It was the depth of Halim's emotion that caused the colonel to wonder. Halim was successful and had innumerable friends. The Palestinians in particular revered him for his integrity. Was it also possible, then, that he had felt so isolated in Damascus all these years that the death of his oldest friend could have such a powerful effect on him?
Of course it was possible, thought the colonel. There were reasons why even a man like Halim might feel isolated. Living a secret life — the fact that no one really knew him — was only one of them. Halim's sense of isolation didn't have to mean an espionage connection. Halim had grown up in Argentina and that could be the cause of his estrangement. Or it could be some peculiarity of character. A man who was revered and felt he didn't deserve it might feel estranged, especially an idealist like Halim who believed so strongly, who wanted things so much. Colonel Jundi hadn't achieved his high position in intelligence through any lack of understanding of human nature. He knew the Halim-Ziad friendship could have been exactly what it always appeared to be: an odd congruence of two unlike people, brought about long ago by chance.
So it wasn't that Colonel Jundi suddenly had doubts about Halim's loyalty or patriotism. There was nothing as specific as suspicion, and at the moment he had a hundred serious matters in front of him. Israel would soon be invading Lebanon. The PLO would be smashed in the south. The Syrian army might be attacked. Naji would be gunning for the top in Beirut, backed by Israeli tanks. What of the Shiites and the Druse and the anti-Naji Maronites, all the dozens of factions and armed militias? The civil war in Lebanon had already gone on for seven years and it might go on indefinitely, if everyone kept feeding in arms and agents.
Colonel Jundi was hectically busy. Furthermore, he was very fond of Halim in a personal way. He liked Halim's frankness and modesty and determination. Halim had worked hard for the colonel in Lebanon and worn himself out. He looked haggard. He was living too much on alcohol. He detested Lebanon and the death of his friend had overwhelmed him temporarily, a final event which made the weight intolerable.
Thus Colonel Jundi felt more than sympathy. His concern for Halim was deep and genuine. He praised Halim and urged him to spend more time in Damascus. He also urged him to take a rest from his businesses, which would be interrupted by the invasion in any case. The Israelis would have their futile adventure with Naji.
They would lose in Lebanon and pull out. After that there would be time for Halim and the colonel to sit down and see what was next for the two of them, together.
Halim agreed and thanked the colonel. The invasion was imminent but he also felt the Runner had gone as far as he could in Lebanon. He had been working for Colonel Jundi for almost a decade, and to his mind, he had failed finally. Israel's coming war in Lebanon was the failure. The Runner had traveled far but as with Ziad, it hadn't worked out in the end.
With his great experience, Halim was also aware of the doubt he had placed in Colonel Jundi's mind. He knew he could easily have overcome that doubt in the years ahead, if there had been years ahead. But that didn't concern him now because he was no longer thinking of a future for the Runner in Damascus. Instead, at last, Halim now saw the Runner's long journey coming to an end. Soon, very soon, it would be time for a final smile and a final wave to Tajar.
Years ago in front of the fire in the great central room of his house, during the second winter of the Lebanese civil war, he had listened sadly, helplessly, to the outpourings of Ziad's heart and watched the shadows of Ziad's terror loom on the far walls of the room like some primitive dance of death in a cave on the edge of the underworld. He had felt very close to Ziad then, so close he had wondered whether he might be in danger of confusing Ziad's destiny with his own.
Yes, well, his friend had given him many things over the years, far more than he ever knew. And wasn't it strange how all of this had ineluctably come to pass for the Runner? Even with the most careful planning and all the will in the world, there never seemed a way to know which little moment from the past would mysteriously blossom into a man's inevitable, entire future.
When did it begin, I wonder?
But when did what begin? Which part of the intricate scheme of things? The sordid nightmare of life which was Lebanon? His complex feelings for Ziad? A man's estrangement from his country and culture?
And that was just it. For years he hadn't had time to ask himself that kind of question, which a recluse like Bell pondered day in and day out. Yet once there had been long leisurely hours when he and Bell had explored it together in the ruins of the Omayyad palace in Jericho, sitting beside the magnificent mosaic of the pomegranate tree with its three gazelles and its lion.
Before the Six-Day War. Yes, Halim remembered those times very well.
***
Yossi saw Tajar only once that spring. There had been little reason for them to meet after they had both come to accept the fact that the Runner, now, was working primarily for Colonel Jundi. Tajar had far more cause than Colonel Jundi to be concerned about the effect of Ziad's death on Yossi. He knew how close they had been and how Yossi had identified himself with Ziad in strange and unpredictable ways.
But Yossi had no intention of making the meeting dramatic. On the contrary, he wanted it to be as ordinary as possible. Of course his self-discipline in the face of hardship had always been phenomenal.
They met in a safehouse on the coast near Beirut. Yossi was in a reflective mood, relaxed and calm. Tajar was reassured. He felt Yossi was managing very well under the circumstances.
After talking about Ziad they went onto other subjects, which pleased Tajar. With the death of his friend, it seemed natural that Yossi should be looking back over his life and recalling other times. Tajar thought it a good sign. It also encouraged him that Yossi asked about Anna, as if he were reaching into the past to find a place for his strongest memories. Tajar was relieved and chatted away.
There had been great changes in Anna's life, Tajar said. All at once she had become very prominent as a painter. Now she exhibited abroad, and every dealer in Jerusalem had to have her works on hand in order to be taken seriously. Success had come in a short time, brought on by the changes in the Jerusalem landscape.
For years Anna had been painting the hills around the city as she had first seen them: a scattering of almond and olive trees, the stray ruins of a stone house clinging to a slope, a crumbling gate without walls opening onto empty fields, the sparse geometry of an Arab village, a donkey path winding away through the centuries.
Now these scenes of a simpler Jerusalem were treasured as tiers of concrete apartment buildings crept out from the city and covered the hills, penetrating even the once lonely wastes of the Judean wilderness, for so long a primeval moonscape of wind and sun and nomads.
It all happened so quickly in the heady optimism after the Six-Day War, said Tajar. First the hills were transformed to look like modern Western suburbs, then highways were strewn around to connect them. But gradually people realized what was being lost and longed to recall the real Jerusalem, the old Jerusalem, and there were Anna's paintings as she had been doing them for years, so simple and powerful in their economy, a beautiful dream of a city unchanged for millennia, worn old with hope. Well in no time at all the house on Ethiopia Street has become something of a shrine, especially for rich Americans dropping over in the summer. They arrive at Anna's door dressed for a Florida outing but ready to assume a reverent manner —