Seeing Double: An Elisabeth Reinhardt Novel

by Nancy Alexander

  Theirs was a true romance. The kind of love story Nora Roberts writes. For Jamila and Gamil it was love at first sight. They met while studying at Duke University in North Carolina and fell madly and passionately in love. Their families were delighted that their children had found one another and arranged an elegant formal wedding, which most of the country’s upper class attended.

  The Ajram family was wealthy and well-respected. They lived in the outskirts of Beirut where Gamil’s parents were practicing physicians and his grandfathers had both served as cabinet ministers. The Ajrams were known for their generosity, having built a museum dedicated to Lebanese antiquities. For the first 3 years of their marriage Jamila and Gamil lived in Raleigh while Gamil completed his Doctorate in Agricultural Economics and Jamila completed her Master’s in Business Administration. After graduation, Gamil was offered a position as Financial Advisor to the Minister of Agriculture.

  Upon return to Lebanon they settled at the Faysal Family’s Olive Grove so their children could be raised in a safe contained rural environment and Jamila could gradually assume responsibility for the family business. Gamil and Jamila had a strong foundation rooted in the Muslim faith and cultural traditions; there were strong gender role definitions, good family supports and most of all, there was love. The couple rarely went for more than a few hours without communicating by phone, email or text message. Major decisions were discussed and mutually agreed upon. That is until now. This was the first time in their nearly 20 year marriage that Jamila was not able to depend on her husband. Not depend on him was an understatement; she couldn’t even get in touch with him!

  As she completed her packing, Jamila slipped behind her beautiful floor length gowns and knelt on the closet floor. In the dim light, she rotated a small dial until she heard a metallic click. Her fingers searched the darkness for the large billfold that held their ‘rainy day’ money. It was gone! The billfold and all the money it contained were gone! In a panic she leaned forward and yanked everything out of the square iron box. Birth certificates, marriage license and wills were there but the money was gone. Urgently she shuffled through the passports finding only five. Gamil’s passport was gone! Jamila stared in disbelief at her hands as it dawned on her that this was a far greater problem than an aging cook crying in the kitchen. Not answering text messages was one thing. Taking their money and his passport was quite another! Her mind swirled through the possibilities. She didn’t know what was going on but she knew with sudden terror something was horribly wrong.

  Herr Müeller felt his stomach turn. His eyes scanned the square nearly empty room, stopping at the table by the door. On it were tools and unfamiliar things. He felt a fear he never experienced before. In the distance, he heard voices but he could not make out their words. Any minute he expected them to barge through the door and his torture would begin. I have been foolish, he thought, foolish and arrogant. I thought they’d never find me. I thought I had them outsmarted and when I sent those Syrian thugs after that boy I thought that would be the end of things. I had to get rid of him; handsome boy, but always sneaking around, looking through my trash. I knew he was a spy, probably a Jew but a handsome one. I thought once those Syrians got rid of the boy my worries would be over. That beautiful woman, Samira must have been part of this mess somehow. I trusted her. She came with such good credentials and she is so beautiful that she distracted me.

  Müeller ran through various scenarios trying to think what to do. Maybe I can talk them into letting me go, he thought. I’ll convince them it’s some kind of big mistake. I’ll say I was an innocent bystander. Someone else at the museum could be to blame. I’ll say I was set-up. Yes, that’s a good one. Americans like to say someone set them up. They are such cowards, those Americans. I’ll say I had no idea what was in those packages, someone asked me to watch over them, that’s all. Then he realized they could have collected information against him by now. If they have evidence against me and I lie to them it will make it worse for me. What if the arms network has been compromised? What if they know everything already? What if they got into my office and my computer? Dummkopf! I should have protected that computer. Dummkopf what a stupid idiot you are, he said to himself. Even my in house, they will probably find things, but they will not be clever enough to find the important things. Those things are hidden forever! He sneered reassuringly, when I get out of here I’ll take care of these oversights. I’ll hide things better.

  The idea of strangers going through his precious possessions tormented him. His home had always been his sanctuary. He never married and rarely had visitors so there was no reason to hide things. Housekeepers were always closely supervised. Things were kept the way he liked them so he could appreciate them.

  Watching through the one-way mirror, the members of Chevra Hatzollah were dividing tasks. Samira, Pablo and Stella would concentrate on their prisoner while T-Max, Ari and Reina would go inspect the curator’s home. Manny would devote himself to making extraction arrangements for the group in Israel and monitoring the never-ending flow of information … Manny had a lot to do before the away team could return.

  As his fingers sped across the keyboard, the interrogation team entered the small square room lit by a single blazing spotlight and T-Max headed toward Müeller’s elegant, manicured home in the suburbs.

  Rafi was awake. He could not sleep with the movement of the truck as it swayed and bumped along the desert floor. He had not been told where they were going and had pretended not to care. As long as he was with The Great One ...the one who's judgment reigned supreme, that was all that mattered. The details of the trip were not shared with the loyal followers who seemed unconcerned with such mundane details as the destination. They slept near him, huddled on their rugs snoring peacefully. Rafi was glad that he seemed to have been accepted by the others. He could learn more this way. It did have a downside though; he no longer had time alone to communicate with his team. Being surrounded by others meant he was being watched 24/7, and a single, out of the ordinary act could lead to detection. Sliding his fingers along the leather binding of his small Koran, he assured himself that the tracking device was still in place. Tucking the book inside his robe he concentrated on blending in.

  Earlier that day, after their mid-day prayer The Great One had called him aside for a private meeting. With great solemnity and ceremony he told Rafi he had been selected as his personal apprentice. Rafi greeted the announcement with the proper amount of awe and gratitude. But inside his heart thumped rapidly and he could hardly catch his breath. Sometimes his skin crawled as panic surged through his body. The Leader’s affection for him grew with every passing day and Rafi felt himself growing attached in return. His kindness and obvious warmth elicited a fondness for the man. Rafi did not see him as a G-d or a Messiah or even a wise leader but as a lonely, fragile man who really needed an emotional connection with someone. Rafi felt that within the labyrinth of piety and politics he had created, the man had not one person to whom he could turn for warmth or caring. Beneath The Leader’s rhetoric, beyond his strong inspirational presentation, was a man emotionally dependent on the shallow adoration of others. Rafi felt his stomach twist with guilt knowing how deeply his inevitable betrayal would wound the man. He had never been in this position. He didn’t think he could go through with it. He had never experienced such divided loyalties. He kept reminding himself that this was the same man who advocated, in fact developed an extensive plan for, the total destruction of the known universe. This is the man who would murder his family and everyone he had ever known. No matter how kind The Great One was to him, Rafi could never lose sight of the truth. Rafi could never lose sight of The Great One’s true mission or for that matter his own mission.

  He realized how easy it would be for someone with a fragile grip on reality to be swept away by a leader such as this. The man was convincing and engendered respect even though he espoused cruelty and world-wide annihilation. Rafi had studied sociology in college and learned about brainwashi
ng in cults. Now, he thought, I am experiencing what that is like first hand.

  Moshe’s voice in his ear interrupted his thoughts. “Rafi, check your sound.” Rafi breathed a sigh of relief. The voice grounded him and he was grateful for that. He checked his listening device. Glad Moshe had eyes on him and could see his slight nod. Then there was Ari. The closeness they had shared throughout their lives was a rare gift in this world of danger and uncertainty. Ari and Rafi shared a unique connection, rare even among identical twins. As toddlers, they not only had their own language, they communicated complex ideas without language. Eye contact, the slightest curl of a smile, a simple shrug conveyed paragraphs of information. As they grew older, their telepathy expanded. By the time they were 5, they no longer had to be in the same city in order to communicate with each other.

  Hadara instantly perceived the value their gifts could have to Mossad and the free world but she also worried that it would put her sons’ lives in danger. She knew there was a direct correlation between value and danger. Concerned that others would exploit their talents, she insisted that only Hakim and Samira know the extent of Rafi and Ari’s abilities. Most people had some idea about their special connection, but assumed it was a simple ‘twin thing.’ By first grade the twins were fully telepathic.

  Each twin could signal the need to communicate. Initially it was more experiential, simple feelings of fear, anxiety, anger, and excitement were most easily conveyed. Later, other communications developed. Those occurred through the transmission of ideas and images. Soon archives of data could be transmitted from one to the other. What one of them knew, felt, thought or saw could be instantly transferred to the other. All without a single memory stick or computer keystroke.

  But the marvel of their relationship went beyond their telepathy. The marvel was that each twin maintained his own unique personality, preferences and friendships. Though they knew and felt one another’s thoughts and feelings they remained distinct individuals. Rafi was fun-loving and outgoing, great with words and people, charismatic, dramatic and emotional; while Ari was shy, serious, didactic and fact-based. He loved science and higher mathematics. Both twins valued their interdependence above all else. Once in Mossad, they carried out many successful missions, which had only been successful because of their unique relationship.

  As Rafi bumped along through the desert to destinations unknown, he fervently wished that Ari were part of this mission. Lying there, he felt rather than heard Ari's voice. It was calm and reassuring “I’ve got your back….” The voice said. Rafi smiled slightly and fell asleep.

  - 29 -

  LONG DAYS NIGHT

  The fifty-six foot Sea Ray glided across the Mediterranean toward the Aegean Sea and the beautiful Greek Island Serifos. Red-roofed, white stucco houses, trimmed in blue, jutted out of mountain sides like a living travelogue. Five men stood aft looking out at the unparalleled blue water waiting to land. The arrangements had been made; monies had been transferred to a special account in Sol Aaronson's name. The funds were dispensable and untraceable. Boulos stood next to Sol seeming calm and unafraid. He was sure that his information was good and that he would end up having made a good deal. For reasons that made little sense to him, he trusted this man next to him. He seemed to be a solid and reasonable man and more than that, he seemed to be a deeply spiritual man. Sol Aaronson almost seemed like a religious leader, not that Boulos considered himself to be an expert on such subjects, but it turned out, he was right. Duqaq Boulos had discerned the former Rabbi in Aaronson; it gave him a sense of comfort. He believed he could trust this man, Then he warned himself to be cautious. Aaronson may be kind but he was still his captor.

  “We're almost there,” one of the crew called from the bridge and Sol glanced again at his watch and texted something into his cell phone. He felt good about his agreement with Boulos. He knew that the man was just a mercenary and hardly deserving of respectful treatment, but Aaronson approached everything in an above-board manner and preferred persuasion to violence - he found persuasion to be more beneficial in the long run and less stressful in the short run. Boulos didn't know it, but Sol had struck similar bargains with the other men, who were at this moment being followed by other teams. None of the men had been tortured or killed though he made it appear that way. He had a unique, respectful way of approaching ‘the enemy.’ It was congruent with his moral values and it got results. Aaronson was not unable to kill or even torture if he had no other choice, it just wasn’t his preferred method of operating. The men had given over their information and he had paid them for their help. He saw them as mercenaries not terrorists. It was a narrow distinction but a distinction nonetheless. If prisoners were determined to be terrorists they were turned over to the Americans, as part of the agreement between their two countries. What happened to them after that was not Sol Aaronson’s concern. He assumed many of his former prisoners permanently resided at Guantanamo Bay.

  Docking the yacht took a matter of minutes, during which time Boulos found himself surrounded by men with guns hidden under their jackets. He was escorted to a waiting van, which lurched up narrow, winding roads to a remote villa perched on top of a picturesque mountaintop exploding with color. Vibrant tropical plants thrived; pink and red bougainvillea vines blossomed, white stucco buildings gleamed and their brilliant blue trim reflected the extraordinary sapphire sea. Everything was enhanced by the sparkling sunshine reflecting off every surface.

  Once inside, the guards spread out checking doors and windows while Sol and Boulos entered a quiet meeting room with a long polished table and cushioned arm chairs. The air mingled the scents of lemon furniture polish and sea air. The draperies were opened to a panoramic view of beaches below and the lolling sea. This estate belonging to Mossad was used for private meetings of the highest caliber. While they waited for the meeting to begin, recording devices and video cameras were set up. This was to be a well-attended multi-national summit with representatives from America, Canada, Great Britain, Australia and Israel. While he waited for the meeting to begin, Boulos stretched out on a cushy floral sofa and dozed off.

  Hakim was a nervous wreck. He checked his cell phone about fifty times, seeing message after message from his beloved wife, each message sounding less worried and more angry. He could feel her coldness stretching across the miles that separated them. He wanted more than anything to return to her, to make up and have things return to the way they had been before. He knew he was in big trouble. He recalled this coldness in her tone only one time before. It was a time when she had single-handedly tracked down a Mossad mole. This was the tone of voice he heard from her just before the mole was dispatched. He now sympathized with that mole. He felt more and more like his life was at an end. That perhaps the divided life they shared, living in separate worlds, having secrets they could not share had run out of time. On some level, he always felt they were living on borrowed time.

  His role as special attaché to the Prime Minister was at the center of his current problems. At times, he was an official representative of the Prime Minister, representing him at the United Nations and black tie occasions. But sometimes his role was investigative, leading Hakim to the world of squalid back alleys, smoky cafés, and lavish baccarat games. He had connections and informants across the globe. Always ready with wad of cash and an easy smile, Hakim Faysal was a charming man, handsome with a friendly glib style. Everyone, from people living on the streets to people living in regal embassies, liked him. No one, not even his wife ever suspected…

  Well-established in the area west of Al Qubayyat, the Shaloub family had flourished in the textile industry. When their business expanded to include global markets, they grew wealthy and powerful. They prided themselves on their business acumen and praised Allah daily for their successes. Devout Muslims, they believed in sharing their wealth. They rebuilt their aged mosque and hired many unfortunates to work in their factories. Their textile business became the most successful in the Middle East. When time for expa
nsion came, subsidiary companies were opened in France and Italy. Several Shaloubs had served in Parliament and one served on the Judicial Tribunal. The family had been educated abroad and married well within Lebanon’s narrow upper class which networked across the country linking all the major industries: paper, jewelry, chemicals and olive oil. In the fifth generation of Shaloubs, five sons and three daughters survived to adulthood. The youngest of the sons was called Arman. Arman was a serious child, tending toward introversion; he was interested in learning and thinking. When at age four he was told that his name meant whole, immense, universal he felt proud and began to assimilate those characteristics into his personality. “I will be a great man one day,” he told himself. One day he asked his mother if his name meant he was supposed to be an important person, a person who could save the world.

  His mother hugged him and answered “Of course, my Arman, you can be anything you choose.”

  With a name like mine, I can be a G-d. I can save the world, he thought. However unlike most childhood beliefs that wax and wane over time, this belief expanded. By adolescence, Arman was convinced he had been born to save the world.

  His mother knew Arman was different from other children. She worried about his oddities, his isolation and his strange ideas. She worried that he had little interest in playing with other children, or taking part in family activities, even refusing family meals. He would disappear for hours wandering around the compound muttering to himself and writing page after page of notes in perfect Arabic script. As a solution, she sent him to a boarding school in England known for its strict management of problem students, thinking if he had more structure he would snap out of his dream-world and start acting normally. The opposite proved true. In a foreign setting, Arman grew more withdrawn, increasingly immune to criticisms and punishments. The world he lived in had as little meaning to him as the people around him. The only thing of importance was his message. He called it his Cataclysmic Regeneration Plan and he shared it with no one. The day has not come for my true plan to be revealed, he thought. The people are not ready. And so he studied and wrote and waited for the time when he could unveil his manifesto.