Seeing Double: An Elisabeth Reinhardt Novel
Page 24
He had to admit though he’d been well paid for his efforts and that money had made the difference between life and death. Not for him, but for his wife. His beloved Neima had been suffering from Lou Gehrig’s disease for years and the best treatments were available only at the Mayo Clinic in the United States. She was at the end of her life now and he had to help her. Theirs had been a marriage of love, not just of convenience. Yes, it had been an arranged marriage, but within a year he had fallen deeply in love with her. She was his moral compass, his center and soon she would be leaving him. He could not bear to think of it. He was grateful that he had been able to get enough money to help her during her last days. He prayed she would never find out where all that money had come from. That he thought surely would kill her.
At first, the side work had been easy: a little text message here, a little listening device planted there. It progressed, photocopying, breaking and entering. Soon, he was in over his head. A full-fledged spy, con artist, cheater, liar! Husain Hatolla looked back at his life and he could not believe all this had happened to him. He was an educated man from a good family, one of the best that Morocco had to offer. And he was a good Muslim. He could not reconcile the man he used to be with the man he had become. He must be an innocent victim of circumstance; he rationalized and told himself he had done what any loving husband would do. He had not really betrayed his country. He had just helped someone out. The fact that who he had helped was a criminal, whom neither his government nor the United Nations defined as an ally, well that was a troublesome fact he mostly ignored.
Husain looked down at the man on the floor, the trussed and injured man and he could not believe that he was responsible for this man’s condition. He had received a text asking him to report to the Lebanese Prime Minister’s palace. There he met with the head of the Palace Guards and accompanied them on a ride into the desert. They were transporting this man, the one who now lay at his feet. They brought the man into the building, it was an abandoned bunker really, and left them there, just the two of them.
He wanted to blame the man himself for his situation and tried to do that, but in his mind he knew better. Hatolla knew what he had done. He had beaten and starved and interrogated this man. He asked the questions he’d been told to ask. “What do you know about the Russian pipeline? Where is your brother-in-law Hakim Faysal? What does Hakim know of the pipeline?” The man answered what he could, but it wasn’t much. He told what he knew of the Russian connection, that the Finance Minister Schma’il Marzug was diverting funds to sponsor The Sword of Justice. He seemed to tell all that he knew. His Russian bosses wanted to know if Marzug had betrayed them. They wanted to know what Gamil knew about his boss so they could decide whether or not to eliminate Marzug from their list of associates. Their associates list was an ever dwindling one. Marzug himself had claimed loyalty and innocence but they needed a corroborating source. That source was Gamil Ajram.
Gamil resisted at first but soon gave up all the information he had about the Russian connection and Marzug’s involvement with the new radical group. What he wouldn’t talk about was his family. He claimed no information at all about his brothers-in-law or their locations. Husain Hatolla felt guilty as he looked down at the wounded man. He had done the unthinkable to a man who had been manipulated into keeping a secret and setting up a meeting. That was it, really. Not good, but not the worst thing a person could do. He had beaten a man for doing far less than he himself had done for an even worse master, a monster really. Husain could no longer justify his own actions. He could not rationalize this behavior. This thought turned his stomach. Nauseated by his own actions, he raced to the bathroom.
Shamir had been with him for years and Abdullah thought of him as a friend, however once broken, trust is hard to regain. There is often a lingering worry, a prick of doubt; he had to make a hard decision. As the car drove through the mountains of Jezzine, he struggled with his dilemma. There had never been a sign of disloyalty. But since their ‘detainment’ at the Army Headquarters, Abdullah had been increasingly uncomfortable. It was only a hunch, a feeling, really, with no hard proof. And, he reasoned, they had been released so if Shamir had really turned against him perhaps that would not have occurred. And yet, there was this nagging suspicion, something base and instinctive. There was something different about the man. He was trying too hard, he was uneasy, he was nervous. Perhaps, he rationalized it was because they had been detained. Abdullah had been treated poorly by his superiors; he had lost face so perhaps Shamir had less respect for him. Abdullah thought about that for a while then he thought perhaps … Shamir had something to be guilty about.
Abdullah reviewed his options. I can simply send the man home, on the excuse that we have been gone a long time and Shamir needs to see his family. That would be the most humane thing to do. But if Shamir is under orders to watch me, then he would have to refuse leave me. He thought for a while. That just isn’t solid enough proof. I can pull over and torture him until he tells me the truth, but there would be no coming back from that. If I do that our relationship and all that it has meant would be over. But then, perhaps it’s over now anyway. Then, he thought, I can just kill him. I can pull out my gun and shoot him. We could have an accident driving over these treacherous mountains; I could lose control of the car and Shamir would be crushed as we tumbled over the edge of the cliff. A tragic accident! The loss of my closest friend!
Drastic choices, thought Abdullah. The decision was made for him when Shamir broke through the silence. “I have a confession to make, Sayyd,” Shamir began. “They asked me to spy on you, they let me keep my cell phone so I could text them messages about you. They told me to stay with you and report your whereabouts so that they could re-capture you if they wanted to. They threatened to kill my family if I did not. I don’t want them to kill my family, Sayyd, but I cannot spy on the best friend I have ever had. What shall we do?”
Abdullah’s breath caught in his throat. It was like Shamir was reading his mind. Quickly he pulled off the road and turned off the car. Facing Shamir, who was sweating profusely, he said, “I appreciate your honesty, my friend. We will drive now to the town where your family lives and drive them to where your wife’s family lives. Then we will go to the Olive Grove and you will send our commanding officer a text letting them know where we are. We will find a way to use your status as a spy to our advantage. We will ponder the situation and figure out a way out for both of us.” He reached over and placed his hand on his aide’s shoulder. “Thank you for your trust, my friend. I hope you will never again give me cause to doubt you. For the next time,” he said sadly, “I am afraid there will be no discussion.”
They thought long and hard about the plan and concluded it made the best sense. Samira was primed and ready. She would go undercover with her brother. A cadre of servants was arriving that afternoon, according to their sources at Mossad. They were coming from several locations and were strangers to one another. It was the best opportunity for Samira to slip into the camp. She had a duel agenda. The first was to support her brothers in their mission, the second was to assess Zuhair Bayan and determine whether he posed an independent threat of terrorism. He had the reputation as a womanizer and though that was not confirmed the possibility of it offered Samira opportunities. Dressed in a loose, floral gandora with a matching hijab artfully draped around her shoulders, she assumed the bearing of a servant, knowing if a connection with Bayan was possible her captivating emerald eyes and seductive smile would be all she needed.
From his position in the circle of advisors, Rafi heard Moshe’s voice reporting that Samira had arrived and would be assuming the role of food server. Moments later, he saw her standing with a tray near the tent flap listening ardently as honeyed words of hatred surged from The Leader’s mouth. The response of the assembled was immediate. They agreed! Yes, they shouted, we will destroy our enemies! We will destroy the other groups who compete with us! We will be the one and only martyrs for Allah! We will be under
the bubble and when they are converted to our way of thinking all other Arab brothers and sisters will join us! Shouts of victory and shouts of death to vile enemies of Allah were loud and spontaneous.
The Great One smiled his shy, quiet smile and leaned back on his pillows. He was done speaking now. He had his answer. His message to his followers would include ‘death to the fake reformers’. His followers would unite against the other Islamic extremist groups occupying the vast desert. He would take down Al Queda, Hezbollah, Hamas and all the rest. His group would grow to be the largest in the Arab world. He would subsume his competitors and take over the entire world. Quietly, he looked around the circle at his small trusted group of advisors and his gaze fell on his newest protégée. Rafi aka Roshan, who had returned to him from the grave! His lost friend was found again. The Great One was a happy man.
The clicking woke him mid-morning. The sound of rapid clicking snuck into his consciousness and woke him with a start. Wandering into the computer room Hakim saw his son sitting in near total darkness intently staring at a dozen monitors taping on a keyboard. “What are you working on my son,” he asked putting his hand on Ari’s shoulder. “Ah you’re awake Abba, good morning to you. Would you like some coffee?” “You seem hard at work, let me get it for us and then you can tell me what you are working on,” Hakim answered.
Forty minutes later, crowded in front of monitors overrun with moving data, Hakim pointed to a number. They had been tracking properties owned or leased by the government. “Let me see what that one looks like,” he said as Ari clicked and a small sketch appeared on the end monitor. “Where is that one located?” Hakim asked as they studied the map and the small sketch. “That’s got to be it,” Ari said “it meets all the requirements we outlined. That’s got to be it.”
“Okay,” Hakim responded, “Let’s do this!”
Hala Faysal was frozen with fear. Whatever could this woman be talking about? What could she know that was so terrible? She wanted to go up and get her husband, but was afraid to stop the woman from talking and also she thought that Musnah would not be so free to talk in front of a man. Leaning forward with the calmest voice she could muster, she encouraged her servant to speak. “Tell me what you know,” she said, “Please, tell me.”
Sighing, the woman remained flat on her back across the bed. Closing her eyes she spoke as if to herself. “I have seen and I have heard many things,” she said. “My grandson Imad came under the influence of his uncle on the other side of the family. That man is a bad man. He does many things that are not right. For money, he does many things. First my grandson comes to me and asks me to help him rob the Olive Grove. I say to him ‘NO! Never in my life would I do such a thing!’ He goes away. Then he comes back another time. Then he asks me to leave open the gate. He says many important men have to meet. They need to meet here. I ask why they need to meet here. He says he cannot say. Again I say to him ‘NO’. I will not open gates that have to be locked. I will not help him do wrong things. Not to my special family…I mean this family…,” she adds in a whisper. “He goes away. Then, another time he comes back again and says he does not need me to help with these things but I must never tell that he has asked this. This time, I see that his uncle is with him and also another man. They do not look at me; they are talking to each other. My grandson says that he has others who will help. I am alarmed. Who is your other help I ask? Who helps you do bad things? He smiles and says do not worry, for him it is not breaking the law. I say “No one who lives here would do bad things.” He laughs at me and says I am naïve. He says if the price is right people will do anything.
“Then one day, I am taking food out to the men who are gathering olives. I take them food and drink and I see your son-in-law Gamil. He is arguing with that bad uncle. He is upset. Yelling and maybe also he is weeping. I am not sure. The bad uncle takes out a knife, a long one and puts it to Gamil’s throat. My grandson is smiling and talking to the bad uncle. I think they are making fun of Gamil. I am hiding, so they cannot see me. I am afraid they will kill Gamil; I am afraid they will find me and kill me.
Later Gamil comes to me and says, ‘Did you see what happened?’ I say, ‘Yes, I saw.’ And then he says to me never to tell that I saw these things. He is taking care of it. He says things are not always what they seem. Then my grandson is taken then Saroyah is taken. Then all the men disappear. Then Jamila and the children go away and now it is just us here alone.
I feel I am to blame for all of this. I should have told you, but Gamil say not to tell and he too is my boss, is that not right? I do not know what to do. I do not know what is right to do.” The woman stopped talking as abruptly as she had started and lay back as if asleep. She was done. Just done...
- 41 -
A CERTAIN JUSTICE
He was kneeling on the cold tile floor in front of the porcelain commode puking his guts out. He could not believe how terrible he felt. It was as if someone had been beating HIM instead of the other way around. He felt sick to his stomach every time he thought about it. How could he, a man of faith, a respected appointee from the Moroccan government to the United Nations stoop to such low acts? He had to get out of this mess he was in. Perhaps he should kill the man and get it over with rather than waiting for instructions. He was bending over the sink washing his face, when he heard a creak in the floorboards. Whipping around he found himself staring into the barrel of a Glock17.
The man holding the gun motioned for him to go into the other room. Husain Hatolla did as he was told. He saw an older man kneeling down tending to his prisoner. The first man put handcuffs on Husain; he blindfolded and gagged him and tied him to a chair. Across the room the men talked to each other, but so softly he couldn’t make out their words. Inside he was frightened not just for himself, but for his wife. He had left a detailed will and was confident that his children would carry out his wishes so if this was the end of his life, at least he would die knowing that his wife would be well cared for until her time came. He only hoped that his death would be swift, which he acknowledged was more mercy than he had shown his prisoner. He wasn’t sure that Allah had mercy in store for him. He could only pray that this would be the case.
The brilliant Greek sunshine poured in the window as Boulos waited for Aaronson’s next words. He wasn’t sure what had happened to change the man’s mood, but for sure something had. He hoped it wasn’t what he worried it was. He remained standing and assumed a look of complete innocence as he waited. “Please, sit,” Aaronson directed pulling out a chair for himself. “It has come to my attention that there may have been other types of weapons involved in your negotiations with The Sword of Justice. These have not been discussed. I need you to address these issues now.”
Boulos held his gaze for a moment or two while he decided what to do next. He knew that this was a game changer. “My friend,” he began “your information is of course correct. I spoke with a man called Müeller one time only. I had taken a trip to the city Chicago in the United States and talked with him about many matters. I was not sure about all the things he had or did not have. He was my only contact in the United States. I found him to be an evasive and unpleasant person and did not trust the things he said. We talked only of nuclear materials nothing else.”
Sol Aaronson gave the man a hard stare. He had received a lengthy report and an encrypted transcript a few hours ago from his staff at Mossad. “I have it on tape from that evasive, unpleasant person himself that he spoke with you about chemical weapons. Why would you deny having such information? Why would you withhold it from me?”
“But, my friend” said Boulos, “it was only a passing comment or two. It was nothing really. I was not being paid to deal with these materials so I did not listen to him speaking of this.”
“Really” Sol scoffed, “that’s your story?”
“Why would you take this manner with me, my friend I have done nothing to suggest I would transport such ugliness. These things are despicable to me,” Boulos continued
.
“Shall I play you the tape I have from our unpleasant arms-dealing Nazi?” Sol asked.
Boulos, ever vigilant, could tell by the tone of the conversation that he was running out of wiggle room. His mind raced ahead working through scenario after scenario that might get him out of trouble with his new would be benefactor. He honestly didn’t know why he had withheld this information; he guessed it was just a habit to hold something back from negotiations. Putting up his hands as a gesture of surrender he said “Let me tell you the whole story, my friend. You are right, I have been holding out on you, but only because I did not want to add to your worries. If you thought that chemical weapons were at play you would have been more worried, is that not so? I assumed that the man was captured and therefore the authorities would seize the chemicals and all would be well,” he added with an ingratiating smile.
“I’m not at all certain ‘all is going to be well,’” Aaronson replied with a somber expression.
Galed Rashid bowed low before The Great One. He had explained all that transpired since they last spoke and claimed that he had done his best and that the Israeli Airport Security tapes were to blame. They were ridiculous, he said, the same man in different places at the same time. Who could be so foolish as to believe such a thing? Were it not for those tapes, he claimed they would have captured and killed the child easily. He then turned to his men to back him up, but they were strangely silent. Frowning, he called them out one by one. They grudgingly nodded assent, but did not elaborate and failed to match his enthusiasm for the blame game. Galed had known from the outset that he was doomed and was determined to face it like the soldier and devout Muslim that he was, but when it came right down to it, he didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. As the minutes passed, he found himself more and more willing to fight for his life and less willing to simply submit to death. So as his men became less willing to support his story, he became more accusatory toward his men and more inclined to blame them for the mission’s dismal failure. Perhaps, he offered, he could track the child down in the United States. Perhaps, he should be dispatched immediately to travel there and locate her. Perhaps, The Great One thought, he should be dispatched immediately. He nodded at his 2nd in command.