“Back in the jeep.”
“Wait. You’re not the Jonathan Bronstein who writes for Haaretz?” Marc asks.
Bronstein feels a sense of hope—perhaps, these journalists could be useful after all. “I’m surprised that you know that.”
“A couple of your pieces on Palestinians in the Galilee have been carried by my magazine.”
“Are you also prisoners?”
“No, we’re just covering the story. We’re based in Beirut.”
Bronstein studies the two western journalists. Is the PLO now so savvy as to convince Western journalists to accompany it on dangerous front-line missions or are these just two hard-core Palestinian supporters?
“One of them nearly killed me by the river. The commander stepped in to stop him,” Bronstein says.
“Yes, Abdullah.”
“Why did he do that?”
“Killing prisoners is not his thing.”
“Count yourself lucky, Bronstein. Not many Palestinian officers would have saved you.”
Bronstein sits back and tries to adjust himself to compensate for his bound arms. He can feel the young guard trembling beside him, jittery from so much foreign conversation. Marc decides to put the guard at ease by speaking to him in Arabic.
“Huwi Suhufi—He’s a journalist.”
“Suhufi, wallahi?—A journalist, really? Bas huwi Isra’ili—but he’s an Israeli?”
“That’s right, he’s a war correspondent.”
Bronstein joins in Arabic. “Minayn inta, ya shaab—where are you from, young man?”
The eyes of the guard widen. Not just one Franji speaking good Arabic, but two, and the second is an Israeli with a heavy Bedouin accent.
The Syrians have tripled the checkpoints along the Beirut-Damascus highway. Marwan’s and Hoda’s cover story is pretty tight though. They are a newly-wedded couple on their way to visit relatives in Bab Al Sharqi, one of the Christian quarters in Old Damascus. The Syrian soldiers at the checkpoints don’t pay too much attention, gratefully accepting the cartons of Marlboros that Marwan offers them. It’s at the border that they’ll face the greatest scrutiny.
“Do you know our contacts in Damascus?” Hoda asks.
“No, I only have their names and addresses.”
“Can we trust them?”
“Uncle Fouad does.”
Hoda has an uneasy feeling in her stomach. She’s risked being captured by Maronites, Mourabitoun and numerous other groups in Lebanon, but Syrian intelligence is something else. Assad has agents everywhere in Syria. It’s hard to imagine that she and Marwan can simply drive into Damascus and meet up with Assad’s political opponents without being detected.
At the Lebanese border crossing at Masnaa, the line-up is longer than usual. They notice a lot of license plates from Sidon and Tyre. The inflow of people fleeing the Israeli advance has already begun. The Lebanese gendarmerie checks their papers. All is in order. Lebanese can still enter Syria without passports, so it’s fairly routine. Down the road at the Syrian border post in Jdaidet Yabous, things will be different.
Abdullah spares Bronstein the physical abuse that goes along with the usual interrogation. Capturing an Israeli officer is an achievement in itself, and Bronstein will be an important bargaining chip in the prisoner exchange that’ll inevitably follow the ceasefire. In any case, it’s unlikely that Bronstein knows anything of value. The Israelis are already at the Litani River, the objective of their current operation, or so they’ve proclaimed to the world. The Palestinians have now seen their enemy’s order of battle, and they’re employing the guerrilla tactics that they’ve learned from earlier skirmishes along the border. Palestinian and Lebanese spies throughout South Lebanon are watching every move made by the Israelis and their allies in the South Lebanon Army. Each day that the Israeli forces stay between the Litani and Israel’s border with Lebanon is a day well spent by the Palestinians studying their enemy’s vulnerabilities.
Bronstein is confused about the privileged treatment he’s being accorded. He had expected at the least to be beaten by his interrogators. Instead, they just sit there asking the same questions over and over again. The interrogation lasts four hours before he’s sent back to a makeshift cell, where Riley visits him a few hours later.
“Was it rough?”
“No.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing.”
“What would you like to tell the people in Israel?”
“Tell them that I’m safe.”
“Okay, we’ll put that in. Anything else?”
“No, that’s it. Thanks.”
Riley offers him a cigarette, which Bronstein refuses. “Not good for the health.”
“I thought soldiering was not good for the health.”
“We serve our country,” Bronstein says.
“You know, he’s half-Jewish.”
“Who?”
“Your captor—Abdullah ‘Akkawi.”
“How is that?”
“His mother was a Jew from Algeria. Married a Muslim in Haifa. That’s where Abdullah was born.”
Bronstein starts going through in his head the dozens of intelligence files that he’s read on Palestinian fighters. ‘Akkawi. Yes, a Popular Front fighter in close contact with the rabbi in Beirut. An atheist. But he hadn’t read anything about him being part Jewish. It would explain a lot of things. So both he and ‘Akkawi are from Haifa and share Jewish blood. Neither believes in God. And yet both are fighting on different sides of a conflict fuelled by religion. Bronstein grins at the irony.
Marc visits Bronstein on the fourth day. He hands Bronstein a copy of the Irish Post. A four-paragraph article by Riley has made the front page.
“Riley did you a huge favour. I heard Haaretz has run a translation of the article. There’s already talk of a prisoner exchange.”
A knock on the door interrupts them. Abdullah enters.
“You leave tomorrow.”
“To where?” Bronstein asks.
“To the airport. Your government has agreed to our conditions.”
Chapter
35
Barcelona – May 2007
TARAGON TRAVELS LIGHT. He doesn’t want to be caught waiting for luggage. He goes straight to the taxi stand and asks to be taken to the Plaça de Catalunya. There he can mingle with the crowd and lose anyone following him. During the ride into the city, he sends a text message to Aleix Mas, the head of media relations in the Catalan government, to give him the green light to release the media advisory. The press conference will start in an hour. Mas will officiate. He hopes that Bronstein and ‘Akkawi will be there on time, but not a moment sooner. He’s counting on the presence of the journalists to protect them. It’s a huge risk for everyone.
The plan is straightforward. Aleix Mas will introduce them. Taragon will present the Arkassa Initiative to the journalists, and Bronstein and ‘Akkawi will field the questions. During the question period, the Secretary General of the Spanish Socialist Party, Pablo Suárez, will announce his support for the initiative. Simple. Certainly not the elaborate launch Taragon had planned for Kressmann. When he sees Marie, he’ll ask her if she’s heard from Sharp. He knows that it’s a long shot, but if he can get the young American senator onside, things could move very fast.
“Are you new to Barcelona?” the taxi driver asks.
Taragon stiffens.
“Yes, I’m here for a few days on business.”
The driver switches to Catalan.
“But you are from here, correct?”
Taragon hesitates.
“Not really,” he replies in Spanish.
The driver nods.
“I’ve seen you before. On television. You’re that French journalist, the one always reporting on the Middle East, aren’t you?”
Taragon’s immediate reflex is to ask the driver to pull over.
The driver protests. He didn’t mean to cause offence.
“Now!” Taragon insists. He hands o
ver a twenty-euro bill and jumps out of the cab to disappear into a callecita. He runs for twenty minutes, ducking in and out of the narrow side streets before he disappears into a tapas bar.
He takes a seat by the window and watches the street. Perhaps he’s too cautious, even paranoid. The driver’s recognition of him was normal. He’s often appeared on Barcelona TV to talk about the Middle East. And he’s the only international journalist who speaks good Catalan. He curses himself. His reaction may have attracted unneeded attention. He looks at his watch. Twenty minutes to the launch. He checks the GPS on his Blackberry. He can make it by foot, but just. He looks up and down the street. Nothing suspicious stands out, but for good measure, he heads out the back of the bar.
Suárez begins to worry. The room is full of journalists. Taragon is a known figure in Spain. Several of his books have been translated into Spanish. Taragon has even written a book in Catalan, a short biography of his father. Could he have been spotted? Could they be tracking him now? Suárez had offered him a bodyguard, but his old friend was too stubborn. Neither of the other two guests has turned up. The old Socialist curses. It took a lot to bring on board the party’s executive. It has been fifteen years since the Madrid Conference. Peace is more distant today than ever. Why should the Socialists take another gamble, especially for an initiative to which they haven’t even been given the full text? Suárez called in many markers to swing the vote to endorse the Arkassa Initiative, and even then he was short of a majority on the first vote. It was the old warhorse Gonzalez, a veteran of the resistance to Franco, who swung over the others. “I knew the father,” he said. “A good man. We should trust the son.”
Suárez sees a giant of a man approach. Matias, his personal security, steps out to intercept him. Suárez signals Matias to stop.
“Señor ‘Akkawi?”
“Yes.”
“Mucho gusto.”
“Thank you.”
‘Akkawi looks beyond Suárez. Bronstein is coming down the corridor from the other entrance. Seeing the hulking figure of ‘Akkawi, hovering over the diminutive Suárez, Bronstein stops and waves.
‘Akkawi steps forward to clasp Bronstein’s forearm. Several photographers begin to take pictures of Palestinian and Israeli joining forces for peace. They’ll make brilliant headlines in the morning papers. Suárez looks at his watch. Where the hell is Taragon?
David adjusts his glasses. He doubts that Taragon will recognize him in the crowded room. If Taragon even saw him in Nicosia, it could have only been for a second, and now he’s sporting a full beard. Taragon had given him the slip in Paris. He’d searched Harry’s Bar inch by inch before he saw the damaged vent. He was about to fly back to Israel when Ari called him. Mossad’s research team had dug up Taragon’s Catalan ties, and based on their psychological profile of him suggested that Barcelona would be his most likely destination. When a sympathetic journalist tipped them off about the press conference, David was already on the ground.
David’s orders are clear. Stand by the entrance for a quick exit. Disrupt the press conference as soon as it starts. He has placed an incendiary device near the fire alarm. A small hand-held detonator will set it off, making a loud explosion, triggering the alarm and creating havoc. But he has one other order—more difficult to execute.
David bends his elbow to take the detonator out of the pocket of his jacket, only to be jostled by someone rushing into the room. The device flies from his hand.
“Excusez-moi.” The man apologizes in French. David checks his gun. The man is now moving quickly toward the front of the room. Shit, it’s Taragon!
From behind the curtains walks out ‘Akkawi, followed by the traitor Bronstein. They join Taragon at the podium. It’s time. David looks for the detonator. Taragon begins to speak in Spanish.
“Estimados colegas de la prensa. I would like to present to you today a plan to change the path of history in the Middle East.”
A young woman begins to distribute photocopies. Her curvaceous figure distracts David for a second. Where is the damned detonator? Finally, he spots it on the floor just in front of a heavy-set journalist. Should he risk calling attention to himself by going after it?
The journalists are listening attentively to Taragon. Two cameramen have started recording the event. One is filming the audience. David raises his arm to conceal his face. It’s too late to disrupt the press conference. The photocopy girl is looking straight at him. It’s the Canadian! She turns toward Bronstein and points at David. No time left. He must execute Plan B. ‘Akkawi must not leave alive.
Bronstein is talking to Suárez. The tall man is slightly in front of them. Damn it! He won’t have a clear shot. David notices the bulge in the tall man’s jacket. A bodyguard! Then he sees the others in the corners. Men who aren’t onlookers. Men with an intensity in their eyes. He watches them scan the room. Are they looking for him? He turns to walk away. No point in getting killed here. There are few places for the Palestinian to hide in Barcelona. He’ll track down ‘Akkawi later. He hopes that Epstein will order him to kill all three.
The big journalist shuffles in his chair kicking the detonator forward. The woman in front of him turns to glare and in doing so, steps on the remote. The loud explosion and alarm send the journalists running for cover. When David recovers from his shock, he looks for his target. Gone!
‘Akkawi has been watching the young, bearded man since Taragon bumped into him. The man’s reflex to check his pocket is the first clue; his nervous look at the floor the second. When Marie points at him and quickly rushes away, it confirms his suspicion.
‘Akkawi was ready then and there to gather his men and leave the press conference, but he’d noticed how intently the journalists listened to Taragon. There must be a way to neutralize the Israeli to allow the press conference to continue. His men stationed in the corners haven’t noticed the Israeli yet. The explosion allows ‘Akkawi to make his move. Bending low, he races quickly but quietly down the left side of the room.
David has now recovered fully from the explosion. His eyes dart around the room, but only at the last second does he see ‘Akkawi in his peripheral vision. The giant is moving quickly toward him from the left. He gets off a single shot before ‘Akkawi slams into him. The bullet hits a bystander in the shoulder. As he falls under ‘Akkawi’s two hundred and fifty pounds, he aims inward to stop the giant. A second shot. David hits the floor hard. His skull cracks.
‘Akkawi’s men help him to his feet. He stands straight up but then falters. Blood gushes from his neck. The second shot has severed an artery. He hears the shouts around him and collapses. A strong hand turns his shoulder to lay him on his back. He can barely make out Taragon’s blurred face above him. Beside him is another familiar face. It’s the first time that he’s seen them together. The perfect image from the photo he took thirty years ago. He gasps: “Hoda. Marc. Allah Karim— God is merciful.” The bright light forces him to close his eyes. His throat constricts as he whispers the Shahada.
There is no god but God. Muhammad is the messenger of God.
Marie’s warm hand presses hard on ‘Akkawi’s neck to stem the bleeding. His voice is gone, but his lips move to say in silence: “Hedaya, Munir, Hoda, I failed you. Please forgive me.”
Chapter
36
Barcelona – May 2007
THE MEDICS IN THE AMBULANCE do what they can for Abdullah, but he’s lost too much blood. For a second or two, he comes back to consciousness. Hoda, he whispers. Taragon pales when he hears the name. The medics begin to close the back doors. Taragon attempts to climb in. No! No one can ride in the ambulance. One medic turns to Aleix Mas and whispers in Catalan: “Tell them that it is too late for his friend.” ‘Akkawi’s men overhear this and vanish into the crowd.
The journalists crowd around Taragon and Marie. They unleash a flurry of questions. Who was the bearded man? Is Abdullah ‘Akkawi dead? Will you continue with your peace initiative?
Marie holds Taragon’s arm, pushing
her left hand out to fend off the reporters. Suárez and Bronstein join them, and the security guards from the convention centre provide a protective circle around them. A SWAT squad enters the room. The TV cameras roll. Tonight the world will learn of the Arkassa Initiative, launched amid the deaths of two men. ‘Akkawi’s men in Barcelona will report back to Gaza that a hero of Palestine has fallen, and the calls for vengeance will begin.
Ari looks in disgust at the television. Fragmented reports of Arkassa are all over the news. Images of the assailant flash across the screen. CNN speculates that the man must have been an Iranian agent, citing his beard as proof of membership in the Iranian Revolutionary Guards. Absurd, yet already the Mossad is supporting the story. They’ll discreetly recover David’s body, and give him a proper funeral in Israel. But for now, it’s better to pin all of this on Tehran.
“Meir wants to see you.”
Ari’s shoulders droop. He knows his time has come. One too many screw-ups. The director of the Mossad is a hard man. Ari curses Taragon and Bronstein. They will walk away as heroes. And he, who gave everything to Israel, will be pensioned off. At least, that Shmendrik David took ‘Akkawi with him. Ari vows to take care of the other two.
Leyna Nguyen sits motionlessly in the immaculate office of her downtown medical centre. Since hearing of the attack in Barcelona, she has cancelled her morning appointments to wait for the call. The gentle vibration of the cell phone in her pocket puts an end to her anguish.
“It’s me, Jonathan.”
“Oh my God! I saw it on television. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“And Marc and Marie?”
“They’re fine too. Our friend Abdullah ‘Akkawi gave his life to save us. But it’s over. Arkassa is finished. Gaza is exploding over Abdullah’s death. His supporters are marching to celebrate his martyrdom and calling for vengeance against Israel. The Israelis are spinning his death as an Iranian assassination attempt. No one’s listening to what Arkassa is really about. Even the Spanish Socialists have pulled back their support. Things have become too hot for them.”
Quill of the Dove Page 19