by David Rose
It brought to mind a recent memory. Charlie, tough little trooper Charlie, hardly ever got ill, but a couple of weeks before Morgan left for Gaza he’d picked up a nasty virus. Adam had been working in his study next to Charlie’s bedroom, but, as usual, when he cried for help, it was Morgan who rushed to his side: too late to stop him being sick all over her slippers and the floor. She’d cleaned him up, given him some water and children’s Tylenol, and he’d gone back to sleep, but he’d woken almost every hour throughout the night.
All through that almost sleepless night, as she held him and soothed him and stroked his face, Morgan had felt herself suffused with a love so intense that it almost made her son’s suffering worth it. That night, while Adam slept undisturbed, she had wondered seriously for the first time whether she should ask the Agency not to give her any more dangerous assignments in the field, at least not until the kids were grown. She hadn’t, she recalled ruefully, given that idea a moment’s further thought until now.
Curled in the corner of the cell, Morgan wondered who was comforting Charlie now. Suddenly the stink of her own adult puke seemed especially repellent, and she heaved once more.
After Adam’s shocking disclosure, the kids said very little, and once they were all back home, the routines of family life reasserted themselves. Aimee had a soccer practice. Charlie went to play video games with a classmate. Adam climbed the stairs to his computer. He didn’t expect to find anything yet from Nuha, but to his surprise, a message was already waiting for him. “You can try this number,” it said. “Probably better if you travel before you use it.” Adam immediately recognized what followed: the number of a British mobile telephone, beginning with the code 07711. It only confirmed what he had already almost decided: they should all go to England.
The reasons were obvious. The CIA’s insistence that he maintain secrecy was impossible. But now the children knew the truth, the idea that they could simply go back to school when the Easter holidays finished was inconceivable. Several of their classmates’ parents worked in the media. As Gary had warned him, it would not be long before Morgan’s plight was plastered across the front page of the Washington Post.
His finger a little shaky, Adam dialed a number in England.
“Hey Dad. It’s me. How’s it going?” He was trying to sound as normal as he could.
“Adam!” He heard his father yell down the stairs of the rambling North Oxford house. “Darling, pick up the extension! It’s our prodigal offspring.” There was a pause while his mother tuned in. “So, tell us all about the case. How’s it feel to be a Supreme Court advocate? How come you didn’t call before now, did you think we weren’t interested or something? How’re the kids? And how’s Morgan?”
“The Supremes’ argument went fine, I think, though I guess it didn’t feel that way at the time. I’m sorry I haven’t called; things have been a little stressful. But the kids are great. As for Morgan: well, I think she’s okay, but she’s had to make, like, an extended business trip. But yeah, I’m sure she’s fine.”
There was a pause while Adam’s words sank in. “A business trip, huh?” said his father.
“Yes. Well you know how it is: sometimes these things take longer than expected. Actually that’s the main reason I called. We’re all going a little crazy here without her and I wondered if we might come over for a bit.”
“Don’t they have to go back to school?” The speaker was Adam’s mother, Gwen. “Are you sure this a good idea, darling? I mean, the university term doesn’t start for another fortnight but once it does, your father and I are going to be awfully busy. You don’t think they’re going to miss their friends and get bored? Are you sure the school won’t mind?”
“Mum. I’m sure by the time the Oxford term starts Morgan’s trip will be over. I just thought it might be nice if we could escape for a week or so.”
Jonathan, Adam’s father, brushed away her objections. “It’s fine. You can have your old room. The kids can have the spare. When do you want to come?”
“Let me see what I can get online.”
Half an hour later, Adam had booked them all on a British Airways flight from Dulles to Heathrow that left the following evening. He would call Gary, the school, Mila, and his office once they got to England; Monday was a public holiday, so he still had plenty of time. That left only Sherelle. He opened an email.
“Dear Sherry,” he wrote, “I’m awfully sorry to be so late in getting back to you. Please accept my apologies. I did not mean to be rude.
“Aimee and Charlie have very busy calendars for the next few days, as do I, and Morgan is away on a business trip. We’d all love to see you, but it would be a lot more convenient a little later in the month. Let’s talk in a week or two to see about fixing dates.
“I hope you’re having a lovely spring on the Alamo. The blossom here is heavenly. With much love from us all, Adam.”
Hours had passed. It must be late, after ten o’clock, Morgan thought, but there was still no sign of Zainab, nor a sound of anyone else. Gaza went to bed early, and outside, the alleys of the refugee camp would be deserted, shadowy strips between the buildings, illuminated only by the stars. She had finished her water, and she needed both a pee and a new sanitary pad. Thankfully, the odor had diminished a little, or maybe she had merely got used to it. For the moment at least, she had stopped feeling dizzy. At last she heard the key being turned in the lock.
It wasn’t Zainab but two tall, burly men, their features masked with keffiyeh scarves. They took in the state of the cell and its prisoner and visibly recoiled, shouting at each other in Arabic. One of them grabbed Morgan and hoisted her to her feet, then roughly pulled her arms behind her back and bound them with plastic cuffs. The other produced a thick, dark canvas hood and pulled it over her head, leaving her blind and disoriented. Inside, it too seemed to smell of human vomit.
“We go! You move!” one of the men shouted, his voice muffled, as if coming from a distance. He prodded her in the back, while the other man guided her out of the cell by the arm. Morgan sensed they were in the corridor. They descended a short flight of stairs and she heard another door being unlocked, and then they were outside: even through the hood, she could smell garbage and a hint of sewage, while on her hands she felt the faint waft of a Mediterranean breeze. For a moment she considered the possibility of escape, or at least screaming. But wherever she was—Gaza City, Jabaliya, or Khan Younis—there was little chance of anyone coming to her rescue.
They made their way down an alley; there was no room for her captors to walk by Morgan’s side, and instead, one of the men grabbed a handful of her overall and dragged her along behind him. Beyond, they seemed to have reached a road. She heard a car door being opened, and another man, presumably the driver, held a short conversation with the man holding Morgan. This time, thankfully, they did not put her in the trunk. She felt a hand pressing down on the top of her head, like a cop with a suspect, pushing her onto the passenger seat. Someone got in beside her and shoved her head down further, until it rested on her knees, presumably so it wouldn’t be easily visible through the window.
After another burst of Arabic, the car began to move. As it lurched, bumped and decelerated, Morgan was once again nauseous, and she fought to keep calm, gulping air through the stinking, stifling hood. After what felt like an age but was probably not much more than half an hour, the vehicle stopped. Someone pulled her out, then frogmarched her across what felt like some kind of yard. Wherever she was, it felt more open; maybe she was somewhere in Gaza’s rolling countryside. She was guided inside a building, and half-pushed, half-carried down a flight of stairs. Finally the hood was pulled off. Dazed by the light, she saw she was standing in a sparsely furnished white-walled room. Facing her was a large bearded man in early middle age, dressed in a white turban and a knee-length robe—not the flowing jallabiya favored by the Bedouin, but shorter, of the type common in southern Egypt and the Sudan. Morgan recognized it from a crash course in Islamist style she h
ad been given by Abdel Nasser. It usually denoted not a member of Hamas—they tended to wear well-pressed trousers or suits with plain dress shirts, and sometimes even neckties—but a Salafist, a fundamentalist inspired by Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda. Hamas beards were short and trimmed. This man’s was long and ragged, shaggy like a black lion’s mane.
“Mrs. Cooper. It is so nice to meet you,” he said, in a lightly accented voice that could easily have been European. “In a moment you can clean yourself up. Soon we will ask you some questions. And then you will make a video, a nice little DVD.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Friday, April 13, 2007
When Adam had called the number Nuha had given him, a warm, cultivated voice had answered it at once. Its owner seemed to be expecting him, and asked Adam to meet him on the first available occasion—at ten o’clock that Friday, in the lounge of the Lanesborough Hotel. The man assured Adam he would have no difficulty in recognizing him, but to put his mind at ease he promised to be carrying a camel-hair coat and a copy of that day’s Times. Adam had taken an early train from Oxford, and, having walked across Hyde Park from Paddington station, he saw straightaway that his interlocutor was standing by the bar—a dapper man in his early thirties in a brown pinstripe suit, with olive skin and a full, trimmed beard.
“You must be Adam,” he said, holding out his hand. “Imad al-Saleh. And before we go any further, let me express my admiration for everything you’ve done. A lot of people say they support the concept of human rights. Not so many have fought for them the way you have. You must have made some powerful enemies.”
Adam shrugged, modestly. “Well, one tries to do one’s bit. So … you know Nuha and Ahmad?”
“Let’s not talk about whom I know and whom I don’t. The important thing is that you have asked for help. Let me see if I can provide it. But first, let’s find a table and get some coffee.”
After they had ordered, Imad told Adam he was a doctor. “My family is still in Gaza, but I’m working and studying here at St. Mary’s. I want to specialize in reconstructive surgery—trying to rehabilitate patients with blast and gunshot wounds. Back home, those skills are in demand.”
Adam began to describe Morgan’s human rights bureau cover, her journey to Gaza, and her last voicemail message. Imad sat with his elbows on his knees, listening intently.
“Do you know the name of her point man? Surely, she must have had a fixer, some kind of go-between, to help her make contacts?”
“I don’t know. She never told me much about her work. But I do recall one name—I think it was Abdel Nasser. Does that mean anything to you?”
The expression on Imad’s face suggested that it did.
“Abdel Nasser is not an uncommon name. A lot of our people bear it in honor of President Abdel Nasser Hussein of Egypt. But I can think of one who is the sort of person a State Department official would find useful, and if it’s him, I’ve known him since we were kids. Abdel Nasser al-Kafarneh—we were at the American high school together. He’s from a very prominent family. He even went to school in America—Columbia, if I’m not mistaken. To be frank with you, he used to be a bit of a playboy. He’d hold parties in his parents’ villa when they were away. There were Christian girls and alcohol: not what I was used to. But he is well connected.”
“So he’s not very likely to have had anything to do with the type of people who’d want to abduct an American?”
“No way. Absolutely no way.” Imad looked quizzical, and tapped his fingers against his lips. “I presume you’ve been to the US authorities. Surely they must have some ideas?”
“Of course. I’ve spoken to them almost every day since Morgan disappeared. My problem is that I don’t think they really have a clue where to look. They promised me they’d know who was holding her within forty-eight hours. That was almost two weeks ago.”
Imad nodded. “I’m not surprised. In Gaza, they talk to Fatah, no one else. And Fatah will not know anything. So. What do you want to do? Do you want to go to Gaza to see if you can find her yourself? If you do, I can make sure you meet the right people.”
Adam wasn’t sure that was what he did want. Traveling to Gaza would mean leaving the children with his parents. It would be emotionally difficult for all of them. But at the same time, he felt convinced that if he didn’t start to take matters into his own hands, he might never see Morgan again.
“Do you think I might make progress?”
Imad pursed his lips. “Why not? So long as the Israelis let you in. And don’t worry that you will also be kidnapped. We will do our best to keep you safe.”
“We?”
Imad touched Adam’s shoulder. “I think you know what I mean. You are here because you know I have influential friends. They can both assist your search and protect you.”
Adam knew he was taking an irrevocable step. “Yes. I will go to Gaza.”
Imad looked at his watch. “I need to get back to the hospital. I’ll be in touch.”
After dinner, while Gwen tried to put the children to bed, Adam and his father sat on the deck in the garden, the remains of a bottle of a classed growth Bordeaux between them. The light was starting to fade, but the weather was unseasonably warm, and though most of the trees were still bare, the big magnolia at the head of the lawn was in resplendent bloom. As they sat, they could hear laughter and conversation: someone must be having a drinks party in the Lady Margaret Hall garden.
“Oxford,” Adam said. “I’d forgotten how much I miss it.”
Jonathan Cooper stared at his son over half-moon spectacles. Thirty years as a fellow of Christchurch had eradicated almost every trace of an American accent, but when he felt agitated, as evidently he did now, it was still noticeable. He twisted the stem of his wine glass, and waved away what Adam thought was an imaginary insect.
Finally he spoke. “So. Here we are, then. Are you going to tell me what’s really happening, or do I have to guess?”
“Guess? What do you mean?”
“Adam. You’re my son. You may live four thousand miles away, but I know you. You’ve just appeared before the Supreme Court in a case that even made the newspapers here, and yet you’ve barely mentioned it. You seem to have taken indefinite leave from work, and though you say Morgan’s away on business you’ve not told us where. And so far as I know, you haven’t even spoken to her since you arrived two days ago.”
“Yes,” Adam said, his voice cracking. “That seems to sum up the situation admirably.”
“So tell me about it.”
Adam stared into the twilight for several minutes, struggling to find a reply. “First let me ask you a question. What do you think it is that Morgan does for a living?”
Jonathan did not miss a beat. “I suppose I’ve always assumed she’s an intelligence officer. I mean, when you put it all together: months working on mysterious missions in the Balkans; a desk job in Washington that she never spoke about; now some scheme to monitor human rights in the Middle East—well, if you join the dots …”
Adam did not demur. There didn’t seem to be any point, and if he had, his father would not have believed him anyway.
“It must have been difficult for you, keeping her secrets,” Jonathan said. “How long have you known?”
“Quite a while. Since Harvard.”
Jonathan whistled through his teeth. “It’s not as if you’re exactly a neocon now. But then—Jesus. You were a long, long way to the left. How did you deal with it? I mean, didn’t it feel as if you were sleeping with the enemy? Come to that, now that you’re doing all these war on terror cases, doesn’t it feel as if you’re doing it now?”
Adam shrugged his shoulders: a gesture of helplessness. “I was in love with her. And some things might have changed between us, but underneath the day-to-day shit most working couples with children have to get through, I still am.”
“I’m sure you are. But all the same, how did you deal with the politics?”
“I’ll never forget the day she ca
me out to me. We were lying in bed, late; an early spring weekend. I started talking about how we could make a summer trip to Asia, and she told me she couldn’t come because she’d signed up to be a CIA intern. And if that went well, she wanted a permanent job.”
“How did you react?”
“Not very well, frankly. I couldn’t believe it at first: I actually thought she was joking. When I realized she wasn’t, I started yelling about how the CIA had sponsored death squads in Central America, and then I slammed the door of the apartment and went for a walk. I thought she’d be gone by the time I got back, but she was still there, still in bed, wearing one of my T-shirts. I could see she’d been crying but when she spoke she was calm, kind of steely. What stopped us breaking up was that she made me a promise.”
“A promise?”
“Yes. First she made this little speech, saying we had more in common than it looked. According to her, my problem was that I failed to understand that she could be both a patriot and a liberal, and that underlying both our paths were the values of the US Constitution. The only real difference was that I would be trying to uphold them in court, while she would be protecting them by working at the Agency. What she said next I can still quote almost verbatim: ‘I know I can’t be sure I’m right that the CIA can be a force for good. But I give you my word. If I find I’m wrong, I won’t just leave, I’ll blow the whistle. I’ll give you the material for the biggest fucking case of your career.’”
“And has she?” Jonathan smiled; he already knew the answer. “But that was then, the nineties. It was easy for her to make that argument: I mean, who would quarrel with American foreign policy when it was trying to stop Balkan war crimes? But what about now? How have the two of you dealt with the fact that while you’ve been representing the victims of waterboarding and extraordinary rendition, she’s been working for the organization accused of perpetrating them?”
“We haven’t been discussing our work, to be honest. There are subjects that are kind of taboo. But right now this is irrelevant. Our marital difficulties aren’t exactly the point.”