Avenue de Paris, past the British and American embassies, and parked on a promontory high above the Mediterranean.
A twisting wooden staircase led to the Bain de l’Aub, the beach at the base of the palisades.
Katifa hurried down the steps and set off across the sand with long, graceful strides. She had gone about a quarter-mile when she saw the stylishly dressed man near a rock jetty up ahead, saw his eyes tracking her, his smile growing in anticipation.
Moncrieff had spent the night at Arafat’s villa. After a three-hour flight from Tunis, he had arrived in Beirut late morning, then took a taxi from the airport.
As the Saudi watched the beautiful woman with the silken complexion and model-fine features coming across the sand toward him, he began reflecting on that day in Cambridge five years before, when he had last seen her.
They were graduate students and lovers, living together at MIT at the time. Katifa was dedicated to the Palestinian cause. Moncrieff had sworn to uphold Saudi law, which forbade members of the royal family to marry foreigners; he had also sworn another allegiance, an allegiance he couldn’t discuss. They walked thebanks of the Charles on that humid Sunday afternoon, knowing it wouldn’t work, and said good-bye.
Now the Saudi took a few steps toward her and opened his arms, and Katifa ran into their embrace.
“Moncrieff,” she said, leaning back to look at him. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”
“I was concerned you wouldn’t come.”
“And if I hadn’t?” she asked with a smile.
“I would have pursued you relentlessly,” he replied with a grin; then, in a more serious tone, he added, “I would have had little choice.”
She studied him for a moment, recalling his habit of gently working a conversation to convey that something was on his mind. “This is business, isn’t it?”
Moncrieff nodded, offered her a cigarette, and took one himself, glancing about cautiously as he lit them. As he had anticipated when selecting Bain de l’Aub for the meeting, they were alone on the long stretch of sand. “I’m looking for your brother,” he finally said.
“Why?” Katifa asked, darkening.
“I have to see Abu Nidal.”
“My brother is dead,” she said, forthrightly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“He died for our cause. He’s not to be grieved.”
“Then I’ll tend to business,” Moncrieff said, taking the opening. “This meeting with Nidal is of the utmost importance,” he began, his tone sharpening as he explained the arms-sanctuary-hostage exchange.
“What makes you think Abu Nidal has the hostages?” Katifa challenged when he had finished, concealing that, like Arafat, she thought the idea had merit.
“Does Article Seventeen ring a bell?”
“I think it might,” she replied.
They were in their last year at MIT when Katifa wrote Intifada as a tribute to her father. With eloquence and moving emotional fervor, her treatise not only called for the liberation of Palestine, but outlined a strategy to achieve it, a strategy of terror and intimidation designed to force the United States into pressuring Israel to provide a Palestinian homeland.
That summer, she left MIT and returned to Bir Zeit University, where she had done her undergraduate work. Located on Jordan’swest bank fifteen miles from Jerusalem, it was a center of PLO radicalism. When Katifa’s mentor in the political science department read Intifada, he knew his protégé had fulfilled her promise. A high-ranking PLO adviser, he brought the document to Yasser Arafat’s attention; and it was soon adopted as the PLO’s official manifesto. Intifada was more than brilliant; it was written by the daughter of a martyred leader.
Article 17, titled “Human Currency,” advocated hostage-taking and urged the creation of fictitious radical Muslim groups who would claim responsibility for the kidnappings: a tactic to cause confusion and deter rescue attempts, a tactic which the ruthless
A twisting wooden staircase led to the Bain de l’Aub, the beach at the base of the palisades.
Katifa hurried down the steps and set off across the sand with long, graceful strides. She had gone about a quarter-mile when she saw the stylishly dressed man near a rock jetty up ahead, saw his eyes tracking her, his smile growing in anticipation.
Moncrieff had spent the night at Arafat’s villa. After a three-hour flight from Tunis, he had arrived in Beirut late morning, then took a taxi from the airport.
As the Saudi watched the beautiful woman with the silken complexion and model-fine features coming across the sand toward him, he began reflecting on that day in Cambridge five years before, when he had last seen her.
They were graduate students and lovers, living together at MIT at the time. Katifa was dedicated to the Palestinian cause. Moncrieff had sworn to uphold Saudi law, which forbade members of the royal family to marry foreigners; he had also sworn another allegiance, an allegiance he couldn’t discuss. They walked thebanks of the Charles on that humid Sunday afternoon, knowing it wouldn’t work, and said good-bye.
Now the Saudi took a few steps toward her and opened his arms, and Katifa ran into their embrace.
“Moncrieff,” she said, leaning back to look at him. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”
“I was concerned you wouldn’t come.”
“And if I hadn’t?” she asked with a smile.
“I would have pursued you relentlessly,” he replied with a grin; then, in a more serious tone, he added, “I would have had little choice.”
She studied him for a moment, recalling his habit of gently working a conversation to convey that something was on his mind. “This is business, isn’t it?”
Moncrieff nodded, offered her a cigarette, and took one himself, glancing about cautiously as he lit them. As he had anticipated when selecting Bain de l’Aub for the meeting, they were alone on the long stretch of sand. “I’m looking for your brother,” he finally said.
“Why?” Katifa asked, darkening.
“I have to see Abu Nidal.”
“My brother is dead,” she said, forthrightly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“He died for our cause. He’s not to be grieved.”
“Then I’ll tend to business,” Moncrieff said, taking the opening. “This meeting with Nidal is of the utmost importance,” he began, his tone sharpening as he explained the arms-sanctuary-hostage exchange.
“What makes you think Abu Nidal has the hostages?” Katifa challenged when he had finished, concealing that, like Arafat, she thought the idea had merit.
“Does Article Seventeen ring a bell?”
“I think it might,” she replied.
They were in their last year at MIT when Katifa wrote Intifada as a tribute to her father. With eloquence and moving emotional fervor, her treatise not only called for the liberation of Palestine, but outlined a strategy to achieve it, a strategy of terror and intimidation designed to force the United States into pressuring Israel to provide a Palestinian homeland.
That summer, she left MIT and returned to Bir Zeit University, where she had done her undergraduate work. Located on Jordan’swest bank fifteen miles from Jerusalem, it was a center of PLO radicalism. When Katifa’s mentor in the political science department read Intifada, he knew his protégé had fulfilled her promise. A high-ranking PLO adviser, he brought the document to Yasser Arafat’s attention; and it was soon adopted as the PLO’s official manifesto. Intifada was more than brilliant; it was written by the daughter of a martyred leader.
Article 17, titled “Human Currency,” advocated hostage-taking and urged the creation of fictitious radical Muslim groups who would claim responsibility for the kidnappings: a tactic to cause confusion and deter rescue attempts, a tactic which the ruthless
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