Quill of the Dove

by Ian Thomas Shaw

  “Here. Drink some water,” Minh Chau says.

  Selima sips from the glass. The water is cool and laced with mint. The vaulted arches of the hotel come back into focus. The spotless marble floor. The cherrywood furniture. The touches of elegance soothe her.

  “I’m sorry,” Selima says.

  “Relax. Take your time. Drink some more water.”

  Selima swallows the cool liquid and then places on the table the blurry picture of Hoda and the infant in Bsarma, the one that Elie said one of his own men had taken while spying on the village.

  “This is the last picture of Hoda we have. I only saw it myself for the first time this morning. I don’t know for sure who the child is, but I now believe that it’s probably your friend.”

  “And the man in Marie’s photo?”

  “That’s Marc Taragon?”

  “He must be the father then?”

  “I don’t know. They were together only until 1979. And there was talk that Hoda left him for another man.”

  “Another man?”

  “Hoda vanished in Damascus. It was rumoured that she left Marc for a man, who’d been her friend for many years.”

  “And the man was?”

  “My cousin, Marwan.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you saying that Marc Taragon and Marie’s mother were together, but he isn’t her father?”

  “I can’t say for sure. Maybe the rumours were false. Maybe Marie is simply older than she thinks she is. I was living in France when Hoda disappeared. It was such a long time ago.”

  “Please tell me what else you know.”

  “I will. Please, may I have a moment?”

  Chapter

  44

  Kibbutz Zikim – August 2007

  TARAGON LOOKS AROUND the spartan room. He finds it hard to believe how easily he’s been smuggled into Israel from Gaza. The rendezvous point was only two kilometres from the kibbutz, just south of the Shikma reservoir. Taragon had emerged from the tunnel in the middle of the night and crawled his way through the sand dunes to the edge of the dirt road. There he waited.

  It wasn’t an operation without risk. The Israelis had lined much of the border with landmines, but the human smugglers in Ash-Shiafa had worked as agricultural labourers in Kibbutz Zikim before the border was closed. The Kibbutzniks had shown them the mined areas to avoid. At six o’clock sharp, an old woman drove a small tractor along the road. As planned, Marc darted out of the dunes and jumped into the trailer behind it.

  Before leaving Ash-Shiafa, one of the Gazans had pressed a ripe mango into Taragon’s hand. “Give this to Aunt Sadie,” he had said.

  Taragon reaches out for the mango now sitting on the table. A knock on the door. The old woman enters. He offers the fruit to her.

  “Jamil asked me to give this to you.”

  “Thank you. I miss him. He was a good worker. A good person.”

  “Thank you for bringing me here. You took a big risk.”

  “Not really. The border guards are mostly Bedouin. I’ve known them for a long time.”

  Taragon looks into the woman’s face. He sees the resemblance to his friend. “You’re Jonathan’s aunt from Kiryat Tiv’on.”

  “Yes.”

  The old woman steps forward and offers her hand.

  “Sadie Kalman.”

  The hand is fragile, somewhat cold. There’s a slight tremble. He notices a large lump on her neck. He remembers what Bronstein had said. Stage four. Incurable. He wonders how much longer she has.

  “Why are you helping us? Is it just for Jonathan?”

  “I want peace. Too much blood has been shed. And for what? So that the hard-liners can make us complicit in oppressing the Palestinians!”

  The old woman begins to pace the room. His question has clearly upset her. She turns around and looks straight into him.

  “You asked me if I’m doing this for Jonathan. Yes, in part I am, but I’m also doing this for Israel. I came to this country as a young girl with my older sister, Jonathan’s mother. My parents were sent to the camps. My sister had to sleep with a Hungarian officer to get us on the train out of Budapest. She sacrificed herself to save me. Family was everything to her. Jonathan is now my only family and Israel is my only country. I will help Jonathan and you because I believe what you’re doing could save this country from self-destruction.”

  “Do you understand the risks in what we’re doing?”

  “Of course, I do. Do you think that I’m a senile old woman? Do you think I’m afraid? I believe in Israel as a place for the Jews, but I believe that the Palestinians should have equal rights in this country, and those in Gaza and the West Bank should have their own state.”

  Taragon feels the old woman’s passion. She must now be in her eighties but is still driven by the strength of her beliefs in equality and fairness. Could there be enough like her in Israel to give real momentum to Arkassa? He remembers the news footage of the demonstration in Tel Aviv after Sabra and Shatila. Four hundred thousand Israelis demonstrated against the massacre and called the Israeli government to account. Could Arkassa bring along these people? He turns again to her.

  “When is Jonathan coming?”

  “In two or three days. First, he has a meeting in Jerusalem, and he has to be sure he isn’t being followed. It’s best that you stay here until he arrives. Others are coming from Yesh Gvul and Peace Now. The chairwoman of our kibbutz’s council is on board, but there are others here who don’t share our beliefs. Just be patient. Don’t go outside. I don’t want to explain why you’re here to anyone.”

  Chapter

  45

  Damascus – July 1979

  AT FIRST, THE FIVE ONLY share pleasantries and watch the other café patrons. When nothing appears amiss, they begin. They share what they know. Marwan is in the political prisoner section of Sednaya, and a senior prison official is willing to release him for twice the standard bribe. The official will expect the money to be delivered by a priest from Sednaya. Evan offers to bring the money in from Lebanon in a diplomatic pouch. Hoda and Ghassan can then take the money to the priest and accompany him to the prison. Mustapha ‘Akkawi is leading a convoy of fresh Sa’iqa troops into Lebanon that evening and can hide Marwan among them. The border is still a risk. Syria is awash with competing intelligence services, all of whom have agents there. Mustapha will try to co-opt Syrian General Intelligence and Marc will speak to his contacts at the foreign ministry to reduce the risk at the border.

  “So, that’s it. We all know what we have to do,” Marc says.

  “Right,” Evan says. “I should be off now if I’m to bring in the money from Lebanon later this afternoon.”

  “We’re leaving too,” Mustapha says, taking Ghassan in tow. “We’re meeting with our contacts in Syrian General Intelligence in less than an hour.”

  “Are you sure they won’t sell us out?” Hoda asks.

  “Don’t worry. They owe us too many favours and will still need us for a very long time.”

  Hoda briefly speculates about the types of favours that Mustapha and his men have done for the Syrian intelligence services, but says nothing.

  As the others leave, Marc looks across the table at her. Neither speaks for a long time. Finally, he says: “I don’t like the idea of you returning to Lebanon without me. We don’t know if Marwan talked. You could be compromised.”

  “Marc, I’ll be fine. It’s more important that you ensure that the Syrian foreign ministry is onside in case we have problems at the border.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I should stay with you?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll see you in Beirut in just a few days.”

  The words give him little comfort. Hoda hasn’t been the same for the last few days, often waking up in the night to vomit. He asked her about it, but she was evasive. Finally, he asked their landlord if he could arrange a doctor’s appointment for her. He did so with his personal doctor, a man known for his discretion, especially if you paid him in hard curre
ncy.

  “Aren’t you getting back the results of your medical tests today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me know if there is anything. I can arrange for the French embassy’s doctor to see you in Beirut once we are back.”

  “Marc, you worry too much. Let’s stay focussed on Marwan.”

  Hoda sips her coffee. The nausea is coming back. She’s fairly certain that the tests will confirm what she already suspects, and then it’ll be time to tell him. A sense of joy overcomes her. She leans over and kisses him on the cheek and says: “It’s time for you to go. Your meeting at the foreign ministry is in twenty minutes.”

  Marc rises from the table, uncertain whether he should leave Hoda alone. But she’s right that getting the Syrian foreign ministry to cooperate is important. He looks back at her toying with a piece of pita bread. He thinks of the incredible nights that they’ve spent in Damascus. Their frenzied love-making has reached a crescendo that surpassed his imagination and brought him to the point of physical exhaustion. Waiting for their plan to free Marwan to come together, they’ve spent their days wandering in the Al-Hamadiyeh Souk. Five hundred metres from east to west, the bazaar’s arched ceiling of iron beams and corrugated metal covers hundreds of shops filled with embroidered cloth, spices, sweets, carved rosewood chessboards and in-laid mosaic boxes. Their favourite place is the Bakdash ice cream shop. They visit it every day to taste booza, the exquisite Syrian ice cream served with crushed pistachios, and covered with honey for those with the sweetest of teeth. Ironically, here in this city so tightly under the grip of Hafez Assad, they’ve felt freer than ever before.

  “Marc, you should really go.”

  “Ah yes.”

  He looks at her, sitting at the table and leans down to kiss her again. She pats his cheek. “Go.”

  Hoda watches her love disappear in the crowded winding street and takes a small box of jewellery out her handbag. Inside the box is her wedding gift to Selima, an Ottoman necklace adorned with red carnelian beads. She writes a note to Selima to wish her all the happiness in the world and to tell her that she’ll soon share happy news of her own.

  The priest didn’t expect that the bribe would be delivered by a woman. This unnerves him. Men know the ways of the world, and even a priest has to play that game, but women are a gentler lot. He takes the time to show her his modest church in Sednaya and explains that he’s only transferring the money as a favour to a parishioner.

  Hoda lets him play his game a little before telling him that a car is waiting outside to take them to the prison, seven kilometres away. At first, the priest is reluctant to be driven to the prison by a stranger. He wants to take his own car and meet her there. She insists that they go together. It’s safer that way. Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money. Reluctantly, he walks with her to the car. Her things are in the trunk, ready for the onward trip to Beirut. Ghassan is sitting beside the Damascene taxi driver whom Mustapha recruited.

  Ghassan jumps out to open the doors. Hoda scans the street. No sign of surveillance. But then, why should there be? The Christians in Sednaya are strong supporters of the regime, seeing it as a bulwark against Muslim fanatics. There’s little need for Assad’s men to watch the goings-on in their neighbourhoods.

  The taxi descends the steep winding side streets, joining the town’s thoroughfare near the main square. From there they can see the Cherubim Monastery perched high above the city. As they leave the town, Damascus’s fertile plains open up before them. Beyond are Lebanon’s mountains and freedom. When the road bends a few kilometres later, the sinister concrete monster that is Sednaya Prison looms.

  “Don’t worry about the men at the checkpoints,” the priest says. “They’re local boys. Most are Christians, and I’m sure that I’ve baptized quite a few of them.”

  The priest is right. At the first checkpoint, the soldiers simply wave the car through. At the next two checkpoints, the soldiers politely ask them about their business. When the priest mentions Abu George’s name, they nod and wave the car through. At the prison’s gate, the guards are more cautious. These men carry no crosses around their necks. “Alawites,” the priest whispers. The guards train their guns on the driver and ask the priest and Hoda to step out.

  “We’re here to see Abu George,” the priest says.

  “Who’s the woman?” the guard asks.

  “She’s here to accompany one of the prisoners back to Lebanon.”

  Five large army trucks with the Sa’iqa insignia pull up. Mustapha steps down from the cab.

  “Is everything in order?” Mustapha asks Hoda.

  “Yes, the good Father was just explaining why we’re here.”

  Mustapha looks at the priest with disdain.

  He turns to the guard. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, Effendi.”

  “Good. Take us to Abu George.”

  The guard returns to his hut and picks up the phone. It’s clear that he’s soon on the receiving end of an animated conversation. Several nods of the head later, he returns.

  “The priest goes in alone.”

  Abu George glares out the window at the entrance of the prison. His ears are still burning from the news that the dreaded Sa’iqa commander, Mustapha ‘Akkawi, is here for his prisoner. Who the fuck is this man? He clenches his fist and curses again. Perhaps, he had asked too little for his release. Perhaps, he shouldn’t be releasing him at all. He watches the priest walk across the prison courtyard. He hears a knock on the door.

  “Yes.”

  The prison warden walks in.

  “Abu George, why are there Sa’iqa fighters outside the prison?”

  Fuck, he thinks. How is he going to explain this away?

  “Is it the Lebanese prisoner?”

  Abu George hesitates. He looks the warden in the eye.

  “Yes, it’s the Lebanese.”

  “You told me that he was a nobody. A catch-and-release case.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Get rid of him and the Palestinians. And make it quick!”

  The priest appears at the door.

  “Father, it is good to see you,” the warden says.

  “Yes, it’s good to see you too. Am I disturbing you?”

  “No, I was just leaving.”

  The warden glares back at Abu George before closing the door.

  The priest takes a chair and hands Abu George a thick envelope. Ten thousand dollars—twice what he had asked! This Lebanese must mean a lot to someone. He’ll find out who later. Now, he just wants to be rid of him. He hands two thousand dollars back to the priest. “This should cover the re-tiling of the church’s roof.”

  “Thank you, my son. You’re most generous.”

  Abu George calls in his secretary. “Please bring me the prisoner.”

  “He’s in the interrogation room. They’re not finished with him yet.”

  “What?! I told them to leave him alone.”

  “Yes, Director, but the warden ordered another interrogation.”

  That distrustful bastard, thinks Abu George. He couldn’t leave well enough alone.

  “Bring the prisoner now. I don’t care if they’re finished or not. Tell them that the warden has personally ordered the man’s release.”

  Five minutes later, a bloody heap of a man is frog-marched into the office. Abu George can hardly recognize him. His eyes are just thin slits in swollen balls covered in blood. His right leg is twisted horribly out of shape. His left hand has only two fingernails left on it.

  “Tell me what you told them,” Abu George says.

  At first, he can’t understand the prisoner’s response. Just a gargle of strange noises. Finally, he hears it. “Wala shee—nothing.” Abu George looks at his adjutant, who nods.

  Abu George notices the unease of the priest still in his office. “I’m sorry, Father. I had nothing to do with this.”

  Abu George rises and goes to the window again. Mustapha ‘Akkawi, now with dozens of his men
around him, is pacing outside. Enough! He’ll escort the man out himself and speak to ‘Akkawi.

  “Bring the prisoner water. And tea. And towels and bandages,” he orders his adjutant. The priest is already wiping much of the blood off Marwan’s face and uttering a prayer for his recovery.

  Mustapha ‘Akkawi can barely hold back his anger when he sees the bloodied figure of Marwan being held up by the priest and Abu George. Behind the three are several armed guards. Mustapha knows that if he gives the order, his men will be more than a match for them, but what would that serve? No matter, he’ll soon have Marwan and Hoda safely back in Lebanon.

  Before the three reach Mustapha, Hoda darts out and grabs Marwan, dragging him into the protective circle of Mustapha’s men. The priest approaches Mustapha and whispers.

  “This is not Abu George’s doing! The warden ordered it.”

  Mustapha marches forward to Abu George, towering over him.

  “Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Tell your warden that we will meet one day.”

  The threat is clear. Abu George shudders at the anger in the Palestinian commander’s voice. He doesn’t need this. “No, wait!” He walks to Mustapha and gives him the envelope of cash. “Take it! I don’t want it.” The priest also steps forward, “Yes, this too.”

  Mustapha takes the two envelopes and gives them to Hoda.

  He turns to Abu George, and says: “Promise that we’ll have no trouble between here and the border, or I’ll return to Sednaya with all my men.”

  “Promised.”

  Mustapha turns. Hoda is easing Marwan into the back of the taxi.

  “No, put him in the truck with the other men. It’s safer that way. Cousin Hoda, you and Ghassan will follow in the car. Yallah—let’s go!”

  Chapter

  46

  Road to Damascus – July 1979

  MAHMOUD HOMSI’S MEN are still bleary-eyed from the overnight journey from Idlib. They met with their local contact only three hours earlier. The contact, a young boy, gave them the instructions from the leadership in Aleppo to kidnap Christians on the road from Sednaya to Damascus. The boy is only thirteen and is full of rage. That very morning, he learned that the police had returned his father’s corpse from Sednaya Prison. The boy insisted on going with them. Mahmoud reluctantly agreed—he needed someone who knew the terrain. Now he worries about the boy’s anger. When the boy asks for a gun, he pulls his cousin, Muawiya, aside and whispers: “Give him the old hunting rifle, but no bullets, and keep a close eye on him!”