‘Ryan, it’s scarcely credible,’ Dr Edwards told him when they met at the UN post near the harbour. He pointed to the map marked with a maze of boundary lines and fortified positions. ‘Today there hasn’t been a single major incident along the Green Line. North of the airport there’s even a de facto ceasefire between the Fundamentalists and the Nationalists.’
Ryan was staring at the sea, where a party of Christian soldiers were swimming from a diving raft. The UN guard-ships were close inshore, no longer worried about drawing fire. Without meaning to dwell on the past, Ryan said: ‘Angel and I went sailing there.’
‘And you’ll go sailing again, with Nazar and Arkady.’ Dr Edwards seized his shoulders. ‘Ryan, you’ve brought off a miracle!’
‘Well…’ Ryan felt unsure of his own emotions, like someone who has just won the largest prize in a lottery. The UN truck parked in the sun was loaded with crates of blue uniforms, berets and helmets. Permission had been granted for the formation of a Volunteer UN Force recruited from the militias. The volunteers would serve in their own platoons, but be unarmed and take no part in any fighting, unless their lives were threatened. The prospect of a permanent peace was at last in sight.
Only six weeks after Ryan had first donned the blue helmet, an unbroken ceasefire reigned over Beirut. Everywhere the guns were silent. Sitting beside Captain Gomez as they toured the city by jeep, Ryan marvelled at the transformation. Unarmed soldiers lounged on the steps of the Hilton, groups of once-bitter enemies fraternised on the terrace of the Parliament building. Shutters were opening on the stores along the Green Line, and there was even a modest street market in the hallway of the Post Office. Children had emerged from their basement hideaways and played among the burnt-out cars. Many of the women guerrillas had exchanged their combat fatigues for bright print dresses, a first taste of the glamour and chic for which the city had once been renowned.
Even Lieutenant Valentina now stalked about in a black leather skirt and vivid lipstick jacket, blue beret worn rakishly over an elegant chignon.
As they passed her command post Captain Gomez stopped the jeep. He doffed his blue helmet in a gesture of respect. ‘My God! Isn’t that the last word, Ryan?’
‘It certainly is, captain,’ Ryan agreed devoutly. ‘How do I even dare approach her?’
‘What?’ Gomez followed Ryan’s awestruck gaze. ‘Not Lieutenant Valentjna — she’ll eat you for breakfast. I’m talking about the soccer match this afternoon.’
He pointed to the large poster recently pasted over the cracked windows of the nearby Holiday Inn. A soccer match between the Republican and Nationalist teams would take place at three o’clock in the stadium, the first game in the newly formed Beirut Football League.
"Tomorrow — Christians versus Fundamentalists. Referee-Colonel Mugabe of the International Brigade." That should be high-scoring…’ Blue helmet in hand, Gomez climbed from the jeep and strolled over to the poster.
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…?