Evan makes up his mind. He’ll find out what hell-hole they have Marwan in. After that, it’ll be up to Marc and Hoda to secure his release. Money will do the trick.
Marc’s decision to involve Evan is a dilemma for Hoda. She wished that he’d consulted with her about it, but she wouldn’t have been able to explain her objection anyway. Even with Marc, there are some things that she has kept secret. Through her work for the Social Nationalists, she’d found out exactly who Evan is, but has never told Marc. Yes, perhaps Evan could help, but the less Marc knows about her role in the party, the better.
Marc pulls out his maps of the Middle East. He’s always so organized.
“We’ll take the ferry from Limassol to Tartus. It’ll only take a day to travel from Tartus to Damascus.”
“Are you sure? That will take us through the Sunni heartland. Some of the cities are already rebelling against Assad.”
“It’s still our best bet. There will be less surveillance at the port in Tartus, and fewer checkpoints from Tartus to Damascus. Besides, I know an Armenian merchant in Limassol. He can facilitate the trip for us.”
Hoda pauses. It doesn’t surprise her about the Armenian. Marc has connections everywhere. Besides, he’s right about Tartus.
“Yes. Let’s go to Tartus.”
Rough weather delays the ferry’s arrival. As they pass the island of Arwad, the last Crusader stronghold in the Middle East, Marc slips his hand behind Hoda’s back, but she pushes it away.
“Not here.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll have time for that later. The people in this area are extremely conservative. We need to be careful.”
Marc smiles. He looks forward to when they’ll walk down the Champs d’Elysées, and stop and kiss for the whole world to see. He loves the Middle East, but the loss of personal freedom chafes him. Hoda takes out a white hijab, and buttons up her blouse. Soon they’ll be travelling through areas loyal to the Ikhwan, where men and women are rigidly segregated. And these fanatics are becoming stronger and more daring in their efforts to impose their will on the population. He’ll restrain himself, at least until they reach Damascus. Assad has many failings, but his Baathist regime guarantees that men and women can freely express their emotions at least in the Syrian capital.
The bump of the ferry against the dock shakes Marc. Within seconds, a tall immigration officer boards. The captain points the officer in the direction of Marc and Hoda. There’s nothing friendly in the way he walks toward them. Sweat forms on Marc’s brow and he feels Hoda tremble beside him.
“Documents please.”
They hand the man their passports.
He whips out the immigration seal and stamps them before they can say another word. The man’s face softens as he says: “Welcome to Tartus, and give my thanks to our Armenian friend.”
Chapter
42
Mieh Mieh – July 1979
ABDULLAH WATCHES HIS MEN TRAIN. They’ve learned much from fighting the Israelis during Operation Litani. He feels confident leading them into battle again.
He picks up the letter from Cyprus. Hoda has decided to disobey Fouad Saadeh and go to Syria. She wants to contact Popular Front members there who still have influence with the Assad government. She and Marc must obtain Marwan’s release, but first, they have to locate him. The Syrian prison system is a bewildering maze of institutions run by different groups within the government and military. Abdullah is unsure how to reply. His Popular Front movement is no longer in good standing with Assad. Any day now, the Syrian president might decide to throw all their leaders in Damascus into prison. There’s no point in Hoda contacting them.
Hoda also suggests in the letter that their cousin, Mustapha, the Sa’iqa commander in the Yarmouk refugee camp, might be in a position to help. It’s a long shot, but better than trying to enlist the beleaguered Popular Front leaders in Damascus. Abdullah has not seen Mustapha since they were boys, and more than once the Popular Front and Sa’iqa have found themselves on different sides of the barricades. Still, blood among Palestinians often runs stronger than any political ideology.
Abdullah calls in his second-in-command.
“Do we have any men from Yarmouk?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I want to send a message to my cousin, Mustapha.”
“The Sa’iqa commander?”
“Yes.”
“Why Sa’iqa? Remember what they did in Tel al-Zaatar.”
“Trust me on this.”
“Well, Ghassan Ajluni is from Yarmouk.”
“Yes, Ghassan. He fought well against the Israelis. Bring him.”
Abdullah folds Hoda’s letter. He takes a pen and paper and begins to write a letter to Mustapha and another to her. He’s careful to write in a cryptic style that won’t reveal too much if intercepted. He feels a hard knot in his stomach. From Mieh Mieh, there’s little he can do to protect his cousin. He hopes that Marc will keep her impulsive nature in check.
Hoda takes the key from the shopkeeper in Bab Sharqi. The room’s perfect for them. It is hidden inside the courtyard of a magnificent Ottoman house. Marc carries their bags in from the taxi. Renting rooms to tourists is common in Bab Sharqi. And they’re able to pass as young French honeymooners, raising no suspicions.
When Marc brings the bags into the room, he’s taken back by just how beautiful it is. The armoires and chairs are in-laid with mother of pearl in the most exquisite patterns. The poplar panels of the ceiling are carved with Arabic calligraphy—a Kufic script that he has trouble deciphering. Later Hoda will explain that it is poetry, and she’ll read it to him in the evenings ahead of them. The room’s broad beams are at least a foot thick. They must be centuries-old, he thinks. Marc lies back on the bed. He knows that the coming days will mark his life. Damascus is an enchanting city. Despite the risks they’re running, their time here will be magical.
“Hoda, let’s go to the Umayyad Mosque this morning. I’ve never been there. It’s only fifteen minutes away.”
“We have more important things than tourism to do.”
Marc is surprised by the curtness of her tone and feels a little chastised. Lately, Hoda’s moods have been unpredictable.
“When will you see Evan?” she asks in a calmer voice.
“This afternoon. We’ll meet at the Beit Jabri Restaurant in Qaymariya. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes, it’s not far. About a twenty-minute walk. I hope that Evan has some answers when we meet him?”
“We don’t meet him—I do. He asked me to come alone.”
“Why?”
“He doesn’t know if Marwan has told them anything yet, but he’s afraid that they might already know about you.”
Hoda stares at Marc. She knows what Evan has told him makes sense, but it still irritates her that she’s being left out. Her desire to find out what Evan has learned about Marwan is burning inside her. Besides, Evan is a spy and she doesn’t trust spies of any kind.
“Look, I’ll come right back after seeing Evan. If he’s learned anything, we can begin right away with speaking to our friends here.”
Hoda nods her head, resigned that she’ll have to wait a little longer. Slowly she unpacks their clothes, meticulously putting them away.
Marc takes out a map of the old city. He glances over at Hoda. Her figure has become more shapely, her breasts fuller. They haven’t been intimate since learning of Marwan’s disappearance.
“Come, mon amour. Show me on the map where the restaurant is.”
Hoda slips beside him. He circles her waist with his arm and strokes her belly as she points to the location of the restaurant and indicates other major landmarks in the city. Suddenly, he pushes away the map and kisses her. She pulls back for a second to gaze into his eyes, then presses her body against his. She quivers as he lifts her onto the bed. The worries of the past days vanish.
Evan drums his fingers on the table. Marc is uncharacteristically late. He begins to w
orry that everything is unravelling and his friend, and perhaps soon he too will be in real danger. The Syrians are no fools. He’s been careful to play perfectly his own role of the junior commercial attaché, pretending to be more interested in meeting Syrian importers of wheat and beef than politics. Hoda’s presence in Damascus threatens to upset that. She’s now a top operative for the Social Nationalists. His contact inside the party has told him as much and more. Evan realizes that he probably knows many things about Hoda that Marc does not, and it worries him.
The swaying of a waitress carrying a tray of appetizers distracts Evan for a moment. God, the women in this country are beautiful. His eyes begin to track her movements from table to table as he sips his third glass of Arak. His girlfriend, Raja, is refusing to visit him in Damascus, and his loins yearn for something new.
A hand lands on his shoulder. “You should stop staring!”
Evan whips his head around.
“You bastard! You scared me.”
“Did you think that I was the morality police?”
“Not quite. Around here, the Muslim Brotherhood does that job instead, and right under Assad’s nose.”
Marc sits as Evan pours him a glass of Arak.
“No thanks.”
“Drink, my fine French friend. You’ll need it when I tell you what I’ve learned.”
Marwan leans against the wall of his narrow cell. Only six by three feet, it is a coffin. Still, it’s large enough to house a family of rats, which scurry up and down the walls. He can’t see them, but he hears them all the time. He pulls his knees to his chin to avoid contact. Two of them are mating at the far end of the cell. He’s grown accustomed to their routine. For a moment, he ponders disturbing their love-making, but no longer has the strength to do so. Besides as long as they leave him alone, why should he? He searches for a ray of light through the metal grate that serves as a ceiling. It’s his only connection to the rest of the world.
He hasn’t slept for days. He doesn’t know how much more he can take. That morning, he overheard the guards talking about electrical cables. He’s seen how these cables have reduced once proud men to quivering figures hiding in the shadows. Through the walls, he hears their moans, silent entreaties to their divinity to save them.
Marwan no longer knows night from day. It’s always cold in the coffin. Occasionally, he hears the voice of another prisoner trying to speak to him through the wall, but he never replies. The Syrians are crude, but they’re also cunning. To protect everyone he cares for, he knows that he must say nothing, even in his sleep. To still the pain from the beatings, he thinks of Hoda. He thinks of her all the time. She has become the only reason to stay alive. He regrets never telling her how he feels. But he knows he’s deluding himself. There’s no doubt that she deeply loves Marc, but if only … Sleep silences his regrets, the what-ifs that will never be. And time is running out.
Abdullah’s instructions are clear. Ghassan is to find Mustapha ‘Akkawi, the Sa’iqa commander. It’s been nine years since Ghassan left his home in Yarmouk to join the Popular Front in Beirut, but the streets of the sprawling refugee camp are still familiar to him. He has to be careful to avoid meeting his relatives before delivering his commander’s message to Mustapha. The Syrian intelligence services have turned many of Yarmouk’s residents into informers, and he’s sure that some of his family are among those reporting regularly to the Syrians.
Ghassan glances at the sketch map. He’ll take a taxi to Al Kadam Railway Station, an old stop on the Damascus-Medina railway. From there, he can approach Yarmouk across the farmers’ fields. From Salahaddin Ayoubi Street, the main thoroughfare on the west side of the camp, it’s only a five-minute walk to Mustapha ‘Akkawi’s neighbourhood. Ghassan realizes that the commander’s house will be surrounded by bodyguards, but as least, they will all be Palestinian. There he can identify himself as a messenger from the commander’s cousin.
Ghassan feels a presence beside him. He realizes that he’s been careless, looking too long at the map. Two heavily armed Sa’iqa fighters have boxed him in.
“Can we help you, brother?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Ghassan sees no point in obfuscating.
“I have been sent to see Mustapha ‘Akkawi.”
“Sent by whom?”
“His cousin in Beirut.”
“Which cousin?”
“Abdullah.”
The two fighters look at each other. Abdullah ‘Akkawi’s reputation as a courageous leader with little love for the Syrian regime is well known.
“Will you take me to Commander Mustapha?”
The young fighters shrug their shoulders. “Come. He’ll be angry if you’re not telling the truth though.”
Abu George is a pragmatic man. His threat to use the iron chair is a bluff. When they strap Marwan to it and test the electrical cables, sparks fly into the air. Abu George studies the face of the Maronite. It betrays no sense of fear. He doesn’t flinch, even when one of the guards bends down to push the cable under the open seat of the chair. Abu George wonders where such courage comes from, and calls off his overzealous guard.
“Fine, we’ll get you the priest, but the price’s now forty thousand.”
It only takes one day for the priest to get the message to Fouad Saadeh. The Orthodox Church’s network in the Middle East is better than any postal system. Fouad doesn’t hesitate to arrange the ransom. Getting it to Abu George will be another matter. Syrian banks never accept such large personal transfers. And the money changers in Beirut and Damascus are all under Syrian control. Nevertheless, he sends a message that the money will arrive within a week.
Fouad needs to contact Hoda. He knows that she’s already in Damascus. He’ll use a Canadian supporter to have his cousin make the money available from a supermarket in Chtaura, but he will still need someone to take it into Syria. There’s one person in Damascus who would certainly know where Marc and Hoda are, and maybe he’s also the one person who can bring money unchecked through the border. He calls in his son.
“Do you remember the Australian who was always with Marc Taragon?”
“Yes, the one who loves to ogle the girls, and speaks Arabic like a Syrian.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“He’s now at the Australian embassy in Damascus.”
“That’s what I thought. His name was Evan, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Evan O’Shea.”
“Do you know how we can contact him discreetly?”
“We can ask his girlfriend in Shemlan. She’s a party member and keeps tabs on him for us.”
Fouad smiles at the irony of how easy it is to spy on spies.
Chapter
43
Beirut – July 2007
IF MINH CHAU WAS WORRIED about Marie in Gaza, she’s determined not to show it. She looks around the bar in the Saint George Hotel. She craves a drink, but she’s sworn off alcohol during her pregnancy. She looks down at the photos. There’s in the woman in the photo a striking resemblance to Marie, but nothing of the man in her. She turns to the book flap with Taragon’s photo. Again she sees not the slightest resemblance. She wonders if Marie is on a wild goose chase. Will the meeting with Selima ‘Akkawi clear things up? She hopes so. She’s sensed Marie’s fighting an attraction to Taragon. Would she act on it if Taragon had nothing to do with the woman in the photo?
Minh Chau is far too lost in her speculation to notice Selima hurrying down the hall toward her.
“Ms. Nguyen? I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Bonjour Madame ‘Akkawi. I was just enjoying the atmosphere. It’s a beautiful hotel. Please sit. Can I order you something?”
“No. Thank you. I’m fine.”
“You said that you had something important to share with me.”
“I do.”
“And I have something to show you.”
“Please.”
Minh Chau puts the faded photo on the table. The gasp from Selima
is audible. She gingerly picks up the photo. There’s no doubt—it’s the one Abdullah took thirty years ago. Carefully, she lifts it closer to examine the fine lines of her sister-in-law’s face.
“Please. Please tell me. Where did you get this?”
“It’s from Marie.”
“From Marie? How?”
“Yes, this photo was with her when she was adopted.”
“Where?”
“Beirut.”
Selima feels her heart contract. There’s no need to visit orphanages to rummage through dusty files. The proof is here. She catches her breath, straightens her shoulders and looks across the table at Minh Chau.
“The woman’s name is Hoda ‘Akkawi. She was my sister-in-law.”
“Could she be Marie’s mother?”
“Yes, but when Hoda disappeared, she didn’t have a child. How old is Marie?”
“Twenty-seven.”
Selima does the math in her head. Something is wrong.
“When was she found in Beirut?”
“September 19, 1982.”
The date jolts Selima. The day after the massacre. It’s the bitter confirmation that she had sought, but no less painful to hear.
“How did Hoda die?” Minh Chau asks.
Suddenly, Selima feels paralyzed. She wants to answer Minh Chau’s question, but no words come out. Tears gather in her eyes. Her chest again feels like it’s collapsing. Minh Chau reaches quickly over to catch her before she slips out of the chair.
Selima wakes to the cool napkin on her forehead. Soothing words. A gentle pat on her cheeks. A waiter helps her into a chair. A small crowd has gathered around them, but Minh Chau asks them to leave.
It’s the first time that Selima has fully accepted that Hoda is gone. For thirty years, she’s harboured the hope that one day Hoda would walk back into her life. Elie has shown her evidence suggesting Hoda’s death, but somehow it’s too clinical, too unreal to be true. She thinks of Marie—her fresh, beautiful face so much like Hoda’s. Through the narrow channel of her grief, Selima sees a ray of hope emerge. Hoda has left in this world something of herself.
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