Quill of the Dove

by Ian Thomas Shaw

Chapter

  8

  Nicosia – February 2007

  MARIE PACKS HER BAGS for the flight to Istanbul. She’ll leave from the Turkish side—a chance to see Ibrahim again. She likes the thought of that. She’ll come back to Cyprus soon enough, and then …? There’s a knock on the door. Could it be Ibrahim passing by to say goodbye? The thought delights her. Marie walks quickly to the door, brushing her hair back. She opens it to the two men whom Uncle Khalid took away in the police car. She steps back defensively.

  “Don’t worry,” David says. “We only want to talk to you, and to warn you about Taragon.”

  “Yes, you should know what you are getting into,” Ari says.

  Marie looks furtively for a weapon. There is none. She acquiesces.

  “Downstairs in the restaurant,” she says.

  To her surprise, both David and Ari turn and begin to walk toward the stairs. Marie grabs a pen and notepad and follows them.

  They choose a corner table. David scans the room. Ari pulls out a thick envelope with photographs. One by one, he places them on the table. They are of two men. One is obviously an Arab. The other she’s not sure.

  “Have you ever seen these men before?” Ari asks.

  “No, never.”

  He then pulls out two more pictures. They’re blurred but she recognizes Taragon in both. Each with one of the two other men.

  “This man is Abdullah ‘Akkawi, a.k.a. Abu Munir. He’s a Hamas terrorist. This one is a radical Israeli politician—a traitor.”

  “I told you that I don’t know them!”

  “But you know Taragon.”

  “Yes.”

  “We believe that Taragon is brokering the sale of Israeli military secrets to terrorists. That’s why we’re here.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Do you know where Taragon is going next?”

  “No.”

  “Well, where are you going now?”

  “To Athens,” she says, lying.

  “With a ticket on Turkish Airlines?”

  Marie’s face reddens. Then she sees her taxi driver Spiros standing by the bar watching them and speaking into a cell phone. She suddenly feels safe and leans forward toward the older Israeli agent, presses her pen to the notepad and says: “You seem to know a lot about me so you must also know that I’m a journalist. And I know that you are Israeli spies travelling on fake Canadian passports. That’s a story I can file within an hour. So don’t try to push me around!”

  David spots Spiros. He whispers in Ari’s ear. The two men rise from the table.

  “Ms. Boivin, we’ll meet again. Remember that a reputation for helping terrorists won’t help your career.”

  Va te faire foutre, Marie thinks. She notices David’s eyes are firmly on her. They’re not like Ari’s eyes, which are cold and dispassionate. David’s project desire, a menacing desire. She stands up, determined to show her resolve.

  “No, we won’t meet again!”

  Ari watches her walking away. For a moment he admires her courage.

  Chapter

  9

  Ramat HaSharon, Israel – February 2007

  THE OLD MOSSAD AGENT closes the door to the director’s office and fumes at the berating, to which he’s just been subjected. He is even angrier over his own mistakes. It was supposed to be a simple operation in Cyprus. Confront Taragon, tell him to back off on his plans to broker a peace deal—that was all there was to be to it. The Mossad already knows the basics of what Taragon is trying to do. They’re fairly sure that Bronstein and Abdullah ‘Akkawi are part of it. Bronstein, they can handle. All they need is to fabricate a scandal to discredit him. Perhaps, Photoshop him into a picture with an under-age prostitute. The ultra-nationalist press would love that. They hate his pro-peace views. Someone suggested putting in a boy instead of a girl, but the director, himself gay, cringed at the thought of stirring up the homophobic tendency of the religious right.

  ‘Akkawi is another matter. No one in the service knows now what he looks like. The Iranian surgeons did a good job, and his inner circle has proven impenetrable. Even Ari’s main informant in Gaza, Muhammad Shehadi, hasn’t seen ‘Akkawi since the surgery, or so Shehadi tells him. Ari doesn’t trust the Fatah commander though. The man has played both sides for too long for anyone to really know where his loyalties lie. Ari had proposed to his superiors that they reach out to the Iranians to make a deal. One photo of ‘Akkawi against information on several Iranian dissidents in the US. Their friends in the CIA would oblige them, and the Iranian Revolutionary Guards would welcome such a deal, he argued. ‘Akkawi is close to Iranian moderates and has spoken out against the growing influence of the Guards in the Hamas movement.

  It pisses Ari off that his superiors are no longer listening to him. It’s in Israel’s interest that the peace initiative fail. When peace comes, it must be on Israel’s terms, and the sick notion that any Palestinian refugee would return to Israel could never be part of that deal. It turns his stomach that Bronstein, a man with whom he had once hunted Arabs, is now part of this conspiracy.

  Ari rearranges his desk. He knows that he has to get the case back on track. He’s getting old, and his bosses have hinted more than once about retirement. Retirement? What would he do in retirement? He has served the state all his life, seen two marriages disintegrate because of it, and is childless. No, he’ll track down Taragon and put an end to it. His superiors are clear that they no longer want to hear how he does it as long as he gets the job done.

  David enters his office and takes a chair. How Ari despises this young upstart. An idiot who thinks more with his cock than his brain. Had David stayed away from the balcony at the hotel, Marie Boivin would have been none the wiser.

  It chafes him how quickly they were made in North Nicosia. The Canadian must have tipped off Taragon’s friend, the schvartze police chief. It could have been worse though. By sheer luck, a Turkish intelligence official was visiting when they were detained. The Turk had long been on Mossad’s payroll, and he was senior enough to speak directly to the interior minister. Within an hour, they were delivered to the Greek side.

  Suddenly, he realizes that David has been speaking to him.

  “What?”

  “Ari, like I just said, the cyber folks are telling me that Taragon must be back in Nicosia. He’s making calls from there to Beirut.”

  “It’s a decoy, Shmendrik. There’s no way that Taragon would have returned so quickly. Anyone can make a call from his phone.”

  David bites his tongue. He hates it when Ari uses Yiddish words that he doesn’t understand. The man has been forty years in Israel, and he still speaks like he’s just off the boat. Just a few more months and the old man will be out of here. If he plays his cards right, he could get his job. All he needs is one more screw-up from Ari, and he can throw the old man under the bus. Few in the service will shed a tear for him when he is gone. But Ari has a lot of authority while he keeps his job. He still instils fear in more than a few of his colleagues.

  Ari picks up the phone. “Get me the consulate in Montreal.” If they can’t track Taragon and the other two, they can certainly find out where the girl might be headed next.

  Ari dismisses David. “Take some holidays,” he tells him.

  David grins. Why not? There’s that Swedish stewardess who is flying into Tel Aviv for a twenty-four-hour layover. He could use some recreation, although he’s found it hard to get the Canadian girl off his mind.

  As soon as David leaves, Ari pulls out his stash of passports. Rumanian, Hungarian, Brazilian and then the prize of them all, the EU. He doesn’t like to use it often, but it’s the passe-partout. From his filing cabinet, he selects a Belgian driver’s licence and identity card. Perfect. European security services may be on the look-out for Mossad agent Ari Epstein, but Belgian businessman Hendrik Achterberg is free to travel wherever and whenever he wants.

  Twenty minutes later, the call comes in. “Istanbul. She has a flight there tonight.”<
br />
  Mr. Achterberg dons his fedora and overcoat and heads to Lod Airport.

  Chapter

  10

  Istanbul – February 2007

  THEIR MERCEDES-BENZ BUS speeds along the highway from Gordiyon to Istanbul. The visit to the city of the “Knot” wasn’t just for good luck but has allowed Taragon and Bronstein to blend into the regular movement of foreigners from the ancient capital of Phrygia to Turkey’s burgeoning metropolis. For good measure, they’ve taken seats far from each other and now feel confident that they’ve covered their tracks.

  Bronstein silently watches the Anatolian plains roll by. It will be the first time in almost twenty-five years that he’ll see Abdullah ‘Akkawi. He’s heard that ‘Akkawi had changed after Sabra and Shatila. According to his sources, the young Palestinian fighter, an atheist with socialist ideals and open to European culture, has become a hardened Islamist.

  Taragon has assured him that ‘Akkawi is sincere about starting second-track peace negotiations. Bronstein hopes his friend is right. There’s a lot of Israeli blood on ‘Akkawi’s hands—true they were all combatants, and Bronstein too has taken lives in defence of Israel. Still, military intelligence wants ‘Akkawi dead. But he needs him to succeed—peace is made with enemies, not friends. ‘Akkawi is the only enemy he really trusts, the only one who once spared his life, even if he repaid that debt many years ago.

  Bronstein watches the Turkish army trucks headed to the east. He’s heard that the Turks might be launching a major offensive into northern Iraq to fight Kurdish guerrillas. Another war in the Middle East. Will it ever end? He sees his friend begin to take notes. Taragon always the diligent journalist, can he now succeed as a peace-maker?

  Minaret after minaret zig-zags against the dying light of the Istanbul skyline. The encounter with the Israelis in Cyprus still haunts Marie, but she feels safer now. She’s met up with her friend Minh Chau Nguyen who’s in Istanbul to represent the Canadian government at a UN conference. Her interview with Taragon is the next day. Today, they’ll spend the afternoon in the Grand Bazaar.

  Marie sits back in her chair and lowers her sunglasses. Minh Chau, always a lively woman, is radiant today as she talks about her boyfriend.

  “Marie, Mathieu is an incredible man.”

  “I’m so happy for you, Minh Chau.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well, I think that I’m pregnant.”

  “That’s fantastic news!” Marie gently caresses her friend’s face with the palm of her hand and smiles. “You will have a beautiful baby!”

  A small tear of happiness runs down Minh Chau’s cheek.

  The splendour of their silence is broken by the ringing of Marie’s cell phone.

  “Hello. Yes, it’s Marie. Oh, Monsieur Taragon! A letter. Yes, I can pick it up. What is the address again? 27 Hoca Paşa Muhammad Street. Hotel Yildiz. Got it. Pas de quoi. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “So that was him?” Minh Chau asks. “Taragon, I mean?”

  “Yes. He’s asked me to run an errand for him tonight. Can you come with me? It’s not far.”

  “Of course!”

  Abdullah ‘Akkawi watches the two young women laughing and sipping Turkish coffee. The Vietnamese girl is stunning, but it is the blond Canadian who reminds him of someone from his past. Remarkably so. The years have never healed the loss of those closest to him. He moves to see the girls better. ‘Akkawi’s network is world-wide. It didn’t take long to learn everything that he needed to know about Marie Boivin, including her father’s peacekeeping service in Lebanon and before that, in Cyprus. He hasn’t had time to check out the Vietnamese girl, but he will. ‘Akkawi must know everything—to survive.

  Marie and Minh Chau leave a generous tip for the waiter and head off to the Hotel Yildiz to pick up the letter. ‘Akkawi follows at a safe distance. He slouches to conceal his height. A short, bald man steps out of a taxi twenty metres behind the women. There’s something familiar about the man. ‘Akkawi watches him closely. It is clear that he’s following the women. But why?

  Marie turns and also notices the man. It’s the older Israeli from Nicosia. Their eyes meet for a second, and then he steps into a doorway to strike up a conversation with a prostitute. Marie whispers to Minh Chau that they’re being followed. She quickly tells her of the confrontation in Cyprus.

  “The man in the doorway?” Minh Chau asks. She is trembling with anger.

  “Yes.”

  “Leave him to me. Go get the letter at the hotel. I’ll see you later.”

  “Wait! Don’t!”

  Marie reaches out to pull her friend back, but she’s already on her way to confront Ari.

  ‘Akkawi is also closing in on the Israeli. He recognizes the cold look in the man’s eyes. It takes him back to Beirut—to his son’s bloodied body collapsed against the wall. The repressed anger of twenty-five years rises within him.

  Minh Chau reaches Ari Epstein first. She slaps his face.

  “You bastard! What are you doing cheating on me with this ugly whore?”

  “What!?” Ari says.

  “Don’t call me ugly, you Asian bitch!” the prostitute lashes out.

  “I’ll call you anything I want. Leave my husband alone!”

  A crowd gathers. The prostitute darts off. Ari too tries to extricate himself, but Minh Chau holds him back, screaming: “Police!”

  ‘Akkawi has his knife out. He’s two metres from his prey. He knows where he’ll strike. He finds an opening and moves in. The screech of rubber against the curb stops him. From the corner of his eye, he sees two officers step out of a police cruiser.

  “What’s going on here?” a young officer demands.

  Minh Chau begins to cry. “This man grabbed my breast!”

  Ari is baffled. Who’s this woman? Why is she doing this? Is she an agent?

  “You, come with us!” The policeman orders. Ari protests and reaches for his passport, but is slammed against the hood of the car and then forced to the ground. Stunned he looks up at a massive blurred figure approaching from behind the policemen. He strains his neck to get a better look. He sees the knife in the hulk’s hand. Suddenly, his mind flashes back to Lebanon—the giant he had once hunted? And now he is the prey? He tries to move, but both policemen pin him down. Ari waits for the blade to strike.

  ‘Akkawi hesitates. He could kill the Israeli, but he would have to take out the two policemen as well. He easily has sixty pounds on each of them and has the element of surprise. As he calculates the risk, Minh Chau steps in front of him and strains her neck to look up directly into his eyes. She whispers: “And who are you?” It is just enough to distract Abdullah while the policemen pull Ari up and push him into the back of the car. ‘Akkawi moves away. Marie’s young friend has a lot of bravado he thinks but is short on common sense.

  The young policeman gives Minh Chau a card. “Please come to the station to press charges. If you don’t want to, don’t worry. We will teach this man a lesson. We don’t like his sort in Istanbul.”

  Minh Chau briefly holds the policeman’s hand in both of hers to thank him, and then turns back to ‘Akkawi. The giant with the hardened anger in his eyes has vanished. But she already has his face etched in her memory.

  Marie pockets her cell phone as she approaches the hotel. The call from Minh Chau has calmed her down, at least a little. The Israeli has been arrested, but Marie is angry with herself that she let her friend take such a risk. What was she thinking? What were they thinking? She needs answers from Taragon.

  Marie first walks right past Hotel Yildiz. It must be one of the most nondescript hotels in all of Istanbul. Only a small sign above the doorway distinguishes it from the offices and shops on a run-of-the-mill street. Marie wonders why Taragon has chosen it. She enters the small lobby where an older man in a fez sits behind a desk. The man looks up from his newspaper. It’s in Arabic. His eyes are piercing, bluer than the Mediterranean—Circassian eyes.
/>
  “Yes,” he says in English.

  “I’m a friend of Mr. Taragon. I believe that he has left a letter for me.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Marie Boivin.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Le Devoir.”

  “Show me the palm of your left hand.”

  Marie complies. So Taragon had noticed after all.

  The old Circassian examines the scar the width of her hand, a souvenir from her earliest childhood. How she got it, she doesn’t remember. It runs from above her thumb to the base of her little finger. Its perfect straightness gives it an oddly aesthetic quality. The old man switches to French, “Très bien,” and unlocks a drawer to hand Marie an unmarked envelope. “Café Esmir. Mr. Black will find you there. Order a glass of Buzbaj. Drink it halfway and then put the envelope under the glass and leave the café. Don’t look back.”

  Marie stares at the man. She had not expected such elaborate precautions. He returns to his newspaper. On the front page, she notices a photo of tanks moving in convoy. With her very limited Arabic, she deciphers two words, Gaza and Israel.

  In Café Esmir, ‘Akkawi watches the girl from two tables away. It disturbs him—such a resemblance to his cousin. The coincidence tears at his heart. Old wounds, but ones that will never heal. He knows that Marie will look back after she leaves the café. She’s a journalist; she can’t help herself. He knows many journalists, but Taragon is the only one that he trusts. Most of the others are vampires, feeding off the blood of the dead, always wishing for more killing to report. Some seek only to ingratiate themselves with the brutal regimes that rule their countries and pay them handsome bribes. But the worst are the apologists—trained from an early age to convolute the facts to cover up crimes inspired by an ideal. Yes, he has known them all: Zionists, Communists, Baathists and Phoenicians. And now in his struggle—his jihad—he is fighting liars again, those who distort the truth in the name of God. With the help of Taragon and Bronstein, he will defeat these fanatics within his own movement.