Blood Rules by John Trenhaile Page A

paused, looking around the room as if in search of inspiration. “See here…. ”
    He went across to the hide briefcase that Colin Raleigh had so admired, half an hour before, and carried it over to where she was sitting.
    “This stuff isn’t real, of course.” He opened the lid. “But it’s how it will look on the day.”
    She gazed down at the arrangement of wires, the gray puttylike substance, at the slide switch, at all the mundane apparatus of indiscriminate death, and suddenly she felt exhausted. She wanted to go away and find a hole in the ground, crawl into it, and never come out.
    “You can’t be serious.” The words were wrung out of her in such a flat, toneless way that she felt them inadequate and tried again. “You can’t be serious.”
    “If Father wants you to go home,” Halib said, “you’d better go. That’s all.”
    “I won’t.”
    “We are at war, Leila.” “Our clients are at war!”
    “It comes to the same thing. Their cause is our cause, for the moment.”
    She stared up at her brother, aware of something new in him. “You enjoy this,” she said slowly, “don’t you?”
    He nodded. “To have important, interesting work; yes, it’s good. I don’t have to preach to you about the F’listin catastrophe.”
    “Palestine. The English word is not F’listin, it’s Palestine.”
    “So? You’re losing your roots, know that? Our enemies stole a country from a gentle, decent, farming people and made it into a fortress against all Arabia, against all the world. And they killed our grandfather in cold blood, because he bankrolled F’listin resistance.”
    “They
said
he did. That was a lie.”
    Halib laughed. “Of course it wasn’t a lie.”
    She caught her breath. “How dare you say such a thing?”
    “Because it is
true!
Ibrahim believed, passionately, that Palestine was Islamic ‘from the river to the sea.’ So he lent the PLO millions of
liraat.”
    Leila’s face had turned white, except for two unhealthy blotches in her cheeks. She was breathing heavily. Halib, seeing the state she was in, relented.
    “Poppet, angel: listen, I love you, eh? ‘My brother and I are against my cousin; cousin, brother, and I are against the stranger.’ That’s how it is.”
    “Not the whole of it.” She stood up. “If you’re going to quote, quote the first bit, too: ‘I am against my brother.’ That’s how it starts. ‘I am against my brother; my brother and I are against—"’
    “I see.” Halib’s voice was tight. “You say that to your
own
brother.”
    “If you accuse Grandfather of collaborating with those … those Palestinian butchers, then you are not my brother. I don’t know what you’ve become, but you’re not my brother.”
    “He only supported them because he was naïve!
Y’Allah!
Can’t you see the tip of your own nose?
He
didn’t realize that every cent went on Mercedes-Benzes and Katyusha rockets!”
    “He never did that. Never, never,
never!”
    Halib’s fists clenched, matching her own; related and riven by blood and a legacy of hatred, they teetered on the brink of saying unforgivable things. In the silence, Leila’s brain caught up with words she’d uttered unthinkingly: “You’re not my brother.” They’d spewed out because she would have said anything to fight him. But now she realized that truly this man, whom she’d loved to distraction all her life, was a false deity.
    If Leila thought about it for a second longer she would come face-to-face with the reality. So she did the only thing possible in the circumstances. She ran away.
    Later she had no recollection of how she got down to Beaumont Street. She came to herself on the corner of the High and Cornmarket, hearing bells chime five o’clock. She looked around her, saw the comfortingly strong-looking wall of a bank, and went to lean against it. After a while her legs failed her; she had to slide down the wall and sit on the pavement, where people cast glances varying from