The Land is a Wound: Opus Dei, #1

By Lyn Pickering

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.

Pierre Zein, a Lebanese journalist, interviews Hussein ibn Muhammed, an Ayatollah claiming to be the Twelfth Imam of the Shiites and begins a quest to expose the European leader behind the prophecy. His search leads him into danger and to the ultimate realisation that the conspiracy has advanced far beyond the power of human intervention.

The year is 1981 and Lebanon is involved in a bloody civil war. Life in is a daily struggle and Pierre’s work takes him out into the conflict areas on the streets of Beirut. When Danielle, a girlfriend from Pierre’s past, contacts him, romance seems an impossibility.Love, drama and mystery lend this action-packed thriller an intensely human angle.

Well-written, deeply researched, Lyn J Pickering captures the both the richness and the menace of the Middle East.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyn Pickering
• Release date: Dec 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519916891

Book preview

The Land is a Wound

LYN J. PICKERING

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The Baptist’s Head

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Contents

Free Book

Title Page

Dedication

Character list – in order of appearance

Prologue – 1973

Chapter 1 - Part I

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Author’s note

Appendix 3 – Bibliography

Teaser

About the Author

Other books by the same author

Connect with me

© Lyn J Pickering 2014

All Rights Reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission of the Copyright owner.

Forest of Lebanon Publications

License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  It may not be re-sold or given away to other people.  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.  If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy.  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Published by Lyn J Pickering

I dedicate this book to my brother who shared Lebanon with me many years ago: to Bill, my precious husband, my five wonderful sons, daughter, and daughters-in-law.

All my love.

Character list – in order of appearance

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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 Shimlan

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

Rania- - - - - - - Samih’s fiancée

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

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 - - - - - 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.

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

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