‘Since Arafat has gone, things have been able to move forward.’
‘Stagger forward…lurch from side to side,’ said Yacoub. ‘Sharon’s stroke signified the end of the old guard. The vote for Hamas was a vote against the corruption of Fatah. We’ll see if the rest of the world wants them to succeed.’
‘But despite all these misgivings, you still have no desire to live in Spain.’
‘That’s my peculiar problem. I’ve been brought up in a religious household and I’ve benefited from the daily discipline of religious observance. I love Ramadan. I always make sure I am here for Ramadan because for one month of the year the workings of the world drift into the background and the spiritual and religious life becomes more important. We are all joined together by it in communal fasting and feasting. It gives spiritual strength to the individual and the community. In Christian Europe you have Lent, but it has become something personal, almost selfish. You think: I’ll give up chocolate or I won’t drink beer for a month. It doesn’t bind society like Ramadan does.’
‘Is that the only reason you don’t live in Spain?’
‘You are one of the few Europeans I can talk to about these things, without having you laugh in my face,’ said Diouri. ‘But that is what I have learnt from my two fathers, the one who forsook me, and the one who taught me the right way to be. That is the difficulty for me in both Europe and America. You know, there’s been a big change here recently. It was always the dream to get to America. Young Moroccans thought their culture was cool, their society much freer than racist-bound Old Europe, the attitude of Immigration and the universities more open. Now the kids have changed their minds. They were attracted to Europe, but now, after the riots in France last year and the disrespect shown in Denmark, their dreams are of coming home. For myself, when I’m alone in hotel rooms in the West and I try to relax by watching television, I gradually feel my whole being dissipating and I have to get down and pray.’
‘And what’s that about?’
‘It’s about the decadence of a society consumed by materialism,’ said Diouri.
‘To which you yourself make a considerable contribution, and from which you derive great benefit,’ said Falcón.
‘All I can say is, if I lived anywhere other than Morocco, I would be drained of will within a few weeks.’
‘But then you rage against the lack of progress and the inability to change in the Arab world.’
‘I rage against poverty, the lack of work for a young and growing population, the humiliation of a people by—’
‘But if you give a young guy work, he’ll make money and go out and buy a mobile phone, an iPod and a car,’ said Falcón.
‘He will, once he has made sure that his family is taken care of,’ said Diouri. ‘And that is fine, as long as the materialism doesn’t become his new God. A lot of Americans are profoundly religious whilst being driven by materialism. They believe it goes hand in hand. They are wealthy because they are the chosen people.’
‘Well, that’s confused everything,’ said Falcón.
‘Only the extremist polarizes through simplification,’ said Diouri, laughing. ‘Extremists understand one thing about human nature: nobody wants to know about the complexity of the situation. The invasion of Iraq was about oil. No, it wasn’t. It was all about democracy. The two extremes are a long way from the truth, but there’s enough in both statements to make people believe. It is all about oil, but not Iraqi oil. And it is about democracy, but not the strange beast that will have to be cloned in order to hold Iraq together.’
‘I think we’ve come full circle,’ said Falcón. ‘We must be close by now.’
‘Oil, democracy and the Jews. There’s truth in all of them. It was part of the brilliance of the plan,’ said Diouri, ‘to create such a colossal diversionary arena that the world would look nowhere else.’
‘The problem with most conspiracy theories is that they always award phenomenal intelligence and foresight to people who’ve rarely exhibited those qualities,’ said Falcón.
‘This action didn’t require huge intelligence or foresight, because it simplified all complexities down to a single perpetual interest. There’s also a terrifying logic to it, which conspiracy theories always lack,’ said Diouri. ‘I told you that it was all about oil, democracy and protection, but none of it was to do with Iraq.
‘For the Americans to maintain their world domination they need oil in a continuous supply at a competitive price. Democracy is a very fine thing, as long as the right person wins, and that means the person who will look after American interests most ably. Democracy in the Arab world is dangerous, because politics is always bound up with religion. It is only promoted in Iraq because the installation of another, more pliable, despot than Saddam Hussein would not be acceptable to the outside world.’
‘At least it introduces the concept of democracy.’
‘There have been attempts at democracy in the Arab world before now. It breaks down when it becomes clear that the winners in the elections would be the Islamic candidates. Democracy puts power in the hands of the most numerous, and for them Islam will always come first. That doesn’t offer much security to American interests, which is why the democratically elected Iraqi assembly and their constitution have had to be…wrestled into position.’
‘Do you think that’s the case?’
‘It doesn’t matter whether it is or not. It’s the common perception in the Arab world.’
‘So who are the Americans seeking to protect with all this activity in the region, if it isn’t the Israelis?’
‘The Israelis can take care of themselves as long as they have American support—which they are guaranteed, because they’re so powerfully represented in Washington. No, the Americans have to protect the weak and the flabby, the decadent and the corrupt, who are the guardians of their greatest and most sacred interest: oil. I believe—and I’m not a mad, lone conspiracy theorist—that they invaded Iraq to offer protection to the Saudi royal family.’
‘It’s not as if Saddam Hussein had shown himself to be the most accommodating neighbour.’
‘Exactly. So a perfect pretext was invented on the basis of past performance,’ said Diouri. ‘Anybody could see that after the first Gulf War in 1991 Saddam was a spent force, which was why Bush senior left him there, rather than create the unknown quantity of a power vacuum. Fortunately, Saddam still strutted about on his little stage with all the arrogance of a great Arab icon. He was cruel and genocidal: gassing the Kurds and massacring Shias. It was easy to create the image of an evil genius who was destabilizing the Middle East. I mean, they even managed to frame him for 9/11.’
‘But he was cruel, violent and despotic,’ said Falcón.
‘So when are the coalition forces going to turn their attention to, say, Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe?’ said Diouri. ‘But that’s how the Americans play the game. They confuse the picture with elements of truth.’
‘If Saddam was a spent force, why did the Saudis believe they needed protecting?’
‘They were scared of the militancy that they themselves had created,’ said Diouri. ‘To maintain credibility as the guardians of the sacred sites of Islam, they bankrolled the medressas, the religious schools, which in turn became hotbeds of extremism. Like all decadent regimes, they are paranoid. They sensed the antipathy of the Arab world and its extremist factions. They couldn’t invite the Americans in as they had done in 1991, but they could ask them to install themselves next door. The double reward for the Americans was that they not only secured their perpetual interest, the oil, but also drew the forces of terror away from the homeland by offering a target in the heart of Islam. Bush has repaid his corporate debts to the oil companies, the American population feels safer, and it can all be dressed up as the forces of Good crushing those of Evil.’
‘Silence, while Diouri lit his first cigarette of the morning and sipped some more tea. Falcón sucked on the sweet, viscous liquid in his own glass, his question cram
med tight in his chest.
‘Tea, cigarettes, food…they’re all negotiating tools,’ said Diouri, mysteriously.
Falcón studied Yacoub over the rim of his tea glass. Spies were necessarily complicated people, even those with a clear motive. The worrying and yet crucial aspect of their personality was their need, and therefore ability, to deceive. But why spy? Why did he himself provide information for Mark Flowers? It was because he had begun to find the illusion of life tiresome. The supposed reality of tussling politicians, beaming businessmen and fatuous pundits was exhausting to watch on TV when its veneer had been worn so thin. He spied, not because he wanted to exchange one facile illusion for a slightly more knowing one, but because he needed to remind himself that acceptance was passive, and he’d already discovered the dangers of denial and inaction in his own mind. But what he was asking his friend Yacoub to do was real spying, not just giving Mark Flowers some detail to fill in his little pictures. He was asking Yacoub to pass on information that could result in the capture, and perhaps death, of people that he might know.
‘You’re thinking, Javier,’ said Diouri. ‘Normally, at this stage, Europeans are writhing in their seats with ennui at having to talk about Iraq, the Palestinian question and all the rest of the insoluble horror. They have no appetite for polemic any more. In my world of fashion, all they want to talk about is Coldplay’s new album or costume design in the latest Baz Luhrman movie. Even business people would rather talk about football, golf and tennis than world politics. It seems that we Arabs have created an interest that nobody wants. We’ve cornered the market in the most boring conversations in the world.’
‘It’s riveting to the Arabs because you haven’t got what you want. The comfortable never want to talk about stuff that will make them feel uncomfortable.’
‘I’m comfortable,’ said Diouri.
‘Are you?’ said Falcón. ‘You’re wealthy, but do you have what you want? Do you know what you want?’
‘I associate comfort with boredom,’ said Diouri. ‘It might be to do with my past, but I cannot bear contentment. I want change. I want a state of perpetual revolution. It’s the only way I can be sure that I’m still alive.’
‘Most Moroccans I’ve spoken to would like to be comfortable with a job, a house, a family and a stable society to live in.’
‘If they want all that, they’ll have to be prepared for change.’
‘None of them wanted terrorism,’ said Falcón, ‘and none of them wanted a Taliban-type regime.’
‘How many did you get to condemn acts of terrorism?’
‘None of them approved…’
‘I mean outright condemnation,’ said Diouri firmly.
‘Only the ones who had persuaded themselves that the terrorist acts had been committed by the Israelis.’
‘You see, it’s a complicated state, the Arab mind,’ said Diouri, tapping his temple.
‘At least they didn’t find terrorism honourable.’
‘You know when terrorism is honourable?’ said Diouri, pointing at Falcón with the chalk stick of his French cigarette. ‘Terrorism was considered honourable when the Jews fought the British for the right to establish their Zionist state. It was considered dishonourable when the Palestinians employed extreme tactics against the Jews in order to reclaim the land and property that had been stolen from them. Terrorists are acceptable once they’ve become strong enough to be perceived as freedom fighters. When they are weak and disenfranchised, they are just common bloody murderers.’
‘But that’s not what we’re talking about here,’ said Falcón, fighting back his frustration at how the conversation had spiralled off again.
‘It will always be part of it,’ said Diouri. ‘That hard pip of injustice scores at the insides of every Arab. They know that what these mad fanatics are doing is wrong, but humiliation has a strange effect on the human mind. Humiliation breeds extremism. Look at Germany before the Second World War. The power of humiliation is that it is deeply personal. We all remember it from the first time it happened to us as a child. What extremists like bin Laden and Zarqawi realize is that humiliation becomes truly dangerous when it is collective, has risen to the surface and there’s a clear purpose in venting it. That is what the terrorists want. That is the ultimate aim of all their attacks. They are saying: “Look, if we all do this together, we can be powerful.”’
‘And then what?’ said Falcón. ‘You’ll be taken back to the glory days of the Middle Ages.’
‘Forward to the past,’ said Diouri, crushing out his cigarette in the silver shell of the ashtray. ‘I’m not sure that’s a price worth paying to have our humiliation assuaged.’
‘Have you heard of an organization called VOMIT?’ asked Falcón.
‘That’s the anti-Muslim website that people here get so enraged about,’ said Diouri. ‘I haven’t seen it myself.’
‘Apparently the site enumerates the victims of Muslim attacks on civilians, not just in the Western world but also Muslim-on-Muslim attacks such as the suicide bombings of Iraqi police recruits, women murdered in “honour” killings, and the gang-raping of women to inflict shame…’
‘What’s your angle, Javier?’ asked Diouri, through narrowed eyes. ‘Are you saying this organization has a point?’
‘As far as I know, they are making no point other than keeping count.’
‘What about the name of the website?’
‘Well, “vomit” expresses disgust…’
‘You know, Muslim life is regarded rather cheaply in the West. Think how valuable each of the 3,000 lives was in the Twin Towers, how much was invested in the 191 commuters in Madrid or the 50-odd people who died in the London bombings. And then look at the value of the 100,000 Iraqi civilians who lost their lives in the pre-invasion assault. Nothing. I’m not sure they even registered,’ said Diouri. ‘Was there a website that enumerated the victims of Serb slaughter in Bosnia? What about Hindu attacks on Muslims in India?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s why VOMIT is anti-Muslim. It has singled out the acts of a fanatic few and made it the responsibility of an entire religion,’ said Diouri. ‘If you told me they were responsible for blowing up the mosque in Seville yesterday, it wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘They’ve established a presence,’ said Falcón. ‘Our intelligence agency, the CNI, are aware of them.’
‘Who else are the CNI aware of?’ said Diouri, uneasy.
‘It’s a very complicated situation,’ said Falcón. ‘And we’re looking for intelligent, knowledgeable and wellconnected people who are willing to help us.’
Falcón sipped his tea, grateful for the prop. He’d finally got it out into the open. He almost couldn’t believe he’d said it. Nor could Yacoub Diouri, who was sitting on the other side of the ornately decorated table, blinking.
‘Have I understood you correctly, Javier,’ said Diouri, his face suddenly solid as a plastic mask and his voice stripped of any warmth. ‘You have presumed to come into my house to ask me to spy for your government?’
‘You knew from the moment I called you last night that I wasn’t coming here on a purely social visit,’ said Falcón, holding firm.
‘Spies are the most despised of all combatants,’ said Diouri. ‘Not the dogs of war, but the rats.’
‘I would never have thought of asking you if for one moment I took you to be a man who was satisfied with what we are being asked to believe in this world,’ said Falcón. ‘That was the point of your discourse on Iraq, wasn’t it? Not just to show me the Arab point of view, but also your appreciation of a greater truth.’
‘But what has led you to believe that you could ask me such a question?’
‘I ask it because, like me, you are pro-Muslim and pro-Arab and anti-terrorism. You also want there to be change and to make progress rather than a great regression. You are a man of integrity and honour…’
‘I wouldn’t normally associate those virtues with the amorality of spying,’ said Di
ouri.
‘Except that, knowing you, your purpose would not be financial reward or vanity, but rather a belief in bringing about change without pointless violence.’
‘You and I are very similar people,’ said Diouri, ‘except that our roles have been reversed. We have both been wronged by monstrous fathers. You have suddenly discovered that you are half Moroccan, while I should have been brought up Spanish, but have become Moroccan. Perhaps we are the embodiment of two entwined cultures.’
‘With messy histories,’ said Falcón, nodding.
21
Seville—Wednesday, 7th June 2006, 08.43 hrs
The radio promised the Sevillanos a day of towering heat, in excess of 40°C, with a light Saharan breeze to sting the eyeballs, dry the sweat and render the site of the destroyed building a serious health hazard. Consuelo was still groggy from the pill she’d taken at three in the morning, when she’d realized that watching Darío’s fluttering eyelids was not going to help her sleep. As always, she had a busy day ahead, which would now be enclosed by the parentheses of sessions with Alicia Aguado. She did not think about them. She was removed from what was happening. She was more aware of the bone structure of her face and the snug mask of her skin, behind which she hoped to keep operating.
The mood of the radio presenter was sombre. His words of reflection did not penetrate, nor did his announcement of a minute’s silence for the victims of the bombing, which had been called for midday. Her eyelids closed and opened as if she was expecting a new scene with every blink, rather than the same scene, minutely changed.
The sleeping pill dulled the adrenaline leak into her system. Had she been any sharper, the terrifying sense of coming apart that she’d experienced yesterday would have been too powerful a memory, and she would have glided past Aguado’s consulting room and driven straight to work. As it was, she parked the car and let her legs carry her up the stairs. Her hand engaged with Alicia Aguado’s white palm as her hips fitted between the arms of the lovers’ chair. She bared her wrist. Words came to her from some way off and she didn’t catch them.