They embraced like brothers, kissing cheeks, then stood back to look at one another. 'Tou smell like a whore," said Mahmoud. "You smell like a goatherd," said Hassan. They laughed and embraced again. Mahmoud was a big man, a fraction taller than Hassan and much broader; and he looked big, the way he held his head and walked and spoke. He did smell, too: a sour familiar smell that came from living very close to many people in a place that lacked the modern inventions of hot baths and sanitation and garbage disposal. It was three days since Hassan had used after-shave and talcum powder, but he still smelled like a scented woman to Mahmoud. The house had two rooms: the one Hassan had entered, and behind that another, where Mahrfioud slept on the floor with two other men. There was no upper story. Cooking was done in a yard at the back, and the nearest water supply was one hundred yards away. The woman lit a fire and began to make a porridge of crushed beans. While they waited for it, Hassan told Mahmoud his story. "Mee months ago in Luxembourg r met a man I bad known at Oxford, a Jew called Dickstein. It turns out he is a big Mossad operative. Since then I have been watching him, with the help of the Russians, in particular a KGB man named Rostov. We have discovered that Dickstein plans to steal a shipload of uranium so the Zionists will be able to make atom bombs." At first Mahmoud refused to believe this. He cross-questioned Hassan: how good was the information, what exactly was the evidence, who might be lying, what mistakes might have been made? Then, as Hassan's answers made more and more sense, the truth began to sink in, and Mahmoud became very grave- "This is not only a threat to the Palestinian cause. These bombs could ravage the whole of the Middle East." It was like him, Hassan thought, to see the big picture.
"What do you and this Russian propose to dor' Mabmoud asked. "Ihe plan is to stop Dickstein and expose the Israeli plot, showing the Zionists to be lawless adventurers. We haven't worked out the details yet But I have an alternative proposal." He paused, trying to form the right phrases, then blurted it out. "I think the Fedayeen should hijack the ship before Dickstein gets there." Mahmoud stared blankly at him for a long moment. Hassan thought: Say something, for God's sake! Mahmoud began to shake his head from side to side slowly, then his mouth widened in a smile, and at last he began to laugh, beginning with a small chuckle and finishing up giving a huge, body-shaking bellow that brought the rest of the household around to see what was happening. Hassan ventured, "But what do you think?" Mahmoud sighed. "It's wonderful," he said. "I don't see how we can do it, but it's a wonderful idea." Ilen he started asking questions. He asked questions all through breakfast and for most of the morning: the quantity of uranium, the names of the ships involved, how the yellowcake was converted into nuclear explosive, places and dates and people. They talked in the back room, just the two of them for most of the time, but occasionally Mahmoud would call someone in and tell him to listen while Hassan repeated some particular point. About midday he summoned two men who seemed to be his lieutenants. With them listening, he again went over the points he thought crucial. "rhe Coparelli is an ordinary merchant ship with a regular crew? "Yes." "She will be sailing through the Mediterranean to Genoa." "Yes." "What does this yellowcake weigh?" "Two hundred tons." "And it is packed in drums." "Five hundred sixty of them." "Its market pricer' 'Two million American dollars." "And it is used to make nuclear bombs." "Yes. Well, it is the raw material."
"Is the conversion to the explosive form an expensive or difficult process?" "Not if you've got a nuclear reactor. Otherwise, yes." Mahmpud nodded to the two lieutenants. "Go and tell this to the others."
In the afternoon, when the sun was past its zenith and it was cool enough to go out, Mahmoud and Yasif walked over the hills outside the town. Yasif was desperate to know what Mahmoud really thought of his plan, but Mahmoud refused to talk about uranium. So Yasif spoke about David Rostov and said that he admired the Russian's professionalism despite the difficulties he had made for him. "It is well to admire the Russians," Mahmoud said, "so long as we do not trust them. Their heart is not in our cause. There are three reasons why they take our side. ne least important is that we cause trouble for the West, and anything that is bad for the West is good for the Russians. Then there is their image. The underdeveloped nations identify with us rather than with the Zionists, so by supporting us the Russians gain credit with the Third World-and remember, in the contest between the United States and the Soviet Union the Third World has all the floating voters. But the most important reason-the only really important reason-is oil. The Arabs have oil." They passed a boy tending a small flock of bony sheep. The boy was playing a flute. Yasif remembered that Mahmoud had once been a shepherd boy who could neither read nor write, "Do you understand how important oil is?" Mahmoud said. "Hitler lost the European war because of off.
"Listen. The Russians defeated Hitler. They were bound to. Hitler knew this: he knew about Napoleon, he knew nobody could conquer Russia. So why did he try? He was running out of oil. There is oil in Georgia, in the Caucasian oilfields. Hitler had to have the Caucasus. But you cannot hold the Caucasus secure unless you have Volgograd, which was then called Stalingrad, the place where the tide turned against Hitler. Oil. That's what our struggle is about, whether we like it or not, do you realize that? If it were not for oil, nobody but us would care about a few Arabs and lews fighting over a dusty little country like ours." MArnoud was magnetic when he talked. lEs strong, clear voice rolled out short phrases, simple explanations, statements that sounded like devastating basic truths: Hassan suspected he said these same things often to his troops. In the back of his mind he remembered the sophisticated ways in which politics were discussed in places like Luxembourg and Oxford, and it seemed to him now that for all their mountains of information those people knew less than Mahmoud. He knew, too, that international politics were complicated: that there was more than oil behind these things, yet at bottom he believed Mahmoud was right. They sat in the shade of a fig tree. The smooth, duncolored landscape stretched all around them, empty. The sky glared hot and blue, cloudless from one horizon to the other. Mahmoud uncorked a water bottle and gave it to Hassan, who drank the tepid liquid and handed it back. Then he asked Mahmoud whether he wanted to rule Palestine after the Zionists wen beaten back. "I have killed many people," Mahmoud said. "At first I did it with my own hands, with a knife or a gun or a bomb. Now I kill by devising plan's and giving orders, but I kill them still. We know this is a sin, but I cannot repent. I have no remorse, Yasif. Even ff we make a mistake, and we kill children and Arabs in#ead of soldiers and Zionists, still I think only, This is bad for our reputation,' not, 'Mis is bad for my soul.' There Is blood on my hands, and I win not wash it off. I will not try. There is a story called The Picture of Dorian Gray. It is about a man who leads an evil and debilitating life, the kind of life that should make him look old, give him fines on his face and bags under his eyes, a destroyed liver and venereal disease. Still, he does not suffer Indeed, as the years go by he seems to stay young, as if he had found the elixir of life. But in a locked room In his house there is a painting of him, and it is the picture that ages, and takea on the ravages of evil living and terrible disease. Do you know the story? It is English." "I saw the movie," said Yasif. "I read it when I was in Moscow. I would like to see that film. Do you remember how it ended?" "Oh, yes. Dorian Gray destroyed the painting, and then all the disease and damage fell on him in an instant, and he died." "Yes." Mahmoud put the stopper back in thebottle, and looked out over the brown hillsides with unseeing eyes. Then he said, "When Palestine is free, my picture will be destroyed. After that they sat in silence for a while. Eventually, without speaking, they stood up and began to walk back to the town.