Giovanni made two rolls out of the papers. The murmuring among those craning to see grew louder as he bound the makeshift splints together.
‘Now,’ Giovanni said, supporting Ahmed from behind, ‘let’s get you to the car.’ Their path was suddenly blocked by the walnut, waving his arms. A torrent of Arabic directed at Giovanni in particular and everyone else in general.
Not a happy nut, Giovanni thought wryly, stifling a smile as Ahmed intervened with a few sharp words and the walnut fell silent.
By the time they reached Nazareth the last of the sun’s rays were sliding from the dome of the Basilica of the Annunciation, the top of which looked like a massive lantern. It was the largest church in the Middle East, constructed on the site where legend had it that the angel Gabriel told Mary that she would bear the Christ child. Nazareth Hospital was perched on a prominent hill overlooking the basilica and the town.
‘I hope the hospital has a doctor on duty,’ Giovanni said dubiously as he drove as fast as he dared up the winding Wadi el-Juwani.
‘There will be. Nazareth may not be the most picturesque town on the map, but there are sixty thousand Arabs, not to mention another fifty thousand Jews in the new part of the town.’ Ahmed winced as Giovanni swerved, not entirely missing a large pothole.
‘Sorry,’ Giovanni offered. Ahmed looked relieved when they finally parked and Giovanni helped him to Casualty. The hospital staff seemed harassed and it took over an hour before Ahmed Sartawi’s name was called and he was taken through two plastic doors.
Giovanni looked up from his seat in the crowded waiting room to find a young Arab nurse standing in front of him.
‘We are going to keep him in for observation overnight.’ Her voice was strangely aggressive.
‘Is he all right?’
‘We’re not sure yet.’
‘How long before you will know?’ Giovanni asked, wondering why after nearly another hour they had not reached any decision.
‘There are other patients in this hospital,’ she replied curtly. ‘The Israelis have been shelling a village to the south of here and some of the casualties are not expected to live.’ As if to emphasise her point, sirens could be heard in the distance.
‘Why don’t you come back in the morning,’ she said, a little more gently. ‘By then the specialist will have had time to examine the X-rays and we will be able to tell you a little more.’
Giovanni nodded and the nurse quickly disappeared through the two plastic doors.
As Giovanni reached the main entrance the first of the ambulances roared past heading towards Casualty, the siren dying as it came to a halt. Orderlies in blood-spattered white raced to open the doors, and a young Arab boy, one leg missing, the other wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, was wheeled inside. Giovanni took a deep breath. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Nablus
T he Hamas training centre looked like any other house in an ordinary street on the outskirts of Nablus. It was eight o’clock in the evening and curfew. The narrow and twisted laneways were deserted, save for the intermittent Israeli patrols. Since 1967 the Israelis had gradually imposed more and more restrictions on the Palestinian people and now they were forbidden to travel from one village or town to the next. Palestinians were imprisoned in what had once been their own country.
At just twenty-eight years of age, Yusef Sartawi was now the deputy chief sound engineer for Cohatek Events. It hadn’t been easy. Most nights he would wake up screaming, the images of his sisters being cut down by the Israeli sergeant burned into his memory. The only thing that kept him going was his hatred for the enemy and his dual role with his more sinister and shadowy employer, Hamas. His instinctive thirst for knowledge was being put to good use devising ways of destroying the Israelis, and he wouldn’t rest until every last one of them had been pushed into the Mediterranean. It was a hatred that was also directed at Ahmed, his cowardly peace-loving brother who had forced him to watch the massacre. Yusef had promised himself that Ahmed would pay and had marked out his house in Mar’Oth as a potential target. Normally Yusef would not be attending a lecture on pipe bombs, but too many of Hamas’ young suicide bombers were being detected before they could reach their target and Yusef was here to ensure they took the right precautions.
Mahmoud Aqel was short and rugged. He was the same age as Yusef and had originally trained to be a chemistry teacher. When he had lost his entire family in an Israeli helicopter gunship attack on Jenin, he had enlisted with Hamas. Now he taught young suicide bombers the rudiments of making explosives and pipe bombs.
‘Tonight we commence instruction on how to make explosives from simple rock salt,’ Mahmoud began. The four Palestinian boys sitting around the table were listening intently.
‘Some of you might argue that the ammonium nitrate in fertiliser might be more suitable. It is and the Israelis know it, so buying large quantities will draw attention. Rock salt is in abundant supply and is used extensively for cooking so it will not arouse any suspicion.’
Mahmoud spread a large sheet of paper out on the table.
‘Tonight we are making a chlorate-based explosive that starts with the production of sodium chlorate from sodium chloride, commonly known as salt. A word of caution,’ he added, seeing the eagerness on the faces of the teenagers. ‘Explosives are dangerous. Contamination can make them unstable, and friction and heat can cause them to detonate. You need to exercise the utmost care in handling them so they remain in the position of the servant, not the master.’
Mahmoud took them through the process of electrolysis, explaining how the hydrogen produced in the reaction had to be vented through the roof to avoid an explosion, how the saltwater had to be circulated to avoid excessive temperatures developing, how to calculate the sizes of the cathode and the anode to achieve the right current densities, how to collect the crystals of sodium chlorate, how to carefully crush them and mix them with Vaseline, and finally, how to calculate the critical loading density for a pipe bomb.
‘The process might seem time-consuming,’ he said, ‘but the explosive we produce is quite powerful, and it is cheap to make.’
Mahmoud withdrew a short length of piping from a canvas satchel and placed it on the bench. ‘You can see that this pipe is an ordinary piece of medium-sized water pipe, threaded at both ends with two caps. One cap has a small hole drilled into it to take the fuse. The drilling must be done before any explosive is placed in the pipe,’ Mahmoud warned.
Mahmoud then weighed out the explosive on the set of kitchen scales and carefully filled the pipe. ‘Wherever possible use equipment that has a household use,’ he said. ‘Then if you are raided, there are no awkward questions.’ He tamped the explosive into the pipe carefully and packed it with wadding before threading the protruding fuse through the remaining cap and screwing it on.
‘Be careful there is no explosive in the threads of the pipe because the friction can detonate it. Safety is paramount and this is not a job to be rushed. If there are no questions, my friend Yusef has a few words to say on tactics.’
Yusef nodded to Mahmoud, picked up his training manual and moved in front of the group.
‘My friend Mahmoud has given you some excellent instruction tonight, but all that will be to no avail if you fail to reach your target,’ Yusef began, the confidence of many successfully planned attacks evident in his voice.
‘The best means of getting to your target is by public transport, unless it is the transportation itself and the people on it that are the target. Private vehicles are far more likely to be searched. There are a few simple rules outlined in the training manual that you must be familiar with.’ Yusef tapped the cover with his finger for emphasis.
‘Firstly, always try and select a bus or a train that is crowded. Crowded buses and trains are less likely to be checked, and when you are travelling don’t get involved in any discussions. If you are travelling by taxi don’t get
