“I cannot take this,” Ari said. “I need to find him. I know there is something that is very wrong. He needs me. He is lost.”
Hadara studied her son’s handsome profile. The exact image of his twin. Two perfect images, two perfect boys, now two perfect men. She could not put into words the depth of love she felt for her sons. Amazing as individuals, as a duo they were unstoppable. It had been a joy to raise them. To watch as they negotiated their world. She knew their super-human connection meant the world to them and could only imagine what a loss it must be without it. She was deeply concerned about Rafi. Her happy, loving, outgoing, social son. Never depressed or confused by anything until now. That last assignment had changed him. Made him unreachable. Somehow Shukri al Sierawan had brainwashed him. Even in death the man had a hold on her son; somehow he took part of Rafi with him to the grave.
“Ema,” Ari said turning to her, “We have to find him.”
“Let me think about this, Ari, I am not sure what we should do. If he’s in his right mind and just working something through, we should let him do it. If he is not thinking clearly, we should mobilize our resources to find him.” Ari turned his smoke grey eyes, dark and anguished, toward his mother, “If we cannot reach him, we cannot determine his state of mind,” he said.
The beige silk comforter folded around her naked body as she rolled over watching him dress in the pale pre-dawn light; his muscular outline filled her with pleasure. A smile graced her lips as she recalled the night before as their love flourished with each embrace. Samira s a woman in love. This man who had entered her life as just another assignment had become the centerpiece of her life. His brilliance and sensitivity were astounding. His passion for her unending. She trusted this man like no other, in spite of the fact that she was his handler. Her superiors had cautioned her against becoming too comfortable with him; they were less certain of his loyalty than she was. Pushing those conflicts aside she gazed over at him. Soon he would leave; Fajr began at dawn and he could not be late for morning prayers. She would follow him to the mosque as she did 5 times every day. She would wait at a nearby bazaar while he prayed, monitoring him through the trusty earbuds tucked safely inside her hijab.
There had been rumors that The Sword of Justice was re-organizing. There were rumors that a replacement for The Great One had come forward. The thought was horrifying. Mossad had tracked several leads to this particular mosque. Her job was to observe and report. Observe everything and everyone, record and unobtrusively photograph as much as possible. Her camera hidden in the small basket she carried was programmed to snap every few seconds and automatically transmit the pictures. This afternoon a Tahajjud was scheduled at the mosque. This was a special prayer and could last up to 2 hours. Longer prayers provided Bayan more opportunity to do his job but for Samira it presented a challenge. Syrian women did not remain idle on the streets of Damascus, so she needed to move to different places and alter her appearance frequently to avoid detection. The mid-day heat offered another obstacle as she wandered from place to place.
Zuhair would cover the Mosque from the inside, she from the outside. They were a good team. In ‘sync’ on and off the job. Samira shrugged off her lingering doubts about the man she loved deciding her handlers were being overly cautious; she comforted her restless mind with a handful of passionate memories as she strolled through a booth fingering the beautiful fabrics swinging softly in the wind.
The sprawling building was overwhelmingly beautiful with sculpted minarets and intricately tiled walls depicting biblical scenes in diminutive detail. These mosaics were renowned throughout the world. Surrounded by beautiful grounds and gardens its enormous engraved brass doors stretched toward arched painted ceilings. This mosque welcomed a flow of worshippers, hundreds of them gathering throughout the day. The central space carpeted in shades of red surrounded by etched golden walls surrounded those who knelt on their prayer rugs for mid-day prayer. The Imam’s voice could be heard high and loud chanting above the din leading the assembled in worship. Bayan wearing a long, brown didashah glanced up from his prayers, scanning the room to see if he had been followed. He had been feeling more suspicious of late, noting changes in the crowd around him, surreptitious glances, forced smiles. He knew he needed to be careful. Here in the great mosque surrounded by knelling strangers it was hard to determine exactly what was happening. Samira had assured him that he had friends watching his back but he could not distinguish them from dozens of others milling about or crouching on their mats around him. He drew comfort from the fact that Samira was nearby, listening to every sound, coordinating the operation, scanning everything, missing nothing. She was the one thing he could count on. She was his comfort, his love, his lifeline.
In an archway leading to the side of the mosque he noticed a small gathering of men talking softly. Among those men he discerned a younger man talking with a shrouded older man, dressed like a Muezzan. Amid the rustling knot of worshippers, those two stood together in a manner suggesting collusion. Looking furtively around they studied the worshippers before retreating into the shadows. Around him chanters prayed in unison:
Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.
Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.
Ash-hadu an la ilaha ill-Allah.
Ash-hadu an la ilaha ill-Allah.
Ash-hadu anna Muhammad-ar-Rasoolullah.
Ash-hadu anna Muhammad-ar-Rasoolullah.
Hayya 'alas-Salah. Hayya 'alas-Salah.
Hayya 'alal-falah. Hayya 'alal-falah.
Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.
La ilaha ill-Allah.
As he recited the prayers, he watched the two figures broke off from the others and moved out of view. A flash of memory had been triggered. Bayan felt had seen those men before. Unable to see their faces, he was left with a fleeting impression. There was something about their posture and movements, but the prayers ended before he could identify them and the assembled rose around him, gathering up their prayer rugs, speaking casually to each other. While Bayan did the same, he noticed the two had moved down another hallway; for a split second he caught sight of them again before they disappeared inside a distant room. Positioning himself so he could watch the door, Bayan explained the situation, speaking softly into his folded sleeve while remaining in a prayerful pose.
Thirty minutes after the mid-day prayers ended a man bearing an uncanny resemblance to Shukri al Sierawan left the room, moved swiftly down a corridor and slipped out of the mosque through a tiled archway. Bayan crept down the hall toward the heavy wooden door; putting his ear to its surface, he heard nothing. He eased the bronze lever downward. The door was unlocked. Glancing over his shoulder he eased the door open a crack and peered inside. The room was empty. Puzzled he opened the door and slipped inside.
The room was large and shady. It was a library, three walls were lined with bookshelves and long broad tables were piled high with prayer books. An ornate Koran sat open on a stand in the middle of one long table and a massive carved desk was angled into the corner. A few padded arm chairs and heaps of patterned fringed pillows were scattered about. Set into the carved wooden panels of one wall were three large windows offering a perfect view of the courtyard. Aside from the windows and the single door he’d just entered no other exits were visible. Being a man of conviction and courage, Bayan proceeded to search the room, determined to find out how the young man left. He checked behind the handmade wall hangings and ran his fingers along the sides of bookshelves but he found nothing. Bayan photographed the room from every angle then troubled and disappointed, he left the room.
Through a tiny hole carved into the desk’s delicate inlaid front panel, Rafi Eiliat watched him leave.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Love of the mystery/thriller genre combines with psychotherapy training and experience to produce emotionally supercharged dramatic novels. Nancy Alexander has devoted much of her professional life to helping survivors of trauma. Her tales of intrigue, complex psychology, and triumph over adversi
ty are a natural interlacing of professional, literary and creative interests.
Connect with Nancy online at www.nancyjalexander.com.
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Book I of the Elizabeth Reinhardt Series
"The little girl lay under the hay stack scarcely breathing. Sweat poured down her face and dripped into her eyes; her heart pounded through her thin chest. Tiny flecks of hay clung to her wet skin, making her itch. She squeezed her nose tightly afraid she'd sneeze. Eyes clamped shut, she lay there. Flies buzzed around her, crawling on her. She didn't move. She didn't know how long she'd been there in the loft. She didn't care how long she stayed. She couldn't move. Not yet."
Available now in Kindle, paperback, and audiobook editions.
Seeing Double: An Elisabeth Reinhardt Novel Page 32