Ryan, meanwhile, was staring at Lieutenant Valentina. Out of uniform she seemed even more magnificent, her Uzi machine-pistol slung over her shoulder like a fashion accessory. Taking his courage in both hands, Ryan stepped into the street and walked towards her. She could eat him for breakfast, of course, and happily lunch and supper as well.
The lieutenant turned her imperious eyes in his direction, already resigned to the attentions of this shy young man. But before Ryan could speak, an immense explosion erupted from the street behind the TV station. The impact shook the ground and drummed against the pockmarked buildings. Fragments of masonry cascaded into the road as a cloud of smoke seethed into the sky, whipped upwards by the flames that rose from the detonation point somewhere to the south-west of the Christian enclave.
A six-foot scimitar of plate glass fell from the window of the Holiday Inn, slicing through the football poster, and shattered around Gomez’s feet. As he ran to the jeep, shouting at Ryan, there was a second explosion from the Fundamentalist sector of West Beirut. Signal flares were falling in clusters over the city, and the first rounds of gunfire competed with the whine of klaxons and the loudspeakers broadcasting a call to arms.
Ryan stumbled to his feet, brushing the dust from his combat jacket. Lieutenant Valentina had vanished into the strongpoint, where her men were already loading the machine-gun in the barbette.
‘Captain Gomez… The bomb? What set it off?’
‘Treachery, Ryan — the Royalists must have done a deal with the Nats.’ He pulled Ryan into the jeep, cuffing him over the head. ‘All this talk of peace. The oldest trap in the world, and we walked straight into it…’
More than treachery, however, had taken place. Armed militia men filled the streets, taking up their positions in the blockhouses and strongpoints. Everyone was shouting at once, voices drowned by the gunfire that came from all directions. Powerful bombs had been cunningly planted to cause maximum confusion, and the nervous younger soldiers were firing into the air to keep up their courage. Signal flares were falling over the city in calculated but mysterious patterns. Everywhere blue helmets and berets were lying discarded in the gutter.
When Ryan reached his aunt’s apartment he found Dr Edwards and two UN guards waiting for him.
‘Ryan, it’s too late. I’m sorry.’
Ryan tried to step past to the staircase, but Dr Edwards held his arms. Looking up at this anxious and exhausted man, Ryan realised that apart from the UN observers he was probably the only one in Beirut still wearing the blue helmet.
‘Dr Edwards, I have to look after Louisa and my aunt. They’re upstairs.’
‘No, Ryan. They’re not here any longer. I’m afraid they’ve gone.’
‘Where? My God, I told them to stay here!’
‘They’ve been taken as hostages. There was a commando raid timed for the first explosion. Before we realised it, they were in and out.’
‘Who?’ Confused and frightened, Ryan stared wildly at the street, where armed men were forming into their platoons. ‘Was it the Royalists, or the Nats?’
‘We don’t know. It’s tragic, already there have been some foul atrocities. But they won’t harm Louisa or your aunt. They know who you are.’
‘They took them because of me…’ Ryan lifted the helmet from his head. He stared at the blue bowl, which he had carefully polished, trying to make it the brightest in Beirut.
‘What do you plan to do, Ryan?’ Dr Edwards took the helmet from his hands, a stage prop no longer needed after the last curtain. ‘It’s your decision. If you want to go back to your unit, we’ll understand.’
Behind Dr Edwards one of the observers held Ryan’s rifle and webbing. The sight of the weapon and its steel-tipped bullets brought back Ryan’s old anger, that vague hatred that had kept them all going for so many years. He needed to go out into the streets, track down the kidnappers, revenge himself on those who had threatened his aunt and Louisa.
‘Well, Ryan…’ Dr Edwards was watching him in a curiously distant way, as if Ryan was a laboratory rat at a significant junction in a maze. ‘Are you going to fight?’
‘Yes, I’ll fight…’Ryan placed the blue helmet firmly on his head. ‘But not for war. I’ll work for another ceasefire, doctor.’
It was then that he found himself facing the raised barrel of his own rifle. An expressionless Dr Edwards took his wrists, but it was some minutes before Ryan realised that he had been handcuffed and placed under arrest.
For an hour they drove south-east through the suburbs of Beirut, past the derelict factories and shantytowns, stopping at the UN checkpoints along the route. From his seat in the back of the armoured van, Ryan could see the ruined skyline of the city. Funnels of smoke leaned across the sky, but the sound of gunfire had faded. Once they stopped to stretch their legs, but Dr Edwards declined to talk to him. Ryan assumed that the physician suspected him of being involved with the conspirators who had broken the ceasefire. Perhaps Dr Edwards imagined that the whole notion of ceasefire had been a devious scheme in which Ryan had exploited his contacts among the young…?
They passed through the second of the perimeter fences that enclosed the city, and soon after approached the gates of a military camp built beside a deserted sanatorium. A line of olive-green tents covered the spacious grounds. Arrays of radio antennae and television dishes rose from the roof of the sanatorium, all facing north-west towards Beirut.
The van stopped at the largest of the tents, which appeared to house a hospital for wounded guerrillas. But within the cool green interior there was no sign of patients. Instead they were walking through a substantial arsenal. Rows of trestle tables were loaded with carbines and machine-guns, boxes of grenades and mortar bombs. A UN sergeant moved among this mountain of weaponry, marking items on a list like the owner of a gun store checking the day’s orders.
Beyond the arsenal was an open area that resembled the newsroom of a television station. A busy staff of UN observers stood beneath a wall map of Beirut, moving dozens of coloured tapes and stars. These marked the latest positions in the battle for the city being screened on the TV monitors beside the map.
‘You can leave us, corporal. I’ll be in charge of him now.’ Dr Edwards took the rifle and webbing from the UN guard, and beckoned Ryan into a canvas-walled office at the end of the tent. Plastic windows provided a clear view into an adjacent room, where two women clerks were rolling copies of a large poster through a printing press. The blown-up photograph of a Republican atrocity, it showed a group of murdered women who had been executed in a basement garage.
Staring at this gruesome image, Ryan guessed why Dr Edwards still avoided his eyes.
‘Dr Edwards, I didn’t know about the bomb this morning, or the surprise attack. Believe me—’
‘I believe you, Ryan. Everything’s fine, so try to relax.’ He spoke curtly, as if addressing a difficult patient. He laid the rifle on his desk, and released the handcuffs from Ryan’s wrists. ‘You’re out of Beirut for good now. As far as you’re concerned, the ceasefire is permanent.’
‘But… what about my aunt and sister?’
‘They’ve come to no harm. In fact, at this very moment they’re being held at the UN post near the Football Stadium.’
‘Thank God. I don’t know what went wrong. Everyone wanted the ceasefire…’ Ryan turned from the atrocity posters spilling endlessly through the slim hands of the UN clerks. Pinned to the canvas wall behind Dr Edwards were scores of photographs of young men and women in their combat fatigues, caught unawares near the UN observation posts. In pride of place was a large photograph of Ryan himself. Assembled together, they resembled the inmates of a mental institution.
Two orderlies passed the doorway of the office, wheeling a trolley loaded with assault rifles.
‘These weapons, doctor? Are they confiscated?’
‘No — as it happens, they’re factory-new. They’re on their way to the battlefield.’
‘So there’s more fighting going on outside Beirut…’ This news was enough to make Ryan despair. ‘The whole world’s at war.’
‘No, Ryan. The whole world is at peace. Except for Beirut — that’s where the weapons are going. They’ll be smuggled into the city inside a cargo of oranges.’
‘Why? That’s mad, doctor! The militias will get them!’
‘That’s the point, Ryan. We want them to have the weapons. And we want them to keep on fighting.’
Ryan began to protest, but Dr Edwards showed him firmly to the chair beside the desk.
