by Niv Kaplan
According to Jack, Sammy’s whereabouts was quite possibly Beirut. The organization’s location was said to be somewhere in the center of town but in ten years, the Sons of Jihad could have relocated anywhere.
The vague account of the method Jack had described worked in his favor, Sam reasoned to himself, since his son was only eleven and surely too young to be transferred on, though he knew such organizations were more than capable of training eleven-year-old boys to inflict terror.
Could he find Sammy? There was a real chance now, he thought, but far worse was the thought of how much damage had been done to him - and could he undo it? Sammy had no memory of his first year and the only family he knew was the one currently raising him. His personality was surely well-shaped. They most likely kept up his English but surely his mother language would now be Arabic. His family, friends, schoolmates, were all Lebanese. He knew nothing else. His “mother” was Lebanese and so was his “dad”. How could he even begin to explain to the boy it was all a facade? How could he rip him away from all that he knew?
Anguish crept over Sam but at the same time it became clear he was not only taking his son back but he was saving him from a horrible future.
Sammy was still young enough to withstand it, Sam hoped. He had to. There was no choice.
Sitting along with Sam around the conference table were Kessler, a high ranking member of the Israeli Foreign Office, the British Military Attaché, the US Military Attaché, Devlin, and Mai-Li.
The facts were fully disclosed. The Center’s line of activity; the events that led to Clair’s release and consequent action to free her boy and flee to the mountains; Ortega’s murder; Harley’s involvement; Jack’s capture and eventual violent release.
Jack’s findings were left as icing on the cake.
The diplomats around the table had most of the facts before they came in but sat in utter silence through Sam’s brief, shaking their heads.
“I must say,” commented the American attaché, “you took no prisoners but how on earth do you manage to finance all this activity?”
Sam meant to disclose everything short of involving his main supporters.
“Sir, the Center is a non-profit organization that survives on contributions from many organizations and private people.”
“Name one organization,” the American insisted.
“The United Nations.”
“Are they aware of what you’re up to?”
“For the most part, yes. We regularly report most of our activities to relevant people. Otherwise we get no money.”
“Most activities you say, but not all.”
“Sir, this is the first time we ever ran into this much trouble. No one in our organization ever came close to being thrown in prison or having his life threatened. In those cases we choose to pursue we deal with legitimate organizations. We are in very high demand and we run quite an elaborate process to decide which cases we can pursue. Once we choose, we inform all the relevant organizations and secure funds to do the work. Most of the work is classified for obvious reasons. We do not report our each and every move and, for the most part, we manage on our own. We have dealt with most police organizations in the world, secret services, military, and governmental offices.”
“What about the organization that sprung the American?” the Israeli Foreign Office representative queried, eyeing Devlin. “Are they legit?”
“In some circles they are,” the British Military Attaché intervened.
There was awkward silence around the room. The British government had obviously made a choice to protect Harley’s crew.
“If the Egyptians decide to press, the UN might take it up,” the Israeli insisted.
“We’ve denied any involvement until now, no reason we should admit anything later,” the British Military Attaché stated.
Sam decided it was the right time to disclose what Jack had learned and shift the balance of the discussion to more practical terms.
“Ten years ago,” he began and all eyes turned to him, “my wife was murdered and my son disappeared from our house in Los Angeles…”
It was the first time he had ever revealed his personal tragedy to anyone outside his immediate family, his colleagues at the Center and a few of the Center’s contributors.
Sam described in detail the circumstances of the kidnapping and murder, his personal transformation, and his long hard losing battle for abused children.
He then revealed what Black Jack had discovered while in the Sharm hospital. “It seems my wife and son were victims of an outrageous plot to turn American babies into Arab spies and who knows what else,” he concluded, surveying the shocked stares around the table.
The three diplomats were shaking their heads. “How reliable you think this information is?” asked the American Attaché, looking bewildered.
“Coming from a dying man, it could be farfetched,” remarked the British diplomat.
“I admit it’s farfetched,” Sam said. “Had this been under any other circumstances, we would probably have written it off as a hoax and not bothered with it.”
He took a deep breath and continued.
“But since I am personally involved and I’ve been pursuing this for over ten years, I will tell you it is probably the only evidence I ever got that made any sense. My son, Sammy Jr., disappeared as if the ground swallowed him. We have investigated every possible angle and have come up empty every time. As preposterous and pretentious as this sounds, it is one angle we never even dreamed existed which probably makes it the right one and as much as I dread what I find, this is a matter of National Security for all of us, because if this is true, we could have Arab spies aiming to infiltrate, or already have infiltrated, some very high places not only in the US but at its allies as well.”
There was a knock on the door. A waitress came in to refresh everyone’s drinks. All three diplomats ordered scotch.
“Could Jack have been set up?” Kessler asked after the waitress shut the door behind her.
“I doubt that,” Sam answered. “Jack never talked and what are the chances a dying man in an Egyptian hospital could come up with a story like that?”
“The French mother Clair may have talked and they could have made the connection through Ortega who did divulge the fact you guys were looking for kidnapped children all over the world.”
“Still, why would the authorities in an Arab country which is part of the Arab League come up with a setup that could blow up in their face?”
“To cover up something even grander?” Kessler suggested.
“What could be grander than this?” Sam questioned, getting exasperated.
There was an awkward silence in the room for a few seconds, everyone staring at Sam.
“We will need further confirmation of such a plot if we’re to do anything about it,” the American Attaché finally said, breaking the silence.
“Where do we start?” Sam queried.
“This is a matter for counter-intelligence, FBI, MI5, the Shabac!” the British Attaché remarked worriedly.
“We can help,” Sam said. “We’ve got files of missing babies tracing back thirty years. We can draw some profiles similar to my Sammy.”
“I’ll need to take this up with my Government,” the Israeli Foreign Office representative declared.
“We all would,” the British Attaché agreed. “Question is: do you guys stay involved?”
“I think it best,” Kessler suggested. “If this is true, those people have managed to avoid all your ordinary under-cover organizations for years now. Sam’s crew can operate virtually undetected.”
“Our spooks won’t like it!” the Israeli diplomat pitched in.
Everyone looked at Kessler.
“They may not like it but they’ll cooperate if ordered to. Spooks don’t decide policy. Besides, I’m sort of a spook and I’d work with these guys.”
“Well, nothing’s going to be decided in this room,” the American Military Attaché reca
pitulated. “We’ll have to report back and see what happens. For my part I will recommend denying any involvement in the Jack Preston affair and suggest we further investigate this plot of yours. I am sorry to hear of your personal situation and I hope we find your boy.”
The three diplomats got up in unison.
“I guess we are at even odds regarding the Egyptians now,” the British Attaché remarked. “My recommendation will be the same as that of my colleague. Good day to you all."
All three shook everyone’s hands and hurried out. The rest fell back on their seats in relief.
“Are we off the hook?” Devlin asked.
“Not sure," Kessler remarked, "you see, we’re all involved here. If one country is blamed or takes responsibility, the rest will have to follow. They can’t avoid responsibility so they figure they might as well deny it all and save the embarrassment.”
“They can still punish us,” Mai-Li spoke for the first time.
“If they do that, they once again risk exposure. Even if they punish us internally and word gets out, the leaders will be accomplices and the country will be blamed. It’s well understood that such activity, in one form or another, had to be sanctioned by our governments. The ramifications of such activity could almost be considered an act of war and none of us can afford to shake the delicate balance achieved with Egypt.”
“So will they take action?” Sam asked worriedly.
“They might,” Kessler offered. “They obviously can’t overlook the threat but it may be a long time before they take practical steps to eliminate it.”
“How long?” Sam pressed.
“Could be years,” Kessler observed. “They’ll need enough proof and a modus operandi before they can act. A sick man’s confession is not enough to go on, especially now that the man is dead.”
“By that time Sammy could well be away from his family in some terrorist training facility.”
There was silence in the room. Even Kessler was at a loss for words. Finding his son was Sam’s life endeavor. For years he had held on to the belief Sammy was alive while everyone around him remained skeptical. Now as he had gotten second wind, it seemed he might be barred from taking any action. Their supporters would not be as lenient the second time around.
“I won’t just sit around and wait,” Sam said to no one in particular. “I need to act and I need to do it quick. I don’t need any more proof. It’s my last chance. Hell, we’ve tried everything else. If he’s there, alive, I’ll find him or die trying.”
He looked around the room. They all stared at him. No one doubted he meant what he said. It was now a question of who would join.
“Sam, if you fail, you realize this could take down the Center and everything you and we have built,” Mai-Li cautioned.
“I’ll have to distance myself from the Center. I’ll resign and you folks can continue.”
“You’ll have no foundation, money, or manpower to do it then,” Mai-Li persisted.
Sam looked at Devlin.
“I can do it if you help me,” he stated simply.
Devlin moved uneasily in his seat. He got up and drained a half glass of scotch left by one of the diplomats.
“With Harley gone, we’re in as much disarray as anyone,” Devlin reminded them. “This is not a decision I can make on my own but I’ll be willing to present it to the boys and see what they say.”
“It’s all I ask,” Sam said. “I’ve got some money stashed away if you agree.”
“I doubt we’ll ever be able to function in the same format we did with Harley,” Devlin speculated. “It’s going to be a decision each of us will have to make on his own. I need to give it some thought myself but I am definitely inclined to join you,” he concluded, surprising the group.
“We should also have the right to choose,” Mai-Li said. “I’d like to be in on this and I imagine Jack would, too, when he gets better.”
“Mai-Li, I think you should seriously consider this matter before you make a decision,” Sam advised. “I know you are extremely upset by Harley’s death. We all are, which is why you should take some time to think it over before you jump into this. My considerations are obvious, but yours, I’m not so sure. As for Jack, in his condition, he could be out of action for a very long time.”
“Sam, I have a meeting in Jerusalem,” Kessler interjected, straightening up from his seat. “I have to get going.”
“Where do you stand on all this, David?” Sam inquired, as the Israeli Intelligence man gulped what was left of his now cold espresso, standing up.
“I, too, will give it some thought,” Kessler offered. “I make no promises but I’ll be in touch,” he said as he shook everyone’s hands and quietly left the room.
The waitress came in again to clean up. They all got up to leave. Devlin phoned reception asking them to fetch his and Mai-Li’s trolleys from storage. They were traveling to Scotland together. Mai-Li needed to gather her belongings left at the camp. She confided in Sam that mainly she needed to properly disentangle herself from Ali and the men she had grown attached to. Secretly she needed to come to terms with the loss of Harley and thoughts of what might have been. Specifically she needed to go back to the tree where Harley had kissed her…
They agreed to meet in New York in a week’s time. Sam was going to try and move Jack back home.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
The woman looked inconspicuous. She walked along the Beirut pier, her head and face covered, such that only her eyes were visible. She looked like any of the Muslim women hurrying about in the bustling Middle Eastern city just recovering from another round of fighting as rival factions retreated each to his sector and called a truce which no one expected to last more than a day or two, but was actually lasting almost a year.
On close inspection, the woman was not Arab though her black hair, dark eyes, dark eyelashes and brown skin easily could have passed as such. She could see the commercial airplanes landing and departing from the airport as she headed south along the beach.
Elena knew Arabic and she owned a Greek passport. Those were the two reasons that tilted Sam’s decision to allow her to pitch in against his better judgment. No one else he trusted had those credentials. She would be above suspicion and could come and go as she pleased. She had neither training nor experience, but she pleaded with him to let her help and he gave in, dreading the thought of putting her in harm’s way.
As she walked, a flock of children ran by, chasing a kite heading for the Mediterranean waters. Various peddlers were collecting their goods from the stony pathway along the pier. A few of them feebly tried to lure her to look at what was left from a long day of trade but she did not stop.
Then she recalled what Sam had told her and casually stopped at a stall selling lucky charms, checking her flanks in the process. Seeing no one suspiciously taking interest in her, she gave the peddler whatever coins she had in her pocket for a small wooden cross and continued along the pier.
The sun was just settling beyond the precise Mediterranean horizon, casting long shadows on the pier, when she felt someone pulling at her dress. She looked behind her and saw a small boy, his arm outstretched begging for money. She would not have normally given him a second look but for the small, folded piece of white paper that appeared in his outstretched hand. The boy was actually winking at her as if signaling for her to take whatever he held in his hand.
She dug out a few more coins and placed them in the boy’s hand, taking the note. The boy scooted and she continued walking tightly, making a fist around the note. Two minutes later she stopped to read the note. It gave the name of a coffee shop she could see just ahead.
The Golden Pot, a trendy brasserie by Lebanese standards, served European style salads, soups and baguettes, espresso and cappuccino along with black Arabic coffee, humus and kebab.
It was quite busy when Elena walked in, filled with tourists and Lebanese trendsetters, joggers, businessmen, women, and children in cribs. For a moment there Elena t
hought she was in Kolonaki, a rich trendy district in Athens.
She looked around and saw no one behaving out of the ordinary. Then a waiter came over and asked her to follow, leading her to a table that was hidden from view of the entrance where a man in a suit sat, smiling.
Elena did not know the man who got up and bowed slightly, as was customary Arab protocol, as the waiter pulled the chair back for her to sit. She decided to keep the scarf around her face until she felt comfortable with the man. He pulled out a box of cigarettes and offered her one. When she declined he lit one for himself, took a long drag and proceeded to smile at her.
“Welcome to my neighborhood,” he said in Arabic.
She nodded but said nothing. Sam had instructed her to keep quiet until she heard the agreed code.
“Harley sends his regards,” the man added in English. That was it. She relaxed.
“Thank you,” she said and unwound the scarf from around her face.
“My name is Aziz,” the man switched back to Arabic. “What should I call you?”
“I am Elena,” Elena said, not thinking twice about giving her real name.
“Can I order us some salads?” Aziz asked politely.
“That will be fine,” Elena said. She was feeling jetlagged and quite hungry after the long haul from New York via Athens. She had stopped at Athens for only a day before continuing to Beirut. There she took out some money from her bank account and checked a safe deposit box she had rented before leaving for New York. Then she went to the central post office to retrieve whatever mail had been kept for her in her absence. Most of it was trash but she did find her divorce papers had come through. She was now formally single.
It took almost an hour before Aziz got to the point. They were served an array of salads dipped in olive oil to munch on, while wiping away the humus with pita bread from a ceramic bowl. The main dish included kebab on a skewer with fried potatoes and spicy sauces.
Aziz resumed talking when the coffee and baklava arrived, and he began to chain smoke.
“We’ve set up a place for you to stay not far from here,” he said, lowering his voice. “You will be looked after by my people and you must never walk around by yourself. I have made some inquiries based on the information I got from Kessler.”