“What will you do?”
“I want to come back. Will you have me?”
“Yes! And then?”
“I don’t know. I’m talking to Marc. It’s hard to see how we can salvage anything from this situation. Maybe it’s time I face up to reality.”
“Come back, Jonathan. You know I love you, but I don’t want you to give up! I know what Arkassa means to you.”
Bronstein feels her words—a salve for the all-encompassing fear of yet another failure. How long has he waited to find someone like her? Someone who already knows him, even if they have only been a few days together. He’ll tell Taragon of his decision. He won’t abandon the cause, but for now, he needs to return to Leyna.
Marie stands close to Taragon as Bronstein’s flight to Montreal takes off. She slips her hand under his arm. The three have spent the night sending out press releases about Arkassa, but none have been picked up by the media. Hezbollah has shelled northern Israel to commemorate the martyrdom of Abdullah ‘Akkawi. An Israeli child has been injured. Those are today’s headlines. Arkassa is already just a footnote in a long history of failed peace initiatives.
Their Circassian friend has intervened with Erdogan to allow a Turkish freighter to take Abdullah’s body from Spain to Northern Cyprus and from there by speedboat to Beirut. His old comrades are preparing his grave site in Sabra, next to his wife and son. Marc and Marie accompany Abdullah on the sea journey.
On the freighter, Taragon tells Marie about Abdullah. His heroism during the siege of Beirut. His resistance to the Israeli occupation of South Lebanon. Finally, Marie asks: “Who is Hoda?”
Taragon hesitates. She can see him twitch.
“Abdullah’s cousin.”
“Why did he say her name when he looked at us?”
Taragon looks at her, brushes a hair from her forehead.
“Well, there’s a resemblance. She was like you. Beautiful. Perhaps, Abdullah just wished to die remembering someone he loved.”
Marie freezes. Hoda, someone Abdullah, not Marc, loved? Hoda, perhaps just a cousin of a friend? She takes in a deep breath as she ponders the possibility that she may have been on the wrong track all this time. Then something else Marc has just said begins to fill her with a warm sensation—She was like you. Beautiful.
Chapter
37
Kyrenia, Cyprus – June 2007
SEA SPRAY WAKES MARIE. The harbour comes into view. She leans against the metal casket containing Abdullah ‘Akkawi’s body. Her hand stills when she touches the steel. She ponders his last words Hoda. Allah Karim. The cutting of the waves breaks the silence. The twilight reveals the contours of the town’s minaret. Soon the muezzin will call the faithful to prayer, but for now, Kyrenia sleeps. Marc sits at the bow with his back to her. His black figure merges with the night sky. She tries to imagine his face, but for the first time, she can’t.
The launch will dock at the Chimera taverna, where Taragon and Bronstein began their quest. The speedboat from Beirut won’t be long in joining them. The freighter from Barcelona has taken a full three days. Enough time for Marie and Marc to get to know each other. It’s rich background material for her next article on him, this time against the backdrop of an important peace initiative. But Marie still hasn’t asked about the photo. True, both have been too caught up in the moment, debating how they can put Arkassa back on track. Or is it that she just doesn’t want to know?
She watches Marc approach her, swaying from side to side as the waves rock the launch.
“Marie, I spoke to my editor. If you want to work with us, you can. It’ll pay you a lot more than Le Devoir.”
“Do you mean as a team?” There a flutter in her heart, the thrill of the unexpected offer and …
“Yes, at least for the short term. You’ll want to branch out on your own after a while, I imagine.”
“Can I think about it?”
“Bien sûr.”
She leans back in the launch. Working with Taragon would be a fantastic opportunity, but that is not why she sought him out. Maybe she’s already learned enough. Taragon was ‘Akkawi’s friend, wasn’t he? And it was ‘Akkawi who loved Hoda. Isn’t that what Taragon said—Loved? But how far did that love go? She looks at the metal container. What if the man inside is the one she’s been looking for?
Marie feels Taragon’s presence beside her. He sits and passes his hand across the casket, a caress, a gentle caress. Involuntarily, Marie does the same. Their hands come near, and Marie feels an urge to touch his. She turns to see if he feels it too, but Taragon doesn’t look up. Instead, he stares at the black metal as if he can see right through it. Thirty years of friendship now extinguished by an assassin’s bullet. Were it not for Arkassa, ‘Akkawi would still be alive. Time can’t be turned back, and even if Taragon could wish it so, ‘Akkawi wouldn’t want it. His friend believed in the predestination of all human existence. And he had died a true Shahid. Taragon leans forward to touch his forehead against the cold metal.
Marie watches him. She can’t hear his words but feels his tensed body relax. She knows that he’s making peace with ‘Akkawi, with himself. She wants that peace too—all of it. And she wants more …
The launch slides up along the quay. Taragon helps the crew lift ‘Akkawi’s casket onto it.
“Marie, let me help you,” a familiar voice says in French. She turns. Ibrahim. His face is beaming and his teeth shine in their immaculate whiteness. She grasps his outstretched hand and pulls herself onto the quay. An older black man walks over to join them. Taragon embraces him.
“Come here, Marie,” Taragon says. “I want to introduce you to my friend, Khalid Murat, Ibrahim’s uncle.”
“My pleasure,” the older man says. “What a relief to see both of you safe. I feared for the worse when I heard about Barcelona.”
“Khalid, Abdullah’s assassin was one of the two Israelis you detained,” Taragon says.
“Bok! I knew I should have disobeyed my orders and kept them longer in Cyprus.”
“It’s not your fault. Their influence is everywhere.”
“Look, I’m sending Ibrahim with you to Beirut. You can use the protection. But you must leave soon for your own safety. The boat to Beirut will arrive shortly.”
Taragon walks off to confer with Khalid in private while Ibrahim brings up a folding chair and a blanket for Marie.
“You must be very tired, Marie.”
“Yes, I haven’t slept much.”
“Marie, it’s good seeing you again.”
Ibrahim kneels beside her and smiles. He’s a beautiful man, but the attraction she had for him in Nicosia is no longer there. She turns to the water and watches the lights of an approaching speedboat come into view. The last leg of the journey will soon begin.
Chapter
38
Sabra Refugee Camp, Lebanon – June 2007
MARIE LOOKS AROUND HER. The concrete walls of the camp dwellings are barren, except for two posters announcing ‘Akkawi’s martyrdom. One is from Hamas, the other from the Popular Front. The funeral procession will start soon. The camp women separate her from Marc and take her to a large room. It’s covered with carpets and cushions and now crowded with many women. Some come to speak to her in Arabic. She tries to explain that she can’t speak their language. And they look puzzled. An old woman stands in front of her and stares. Only seconds pass, but Marie feels the weight of the old woman’s presence. The woman looks bewildered and yet vaguely familiar. She points at Marie and says: “Zayy Hoda.” A fashionably dressed woman escorts the old woman back to her seat.
The elegant woman returns to sit beside Marie. She says in good French: “Um Amin says that you look like her niece.”
“Do you mean Hoda?”
Marie’s blunt question unnerves the woman. She takes a moment before answering.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about her.”
The woman looks out a glassless window as if to find something in the blue sky beyond
. She turns back to Marie.
“Nous croyons qu’elle est morte—we believe she’s dead.”
“When? How?”
“When they all died.”
“In the war?”
“Yes, after Arafat abandoned them.”
“The Sabra and Shatila massacre?”
The woman becomes agitated.
“Je ne veux pas—I don’t want to talk about it. It was a long time ago, and nothing is certain.”
Marie suppresses her next question, not wishing to upset the woman. She looks around the room and wonders how many loved ones these women of Sabra lost in the massacre.
A knock on the door. The women rush to put on their hijabs.
“Tfaddelu—come in!”
A young man in a red and white keffiyeh pokes in his head, and says in English: “Marie Boivin?”
“Yes.”
“It’s time to go. The procession will start in five minutes. Mr. Taragon is asking for you.”
Marie tenses her muscles. Leave? Should she? There could be others among these women who knew Hoda. Maybe the answer isn’t with Taragon, but with them. She asks the elegant woman for her phone number.
The woman looks at her obliquely and then writes her name and number on a sheet of lined paper.
Selima ‘Akkawi 710697 Bikfaya.
The back of the Armenian’s shop is dark, barely enough light to see the glass of mint tea in front of him. Ari picks it up and sips slowly. He doesn’t like the taste of mint. It reminds him of the antiseptic scent of the morgue—a place he’s visited too often to identify foe and friend. He drinks the tea nonetheless. It’s the Mossad’s tradition to drink tea with their Arab hirelings.
The Director has given Ari Epstein a reprieve—one last assignment to make good his blunders. He looks at the morning’s Arabic paper, Al-Quds. On the front page is a photo of Taragon marching in the funeral procession in Beirut. He’s flanked by bearded men wearing Muslim skullcaps and others sporting red and white keffiyehs. Many carry Kalashnikovs; others signs denouncing Israel. The killing of ‘Akkawi has united the fundamentalists and the leftists. Further down the page is news of rockets launched from Gaza into Israel, a kidnapping of American tourists hiking near the Green Line, and the closure of the Al-Aksa mosque for two days. A new intifada is beginning.
A young boy brings him a copy of Le Monde. He gives the boy a ten-shekel note. Unlike his Arabic, Ari’s French is rusty. He learned it long ago, but it’s still good enough to make out most of the lead article. Kressmann is trying to calm the Muslims in France. One hundred cars have already been set aflame in the suburbs where many French Muslims live. ‘Akkawi has become larger in death than in life. Kressmann tells the protesters that he knew ‘Akkawi well and recently learned of his involvement in a new peace initiative called Arkassa. Kressmann says that, although this initiative has some fundamental flaws, peace advocates on both sides should launch new ideas like it. Ari despises Kressmann—a Jew who would sell out his own people for a few headlines in the newspaper is not a Mensch.
It was hard convincing the Director to give him another chance. The old man imposed on him two conditions. First, to spirit David’s body out of Spain. This was easily done—Israel has friends everywhere, even in Catalonia. The second will be the real challenge. He must negotiate with Muhammad Shehadi to silence Taragon.
The Fatah commander arrives.
“What do you want?”
Ari hates the insolence in Shehadi’s voice. Haven’t they paid him well enough over the years? Besides what is he now? Just a failure chased out of Gaza by Hamas.
“Sit down. We have something for you to do.”
“I don’t work for you anymore.”
“Calm down, my friend. This is also in your interest, and you want us to help you take back Gaza, don’t you?”
“Gaza! You should’ve given me the weapons I asked for when we still controlled it.”
“We gave you enough. Your men were incompetent.”
Shehadi gives Ari an ice-cold stare. He feels like ripping out the old man’s throat. Instead, he leans back and sneers. “If they’re so incompetent, why are you here now?”
“Good. Listen.”
Bronstein strokes Leyna’s back as he tunes into the BBC World Service. ‘Akkawi’s funeral in Beirut has brought out a hundred thousand mourners. Many more are marching in solidarity in Gaza. The whole of the Middle East is watching, but is the rest of the world? And the power brokers in Washington, London, Paris and Moscow—do they care?
Leyna props herself up on a pillow and pulls the sheet to cover her exquisite half-moon breasts.
“What will you do now, Jonathan?” she murmurs.
Bronstein leans in to kiss her shoulder and replies: “I have talked to my editors. They’ve agreed to make me the paper’s North American correspondent.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I want to be with you.”
“And Arkassa?”
“We’ll see if Marc can generate some support for it in Europe. If he can, I can try to promote it here. If not, it’s time to make a new start. I can no longer imagine returning to the madness back home. I want to stay here.”
Leyna likes his answer, the reassurance that he’ll be with her.
“Did you know ‘Akkawi well?”
“I met him in Lebanon. He spared my life when I was captured.”
“Captured?”
“I was with Israeli military intelligence when we invaded. ‘Akkawi’s men ambushed our car when we were chasing an escaped PLO fighter. Everyone else was killed, and I was taken prisoner.”
She wonders if she should ask more.
“Leyna, those were hard times. Both sides used gruesome interrogation techniques. The escaped prisoner was tortured. When he saw me, he tried to kill me. But ‘Akkawi stopped him.”
“Wait, you tortured someone?”
“No, not me, but he wanted to take his revenge on any Israeli.”
“Why did Abdullah save you?”
“I don’t know, but he kept me safe until a prisoner swap was arranged.”
“And Marc?”
“He was travelling with ‘Akkawi when I was taken prisoner. He interviewed me, and that interview was instrumental in convincing my government to do the prisoner exchange. At first, I didn’t trust him. He was close to the Palestinians, but his reports were always fair. When he became the Jerusalem correspondent for Le Monde and I went into politics, we became friends.”
Leyna watches him as he moves closer to her.
“But enough with politics. Come here.”
Leyna feels Bronstein’s strong arms embrace her. She opens up to him, pulling his hips toward her. She feels him enter her, slowly at first and then rapid deep thrusts. Her heart beats faster as the adrenaline fills her body. She moves in perfect unison with him, like she never has with a man before. As she is about to climax, he brushes her lips with his and whispers her name.
Chapter
39
Cairo, Egypt – July 2007
NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES throughout the world republish the photo essay by Taragon and Marie of ‘Akkawi’s funeral in Sabra. The images go viral on the internet. The royalties Le Monde’s editors couldn’t be happier. Bronstein has pile up, and done his part in interviewing Lebanese and Palestinian Montrealers who knew ‘Akkawi in Beirut. His reporting is a direct challenge to the dead terrorist narrative of the mainstream Israeli press, and the Israeli right demands Bronstein’s head. But die-hard peace activists defend him. Some even call on him to return to take over the leadership of the faltering Meretz party.
The Mossad’s attempt to deflect blame onto Iran has faltered. Not only does Tehran deny that it had anything to do with ‘Akkawi’s death, but a Russian hacker releases intercepted e-mails between Ramat HaSharon and an intern at the Hospital del Mar in Barcelona, attesting to the conspiracy to “disappear” David’s body. Then David’s aunt goes public demanding that he be given a hero’s funeral. Only
the most right-wing Israeli papers continue to print the concocted story of Iranian involvement. Meretz MPs call for an inquiry into the young man’s death but stop short of accusing the government of ordering ‘Akkawi’s assassination.
Arkassa is dying a lingering death. No rational observer will deny the value of the initiative, but the killing in Barcelona has changed everything. European politicians are simply not prepared to back it without a prominent new Palestinian interlocutor.
Taragon looks around La Recyclerie bar for his editor, Pierre Chevrier. The bistro is a popular attraction for left-wing journalists. He says hello to a few as he moves toward the table in the back that Chevrier normally takes. There he is, sitting with his back to the wall, positioned to see all who come into the café. Taragon appreciates his editor’s precautions. Both of them have more than a few enemies.
“Bonjour, Pierre. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem. Please sit. The duck is very good here.”
“Before we order, can I tell you what I want to do with Arkassa?”
“If you must. It’s lunchtime though, and I’ve barely had anything to eat today.”
“Thanks.”
“Well?”
“We’re going to Gaza.”
“To Gaza? The Israelis will never let you through.”
“I don’t plan to go through Israel.”
“Then how?”
“Egypt and then the tunnels.”
“How do you plan to get Egyptian approval for illegally crossing an international border?”
“Don’t worry. I have contacts there. It’s only a matter of money. All Egyptian officials can be bribed.”
“Okay, so you get to Gaza, then what?”
“‘Akkawi’s closest supporters are there. They’ll listen out of respect for him. And there are other voices of reason in Gaza, others who see hope in compromise and oppose the religious hard-liners.”
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