Quill of the Dove

by Ian Thomas Shaw

“Ahmed can take you there after he drops me off. The fare is one hundred shekels to Tiberias. Is that all right?”

  “Absolutely!”

  The priest shares with them the latest news about the faltering peace negotiations. There’s talk of the Americans getting more involved in the mediation efforts and even hosting a new peace conference at a place called Annapolis. No one holds out much hope for a breakthrough. But there’s a rumour of a much more ambitious private peace initiative called Arkassa.

  Marie sits quietly. She’s no longer thinking about the news from Beirut. Instead, she’s unsure just how much she can trust this priest. It seems unusual that he has already heard of Arkassa. Maybe everyone now knows what Taragon is trying to do in Tiberias? She shudders at what this could mean. The Mossad had killed ‘Akkawi in Barcelona and tried to kill Taragon in Gaza. Would they just stand aside while he and Bronstein mobilized support inside Israel itself?

  “It’s done. Now do your job! I don’t care how, but just get it done quickly,” Ari Epstein says on the phone.

  “Are they all dead?” Hussein Harb asks.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “It doesn’t matter. They’re dead.”

  “I want to know if they died slowly like my son.”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that they were taken care of.”

  “How long have you known who they were and where they were?”

  “You ask too many questions. We kept our end of the deal. Now keep yours.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m ready for it.”

  “And destroy the burner phone I gave you. I don’t want this coming back at me.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  “For what? They were just scum and deserved to die. Goodbye.”

  Hussein hears the click of Ari hanging up. He walks to the kitchen pantry and takes out a meat cleaver and a cutting board. He lifts the cleaver high and smashes the phone, once, twice, many times. He’ll scatter the pieces from his car when he drives to Tiberias.

  He walks to his bedroom and kisses his son’s photo on the dresser. From under the bed, he pulls out a metal box. The lock is old and rusty, and it takes a lot of effort to open it. He takes out the contents—khaki, coils and plastique crudely put together. He remembers the body of the Hezbollah attacker, shot in the head before he could detonate the vest. At first, he had hoped to sell it as a souvenir to his Israeli overseers. No one wanted it. Now, he would use it for his last act. He looks at the other package, which arrived this morning. He knows what it contains. No traces will be left of what they have planned.

  Chapter

  53

  Tiberias – September 2007

  MARIE AND MINH CHAU get out of the taxi and stand before the hotel. It’s an impressive structure for a small place like Tiberias. A dozen ancient palm trees guard the facade of the century-old brick building. The terrace with its exquisite vaulted pillars is already full of Jewish and Arab delegates sharing glasses of tea. Both women feel a dynamism to the place, a sense that something important is going to happen.

  Although Marie has maintained a certain coolness toward Minh Chau since her friend’s comments at the border, she’s still happy that her friend is with her in Tiberias. She’ll need all of her support after she speaks to Taragon. She must choose the right moment. Taragon is in the midst of negotiating an agreement that might bring into play at least a chance for peace. She’s come too far to put Arkassa at risk, and yet she can’t leave Tiberias without answers. She’ll wait until the end of the day’s deliberations before doing anything.

  “Marie, I’m going to call Selima,” Minh Chau says. “Perhaps she’s learned something new.”

  “Yes, go ahead. Give me your passport, I’ll check us in.”

  Minh Chau walks down the hallway, eases into an over-stuffed chair covered in Palestinian embroidery and pulls out her cell phone.

  Marie waits for her turn at the hotel reception. Suddenly, she feels a familiar presence. She turns to see Bronstein’s crooked smile.

  “Jonathan!” she exclaims, planting a warm kiss on his cheek.

  “Marie, it’s wonderful you’re here. Things are going better than expected. Marc made a compelling presentation of the initiative to some of the early arrivals this morning. There are fewer sceptics than we thought there’d be.”

  “And no interference from the government?”

  “No, that’s the surprising thing. At any moment, I thought that the police would barge in and arrest Marc for being illegally in Israel. But no, nothing of the sort.”

  “They must be afraid of making him a hero.”

  “Yes, that’s what I think. But we’ll use it to our advantage.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s mediating between the Meretz representative and delegates from the Arab Democratic Party. Do you want to see him now?”

  “No, I can wait.”

  Marie wonders about Selima. She’s close to Marc. Could she have already spoken to him? She probes Bronstein.

  “Has Marc said anything recently about me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean anything new that he’s learned about me?”

  “Well, he called you his right hand, and said that you did remarkable work in Beirut and Gaza.”

  “Hmm.”

  Minh Chau joins them, giving Bronstein a huge hug.

  “Mazel tov, Minh Chau. Leyna told me that you’re expecting the baby very soon.”

  “Thank you, Jonathan.” She adds with a wink: “I hear that you and my cousin are now a thing.”

  With his crooked teeth, he betrays the smile of a man in love.

  As the two women leave, Bronstein wonders whether he should’ve said more, but it wasn’t his place to betray his friend’s confidences.

  Chapter

  54

  Tiberias – September 2007

  MARIE AND MINH Chau decide to take separate rooms. Marie will need her privacy if she’s to reveal what she knows to Taragon. Minh Chau has just spoken to Selima and learned that she has indeed spoken to Taragon about Hoda’s death, but nothing more. Marie appears even more nervous when Minh Chau tells her this. She hasn’t seen Taragon yet, and probably won’t until the start of the late afternoon session. Bronstein has warned that this session will be the toughest. The organizers decided that there should be a challenge function—a final chance to ask the hardest questions in a group setting. A video link has been set up with Gaza where a Hamas representative will join the discussion for the first time. A lot is riding on Taragon’s ability to convince the delegates that Arkassa is a viable solution.

  Marie looks out the window at the road leading to the hotel. A Citroën with a French flag arrives. Two minutes later, a Mercedes with a Spanish flag. Word has reached the diplomatic community that history is being made in Tiberias. How can this all be happening right under the nose of the Israeli government? Someone must have intervened at a very high level to keep the local police at bay. Finally, she sees it and understands. A small convoy of three armoured vehicles, with the American flag on the hood of the middle one, pulls up before the hotel. A tall black man steps out. Sharp succeeded! Marie’s heart soars. It all seemed so hopeless four months ago when they buried Abdullah ‘Akkawi in Beirut. Now things are moving much faster and better than anyone expected. She calls Bronstein’s cell phone.

  “Jonathan, I want to participate in the proceedings.”

  “Of course. You can pick up your press pass at the reception.”

  “No, I mean I want to be a delegate. I want to express my personal support for Arkassa.”

  “But you are neither an Israeli nor a Palestinian.”

  “No, you’re wrong about that.”

  “Pardon.”

  “I’ll explain later. I want to sit with the Palestinian delegation.”

  “If you wish, that shouldn’t be a problem. Meet me at the reception and we’ll have a pass made up for you. We have to hurry though. Marc is about to sp
eak to the plenary session.”

  Marie slips into a pair of black linen pants and a violet-blue blouse. Looking into the mirror, she brushes her hair and applies red lipstick. There’s a glow to her cheeks and her eyes are bright with life. She takes a white scarf out of her suitcase and wraps it around her neck.

  Marie has made her decision. She will stand with the Palestinian delegation and declare she’s the daughter of Hoda ‘Akkawi, killed in Sabra, and the second cousin of Abdullah ‘Akkawi, martyred in Spain. She’ll speak in favour of Arkassa and her pride in her Palestinian heritage. She’ll urge the delegates to not let the sacrifices of her mother and Abdullah be in vain. Then she’ll see what Taragon has to say.

  Marie herself is surprised at her determination to reveal what she’s only learned a few hours ago. She glances at the mirror in the hallway as she walks to the elevator, there it is—the face of Hoda in her reflection. When she presses the button to call the elevator, she glances sideways. An older dark-haired man, more likely an Arab than an Israeli, stands beside her. There is a musty smell about him. He wears a trench-coat over his bulky figure. She looks down at his scuffed shoes covered with a thin layer of dust. When the elevator is slow in coming, the man heads toward the stairs.

  Bronstein already has her pass in hand when she arrives at the reception. He escorts her quickly to the entrance of the conference room where the hotel security guards check her credentials. There’s been no time or money to set up scanners at the door, and the hotel personnel don’t want to offend the guests with body searches.

  The room is filled with more than fifty delegates. The technicians are doing the final sound checks and the image of the Hamas delegate from Gaza appears on the large screen at the front of the room. Marie smiles—it’s Adnan Barghouti, the man who saved them in Gaza. She remembers his parting words: “Bring us proof that there are Israelis ready to listen to Arkassa.” She studies the room. Israelis make up at least two-thirds of the delegates. Some wear yarmulkes, two are Hassidim. Taragon walks up to the podium. He taps on the microphone and begins. His eyes lock on Marie as she sits among the Palestinian delegates. A slight shake of his head, and then the faintest of smiles. He straightens up and scans the room. He is ready. Today, it’s all or nothing.

  “My dear friends, what you decide today can shape the future of the Middle East for your children, for your grandchildren, and the generations who will follow us, all of us. If you are here, you’re here because you realize that violence is not the solution. Compromise is. Earnestness is. Sincerity and commitment will give the people of the Middle East what they all deserve—peace. We’ve called this session a challenge session, a chance for any and all of you to ask the tough questions about the Arkassa Initiative, but the hardest question is the one we must all first ask ourselves. What happens if we fail today? Do we return to our decades of hatred, of killing?”

  A thin man stands up and speaks in Hebrew: “You speak wisely, Mr. Taragon, but I ask my colleagues here another question. Are you ready to sacrifice your prejudices and pre-conceptions to accept peace?”

  A woman in a hijab beside Marie rises and says: “I am ready for peace. I am ready today.” She returns to her seat, and Marie clasps her hand.

  The audience begins to murmur louder and louder. In Hebrew and Arabic, the refrain “I am ready” reverberates. The words in Arabic flow to Marie’s lips, at first slowly then with more fluency as if freed from decades of being buried in her subconscious. On the screen, she sees that even Adnan Barghouthi is repeating the words.

  A man moves slowly forward. She recognizes him from the elevator. Perhaps in his sixties, the man looks haggard. At first, his steps are short, hesitant, almost lethargic. Then his pace picks up. He is clearly heading for the podium. He too is uttering alternatively in Arabic and Hebrew: “I am ready.” She’s unsure of the man’s intentions. Is he just caught up in the moment, eager to express his desire for peace or …? He stops a dozen feet from Taragon and opens his coat to reveal a vest of wires and explosives. The man looks at Taragon and says: “Miracle-maker, can you give me back my son?”

  Marie begins to move toward Marc, ready to throw herself at the man, but Bronstein pulls her aside. He holds her firmly and allows dozens of panicking men and women to push them both toward the exit. Unable to free herself from Bronstein’s grip and the weight of the crowd, she looks over her shoulder to Taragon. He’s standing perfectly still, alone with his assailant. He raises his hand in a gesture of calm. There’s no fear in his face or in the bomber’s. Both are the same height and build, the same dark features and aquiline noses. As the man draws within a few feet of Taragon, their profiles look like the mirrored image of the same being. Taragon still makes no effort to flee. Instead, he steps slowly forward, his hand reaching out as if to touch the assassin’s shoulder.

  Chapter

  55

  Bsarma, Northern Lebanon – August 1980

  THAT SUMMER, Hoda gives birth to a girl. They name her Meryem after Hoda’s aunt. Marwan reluctantly continues to serve in the Marada militia while Hoda devotes herself to her daughter. The girl grows quickly, bringing joy to the young couple and to the villagers around them. But the situation near Bsarma deteriorates. The front is getting closer. They begin to speak of going to France after the war. Nabil and Selima are still there. They’ve heard that Nabil is doing very well. Perhaps, he could help them. They consider trying to smuggle out a letter to him, but all the mail is being regularly read by the militia.

  The fall of Aaba eighteen months later shocks the village. Aaba is less than four kilometres away. Its capture will now allow the Phalangists control over much of the road from Tripoli to Kfar Hazzir. More threatening, there’s a rarely used dirt track off that road, which leads straight into Bsarma. The militiamen on leave are quickly mobilized to defend it. Marwan, now the most experienced among them, is chosen to lead the defence.

  Hoda packs Marwan’s knapsack while he cleans his gun.

  “I’ve put food for three days,” she says, turning away to hide her tears.

  “Hoda, don’t cry. I’ll come back, but I have to join the men now. The Phalangists may have already discovered the back road.”

  “Wait, let me get Meryem.”

  Several men are gathered outside the front door. Some are seasoned fighters working for hire. Others are local boys, still in their teens.

  Hoda brings their daughter in her arms and closes the door on the waiting fighters.

  Marwan lifts up his daughter.

  She says: “Papa, papa, you go?”

  “On a little trip, my darling.”

  “No, Papa. Stay! Play!”

  Hoda takes Meryem.

  “Your father will play with you when he returns. Now, back to bed.”

  Three hard knocks on the door. The militiamen are impatient.

  Elie looks at the debris blocking a passageway up the hill. There’s no doubt that there’s a road, one not used for a long time. He sends one of his men up it. Two minutes later, the man returns.

  “It keeps on going up the hill, Commander.”

  “To the east.”

  “Yes.”

  Elie ponders the situation. His orders are to advance on Bterram, a village just a kilometre away, but Bterram is of no strategic importance. Its young people are making their fortunes in Beirut, Australia and Canada. There are no trained fighters to put up resistance. Most of the village’s inhabitants are Greek Orthodox, trying to avoid being dragged into the intra-Maronite struggle. He respects the people of Bterram who’ve provided many of Lebanon’s intellectuals. He looks at his motley group of fighters, mostly mountain peasants. They’re still fired up from their victory in Aaba. Twice he had to step in to prevent them from killing civilians in Aaba. He would like to spare the cultured people of Bterram a visit from these brutes. Bsarma is different. For years, the Marada fighters based there have been a thorn in the Phalangists’ side. He pulls out the radio to speak to Beirut.

  The scout returns
to their position at the crest of the hill. Marwan pulls him aside.

  “Did you see them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?

  “At the base of the hill. They found the entrance to the road and are removing the rocks that we put to block it last winter. ”

  “Dammit! How many are there?”

  “Only ten.”

  Marwan calculates. He has six men with him. He’ll need to send one back to warn the village. Still, they have the high ground and could hold off the invaders until reinforcements arrive.

  “Marwan, there’s something else,” the nervous militiaman says.

  “What is it?”

  “They have a radio. I saw them use it.”

  The odds could soon change against Marwan’s small group. He has no time to lose.

  “Go to the village. Tell everyone to climb the eastern escarpment. They’ll be safe there. Get a message to the commander in Ehden to send us reinforcements. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  The Marada commander in Ehden peruses the press card before him. Richard Blacksmith, Leeds Telegraph. The face in the photo is vaguely familiar, but the name means nothing. What on earth is this journalist doing in the Koura? He picks up the phone to see what his headquarters know about this man who’s mysteriously popped up in the town, asking all sorts of questions. The line is dead, again. He doesn’t have much time to spend on this matter. There are reports that the Phalangists are on the move again.

  “Bring him in!” he barks at the young militiaman waiting at the door.

  As soon as the journalist enters his office, the commander recognizes him. Marc Taragon, the French journalist.

  “Monsieur Taragon. What are you doing here under a false identity?”

  Taragon comes clean.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice. I needed to get through the Syrian checkpoints.”

  “Just tell me what you’re doing here!”

  “I’m looking for someone.”