by Niv Kaplan
It was twenty years before he met his mother again and found out he had a sister. He had made inquiries and arranged to meet her during an official visit to Bucharest, his first time back to his home country. They met for an hour on a dreary day in a small coffee shop and he was shocked to see a pitiful old woman, way beyond her years, chain smoking and coughing her life away. She had been mostly unemployed since Ceausescu and the communist regime had fallen, barely able to keep her small apartment doing odd cleaning jobs for ex-government officials.
Her daughter, his sister Yulia, was born eight months after Peka and his father had left. His mother, Svetlana, only found out she was pregnant well into her fourth month. She had the baby by herself and never bothered to inform her husband and son who she claimed had disappeared without a trace. Svetlana had managed well in those years enjoying preferred status as a secretary in the Ministry of Interior. She never remarried and lived happily with her daughter on her own. When Ceausescu fell and the Communist government was replaced, she was instantly fired. Anyone with ties to the old regime was, and she was never able to find another job save for cleaning chores for her old bosses who had stashed enough money to live well without a job and took pity on her.
Yulia had turned fourteen when the Berlin Wall fell and had begun unchecked use of her body soon after her mother lost her job in an effort to maintain a trace of the lifestyle they had led before. Svetlana, too devastated and desperate to notice, allowed her daughter to disintegrate to hooker status and when she eventually recognized the danger and tried to do something about it, her daughter disappeared.
Yulia had not been seen since January 17, 1991. The meeting with his mother took place on February 2, 1992 and still there was no trace of his sister. His pitiful mother did not even shed a tear as she told Peka the horrible story and seemed to have accepted her fate and was waiting only to die. Peka tried to extract additional information but to no avail. His mother had given up hope both for herself and her daughter, his only sibling.
Soon after his trip to Romania, he accepted a position at the Romanian UN delegation the job he now held. He kept hoping to trace his sister and when he heard of the Center’s initiative, a business no one at the delegation wanted to deal with, he volunteered to help. Now he was forced to stay back and allow Natasha and a lot of spooks to try and unravel his sister’s fate, Natasha reflected, thinking how frustrated and anxious he must be feeling.
She emerged from the customs area following the last of the girls as the sun was just rising over the Aegean, an hour after they had landed. She glimpsed them being met by a small van, too far from the taxi zone to learn any particulars. The taxi dropped her at the Hilton where she found a comfortable room on the twelfth floor overlooking Lykavittos church above, the Acropolis across in the distance, and the awakening ancient city with its congested streets and assortment of balconies, underneath.
She took a refreshing shower, drying herself in front of the mirror thinking her body was thinner and paler than ever before. Then she stood naked by the window, wondering where the poor Romanian girls might be stashed in this huge metropolis.
Then the phone rang. It was Elena in New York. Three hours later, Natasha was back at the airport.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The helicopter came in low under the cliffs and pulled up almost vertically emerging instantaneously into full view, catching everyone by surprise - a skillful maneuver since the engines could not be heard from under the cliffs.
The troop dove into the sand but it was too late. They were spotted. The helicopter veered sharply to the left and came streaking over the line of fallen bodies trying to blend into the sand.
Black Jack and Clair looked at one another, then at Faraj, their fourth Bedouin guide, lying in between them. Faraj looked around, pointed at the nearest opening in the rock and on cue they all sprinted there. Panting from the sudden release of energy, they all huddled in the narrow gorge for just a few seconds before the chopper came at them again and they quickly fled into deeper rock cover.
Ten days into their journey they had made meager progress. Avoiding human trails, they constrained themselves to walking the impenetrable Sinai terrain through gorges, sand, over boulders and cliffs at the mercy of the wind, the heat, lack of water and shade. They kept to the highest most remote ridges progressing slowly from one Bedouin camp to another.
Ibrahim had fully recovered from his snakebite but progress had been slowed almost to a halt in the first few days, as he was barely able to step on his foot. Clair was in shape and kept up well, supporting her son as much as she could. None of them could keep up with the Bedouin who trod the landscape with ease of a goat but had to constantly wait for his party.
Kabir, their second guide, the one who had treated the snakebite and saved Ibrahim’s life, had taken them as far as Mount Sirbal where they camped for two whole days in a large Bedouin encampment of several families. To get there, they had walked for three days, sleeping out under the stars huddled together for warmth. On their second day walking following the snakebite affair they met a Bedouin from another tribe straddling an ailing camel. The Bedouin informed them of Egyptian troops searching for them and that word now circulated amongst the Sinai inhabitants. He suggested they stick to the mountain top routes almost solely used by the Bedouins and warned of Bedouin tribes friendly to the Egyptians.
“The soldiers are threatening anyone who helps these foreigners,” he said, disregarding present company. “You are risking your life,” he told Abir who did not seem at all perturbed.
“Those soldiers are after money,” Abir said, surprising his company since no one ever mentioned the full tale of why they were there being pursued.
“They are after this boy,” Abir continued with Ibrahim and Clair translating simultaneously. “The boy wants to be with his mother,” he stated simply, pointing at Clair.
The other smiled. “You are welcome to water and food at my camp,” he said as he slid down his camel and began to lead him away.
Abir hesitated a brief moment, looking at his feeble crew before deciding to follow. They reached a well-hidden single-family site among a cluster of palm trees by a trickling natural spring forming a tiny pool from which water was generously distributed to them in tin cups.
Thankful for the refreshing break they sprawled around in the shade oblivious to the danger lurking not far away. Their host, keen on lecturing, sat cross legged opposite Abir giving him advice when the reliable guide noticed a trail of dust in the distance and quickly herded his flock up the rocks.
They had climbed quite a ways and put a fair distance between them and the troop when Abir stopped at a vista point to watch the Egyptian troop, all on horseback, reach the Bedouin oasis. They all disembarked leading their horses to water then sat around the host, recognizable from a distance with his white Galabia and flapping Kafiya. There seemed to be a long and involved discussion but at no point did anyone attempt to follow their trail. Then the troop seemed to be settling down, the men dispersing under the trees for an afternoon nap. Seemingly the host did not give them away.
They headed up the treacherous mountain reaching their next Tarrabin camp a day later where they spent a day recovering before being handed over to Ahmed for their next leg, emotionally parting from Kabir.
Ahmed took them across the great Faran Wadi where they encountered numerous Bedouin sites tending to an assortment of desert plants including dates and bananas with goats and camels wandering unattended the length of a long aqueduct carrying water from springs located at higher elevation.
Each site had a shady guest area by the flowing water under tent cover between the palm trees arranged with rugs and pillows for maximum comfort with the Bedouin women tending to food and drink. To exhausted people trekking the bare desert it looked like heaven and in fact it was. So inviting was it that they could not resist taking a break in one spacious site despite the danger.
Wadi Faran was a major route from the Katarina ridge westwar
d, down towards A-Tur and the Suez Canal. The fleeing troop passed it almost at the very top near the springs but it was still an area of relatively easy access for any Egyptian search parties particularly those on horseback. It was an ideal place to plant an ambush but impulse overcame reason; despite Ahmed’s warnings the fugitives bogged down for rest and recuperation enjoying a few hours of shade, Bedouin delicacies and clear fresh water. The Egyptians were nowhere to be seen.
They slept at the bottom of Mount Sinai that night. Jack and Christine remained awake late, savoring the majestic power of history. The famous mountain where, many believed, Moses witnessed the Burning Bush and received the Ten Commandments, loomed vast and dark, full of mystery in the clear night.
“You get the feeling something awesome could well have happened here,” Christine remarked quietly.
Black Jack leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the mountain noticing its outline against the starry sky.
“It seems time stands still here,” he finally commented. “Probably not much has changed the last two thousand years.”
“Bedouins and camels are as constant as these stars,” Christine said. “Moses used them. He was also chased by the Egyptians.”
“He walked this desert for forty years. I hope we can get out faster.”
“At the rate we are going we might wander here longer.”
“I’d get a few camels if they could climb these rocks,” Jack said.
“Sam’s probably going out of his mind.”
“I bet he’s sent someone after us already.”
“How long have we been out of touch?” Christine asked.
“One week,” Jack said. “We took Ibrahim Saturday a week ago.”
“How much more do we have?” Christine queried.
“At the rate we’re going I’d say at least another two weeks.”
“Can we try and send word out with these Bedouins?”
“Word is out, Christine,” Jack said. “If anybody’s looking for us, they’ll eventually hear it.”
“But they won’t know our condition. My mother will go out of her mind.”
Jack went silent for a moment. “We could cut back down to the coastal road. Try our luck with the road blocks.”
“How long will it take to get there?”
“Three or four days to the coast then, who knows, we can split and hitch a ride. We may get lucky.”
“Sounds too risky. We could end up rotting in a Cairo jail for life.”
“Not to mention Ibrahim going back to his father.”
“What do you think Jack? You know this place better than anyone.”
“I know little, Chris, and from the little I know I wouldn’t test the Egyptian roadblocks. I’d keep to the mountains. Two weeks is an instant in time. We’ll survive.”
Christine sighed. She thought of her mother and the hell she might be going through in a situation almost identical to the one she had suffered when she lost her husband. There had to be a way to pass on word. She decided to talk to Ahmed in the morning.
Jack was dozing, his eyes fluttering shut. Suddenly he was awake again, looking at her, an idea forming in his mind.
“Why don’t we split up? Chris, you go down to the coast. Try to get word out to Sam. He could come and get you. Meanwhile, you could stay with the Bedouins disguised as one. Even if you get caught they could never prove you were part of this.”
“These people don’t need any proof. If they catch me they’ll pin everything on me and use me to pull you in.”
“Chances of them catching you hiding with these Bedouins are small. Meanwhile, in a place like Nueba you can get word out anywhere including to your mother. We can agree on a rendezvous where Clair, the boy and I can be picked up.”
“By whom?”
“If it’s close enough to the Israeli border, it could be Israelis, if they agree. If not, well, you guys are quite resourceful. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”
“You think Clair and the boy can survive this?”
“They don’t have a choice. But our chances will improve considerably if you can get a rescue team to pick us up somewhere.”
The plan had merit, Christine realized. It was risky but better than anything they could think of so far. She also realized Black Jack was being considerate with her personal situation.
“Should we consult with Clair?”
“No. If you agree, then the decision is made. We’ll split up at the next camp and ask Ahmed to take you. I trust the little fella.”
“I guess I do too,” Christine said tentatively, already thinking of her task and what lay ahead. With just her and Ahmed they would be more agile and quicker but she would be vulnerable to all sorts of hazards. A western woman, alone in the vast desert, at the mercy of a Bedouin guide and his tribe who may act differently in the absence of a guardian such as Black Jack. But it was a risk she had to take for the sake of the people she was in peril with, for the sake of her mother, and for herself for she felt responsible for the entire mishap.
In the morning, around the coffee pot, they spoke to Ahmed who readily agreed for a promise of an additional fifty dollars, then broke the news to Clair. A day later, in the Bedouin camp near Mount Katarina they consulted the heads of families and Black Jack’s maps and agreed on the best spot for a rendezvous some fifty kilometers to the north on the great fork of the Sudan where the Katarina ridge abruptly ended with a magnificent drop into the sand. The spot was still in Egyptian territory but well placed with water and places to hide, only ten kilometers south of the Israeli border. It was estimated the group would make it there in ten days, barring any disasters, and would wait for two full days to be picked up. Beyond that they would push further and try to reach the Israeli border at Ramon. The problem there was a difficult trudge through the sand in plain view with few places to hide, and having to cross a major road, border patrols, and the Fence. Not far was a major drug smuggling route the Israelis were often targeting, the hazard being the group would be in danger of being mistaken for drug smugglers or terrorists.
Faraj, one of the camp’s most experienced and respected young adults was selected to be the next guide and Ahmed was given the task of leading Christine to Nueba.
Dressed as a Bedouin woman, her hair and face all but hidden from view, the map and details for the rendezvous strapped to her stomach, Christine said a tearful goodbye and obediently followed the Bedouin out of the camp and out of view beyond the ridge to the east. Black Jack, Clair, and Ibrahim followed Faraj in the same manner but out along the ridge to the north.
The helicopter hovered above as the foursome maneuvered among the rocks trying to escape. Faraj had managed to find a narrow path, which dropped down into a dangerously steep canyon then back up along gigantic boulders, then through an even narrower gorge in which they stopped, completely hidden from aerial view. They stood hunched together in a shadowy niche knowing full well that any ground units could easily flush them out with directions from the chopper. The chopper was of the combat type with only two operators but back on the plateau where they had been spotted, any number of helicopter transports could easily land and unleash troops to track them down. So far they had not spotted nor heard new threats from the air or ground but figured the chopper had already send word and search parties were on their way.
Darkness was an hour away. It would be their best ally. They crawled on their knees along the narrow path reaching a rocky chute that disappeared far below the ledge they were on. There was no alternative route but back where they came from. Faraj lowered himself to the chute and carefully began to slide down. He suddenly lost grip and plunged down on his stomach trying to grab hold of anything disappearing in the dark opening below. Clair let out a muffled cry and the group held its breath for a few dreadful seconds listening to Faraj’s body descend away into oblivion. Then they heard a splash and a thump. Seconds later they heard his voice far below.
Ibrahim strained to hear. “He says to slide down.�
��
“You sure?” Black Jack exclaimed.
Ibrahim nodded then once again listened carefully as more instructions came from far below.
“Says there’s a pool down there that cushioned his fall. He’s OK.”
“I’ll go,” Ibrahim volunteered, climbing into the shoot.
“After me,” Clair said, tugging at his clothes, pulling him back out. The boy did not argue. Clair slid into the chute hesitantly sliding on her stomach until she suddenly plunged like Faraj and disappeared. Seconds later they heard a splash and a thump accompanied by a shocked squeal.
Clair’s voice came faintly from below. Both Jack and Ibrahim strained to hear. She spoke in French.
“She’s OK,” Ibrahim said, his worried look turning bright. He climbed into the shoot again without hesitation. Jack had no choice but to let him go. The boy slid carefully then plunged like his predecessors. When Jack heard reassurance from below that the boy had made it safely he climbed into the shoot and began to slide. He felt the rock turn slippery and wet before he lost his grip and felt his body gain speed towards the abyss below. He saw himself glide through a small tunnel which spewed him into the air before he hit water and felt himself plunge through and hit bottom. His legs hit first, crumpled and his chin hit his knees causing his head to jerk. He lost his bearing for a fraction, feeling his body submerge in water. Then three pairs of hands were pulling at him. He looked up and around and saw worried looks from his companions straining to pull him out. He tried a reassuring smile and felt a warm liquid fill his mouth and trickle down his cheeks.
They laid him on his back by the side of the pool. Clair produced a rag to wipe his face from the water and blood that was drooping from his mouth. Faraj forced his mouth open. The tongue was bleeding profusely.