‘Don’t worry, Ryan, I’ll explain it all to you. Tell me first, though have you ever heard of a disease called smallpox?’
‘It was some sort of terrible fever. It doesn’t exist any more.’
‘That’s true — almost. Fifty years ago the World Health Organisation launched a huge campaign to eliminate smallpox, one of the worst diseases mankind has ever known, a real killer that destroyed tens of millions of lives. There was a global programme of vaccination, involving doctors and governments in every country. Together they finally wiped it from the face of the earth.’
‘I’m glad, doctor — if only we could do the same for war.’
‘Well, in a real sense we have, Ryan — almost. In the case of smallpox, people can now travel freely all over the world. The virus does survive in ancient graves and cemeteries, but if by some freak chance the disease appears again there are supplies of vaccine to protect people and stamp it out.’
Dr Edwards detached the magazine from Ryan’s rifle and weighed it in his hands, showing an easy familiarity with the weapon that Ryan had never seen before. Aware of Ryan’s surprise, he smiled wanly at the young man, like a headmaster still attached to a delinquent pupil.
‘Left to itself, the smallpox virus is constantly mutating. We have to make sure that our supplies of vaccine are up-to-date. So WHO was careful never to completely abolish the disease. It deliberately allowed smallpox to flourish in a remote corner of a third-world country, so that it could keep an eye on how the virus was evolving. Sadly, a few people went on dying, and are still dying to this day. But it’s worth it for the rest of the world. That way we’ll always be ready if there’s an outbreak of the disease.’
Ryan stared through the plastic windows at the wall map of Beirut and the TV monitors with their scenes of smoke and gunfire. The Hilton was burning again.
‘And Beirut, doctor? Here you’re keeping an eye on another virus?’
‘That’s right, Ryan. The virus of war. Or, if you like, the martial spirit. Not a physical virus, but a psychological one even more dangerous than smallpox. The world is at peace, Ryan. There hasn’t been a war anywhere for thirty years — there are no armies or air forces, and all disputes are settled by negotiation and compromise, as they should be. No one would dream of going to war, any more than a sane mother would shoot her own children if she was cross with them. But we have to protect ourselves against the possibility of a mad strain emerging, against the chance that another Hitler or Pol Pot might appear.’
‘And you can do all that here?’ Ryan scoffed. ‘In Beirut?’
‘We think so. We have to see what makes people fight, what makes them hate each other enough to want to kill. We need to know how we can manipulate their emotions, how we can twist the news and trigger off their aggressive drives, how we can play on their religious feelings or political ideals. We even need to know how strong the desire for peace is.’
‘Strong enough. It can be strong, doctor.’
‘In your case, yes. You defeated us, Ryan. That’s why we’ve pulled you out.’ Dr Edwards spoke without regret, as if he envied Ryan his dogged dream. ‘It’s a credit to you, but the experiment must go on, so that we can understand this terrifying virus.’
‘And the bombs this morning? The surprise attack?’
‘We set off the bombs, though we were careful that no one was hurt. We supply all the weapons, and always have. We print up the propaganda material, we fake the atrocity photographs, so that the rival groups betray each other and change sides. It sounds like a grim version of musical chairs, and in a way it is.’
‘But all these years, doctor…’ Ryan was thinking of his old comradesin-arms who had died beside him in the dusty rubble. Some had given their lives to help wounded friends. ‘Angel and Moshe, Aziz… hundreds of people dying!’
‘Just as hundreds are still dying of smallpox. But thousands of millions are living — in peace. It’s worth it, Ryan; we’ve learned so much since the UN rebuilt Beirut thirty years ago.’
‘They planned it all — the Hilton, the TV station, the McDonald’s…?’
‘Everything, even the McDonald’s. The UN architects designed it as a typical world city — a Hilton, a Holiday Inn, a sports stadium, shopping malls. They brought in orphaned teenagers from all over the world, from every race and nationality. To begin with we had to prime the pump — the NCOs and officers were all UN observers fighting in disguise. But once the engine began to turn, it ran with very little help.’
‘Just a few atrocity photographs…’ Ryan stood up and began to put on his webbing. Whatever he thought of Dr Edwards, the reality of the civil war remained, the only logic that he recognised. ‘Doctor, I have to go back to Beirut.’
‘It’s too late, Ryan. If we let you return, you’d endanger the whole experiment.’
‘No one will believe me, doctor. Anyway, I must find my sister and Aunt Vera.’
‘She isn’t your sister, Ryan. Not your real sister. And Vera isn’t your real aunt. They don’t know, of course. They think you’re all from the same family. Louisa was the daughter of two French explorers from Marseilles who died in Antarctica. Vera was a foundling brought up by nuns in Montevideo.’
‘And what about…?’
‘You, Ryan? Your parents lived in Halifax, Nova Scotia. You were three months old when they were killed in a car crash. Sadly, there are some deaths we can’t yet stop..
Dr Edwards was frowning at the wall map of Beirut visible through the plastic window. A signals sergeant worked frantically at the huge display, pinning on clusters of incident flags. Everyone had gathered around the monitor screens. An officer waved urgently to Dr Edwards, who stood up and left the office. Ryan stared at his hands while the two men conferred, and he scarcely heard the physician when he returned and searched for his helmet and side-arm.
‘They’ve shot down the spotter plane. I’ll have to leave you, Ryan — the fighting’s getting out of control. The Royalists have overrun the Football Stadium and taken the UN post.’
‘The Stadium?’ Ryan was on his feet, his rifle the only security he had known since leaving the city. ‘My sister and aunt are there! I’ll come with you, doctor.’
‘Ryan… everything’s starting to fall apart; we may have lit one fuse too many. Some of the militia units are shooting openly at the UN observers.’ Dr Edwards stopped Ryan at the door. ‘I know you’re concerned for them, you’ve lived with them all your life. But they’re not-’
Ryan pushed him away. ‘Doctor, they are my aunt and sister.’
It was three hours later when they reached the Football Stadium. As the convoy of UN vehicles edged its way into the city, Ryan gazed at the pall of smoke that covered the ruined skyline. The dark mantle extended far out to sea, lit by the flashes of high explosives as rival demolition squads moved through the streets. He sat behind Dr Edwards in the second of the armoured vans, but they could scarcely hear themselves talk above the sounds of rocket and machine-gun fire.
By this stage Ryan knew that he and Dr Edwards had little to say to each other. Ryan was thinking only of the hostages in the overrun UN post. His discovery that the civil war in Beirut was an elaborate experiment belonged to a numb area outside his mind, an emotional black hole from which no light or meaning could escape.
At last they stopped near the UN post at the harbour in East Beirut. Dr Edwards sprinted to the radio shack, and Ryan unstrapped his blue helmet. In a sense he shared the blame for this uncontrolled explosion of violence. The rats in the war laboratory had been happy pulling a familiar set of levers — the triggers of their rifles and mortars — and being fed their daily pellets of hate. Ryan’s dazed dream of peace, like an untested narcotic, had disoriented them and laid them open to a frenzy of hyperactive rage…
Ryan, good news!’ Dr Edwards hammered on the windscreen, ordering the driver to move on. ‘Christian commandos have retaken the Stadium!’
‘And my sister? And Aunt Vera?’
‘I don’t know. Hope for the best. At least the UN is back in action. With luck, everything will return to normal.’
Later, as he stood in the sombre storeroom below the concrete grandstand, Ryan reflected on the ominous word that Dr Edwards had used. Normal…? The lights of the photographers’ flashes illuminated the bodies of the twenty hostages laid against the rear wall. Louisa and Aunt Vera rested between two UN observers, all executed by the Royalists before their retreat. The stepped concrete roof was splashed with blood, as if an invisible audience watching the destruction of the city from the comfort of the grandstand had begun to bleed into its seats. Yes, Ryan
