Jamila’s outburst interrupted his thoughts as she shouted “I am stuck in this house doing nothing while thugs have stolen my child! And none of you are doing anything to get her back. SHE IS MY CHILD!! I cannot stand it,” she screamed, “I simply cannot stand it. I will find them and kill them myself with my own two hands, I swear I will!”
“I know this is horrible my beloved” Gamil said, stepping forward into the space between Hakim and his hysterical wife. Hugging her he said “but right now your place is to stay here. Our children need you. They are worried and frightened and they need their mother to take care of them.” he insisted trying to redirect her attention to her older children.
She was having none of it “Do not tell me who I should be taking care of,” she shouted. “These children are not young. They are able to take care of themselves.” Jamila said “It’s Saroyah who needs me. I must find her since no one else is doing anything. I’ll offer a reward. I’ll go to the newspapers!” She was becoming more agitated as the men escorted her into the sitting room, where servants had a tea set waiting on a large brass tray. “Let’s sit down, have some tea and I’ll tell you what I know,” Hakim suggested.
The room was elegant, befitting a Lebanese family of longtime fortune. High round ceilings displayed original hand-painted scenes rivaling the Sistine Chapel. The walls displayed pastoral oil paintings and intricate woven carpets covered dark polished floors. The colorful tasseled pillows arranged on satin sofas all attested to the family’s distinguished social position. This room, like the rest of the house, was impeccable. But at the moment, the room and all that it conveyed meant nothing to Jamila. She could be standing in a filthy shed for all she cared. Turning to her brother she said, “Tell me everything you know.”
Down the hallway and around the corner to the kitchen, a silent cluster huddled, in the doorway listening. Three Ajram children and four elderly servants crowded together to hear what was happening. Kalina, Lutfi and Layla, ages 13, 15 and 17, had been given very little information about their missing sister. The children were close. They spent all their time together and were rarely apart. Having been raised on what was essentially a family compound; they had little association with other children their age, rarely left the compound and never on their own. They were home schooled by specially selected tutors. For one of them to be missing, even for an hour, was an unheard of event, surrounded as they were by servants, tutors, workers and guards. The children felt sick to their stomachs. It had now been two nights since their sister had gone missing and they could not get a straight answer from anyone.
The servants clung to each other as they enfolded the children. They had spent their entire working lives in this complex; they and their parents before them. They were as identified with the Faysal-Ajram family as anyone could be, but in the back of their minds they fretted. Would the family turn against them? Would they begin to suspect that one of them had taken Saroyah? They, of course, would never think of doing such a thing, never. This family meant everything to them. But they knew when people got desperate, they turned against each other. Would the time come when their safe, secure lives would be torn apart by these people who took Saroyah? Would they, too, become victims of the nameless, faceless criminals who kidnapped the little girl?
Their fearful, wet eyes met across the bowed heads of the Ajram children and together they uttered silent prayers to Allah to save them and bring the child safely home.
- 12 -
IN THE PRESENCE OF MY ENEMY
Rafi woke at first light and began Salat al-Fajr, morning prayers starting with the washing ritual called wudzu in which certain body parts are washed in a certain manner and order, starting with the hands and ending with the feet. Then kneeling on his prayer rug, he bowed, first touching his forehead on the rug then rising up Rafi repeated “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.” (Allah is the Greatest") four times. He did this in the privacy of his own tent, but knew that he was being carefully observed for any irregularities that might occur. Muslim prayers are very specific and ritualized, so strict adherence was essential. Rafi was not concerned about this though, having spent much of his childhood among his Lebanese brethren, these customs were as familiar to him as Jewish ones. He could move with ease between the two religious ceremonials and felt something meaningful during each one. He considered himself to be religious, but for him, the two cultures/religions co-existed as one interlocking belief system. He saw the meaning and beauty in each and deeply respected, actually believed in, the tenants set forth by each faith. In his mind, they weren’t all that different when you pared away linguistics and rituals. The essential messages were the same. Have faith, believe in an all-powerful deity, be reverent and respectful, practice acts of kindness in your daily life, avoid certain forbidden actions and behaviors and live your life according to the essential principles of the faith.
Rafi was folding his prayer rug when he heard a commotion outside of his tent. Moving toward the doorway he saw three men dragging another who was struggling against his captors. He was instantly seized with fear that Moshe or another team member had been captured, but as he looked, he saw that the man was older and heavy-set. He was relieved, but also fearful for the man. Instinctively, he wanted to rush forward and help him, but knew he could not take that risk. Stepping forward, he asked one of his guards what had happened. Glancing at him with cold reserve, the guard answered that it was none of his concern. Pursing the matter with an innocent demeanor he asked, “Has something bad happened? Are we in danger?” Staring at the struggling foursome the guard answered, over the sound of the prisoner’s cries, “Not anymore. That man is an uncivilized dog,” with a slight sneer. A chill ran down Rafi’s spine. “Ma'assalama,” he said politely as he bowed his head and moved away from the guard toward the main tent where he would join The Great One and his cadre who would be finishing morning prayers and getting ready for breakfast.
Somewhere in Syria, Yosef and his team watched and waited for the man identified as Duquq Boulos to leave the little house in the desert. It had turned dark and in the rusted van they were debating whether or not to venture closer to the house so they could hear the conversation inside. Hours had passed. The darkness was nearly total. There was no sign of activity, no sound at all. A few flickering glimmers of candles could be seen as Elias crept forward on his belly, a tiny microphone hidden in the folds of his shirt. Elias Talmi was the youngest among them; small and slender he was well suited for creeping about in the middle of the night. Still, Yosef held his breath and prayed earnestly that the young man would safely accomplish his mission. Sol Aaronson, a member of Kidon, Mossad’s most celebrated anti-terrorism unit, had arrived to head the mission. He sat stoically staring through his infrared night vision binoculars, watching Elias inch toward the target house. Sol watched as Elias approached the window closest to their location, affix the tiny microphone to the underside of the wooden sill and slowly reverse direction.
Faint metallic voices could be heard, accented Syrian, Lebanese, and Iranian men’s voices talking in hushed tones. Turning the volume up a bit and checking to make sure that the tape recorder was working Sol listened carefully as the man they knew as Boulos outlined a complex plan that a new Jihadist group was about to begin which would culminate in the collapse of nations. He spoke of the plan as originating elsewhere, so it was clear the plan was not his.
Events were designed to set off a rolling domino effect that would change the entire world. A quick glance between Yosef and Sol affirmed the team’s orders; everyone snapped into action. They would invade the little house and overpower the men inside. They would capture them before they alerted anyone to their predicament. The plan was dangerous. They were on enemy soil and were about to invade a dwelling filled with armed combatants, capture them in complete silence and flee across the DMZ through miles of hostile territory. Getting caught would set off an international incident and lead incontrovertibly to death.
In places
near and far, the men and women of Mossad were working overtime to assure that didn’t happen. Leaders at the highest level of government were at their command centers. International calls had been made. Communication equipment buzzed, keyboards clicked, agents listened to recording devices, teams of soldiers and agents waited silently in the desert for the ‘Go’ signal; plans were rapidly unfolding, dangerous plans.
- 13 -
NEPTUNE’S HAND
It had been a death-defying act even then when she was just beginning to understand her true mission on this earth was to travel beyond socially sanctioned behavioral definitions. Social sanctions were for the faint of heart, conservatives oriented toward convention and approval. These terms did not describe Elisabeth Reinhardt. She was that rare human being for whom safety and self-gratification were not paramount. No, her priority was social justice. Her priority was fighting wrong-doing and abuses of power wherever and whenever they occurred. As the birds squabbled over seeds and feeder footing in the backyard of the Chicago safe house, her mind traveled back to the day she first met her.
Hadara Eiliat entered the office rather shyly. She sat beside the door, on the hard metal chair with its thin padding, and pulled her thin ochre shawl around her shoulders; raising her expressive grey-green eyes she had said, “I am honored to meet you. It is right that I should have found you, ‘es beshert.’”
Naturally authentic, Elisabeth grinned and replied, “Whether it is ‘beshert’ or not remains to be seen… Then she said, “I gather it is not your anxiety that brings you here today.”
Hadara smiled broadly and nodded agreement, “You are of course correct in both your statements. Allow me to further explain myself.”
Those explanations took more than the allotted treatment hour and, in fact, went on for several sessions during which time a plan was outlined and bond was forged that had endured until this moment in time.
The appointment slip, filled out by the secretary at the Student Counseling Center had listed the woman’s name, the date of call and presenting problem as ‘anxiety and difficulty adjusting.’ Exactly how she was assigned to work with Elisabeth Reinhardt and not one of the other dozen therapists working at the Center was never known. It turned out that Hadara Eiliat had not come for help with anxiety or academic adjustment, but she was seeking help and psychotherapy for a more hidden problem. Hadara had hopes and dreams that were in conflict with her heritage and the customs of her family. She had fallen in love with a young Lebanese man whom she had known since childhood.
The story was identical to the one that Ari Ben Aviv had related to her during his rambling discourse in her office when she had been so distracted by the murderous men about to burst through her door that she barely took note of the content. She now remembered his words and how they dovetailed with the words that Hadara had spoken decades before. Those conflicts had been aired, issues, needs and confusions discussed and eventually decisions had been made. By the time Hadara was ready to return to her native Israel, she was prepared to deal with her dilemmas in an unusual, and not completely satisfying way. When their therapeutic work had been completed, more covert aspects of their relationship began. Memories of that time flashed by in milliseconds. She was squatting in a storage locker aboard a Mediterranean cruise ship, transporting foreign intelligence through customs, meeting with foreign operatives under her parents’ noses.
It was her parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary and the Reinhardt family had traveled to Israel to celebrate. Their holiday which began in Jerusalem ended with an extended Mediterranean cruise. The family met every night in the main dining hall to enjoy a scrumptious meal; seated around several tables elaborately appointed with Venetian Damask tablecloths, shining silver and beautiful floral arrangements, they chatted happily. It had been years since Elisabeth had last seen Hadara. Since that time Elisabeth had received a few brief personal updates saying she was doing well. Two waitresses approached the Reinhardts tables and began to distribute aromatic platters. Glancing up Elisabeth recognized a familiar face as the waitress placed a steaming plate of Sole Meunière in front of her smiling father. A quick fast head shake was enough to signal Elisabeth to silence. On high alert, she waited until Hadara positioned Salmon with a Lemon-Caper sauce in front of her. A tiny square of paper peeked from under the edge of her plate. Casually she extracted a sliver of paper, slipped it under her napkin then onto her lap. The note was written in Hadara’s miniature scrawling print: “Need help. Meet 11PM, storage room 172A, lower level aft. Urgent! H”
What happened next was, as they say, history.
At precisely 11PM Elisabeth and her brother Manny slipped into the aft storage room armed with nothing but a flashlight and a Swiss Army knife. Hadara moved through the shadows, lithe as a cat. The cold war had just ended with the collapse of the Soviet Union, the US and Russia were at odds in the Middle East, with Russia supporting the Arab countries and the US supporting Israel. At that time the KGB was active in global ‘spy games’ vying with the CIA, MI 5 and the Mossad.
Hadara motioned them to follow her to a dark corner of the room and said “I am being watched. There are Russian agents onboard attempting to discredit U.S.-Middle East policy by connecting the crisis in Kuwait to the Arab-Israeli conflict. We do not want this. US emissaries have been meeting with Saddam Hussein trying to bargain him into withdrawing from Kuwait. I have obtained documents that establish certain Russian officials undermining these efforts. It is urgent that you carry these documents to safety. The fate of the free world is in your hands.” Glancing hurriedly around the darkened space, Hadara handed Elisabeth a small beaded evening bag, covered with green and gold sequins on a black tapestry background. The design was in the shape of a dragonfly and the straps were braided beads. “It is sewn into the lining” she whispered as Elisabeth slipped it over her shoulder, “someone will contact you when you get home. Please be safe.” With that she was gone.
Sipping her coffee, Elisabeth watched birds flit around the feeder in the Chicago safe house and reflected on how that moment had influenced her life choices. Less than a month after the cruise, Elisabeth and her siblings established their branch of Chevra Hatzollah which led to the connections that now presented themselves, connections she was only just beginning to realize. The two young people sitting in her interview rooms had long roots traceable to the young woman she had known, treated and spied for many years ago. These two were, she knew, that woman’s children.
The question is: Why are they were here and why the deceit?
With a deep sigh, she rose, turned from the beatific scene in the yard and returned to the house determined to unscramble the mysteries of the two new strangers and further the mystery of the men who had broken into and damaged her office.
- 14 -
HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT
Saroyah listened carefully for the sound of movement, fabric rustling; footfalls soft in the desert sand. She sniffed the air for the scent of food. She sniffed the air for the scent of heat rising off the desert sand. It calmed her to know what time it was. Helped her feel like she knew what was going to happen. Feelings of panic had peaked and flooded so many times she thought she was getting used to them; feeling less and less each time as she felt further and further away from herself. Sometimes it felt like she was floating or maybe dreaming. Sometimes she thought she could hear singing; the songs that the servants in the kitchen would sing as they did their work. She wasn’t sure if she really heard them or not. Maybe people here were singing those songs. Maybe it was just the wind. She was homesick. She loved to go and sit in the kitchen and talk with the cooks, listen to the stories they told about the old days before the hatred grew so big. Sometimes she helped fix the food; she loved shelling the nuts for the baklava and chopping up cucumbers for salads.
She thought of her sisters and brother. She knew they would be worried about her. She thought they must miss her. Then she worried that they would be mad at her. Then she had another worry. She remembered
the time they had played ‘hide and seek’ and Kalina had been gone for about 2 hours hiding in a shed. What if they thought she was just hiding somewhere and wasn’t missing at all? What if they weren’t looking for her? No, she told herself. She had been gone a long time; longer than a few hours, it was no longer a game. She counted the times the woman who fed her had come, it had been 8 times. That must mean that she’d been gone about 3 days. Her family would be worried by now and they would look for her.
She thought back to her last hours at home. She remembered playing with Assi, her Abyssinian cat who only a day before had been pregnant, her belly large and bulging. But that day Saroyah saw Assi looked skinny and that must mean she had had her kittens. Excitedly she petted the cat as she ate her breakfast outside the kitchen where the cats were fed. She couldn't wait to see the newborn kittens. Happily she trailed after the cat as she raced to a remote part of the Olive Grove where the large animals were housed. There were barrels of grain and behind them tucked in a discarded sack, Saroyah found a litter of newborn kittens, curled, pink and tiny. Saroyah, small for her age, wiggled into the spot and lay admiring them listening to her cat purr while her kittens nursed. So focused was she on the kittens she was unaware of the men gathered outside the animal pen just a few feet away. But as their voices grew more distinct she began to listen and in listening became increasingly alarmed. The men were not simply workers; they were not simply talking about work or their families. No, these men spoke with a fury. They were planning something and the thing they were planning was horrible. She heard them talk about bombings and killing people.
Seeing Double: An Elisabeth Reinhardt Novel Page 6