On the chopper, make-shift tourniquets were applied to Saroyah’s leg where her femoral artery spewed. Above the din of the whirling blades and the child’s cries, Hadara issued the pilot an order: “Find the nearest hospital, the child is losing a lot of blood and her situation is urgent.” Both Hadara and Gil had basic paramedic training and worked to stabilize and comfort the child as best they could. Another bullet had grazed her right side not far from her kidney and immediate treatment was required. Coded messages were relayed to all concerned through Mossad’s restricted network as they flew toward Yitshak Ben Zvi Hospital in Be’er Sheva.
Sitting in the Emergency Room waiting area, tears flowed as Jamila held her three children and prayed to Allah to save her youngest daughter. After they received word that the child was out of surgery and her condition was stable, Jamila pulled Hadara aside. Emotion glistened in her eyes as she asked, “Have you talked to them?”
“No, Not a word,” Hadara answered her lips tight in anger, “I’ve called all of them many times but there has been no answer.”
“Where can my husband be? Where could any of them be?” Jamila asked Hadara. “He should be here with his daughter. They should all be here with us, Gamil, Abdullah and Hakim. They should all be here! So where are they?” she cried in frustration.
“I do not know. I’m as upset about this as you are!” Hadara exclaimed. “I vacillate between worry and anger. If they aren’t here, where are they and why aren’t they answering us. I’ve called and called. Supposedly Hakim is in Azerbaijan of all places. What in the world he’s doing there is anyone’s guess!” Where the others are is a mystery to me. She didn’t tell Jamila that her husband Gamil had been present at her capture site. She did not say that his being there was another mystery. She also did not tell her that Gamil had lied about Hakim’s whereabouts. Although she was convinced that Gamil was mixed up in something nefarious, she could not bring herself to burden Jamila further.
“Well,” Jamila said with a strength she didn’t feel, “we’ll just have to do this without them. They are of no use to us now! We have to get out of here; out of the Middle East. It’s up to us, Hadara, just you and I! The men have failed us. We are not safe here and we must leave.” Breaking into tears she confided, “I found out who was spying for our enemies. It was our old trusted cook Musnah. I am heartbroken to say it, but that’s who did it. She put my child’s life in danger. She did it!”
Hadara reached out to embrace her sister-in-law. Yosef had mentioned this and she knew this was just a tiny piece instead she said, “I know that Musnah has been with your family since you were Saroyah’s age. We all loved her. She was everyone’s favorite.” Hadara remembered when they were young Musnah would sneak treats to them in a little covered basket, so the children could picnic together in the olive grove. Musnah had known about the 5 friends. She alone knew that they met regularly, the two Israeli children and the three Faysal children. She had known and she had kept their secret!
Jamila said she thought Musnah’s grandson was involved in something big. She thought he had somehow been coerced into stealing Saroyah for ransom money. Hadara told her what she had concluded. She thought Saroyah had witnessed something, perhaps a meeting of some kind. The child had been captured to keep her quiet. Jamila gasped. She had not realized that her child actually had a direct involvement with the men who kidnapped her. If that were the case, Jamila now realized, the men shooting at her in the little village had been trying to kill not just re-capture her. She was a witness to something secret and important. Then an alarming thought sprang into her mind. With so many places where men could have secret meetings what brought them to the Olive Grove? How did they even know about that side gate? About that remote spot where the animal pens and feed was stored?
It was rumored the grandson was involved in the illegal weapons trade, working with some underground Russian illegal weapons cartel but something about that didn’t make sense. Could so young a man, a boy really, have that much sway over men of great power? Could he be the brains behind this whole scheme? The more she thought about it, the more confused she became. It didn’t make sense that they were at the Grove because of Musnah and her grandson. Someone else had drawn them to her home. This mess was bigger than an old cook and her grandson. It made no sense.
Hadara interrupted her thoughts, “We need to find out everything Musnah knows. Give me a minute I have an idea,” she said, and crossed to where Elisabeth and Yosef were talking.
- 27 -
WHERE THERE’S A WILL
The ragtag caravan had made its way slowly across the desert. Heavily loaded camels and donkeys swayed and brayed trudging after one another. The vehicles formed a parallel caravan. First two guard vehicles, guns pointed out every window, then limousines carrying the prestigious guests, then a limousine carrying The Great One and his immediate entourage, then more guard cars. The line seemed endless as it wove across the hardened sand. The heat of the day had faded to evening when they stopped. Servants began setting up a temporary camp for the night. A hasty meal was prepared in large pots suspended over stick fires and The Leader and his chief advisor, Zuhair Bayan were discussing location options for the next campsite. Three alternate sites had been selected. One was along the Syrian-Jordanian border, one was in central Iraq and the last one was at the northern tip of Syria where it shares a border with Turkey. Each site had risks and advantages. The location needed to be remote with limited access so it could be guarded and defended but they needed to be close enough to supporters in order to spread the word. If opposition forces were to discover the camp, the support of the local people would be critical. There was, they admitted, a downside to that, as well: the populace could not always be trusted. These were poor people and that meant they were vulnerable to bribery and threats. The men agreed the most remote location would be preferable and had sent scouting parties out to investigate the potential sites.
Zuhair Bayan sighed loudly; it was too bad such a seemingly small decision had to be so complicated. In his experience small decisions such as this were made by others. He had served as an official in the Syrian government for many years. He owed them a great deal. The government had paid for his housing and education for years with the understanding that they would benefit from his learning. He studied at the London School of Economics but in addition had obtained a degree from the Southampton Medical School and was licensed to practice medicine in several countries. The Syrian government had sent Bayan to join this group ostensibly to support them but also to evaluate its leader. Bayan’s continued loyalty to his own government was unquestioned and inviolate. He reported to them regularly. He had been ordered to embed himself in the new terrorist group and make himself indispensable. Bayan had been able to use his medical degree and his degree in economics to his advantage soon gaining The Leader’s trust.
Bayan was an arrogant man. He was used to being in charge, to having many people report to him. They did ‘the leg work.’ They were paid and paid well, he thought, to do his bidding. They researched and studied many options available for each decision and reported the summaries to him so that he could decide based on their information. Zuhair was a strong, healthy man. For a man in his forties he was rather attractive. People noticed him as he passed. He thought it was because he was handsome but it was also because of his birthmark. Zuhair Bayan had been born with an unusual mark on his right cheekbone. It was purplish-red in color and curved like a sickle. Port-wine stains are not harmful, so it had never been removed. He had come to believe it resembled the Russian Hammer and Sickle symbol. It was his personal sign of power!
He was pouring over maps when he heard a sound near the opening of his tent. “Perhaps I can be of some small assistance, to you, revered one,” a handsome young man poked his head around the flap of the tent. “The Great One, hallowed be his name, suggested I might offer my services to you. I have studied for many years at university and know many things about geography and governments. If you would allow me the hon
or of entering your tent, I would like to offer you some small assistance.” Bayan gave the young man a hard stare and with a small sneer he asked, “What is it you think you know that I do not already know?”
“No doubt, honored sir, I know nothing that you do not know, but perhaps if I listen as you speak your learned thoughts aloud, I might reflect your thoughts back to you in such a way that you could hear your own ideas more clearly than if you simply think your thoughts without speaking them.” The Chief Advisor was taken aback. He fully expected the belligerence of a youth who was full of pride and arrogance, but here was the exact opposite. This young man appeared to be intelligent, but not overly prideful, interested, but not pushy. He seemed polite and genuine. And, what he said made sense. Bayan thought hearing my own thoughts aloud might be a good idea. He was just beginning to understand why people in the camp were talking about this young man and why The Great One was so taken with him. I should find out more about this young man, he thought. Pausing for just a minute, he nodded to the young man and said, “Come in. By what name I shall call you…” “I am called Rafi,” said the young man, bowing slightly he stepped into the tent.
Shamir rounded the building at the speed of light. His hair blew wildly in the wind and he was waving a paper in his hand and screaming “Abdullah, Abdullah….”
Hakim and Abdullah turned and rushed toward him, “What is wrong, Shamir?” they both asked at once.
“The ingredients, some of them are pre-mixed. I think they are about to blow up! Those red assed monkeys are going to blow us up!”
“How can that be?” Abdullah asked, “No one would be tossing a live bomb out of a plane!”
“No one would be that crazy?” Hakim asked.
“We can take no chances, sir, we must leave immediately!” Shamir was nearly hysterical.
“That cannot be,” Abdullah argued again, but Hakim shook his head.
“It is better to be safe than sorry, Brother, we can always return,” he said and picked up his cell phone. “Evacuate the compound immediately” he texted all those present, “grab as much evidence as you can and take the prisoner with you. Evacuate now! Go! Go! Go!”
They rushed forward piled into their vehicles and sped out of the gates heading into the desert. They had traveled a mere 5 miles when the earth beneath them shook like an earthquake measuring 6 on the Richter scale as behind them their compound exploded heavenward into a million fiery pieces.
Musnah wept softly in the corner of the kitchen where she sat on a small wooden stool. Two ashen-faced guards looked down on her with pity and confusion. She was indispensable in the Faysal kitchen; warm and generous she baked the staff special desserts on holidays and always carried out leftover dinner portions to everyone on duty. It seemed unreal to them that they would now be guarding her! They were under orders not to let her out of their sight and they were not about to ignore their orders, but this did not seem right. These were tense, frightening times at the Olive Grove. Fawz, head of the kitchen staff for nearly twenty years came over and asked if she could speak to Musnah, but they turned her away. They were under orders that no one would speak with her except Jamila or her husband. And speaking of Gamil, where was he these days? With a huge family crisis, he was nowhere to be seen. This was highly unusual, the guards thought as they exchanged quizzical looks. Something was definitely going on here and Musnah was the least of it; that’s what they thought.
When they thought back to the time when the child was taken, they remembered some strange goings on in the area near the animal pens. Now they were unsure about whether or not to report what they had seen. Perhaps they would be in trouble for not reporting it sooner. And perhaps if they didn’t tell now what they knew they would be in worse trouble! They sighed and moved closer to each other so they could whisper back and forth. At length they decided it would be best to tell what they saw because it might, after all, be helpful. Either way, they thought they would be in trouble, they just didn’t know how much.
- 28 -
NEXT STOP
Boulos was enjoying Lubee (green beans and lamb) when Sol Aaronson opened the door. He sat down and calmly looked across at his prisoner. “Are you enjoying your meal?” he asked calmly.
Boulos looked at him curiously. He had been prepared for torture and probable death, but hospitality, now that was a surprise. “What do you want of me?” he asked.
“Just a little business transaction,” Sol answered with a shrug. “We are two businessmen negotiating. I want to buy and you want to sell. It is simple, right?”
“Well,” Boulos answered, “it all depends on what you want and if I have it, right? Supply and demand is part of any business dealing, is that not correct?”
“Yes, of course,” Sol nodded. “So, I will tell you what I want to buy and you can decide if you want to sell it, and, if so, for how much.”
Boulos was startled. This was unlike any enemy interrogation he had ever heard of. He decided to play along. “I am listening,” he said, feeling more confident, “But I want to start by having you tell me who you are. One cannot do business with a stranger, is that not correct?”
“Of course,” Sol agreed easily, “My name is Sol Aaronson and I am a unit leader with the Emergency Readiness Division of Mossad,” he said directly. “We are seeking information about The Sword of Justice and want to know everything you know about them.”
“Ahhh,” Boulos responded after a moment, “that might be much information. For that information, I would be receiving how much dollars?”
“Good question,” Sol nodded. “First we must remember that there are some things worth more than dollars. For one thing, you would be given your life. For another thing, you would be given your freedom. For another, transport and relocation to any place in the world you want to go and for a fourth thing, you would be given enough money to live comfortably for the rest of your life.”
Boulos was silent for a long while staring at his captor. He took a large gulp of tea before responding, “It seems that your offer is a most generous one. You must very much want to find these people from the Sword of Justice. It is your good fortune that I am inclined to accept your generous offer, but there is one thing, I confess, that confuses me. What guarantee have I that you will, shall we say, play it straight with me? Let us say that I tell you much about these people. I tell you all that I know down to the last drop of tea, shall we say…” Boulos grinned as he turned his empty cup upside down, “and what if after you get your information, you decide to give me nothing, or worse, you kill me?”
“Those are reasonable questions,” Sol nodded seriously, “but it does cut both ways. What guarantee do I have that your information will be adequate and accurate? That you will truthfully tell us everything you know. Perhaps you will tell only a small amount or leave out the most important facts?” Sol parried. Boulos pursed his lips and nodded. The two men sat silently looking at one another for a while. Then Sol suddenly clapped his hands on his knees, “How about this: We transport you now to another location, not a prison, and once we are there we have a few long conversations. Perhaps a prison cell does not convey the proper attitude for a negotiation such as ours.”
“Ah that sounds encouraging. But answer me this, what guarantee do I have that you will not shoot me when we leave here?”
“So,” said Sol, “you are asking me more questions about guarantees… how about this: We hire you. You go to work for us. You become an undercover agent for the Mossad. We keep you on our payroll even after you give us this information we need right now. In the future, you could be useful to us with your many contacts throughout the world. Think of it as a career change. Instead of selling weapons and ammunitions you can sell information to us. We will be your only customer. You will be ‘on our payroll’. Does that put your mind at ease? We have no reason to kill you if you are working for us, right? Even after The Sword of Justice has been eliminated you may be able to provide us with information about other matters. If you wa
nt to quit or we no longer need you, we shake hands and you walk away with your freedom and your Swiss bank accounts.” Sol opened his hands in a ‘what could be more reasonable’ gesture.
Boulos nodded. He was stumped. Never in his life would he have expected this kind of treatment, this kind of deal from a godless son of a camel. He thought this man, this Sol Aaronson, must be crazy. Yet, here he was in a prison and many worse things could be happening to him. He thanked Allah for his good fortune and knew that this was the best deal he would ever get, certainly not the kind of treatment he would have gotten from the Russians!
“I'll bring in some paperwork for you to sign bringing you on board as a confidential informant for the Mossad and we'll take off,” Sol said moving toward the door.
“You must keep this a secret from the others,” Boulos hissed to the closing door, “if word gets out that I am alive and working with you they will kill me for sure.”
“That would do neither of us any good, would it,” Sol replied turning. “We will make sure you are reported to have died while being interrogated. The others will not be getting out, but as you say word seems to travel.” He stood and offered his hand to his new confidential informant and asked, “How good of an actor are you? Start screaming and after a while we'll fire some bullets and put an end to this charade.”
Seeing Double: An Elisabeth Reinhardt Novel Page 15