. He waved his arm in the direction of the sparse scrub that showed a thin tracery of green. Perhaps if the hunting has been good, you will eat tonight. He grinned beneath his heavy moustache and Pierre returned his smile.

Despite himself, he was enjoying the vast emptiness of his surroundings. He had begun to understand how it was that men were driven out here. There was a challenge issued by the elements that sought an answer. Here, men were bonded in an intimacy that could not easily be experienced in gentler circumstances. Alone, it could consume him or drive him to madness, but welded together in brotherhood, man could withstand the forces of the desert.

They came across the camp so unexpectedly that Pierre was startled. There had been no obvious dip in the terrain. A group of some fifty grumbling camels couched together in the fold beside the shallow wadi and behind them low black tents were spread-eagled against the grey sand like large animal pelts pegged out to dry. The driver parked his jeep. Higher up, smoother lava banks rose into hills thrown into shadow as the sun made its rapid descent behind them.

He glanced at the driver. They rode out here on their camels?

The driver nodded. You will find the Imam and his men returning to the ways of the desert. He despises the weakness of the modern Bedu who would be content to load his camel on the back of a pick-up when he goes on a hunt. Our people have lost the essence of their being; they have become soft on the money brought in from the West. Their bodies and souls have become weak like those of women. It is the desire of the Imam to lead his people back to greatness.

Across the sand, a man strode out to meet them; his red checked headdress fell back over his shoulders, framing a narrow, bearded face. He called out a greeting. Salem alaikum.

Alaikum as Salam.

Pierre was ushered into the central tent and at once the dark exterior gave way to rich colour within. The floor was spread with a Persian carpet of the deepest red and the partition curtain, cream with broad stripes, was patterned in red and black. Reclining against red and gold cushions were twenty or more men, robed in white with headdresses in soft white, or the fringed red and white checked fabric such as that worn by the man who had met them at the car. Over their shoulders were dark cloaks of coarser fabric braided in gold. Two hunting salukis that had ventured out to examine the newcomers curled up at the open end of the tent and went back to sleep. Pierre sensed the anticipation among the men as they awaited the Imam.

He has been taking his rest, the driver confided. They are expecting him to arrive at any moment.

The talk died away abruptly as the Ayatollah Hussein ibn Muhammed and two of his men ducked under the guy ropes and entered, calling out a greeting. The Imam was tall. His face was lean, with a dark, untrimmed beard and a heavy moustache trained to droop over the corners of a full, rather sensuous mouth. Pierre saw instantly that he was an intelligent man, it was in the eyes, and reflected in his countenance. Pride also, was displayed in every aspect of his bearing, in the long straight nose and arched nostrils and in the way his body moved: in the upright angle of his back and the economical gestures of his hands. There was yet another quality about him, one that Pierre had not encountered in any other man, a seductive magnetism that was almost tangible, so that the air around him seemed almost to quiver in response to his presence.

He greeted Pierre by name. Welcome to our camp. I’m sorry I was not on hand to receive you in Riyadh. His smile revealed strong teeth, very white against the sun-darkened skin.

Thank you for allowing me to join you here, Pierre replied. It’s a long time since I have been into the desert.

Tomorrow you will ride with us into the sands, the Imam said. Have you been falconing before?

It will be an entirely new experience, Pierre assured him.

Dinner was brought in on a massive circular tray of copper; a bed of white rice and raisins, with stewed wild birds piled high at its centre. The tent became savoury with the smell of it, and unconsciously the men leaned forward a little to catch the fragrance. Imam Hussein ibn Muhammed gave the signal to eat and the men positioned themselves around the tray. They waited for the blessing intoned by their leader, then dipped into the food, kneading rice and meat together until it held firmly enough to be easily taken to the mouth. The meal was consumed quickly, without speaking and when everyone had had his fill, the remainder was taken away for the servants and the dogs.

Pierre found himself envying the easy camaraderie between Hussein ibn Muhammed and his men. They exhibited a rapport built on deep respect and even love for the man, and he in turn treated them affably. He was included in their light-hearted banter without at any point being made the butt of their jokes. The evening was congenial. Pierre was drawn in to the conversation politely as an outsider and, as such, he was content to observe.

The shouts and laughter of the men, as they took their leave later and went to their various tents, faded after a few minutes and Pierre stood for a while to enjoy the brisk night air. Overhead the thick blackness of the night sky was punctured like an ageing tent by myriad stars that shone with incredible clarity.

He awoke to the rhythmic tinkling of the pestles and mortars grinding the morning coffee. The smell of wood-smoke from the smouldering fires greeted him as he emerged from his tent and the morning chill caused him to wrap his outer garment more closely across his chest. The clothing had at first seemed to him an unnecessary affectation but since his arrival in the camp, he had come to realise the wisdom of it. City clothes would have formed yet another barrier between himself and these men. Although he had been received the night before with courtesy and hospitality, Pierre was aware they regarded him with suspicion. He was after all Lebanese and a Hasrani, of Christian birth, and, therefore, as a matter of course, inferior to them. Here, his education offered little advantage. These were men skilled in tracking and hunting, men who knew the desert and were accustomed to its deprivations. They would require him to hunt with them before the interview with ibn Muhammed was granted; it was necessary that he should first be discreetly subordinated.

Already the camels were being saddled. Pierre viewed them with some trepidation. It was years since he had ridden and he knew that by evening he would be re-acquainted with his body in a way he would sooner have avoided.

Hussein ibn Muhammed and a group of his men left their tent and shouted a greeting. Servants poured small cups of cardamom-flavoured coffee from a beaten copper pot and the talk and laughter was more subdued as the men huddled in their robes against the low cold wind that swept in off the dunes. The peregrines were tethered to their perches in the sand; dark brown heads thrust forward as they waited impatiently for the hunt they knew would follow.

Ibn Hussein walked over to where the camels were couched. The leather straps that criss-crossed his chest were attached to a broad cartridge belt at his waist and in it he wore a curved dagger with a jewelled hilt. The Imam grasped the saddle pommels and knelt with one knee until the servant let the beast go, then he swept the other leg back across her rump as she rose laboriously to her feet. The others mounted swiftly; their camels struggling up one by one, a few of them roaring in protest. Pierre followed suit but with noticeably less grace. If they had known him better there would have been raucous teasing from the men, instead, out of politeness, they pointedly avoided watching him until he was safely in the saddle.

The group of about forty men left the camp just after sunrise. The falconers rode ahead singing the tagrud of the Bedu to keep their camels at a trot. The peregrines, now blind under their red leather hoods, clung to the protective wrist cover of their keepers, their heads already attentive, listening for the beat of bustard’s wings. The sun hung low over the horizon and the wind was still bitter. Pierre was colder than he had been in years but he felt alive and exhilarated. The rhythm of the camel beneath him was gaining familiarity and they were already within sight of the sands. The salukis trotted behind the camels of the falconers, their paws creating soft imprints in the wind-swept ripples. When they reached the rolling dunes the morning shadows were still long and the men slowed their camels to a walk. The rain had caused thin wisps of grass to push through the sand and here and there a bush, long dead, protruded from the dunes, as pale as the sand itself.

Ahead, the Arabs spotted the first group of bustards and the peregrines sensing their prey, flexed their talons, anxious to be loose. At a signal, the lead falconer slipped the hood from the head of his bird. She ruffled her feathers in pleasure for a moment then her plumage settled. Perhaps a mile away the hubara came to rest on the sands. The falconer released the jesses that secured the bird to his wrist launching her with the command: Hunt!

The peregrine flew close to the ground startling the bustards into flight. Confused, they beat their wings and landed clumsily back in the sand as she overtook them. At a word the pair of salukis bounded off to drive them back into the air, while the falcon gained height in preparation for the attack. With the sun behind her she banked and went into a stoop, wings tightly against her body, screaming a shrill death-cry as she dropped hard and fast to gain the advantage of speed over the greater size of her prey. The lightning plunge terminated suddenly in a burst of feathers as she came in sharply from beneath her chosen adversary, binding with it and throwing the stunned bustard into a wild spin through the air. The two birds fell together towards the earth. At the last moment, she released her talons and seconds later landed lightly, triumphantly, on the broken carcass. As the riders caught up with her, they found the falcon mantling her prey, shading its body with her outstretched wings.

It was late afternoon when at last the men made their way back towards camp, carrying with them a dozen hubara towards their evening meal.

Hussein ibn Muhammed’s dark eyes were piercing and not for the first time, Pierre found it difficult to look directly into his face.

So, he said, your newspaper wishes to publish an interview with me?

Your followers claim you are the Twelfth Imam. Shia from all over the world, want to know more about you.

The Ayatollah sipped his glass of tea thoughtfully. The time is not yet right.

Were you born in Medina in accordance with the prophecy? Pierre pressed, determined not to be deviated from his course after all he had been through.

The Ayatollah acquiesced. I was born in Medina, he replied passively, and in time my people will see to it that I am revealed as Imam Mahdi in Mecca. But I will continue to restrain them until the time is right. He snapped his fingers and a servant came forward to refill their glasses with hot sweet tea.

When will that be? Pierre asked.

Ibn Muhammed flashed his white teeth in a smile. Events are taking place in the Middle East that are in accordance with the will and design of Allah - may his name be praised. He will give me the signal that will set me on my final course. It may be that I will have to wait months, perhaps years. But, except in my dealings with my enemies, I am a man schooled in patience. I have time.

The Shia is a minority in Saudi Arabia, Pierre commented. Do you anticipate raising a following among the Sunni?

Hussein ibn Muhammed spat contemptuously. The Sunni follow a new god, he declared. "They follow a god of materialism. Since they gained riches in this land, they lost their souls. The Prophet Muhammed, peace be upon him, made a hadith on his death that there should be no two religions in Arabia, yet the Saudi royal family has permitted the presence of American troops. I have a following in Saudi Arabia but, unless there is a change, I will not lead these people."

If not here, where will you go?

Where my people are, I will be a strong pillar in their midst, the Ayatollah replied enigmatically. He drank the last of his tea and set the glass down beside him.

Are you married?

I am a Muslim. Our joy is in the word of the Prophet, in spilling the blood of our enemies and in the body of a woman. In accordance with the Holy Book, I have four wives.

And you feel you have a mission to accomplish among your people?

Ibn Muhammed raised his chin slowly and looked at Pierre down the bridge of his nose. Allah has commissioned me, he acknowledged. I have come firstly to re-unite my people and restore them to the purity of the Quran, the religion of the One God.

There is more?

The Ayatollah drew himself up on his cushions. The land has become like a wound, he said. Outwardly it seems there is healing, but beneath the bandages, it suppurates. I have come as a cautery, to burn away the dead tissue so that healing can take place.

You’re speaking of jihad, Holy War?

The Imam’s smile did not touch his eyes. If there is a need, no man dare shrink from that which Allah has ordained, he said and his voice carried a new ring of authority. Another leader is about to arise. A man who will seize Europe and overpower her as a man takes a woman. He will dominate her and she will serve him. The man’s name is War. While Europe is yet supine, he will be preparing to ravish another.

Something in the atmosphere riveted their attention and no man present doubted that the words were prophetic. Ibn Muhammed’s eyes lost their distant look and focused suddenly on Pierre.

Allah has commanded us through the words of the Prophet to fight his battles for him, yet there are Muslims who have defied the Prophet’s teachings, taking as their friends the Jew and the Nasrani, the Christian. He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. The Quran calls us to strike off the heads of unbelievers! The Imam stood to his feet and there was undisguised contempt in his face as he looked down at Pierre. Any man who calls himself an Arab yet rejects the words of the Prophet, deserves nothing better than death. You are my guest. That alone gives you protection in my tent.

The jeep bumped out of the camp over the rough track and almost immediately the terrain snatched the small settlement from sight. The desert sands a few miles off lay white and pure to the eye. Here it seemed, man was unable to leave any permanent imprint. He came and went and the wind swept away his passing. Hussein ibn Muhammed was obviously a mystic and, as such, exerted a powerful influence over his followers, but no matter how powerful the man, against the greater scale of the elements, he became as dust on the balance.

Opus Dei

Chapter 2

1981

There was a high note of tension in the atmosphere as Pierre Zein stepped out into the street. Vibrations carried across the distance sending shock waves up through the pavement. Over the city, smoke was rising and he could taste its acridity in the back of his throat. The previous cease-fire had only lasted a few days before snipers of the various factions began firing at one another over the Green Line; then, once again, the fighting had escalated out of control. Although it had received some shelling, the sector of the city where Pierre lived was relatively unscathed, but as he made his way on foot towards the Avenue General Fouad-Chehab, the scene changed. Buildings were pitted with bullet holes, balconies filled with rubble. Windows had become stark, glassless holes and shops stood abandoned, blackened and empty. In places closer to Burj, tank traffic had destroyed the pavements and pulverised the building rubble to dust. There was a blank dying look to this part of the city and, as if nature had her own part to play in this war, grass had begun to force up through the cracks in the tarmac. Perhaps, Pierre thought, she will ultimately be the victor.

It was mid-morning when he made his way back from St. Joseph University where fighting still raged across the sea of weeds that had become the divide between the Christian east and Muslim west Beirut.

The letter was there when he returned and he sat for a long time without opening it, hardly aware of the continual dull thudding of the shells that vibrated through the building. It was nearly three years since he had last heard from Danielle Belmonte and then it was a brief letter telling him she was to be married. That had been a time he preferred not to remember. Life had seemed to lose its last vestige of meaning and fall apart about him. The bitterness of the war intermingled with his own bitterness and the hostilities that raged around him became part of his inner hostility. But gradually, as the months became years, he had grown to accept the loss of Danielle in the same way as he accepted the war. In both cases there was hurt. It was as though he carried, somewhere deep inside himself, a scar that would at times throb as a reminder of the wound that caused it. At other times it was simply a scar, a disfigurement that was as much a part of his life as any of his other imperfections. There were still times of pleasure. He would view the city from the foothills where the pockmarks of war were less obvious and the sky and sea dominated, filling everything with light. Or there would be the temporal pleasure of a new relationship, a brief interlude of abandonment. But this had the unnerving effect of leaving him with a feeling of emptiness and rejection.

The hands that slit open the envelope were large, almost clumsy. Pierre was big-boned and tall for a Lebanese, with dark unruly hair and uneven features underscored by a mouth that was too sensitive for a man in his line of work. But the face was not without humour, and a quirk of the mouth and the hint of a dimple in one cheek offset the slight withdrawal in his eyes. Laughter was a necessary antidote to war.

He unfolded the letter. ‘Dear Pierre,’ he read. ‘It’s been so long since I last wrote and you never replied to that letter, I hope you won’t mind me writing to you now. I don’t really know why I am, unless it’s to grasp at some thread of sanity in these moments when I feel so broken. And you, dear Pierre, were always so insane it makes very little sense to reach out to you like this. You are probably married. I don’t know why I should assume that you’re not after all these years. If you are, I wish you all happiness, I really do, and I hope you will ignore this moment of craziness on my part.

‘My life has taken a real downward turn. Michel and I have parted after what was a very bad marriage. In fact in a few weeks, our divorce will be through. I don’t know how I feel at this moment. I have been left doubting my self-worth. And the worst of it is Pierre, that there’s a child from this marriage. A little scrap of innocence that has no idea what all this is about. It’s for him that I must hold the pieces of myself together. Jean-Paul and his wife helped me through the worst; they’ve been really wonderful.

‘In all the years since I left Lebanon, - could it really be seven - I have watched with such sadness all that has been happening there and I’ve often wondered how you were doing. Even whether you were still alive, although I think I would have known if anything had happened to you.

‘If you receive this, I hope you will write.’ She had signed it, ‘Yours always, Danielle.’

It was Danielle who had given him the typewriter when she left. A real journalist, she had informed him, never writes in ink.

The adjustment had taken months and it was only out of a certain sentimentality that he had persevered. By now, his somewhat unorthodox four-fingered style was second nature. He slipped a sheet of paper into the typewriter, tapped out a few lines, then sat for a moment lost in thought. By answering her letter, he would be inviting complications that he was not sure he could handle. Already he had caught himself thinking in terms of bringing her back to Lebanon as though it was possible to recreate something that was lost.

The explosion of a shell somewhat closer at hand brought him up sharply. There was a war going on. What kind of madness would bring a woman and child into Beirut at a time like this? He ripped his first attempt at a reply from the machine and began again.

‘My dearest Danielle,’ he wrote. ‘It was so good to get your letter today, but I was sad to hear that your marriage had broken up and I wish I could offer the right words. I never wanted you to be hurt by life and somehow you seem to have faced so much bruising.

‘So you are a mother. I think I have held onto an unchanged image of you and thinking of you with a child has jolted me into a foreign thought pattern. Strangely, I can imagine it; there was always something maternal and tender about you, even all those years ago. But you haven’t told me much about your baby. I don’t even know his name.

‘The war situation is bad, but somehow I’ve survived unscathed, I’m still around. I’m still unmarried. There hasn’t been much time for things like that, and besides, no one has ever been able to make me laugh like you did.

‘I’m working freelance for a couple of international newspapers and American magazines, covering the war for them and so, on the whole, I’m doing fine, although it’s not pleasant work. There’s so much pain and suffering. There are always people who triumph through it all. War produces its heroes as well as its villains and it’s those stories that I most enjoy capturing. Not always the most newsworthy but always the most satisfying.

‘Could I offer you a holiday? The mountains in the north are still peaceful. I could find a place for you in one of the villages and you would hardly know there’s a war going on. Think about it.’

As he read the letter over, he knew he had said so little of what he felt, or what he would have liked to say. If she did decide to come he wondered how he would feel. The thought kept him awake long into the night.

At around noon on the following day Pierre made his way back to the apartment to write his report. The shelling was distant enough to be of no real concern, but out of habit he kept the radio on in order to hear from the regular news flashes whether it was moving any closer to his area. The radio had become a natural extension to the lives of most people in the city as for hours on end they were compelled to remain in their homes. The broadcasts kept them in touch with the outside world, as well as with the situation on the war front. In the same way, they discerned, with some degree of accuracy, whether it was safe to venture out for supplies or to go to the office. They also knew when it was time to seek shelter. So, a semblance of normality had arisen from within their anomalous existence, as the people of Beirut re-arranged their lives to fit into this unnatural framework.

It was not until he had made some long-distance calls and wrapped up his day’s work that Pierre allowed himself to think of Danielle. Yet he knew that, in a way, she had been with him all morning. He had felt unusually creative and uplifted, and now that he had time to analyse his emotions, he knew that she was at the source. Memories flooded back and he felt himself touched by a feeling of pleasure he thought he would never again experience. Impulsively he picked up the telephone and gave the international directory her name and address. Pierre waited for the number and dialled before he had time to change his mind. Even as the phone rang, he fought a battle with his logic, wondering how on earth he was going to explain himself. He was about to replace the receiver when she answered, slightly breathless as though she had