Peace on Earth - Gordon Stevens

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that the security net which surrounded the building, the visible elements of which he could observe from his suite, was designed to protect those he influenced from the likes of the very organisation whose founder he was now entertaining.

      ‘The talks are going well?’ enquired Nabil. The sheikh gestured with his hand, ‘Not well, not badly. OPEC has a problem which many do not wish to see solved.’ He settled into the chair by the window. ‘So, Abu Nabil,’ he changed the name by which he addressed his guest, ‘what brings you to London? Not the oil meeting, I hope, not another OPEC.’ In December 1975 the Venezuelan terrorist known internationally as ‘Carlos’ or ‘The Jackal’ had taken over a meeting of OPEC ministers in Vienna and held them hostage before flying them to North Africa. What was known publicly was that the drama had ended on the tarmac of the airport in Algiers when he had released the last of his hostages in front of the television cameras. What was not known was that Nabil had contributed in a major way to the planning which preceded the operation, and Sheikh Saeed Khaled to the negotiations which ended it. It had been during those negotiations, initially conducted through intermediaries, that the two men had come into contact with each other, though it was not until ten months later that they had first met.

      ‘No,’ Nabil shared the joke, ‘not another OPEC.’

      The sheikh rose and poured them each another drink. Khaled was too politically experienced to ask why Nabil had requested a meeting with him, Nabil too well-practised to speak of the matter immediately: when it was time to raise the subject, they both knew, it would raise itself. For the next thirty minutes they discussed the situation in the Middle East, the power game in the Lebanon, the role of Jordan and the divisions within the ranks of the Palestinian movement itself, including Nabil’s own opposition to the PLO leader Yasser Arafat.

      ‘The trouble with Arafat,’ he suggested, ‘is not that he gave up the armed struggle, but that he gave it up for the wrong reason and in the wrong way.’

      Khaled was aware the conversation was turning, as if of its own accord. ‘The trouble with you,’ he invited his guest to continue, ‘is that you cannot give it up.’

      ‘But by giving up violence, Arafat has nothing left with which to negotiate, nothing to offer in return for what he demands.’ Nabil knew the conversation was at the stage where there was no point in delaying.

      ‘And what can you offer in return for what your people want, when all you have to offer is your violence?’

      Nabil looked at him, turning his words back on him. ‘Perhaps all I have to offer is my violence.’

      ‘But your violence is the only thing that gives your people hope, the only way they see of getting what they want.’

      Nabil ignored the response, as Khaled knew he would. ‘But if they achieved what they wanted, then there would no longer be a need for that violence.’

      One day, Khaled knew, one day, they both knew, they would remember the conversation, what was said, where it was said.

      ‘And how would you achieve that?’

      With you, the old man had told Nabil, nothing is as it seems. ‘By violence.’

      The telephone rang. Khaled picked it up and listened for fifteen seconds. ‘I am engaged,’ he said, ‘tell them tomorrow.’

      ‘The art of negotiation,’ Nabil began afresh, ‘is the ability to know in advance what the other person will accept. The greatest form of that art, as you yourself counselled me long ago, is agreeing with the other person what you will decide before you even begin.’

      Khaled smiled.

      ‘In the past,’ continued Nabil, ‘there has never been success in discussions about the Palestinian issue because there has never been agreement beforehand.’

      ‘There has been suggestion of agreement,’ Khaled corrected him, ‘the problem was that those with the power to insist upon the agreement, the Americans, could never be certain that the Palestinians would stand by their word.’

      ‘But if they could be convinced?’

      For the second time, Khaled was aware that he would remember the afternoon. ‘You could not approach them direct,’ he cautioned, ‘it would have to be through a friend.’ They both understood he was not talking about himself. ‘And even then, the friend would need proof that you could and would deliver.’

      ‘What if I had already delivered to that friend?’ asked Nabil.

      ‘It would have to be important,’ said Khaled.

      It was the reason Nabil had sent the soldier Sharaf into Europe. ‘It will be,’ he confirmed.

      Khaled noted the change in tense. ‘So what do you want of me?’ he asked.

      Nabil had learned too much in his fifty-three years to give a direct answer to such a direct question. ‘I am thinking,’ he said, ‘about how I would find such a friend.’ It was the reason he had gone to Paris.

      ‘That,’ said Khaled, knowing it was not what his guest was asking of him, ‘is up to you.’

      ‘But if I found him, would you help me?’ It was the reason Nabil had come to London.

      ‘Yes,’ said one of the most powerful men behind the world’s oil discussions. ‘I would help you.’

      The hole was wet and cold, the rain cutting in sheets across the corner of the field in front of them, and the water from the branches which concealed their hiding place dripping down on them. They had been there three days, at two the next morning it would be four, one of them sleeping, wrapped in the waterproof bag they had smuggled in, the other watching, waiting.

      The path through the trees into the edge of the field was almost lost in the dusk. Somewhere he heard a car, knew it was too far away, knew how sound travelled at this time of day.

      They had come in at night, skirting the village, knowing the dogs were there and taking care not to disturb them, taking care not to leave even the slightest indication that they had come; by the morning they had dug the hole, concealed it and begun their wait. Fifty yards behind them lay the back-up, their hole similarly covered, running wet and freezing cold.

      Between two and six days and the men would come for the arms and explosives hidden in the cache in the corner of the field, Special Branch had told them the informant had said. Between two and six days and the centre of Belfast would be hit. He lay still, the Ml6 dry by his side, looking across the field to the single track where they had worked out the men would appear. Three men, Special Branch had said, all of them active Provos, one of them on the run since the break-out from the H-Blocks the year before. A small job, Special Branch had also said, an indication by their man of the amount and quality of information he possessed, an indication of his standing in the Provisional IRA, a promise by the informant of things to come.

      In an hour, Graham Enderson thought, it would be dark, then it would be his turn to crawl into the sleeping bag and sleep; he had once spent fifteen days in such a hole, he reminded himself, fifteen days in a winter even colder than this one. He checked his watch again and wondered when the men would show.

      Today was his son’s birthday, he had remembered that morning; he had intended to telephone, could not send a card, knew his wife would have taken care of it as she always did. The light was fading. He thought again of the three men who would come to the cache, how many people they intended to kill, whether they had ever thought about the moment they themselves would die. He would be careful, as he always was; he distrusted informants, wondered why they informed, wondered why the men he was about to kill were being set up, wondered who was being set up, them or him. So many tricks, he knew, so many times to be careful, never a time when he could not afford to be careful. It was almost dark.

      He had been with the SAS nine years; most of that time on active service, except for the training months in Hereford, except

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