- 43 -
loosening knots
Husain Hatolla cringed when he felt the man’s hands on his ropes. He knew that he was in trouble and no amount of lying would get him out of it. He had been thinking about this for hours. Granted, they had not harmed him. They had let him use the facilities and given him food and water. They had been kind, well, as kind as captors could be. He had lots of time to think about his options and was ready to die if death is what lay before him. He had little future to go back to, he reasoned. His wife would be dying soon, his children were grown and self-sufficient and with the money he left them they would be comfortable for the rest of their lives. He was ready to meet Allah; it was alright with him. He just hoped that his death would be a speedy one and that he would not suffer in the process.
He was ready when the men took off his blindfold and sat opposite him. “Tell me why you captured and beat that man,” Hakim Faysal demanded.
Husain Hatolla bowed his head and said, “I am truly sorry for what I did. Is the man alright?”
“Answer my question,” Hakim commanded.
“I was ordered to obtain information from him,” Hatolla replied, “there had been a meeting during the summer, it happened somewhere in Russia they told me. The meeting was a big secret. No one was to know about it. Important people were there; men who were not to be seen together. This man,” he referred to Gamil, “works for one of them. They are worried, the important men I mean, that this man, your friend,” again referring to Gamil, “knew about that meeting. They thought he had been there spying on them. They worried that their secrets would be revealed.”
“What is the name of the man who ordered you to do this, who wanted that information?” Hakim asked.
Without hesitation, Hatolla told them, “He is named Borisovich Kliemkov. He works for the Russian mob, the Noukhayev family.”
“So this Kliemkov met with others in a secret meeting, is that right?” Hakim pressed. “Who else was there?”
“There was also another man, of lesser status. He traveled a long way with a briefcase containing something important. They were very interested in that briefcase.”
“Do you know the name of the man with the briefcase?” Hakim asked
“No, the Russians did not seem to want any information about him. He was not their concern. They wanted me to ask questions of your friend called Gamil about the other ‘important man’.” Hatolla explained.
“What do you know about this ‘important man’?” Hakim asked.
“I am not certain of this, but the man is an official in the Lebanese government,” Hatolla answered.
“Do you know his rank or title?” Hakim asked.
“It is in the Cabinet, I believe. I believe the man called Gamil works for him,” Hatolla said. “I was instructed to get information from your friend by any means possible. They, the Russians, told me just enough to know what questions to ask. I know only what they told me to ask. I myself know nothing about this meeting or its purpose. The Russians wanted information from your friend so they could decide if the ‘important man’ had been telling them the truth. I think if they believed your friend’s story they would kill this government man.”
“So there were three men at this meeting, the Russian, the one with the briefcase and the important man from Lebanon? Right?” Abdullah asked.
“Yes that is what I was told; remember I was not there at that meeting.” Hatolla stressed.
“What is your relationship with these people, these Russian mob people?” Abdullah queried.
“I have worked for them over the years. At first it was innocent. At that time I didn’t know who was behind the requests. They were small favors that had big rewards. It started with small pieces of information, memos, meeting dates things like that. They were simple things that seemed to have no real meaning. They were most generous in their payments for these small favors and before I knew it things had become more complicated. I was trapped. My wife she is very sick. I worried these people might harm her and my children. They didn’t exactly threaten to do these things but somehow the threat was there, hanging in the air like a whisper. I did what any man would do. I played along and hoped for the best. I tried to quit but they would have none of it. There was no solution.” Hatolla looked miserably into the faces of his captors hoping for understanding. He got nothing.
“What do you know about an organization called The Sword of Justice?” Hakim asked.
Hatolla grew silent, “They are new and growing. They have very bad ideas about the world. I try to avoid them.”
The men talked for 2 hours before Abdullah asked, “Do you know of a man called Zuhair Bayan?”
“Bayan…” Hatolla repeated drawing the man’s name out like a string.
Abdullah nodded.
“I am not certain, there are several with names like that one,” Hatolla hesitated, “do you think he was involved with this meeting?”
Curtly Hakim said “You tell us.”
“I cannot be certain. I have heard his name somewhere in my travels. Can you tell me something about this man? Perhaps you could describe him to me?” Hatolla suggested.
Hakim smiled inwardly. He knew then that Hatolla knew Zuhair Bayan. “Describe him? This man has a mark on him. Does that sound familiar to you?”
Hatolla nodded. “A mark,” he repeated. He could not avoid this truth any longer. “I have met this man. He has a mark just here,” Hatolla pointed to a spot on his face, “it is like a Russian mark, a sickle,” he drew a little mark on his face in the shape he was describing. “I saw him when he was a little boy. I was on a fact finding mission for the United Nations. It was the early 70’s, a time of much unrest; there were many Palestinian attacks against Israel. Bayan’s father was with the resistance. He brought the boy, maybe 7 years old along with him to our meetings. There was a small Jewish synagogue in the south,” Hatolla jerked his head toward the south, “it was a front for those resistance fighters. The boy’s father was a Rabbi for that temple. It was part of his cover, I have heard.”
“What became of the boy?” Abdullah asked.
“Well I had no contact for many years. I heard rumors that their little village was bombed and most everyone was killed. There are several stories about this child. One story goes that the child was taken to a home and raised as a Muslim and became a devote Muslim. The other story says that he remained hidden in Israel and did not give up his Jewish roots. There are many stories. I hear he returns to visit relatives. He has two married sisters who live in that area. They say he is devoted to them,” Hatolla shifted in his chair feeling more confident now. He thought that his captors were pleased with him.
“I saw him only one time when he was a grown man. I was attending an International meeting of the Arab Coalition and he was there representing Syria. I heard him speak before a large audience. I knew him instantly by that mark on his face. It made my blood run cold to see him there, a Jewish child grown up to become a leader in an Arab nation. It was at that meeting that I heard him called by his other name, the name Zuhair Bayan. As a child he was called Zeryka Ben Harav.
Abdullah and Hakim exchanged looks and Hakim left the room. They were getting closer to the truth.
The aroma of freshly brewed mint tea permeated the space. Leaning against a brightly patterned pillow he absorbed her beauty. Never had he seen such symmetry, such coloring, such astounding perfection. Never before had he felt so intrigued, so besotted. Gazing at her he felt no need for words; they were superfluous. He only needed to see her, to listen to her voice, to be with her. And her name, it felt so right. Shoshana… Shoshana… The sound of it echoed in his mind. Those few strands of hair that escaped her hijab stirred feelings deep within him. “Shall I make music for you, Sayyd?” she asked. It was the custom for women to entertain their men by song or dance. Bayan nodded as he poured them each a cup of tea. “Call me Zery…” he stopped, cleared his throat and corrected himself, “Call me Zuhair, my sweet.” He was a
larmed by his mistake. Never before had he misspoken this way. Samira smiled coyly, tucked his ‘error’ away in the back of her mind and began by humming some ancient tunes. She put no words to the sounds. Primal melodious sounds filled the space as Bayan gazed at her he slipped into a trance.
His memories transported him back to his childhood, back to the home of his family, back to his mother Sarah and his sisters Shayna and Shira; back to his roots before he converted to Islam. As she slowly hummed tunes vaguely Chasidic, stirring his ethnic origins he watched her through a romantic haze. She had become a blend of images, a convergence of loved ones; with her it was harder to remain in his assumed identity. She took him back to a time before he became Zuhair Bayan. He looked at her through misty eyes and knew that he would do anything for her, for this woman he just met, this stranger, his love.
Hadara, Yosef and Gil McCray sat hunched over the laptop transmitting coded data. The mission was underway, everyone awaiting orders. Information was coming in fast. Sol Aaronson reported that according to his informant, Duqaq Boulos, Bayan remained loyal to his Jewish roots so his intentions regarding The Sword of Justice were unclear. It was decided that Samira would work to determine his true intentions and would use her position to ensure that her brothers remained safe. Theories were bounced back and forth but none made much sense. If Bayan saw The Great One as a threat why hadn’t he taken the opportunity to eliminate him? If Bayan was loyal to Israel he had to see the man and his organization as a threat. On the other hand, if he had converted to Islam and had turned against Israel, why was he sending money to the little synagogue and continuing to visit his family there? Bayan’s duplicity was a problem and could derail their plan. They decided to leave the Bayan mystery to Samira.
From Husain Hatolla, Hakim learned that his brother-in-law had been undermined by Ishma’il Marzuq, the Agricultural Minister, who was threatened when Gamil discovered government money was being funneled out to fund a terrorist group. When Marzuq, a man of vast political ambitions feared that Gamil would reveal his discoveries, he developed a two-pronged plan to destroy him. In the Middle East, as in most places, a well-placed rumor went a long way to destroying a man’s reputation. First Marzuq devised a rumor that Gamil had terrorist connections and hinted that his brothers in law were also involved in a plot to undermine the Lebanese government. This was spread throughout the higher echelons of the government. Then he informed the Noukhayev Crime family that Gamil planned to reveal their involvement in the nuclear weapons deal thereby engendering their destructive efforts. A warrant for Gamil’s arrest was issued by his government and he marked for execution by one of the world’s most vicious criminal networks.
Within a matter of hours Gamil went from being a well-respected consultant to a wanted fugitive. Marzuq pleased with his scheme waited for word that Gamil had been eliminated.
Gil speculated that Gamil’s predicament had led to Hakim and Abdullah’s fall from grace. Suspicion proliferates in a climate of distrust and since the three men are family, all three tumbled under a cloud of suspicion. That put everyone in this extended family in danger. Political instability throughout the region increased the likelihood that rumors spreading rapidly would be treated as truths. A few well-placed lies and a few reckless rumors would go a long way toward creating an avalanche of mistrust.
As luck would have it, an Interpol operative had been tracking the Russian mobster and followed him to the secret meeting in Penza. Photos were taken on that meeting and all those present including Marzug, Boulos and Kliemkov along with the contents of the briefcase and a shot of the money changing hands. When an international alert was posted, the photos were made accessible to Mossad and passed on to Hadara and Yosef. These photos were embedded in email attachments sent to the Prime Minister and all members of the cabinet, except Marzug, subject heading “Traitor in your Cabinet.”
At the same time, fingerprint and DNA evidence mysteriously appeared from somewhere and that helped indict the Cabinet Minister. That evidence proved without a shadow of a doubt that Schma’il Marzug and Shukri al Sierawan had at some point been in the same place at the same time. Marzuq was brought in for questioning and the results of the investigation into his conduct established that he was guilty of misuse of government funds and had been working to undermine the security of the country, therefore he was guilty of treason.
Arrest orders for Gamil, Hakim and Abdullah were revoked. Apologies from a grateful country were forthcoming; the men were reinstated with full compensation to their previous positions and the Prime Minister awarded them medals for bravery in the line of duty. Whether or not they would agree to return to work for their grateful government was another issue. For the moment the choice was theirs.
Manny read aloud from the CNN headline marching across the screen, “BREAKING NEWS… A highly placed official in the Lebanese government accused of treason. Ishma’il Marzuq, Director of the Finance Ministry- removed from office - accused of diverting government funds to fuel illegal arms trade.” News reports coming in from Beirut, Lebanon and Baku, Azerbaijan indicate a Russian-Azerbaijani connection in the arms trade deal linked to Marzuq. Interpol, Mossad, and several other governmental organizations are investigating these world-wide links to terrorist networks.” The members of the Chicago branch of Chevra Hatzollah relaxing around the room cheered in unison.
- 44 -
LAY DOWN THE SWORD
The Great One was sleeping when he crept into the tent and knelt down before him assuming a meditative pose. His eyes moved across the space observing everything. The multicolored carpet spread across the hard-packed sand, the large colorful pillows that surrounded the man, the green glass shisha pipe its three arms hanging limply, the bronze etched samovar. The tent flap blew slightly in the breeze. The air was warm. Slowly he pulled a tiny brass vial from his pocket. He paused for a moment before extending his hand toward the top of the samovar surrounded by small etched cups. As he began to unscrew the top he felt the older man’s eyes watching him. “And so, Rafi, you wish to betray me?” his voice cracked with sadness. “You have turned from devotion to The Sword of Justice?”
Remaining bowed the younger man said “Sayyd, your plan for destruction of the world is cruel and without mercy.”
“My son,” he asked, “Do you think the lovers of western civilization have been just? Have they not spread moral decay across the world? Have they not taken lands which were not their own? Because of their multitude of sins against Allah, do they not deserve to die?”
“But not all of them are guilty,” the younger man stressed, “what about the children, the women, the innocent animals who would be destroyed. Life on earth would be nearly totally destroyed. That is your cataclysmic regeneration plan, is it not? Surely there are other ways.”
“Rafi, my son, you are innocent, pure and innocent and wrong. My plan is the only way. The world has become corrupted and it must be destroyed. All of it!” The Great One sat forward eyes intent and worried.
“Sayyd, have we not committed crimes ourselves? Are we not guilty of being selfish, caring more about money than about Allah? Have we not taken lands from one another? Killed one another? These things are true of the human race, not just of the Westerners. We are not innocent by-standers. Look what those who own many oil wells have done. Have they given their money to the poor? No! They have lived selfishly with great wealth while others live in poverty outside their gates,” the young man argued.
The air inside the tent had grown warmer; the noises from the camp around them seemed to fade so that all the mattered was the two of them.
“My son, sadly there are many truths. One Truth is that Allah is our G-d. It is he who we follow and this is his plan.”
“How do you know that this is Allah’s plan? Did he tell you? Did he write it down? No it’s your plan and you created it not Allah,” the young man said urgently.
The older man cleared his throat and said, “It came to me in a dream. A clear dream in which Alla
h outlined to me the plan we speak of… a dream as in the Quran...as in the Hebrew’s bible. Do you not think people have dreams? Sleeping dreams in which truths are revealed? Have you never dreamed, my son?”
“Of course, Sayyd,” the young man nodded, “but I have not assumed my dreams to be the truth.”
“Maybe they haven’t been, you are very young and Allah may be waiting to give you his truth.”
“But, what makes Allah’s truth more true than that of the Christian G-d or the G-d of the Hebrews?” The young man asked, “There are many G-ds worshipped by many people throughout the world. The followers of those G-d’s believe in them as we believe in Allah. Why do we assume that we are more right than those others? That our G-d is more right than those other G-ds?”
Tears filled the older man’s eyes and his voice grew soft. The impending loss struck him as a mighty blow. He had counted on Rafi and now he was losing him. Had he misjudged him so? “I am bewildered, my son,” he said reaching out his hand. “What has happened that you suddenly turn against me? You who held my hope for the future; you who I raised above all others to serve me; you who I have come to love as my own flesh and blood?” His warm soft hand reached toward his apprentice.
Seeing Double: An Elisabeth Reinhardt Novel Page 26