Abigail – The Avenging Agent: The agent appears again

by Rose Fox

“Mix it, mix it well,” Foxy instructed, “till it is pale and smooth.”

  They poured the mixture into a metal pan, which was shaped like the side of the intended drone and left it overnight to dry.

  Meanwhile, they assembled the other parts of the drone, leaving out one of its sides. When they removed the frame and attached the new side, they were thrilled with how well it matched and fit.

  “What now?”

  “We’ve completed our part, others will take over now.”

  Karma was on his way home the following evening.

  * * *

  Sayid and Ilia’s home was located high up on the mountain, a strenuous twenty-minute walk up a path that climbed the slope. Abigail and Karma advanced slowly on a well-trodden path that was a bed of pine needles. Lampposts glowed yellow in the branches and lit their way.

  When they almost stepped on to the path leading the house, the front door opened and Sayid called out to welcome them:

  “A’halan w’ Sa’halan and Mar’haba!” (Hello, greetings and welcome to you) He waved them in and bowed. Two pairs of slippers stood at the entrance and Karma removed his shoes and put on the slippers offered to him, pointed to the other pair that were suitable for a woman and Abigail followed his example.

  The lemony aroma of cooking filled the air in the house and Sayid led them straight to the kitchen. Covered saucepans stood on the marble counter and the table and the dishes were served. Plates, adorned with gold were arranged on the table cloth and Abigail counted nine place settings. Ilia, the wife, came bearing two boxes wrapped in shiny paper, which she gave them, kissed Abigail’s cheek and embraced her shoulders.

  After the customary greetings, Ilia called her five children, who came running and took their places, while the eldest daughter began busying herself, helping her mother. Ilia served up generous portions on the plates and urged them to take extra helpings of pilau as the rice, served at the center of the table and covered with fragrant steaming lamb, was called.

  At the end of the meal, the men rose and withdrew to the lounge.

  “Ilia, I was delighted with the dishes you served today and I hope you will give me the recipe for your delicious pilau.”

  “With pleasure,” she responded, “I have an even better offer to make. Let’s go to the markets in Baku, where we can savor the smells and buy spices for pilau and when you prepare it, you can invite us to taste it.

  “I will be honored. You will be our first dinner guests.”

  Karma’s voice was heard from the living room:

  “I’m a Kurd!” And he called out to Abigail to come and tell where she hailed from and laughed.

  “That depends on who wants to know,” she called back and went to them.

  “Why? Were you born in several places so you can choose where, depending on who is asking?”

  “Of course! For example, if I tell you I am a Bedouin, what does that mean to you?”

  “Ah, what is the meaning of a Bedouin? What’s the name of the country the Bedouins live in?”

  “That’s precisely what I meant. They don’t have a country. They are vagrants who wander with their clans in the deserts of the Middle East.”

  “That’s it, now I understand the connection between you.” Sayid cried out animatedly, “Karma belongs to the Kurds in Turkey, who also don’t have a country,” and announced at once:

  “They never had a country, nor will they ever have one!”

  “Hey, ho! What an inflammatory statement, I have just heard!” Karma sprang up to contest it.

  “With all due respect, you should know that we will prevail, with Allah’s help, when the territories in which we are dispersed will be recognized as Kurdistan.” He disregarded what Sayid has just said and continued:

  “The Kurdish rebels are fighting like lions against the armies in those areas and dream of a country of their own.”

  “Carry on dreaming!” Sayid cried, “no one will give up the territories where you live!”

  Abigail giggled. She saw that the tempers were heating up and knowing Karma, she knew that the argument of his life was about to open and she returned to the kitchen.

  Ilia spooned four heaped teaspoons of aromatic coffee into a small metal pot and placed it over the flame as they heard Karma’s excited voice coming from the living room.

  Ilia held the tray and walked to the living room. She set it on a small table that stood beside the sofa and Sayid, her husband, poured the dark liquid into the four cups and served it to each of them. Ilia signaled Abigail to leave them to their argument and they both returned to the kitchen.

  “When will we arrange to travel to Baku?”

  “It’ll depend on when Sayid has time.”

  “Ah, no problem, we’ll wait. What is his occupation?”

  “He transports merchandise,” she said, “from Russia to Turkish businesses in Baku.”

  She sat down with her cup of coffee.

  “Sometimes I join him and we take advantage of it to enjoy ourselves. We’ve eaten at Turkish restaurants and shopped at their markets.”

  She stood up with the two empty cups and Abigail noticed the swollen belly of her hostess.

  “Ilia, how old is your eldest daughter? By the way, she resembles Sayid. Her nose and eyes and the dimple in her chin are just like his.”

  “Yes, everyone says that,” laughed Ilia, “she is almost fourteen,” and when she saw the expression on Abigail’s face, she added at once:

  “And we’re expecting another child in two months or less.”

  “Wonderful, I wish you luck.”

  Ilia nodded and asked:

  “When did you purchase your home?”

  “Oh, two years ago,” Abigail replied.

  “Who recommended this of all places?”

  “Ah, someone called Alice Kodor and her…”

  “What?! The Ambassador’s wife?” she exclaimed and a different expression lighted up her eyes,

  “Did you meet?”

  “Yes, several times, but I never visited their home. Where do they live?”

  “Ah, they have a large house, more than an hour’s drive from here. It’s rumored that they ended their service in Jordan, or Lebanon, perhaps.”

  Abigail smiled, musing that it suited Karim not to be precise, but it was clear why he hadn’t mentioned Israel by name.

  “Where do you come from?” Abigail inquired.

  “From Irbil, I’m a city girl at heart. I met Sayid when he came to deliver merchandise.”

  “Is that so? Did you meet him in the market?”

  “No, I was helping my parents sell fruit and vegetables in the market. I was almost sixteen.” Pride entered her voice as she related how Sayid had returned to look for her and ask her parents to meet his parents.

  Sayid’s voice was heard coming from the living room.

  “Hey, listen to this!” He waved the newspaper in his hand,

  “Here’s a story that lifts my heart and makes me very proud.”

  Karma turned his gaze away from the newspaper he was holding.

  “They report shooting down a drone that entered our airspace.” He said in a rather loud voice and it was obvious that he was directing his comments to the two women in the kitchen, as well.

  “Really? How was the drone brought down and where?” The question came from Abigail, who came closer to them.

  “Oh, I enjoy stories like this so much! They are our brave soldiers!” He roared, to the disdain of his wife, who remained seated in the kitchen.

  “What more do they say about it?” Abigail asked and Ilia pulled her back to the kitchen, as she muttered:

  “Leave them, what do we care about their nonsense.”

  Karma did not appear to share Sayid’s excitement and rejoicing, but he didn’t say a word. Sayid glanced at him and continued reading the newspaper.

  In the evening, after the guests left, Ilia told her husband that their new neighbors were acquainted the diplomatic couple, Alice, and Karim Kodo
r. Sayid stared back at her in surprise.

  The explosion occurred the next day.

  An enormous cloud of smoke mushroomed above the massive arsenal belonging to the Shi’ite Hizbollah and the sharp odor of gunpowder hung in the air for several days. Newspaper headlines reported:

  “Huge explosion at ammunition warehouses of “Shihab-3” missiles."

  It was written in the newspaper that the drone that had crossed the Lebanese border and disappeared in the Wadi Naija region. It reported that only after the soldiers had checked it out and were convinced that it was not booby-trapped, they transported it and brought it straight to their missile weapons arsenal.

  Sayid was astounded as he read the article aloud from the newspaper to his wife, Ilia.

  “…then the “Mossad” agents could give the order and using remote control, cause the booby-trapped drone to explode, together with the whole weapons warehouse with all its missiles.

  The article also mentioned that the explosion also took the lives of at least eighteen men from the Revolutionary Guards, including the Head of their Ballistic Missiles Systems Unit.

  When he finished reading it, he sat and thought. He picked up the phone at once and tried to reach Ramzi, a senior member of the government and a friend of many years. When he was unable to reach him, he left a message.

  “What do you know about Karma Öcalan and his wife, Naima?”

  The answer was not long in coming.

  “Nothing at all. Give me more details. Why are you asking?”

  Sayid replied immediately:

  “He is new in our area and his response to this story smelled bad.”

  After thinking it over, he added:

  “They are friendly with the Ambassador Karim Kodor and his wife, Alice. You should check their connection to the newly-weds.”

  Sayid did not get an immediate response, but his remarks were dealt with and addressed by the senior government agents, who arranged an appropriate response.

  * * *

  Family Entanglement

  Effendi Khaidar was confused.

  Clearly, Karma, his brother-in-law, was his sworn enemy. He also knew that he was a member of the ‘Mojahedin’ organization and reports had reached him of his meetings with Israeli ‘Mossad’ agents. Khaidar had been raised by an Arab mother and, therefore, thought he should be put to death. Nevertheless, he took pains not to be the person who would give his sister the title of “widow.”

  When he heard of his marriage to a second wife, he boiled with rage. He sent people to follow him and found that the new bride was a respectable Moslem woman, who had found a bridegroom to her taste.

  He wondered whether to tell Salima the story of Karma’s second marriage in spite of knowing that every man can take another wife. He assumed that the new bride knew of his daughters and wife in the United States. For a long time, he debated what he should do and even participated in an additional attempt to assassinate Karma at his wedding. Now, an idea flashed through his mind.

  He decided to fly to Arizona in the United States to meet his sister, Salima, look into her eyes and tell her that Karma, her husband, had taken a second wife. This way, he hoped to obtain her moral release to kill him, but then, he remembered his two little nieces, Naziah, and Kahit. It was important that the two should never know that he caused their father’s death. He believed that it was likely to pursue him to the last of his reincarnations for seven generations and, only then, allow his soul to find eternal rest.

  At first, he thought of sharing this with senior members of his organization but then decided not to as it was a personal family issue.

  Two days later, he was on a plane and when he met his sister he was convinced he had made the correct move.

  When he disembarked, he walked to the arrivals hall and recognized the excited members of his family. They waved and above all the voices greeting him, he heard the joyous voice of his sister:

  “A’halan (Welcome), and thanks to Allah for returning you to us, Ya’Effendi!”

  He searched out Nimer, his mother and recognized her. They were all yelling and laughing. He looked around and asked:

  “Where is our father?”

  “He was ill, Khaidar. You have taken his place now, as he wished and as Allah determined,” he heard his mother announce with acceptance. Only when they arrived home, chattering away and excited, did he absorb the changes that had taken place in his absence.

  His sister, Salima, for whom he had flown to the United States, looked quite different and his heart constricted in her presence. She no longer wore the traditional galabiya and hijab and resembled any other American woman. Her silken hair was gathered at the nape of her neck and tied with a white ribbon. Effendi wondered at the decolletage of her blouse, which, although it only revealed a small part of her neck, would, none the less, shame any respectable Muslim woman.

  In the early days of his stay, he kept his silence, trying to keep on good terms with her but, every passing day increased his anger. One day, he could no longer contain himself and he spoke to her angrily, as he looked at the tears that welled up in her eyes with satisfaction.

  It happened two days before he was to return to Iran.

  She remained in the kitchen to wash the dishes after the meal and he stood at the entrance and spoke. He was still able to keep his cool.

  “I came here to speak to my sister, but I was unable to find her,” he began and she turned to him, her hands dripping with water. She noticed that he was staring at her clothing.

  “Yes, it’s true, I am not wearing an abaya, but I take care to preserve my modesty.”

  Effendi sneered and said:

  “Did you say modest? A married woman, who sways her hips as if she’s looking for a bridegroom.”

  “Effendi, we are in America,” she replied, her voice growing louder but still restrained.

  “I still say that you are dressed like an unmarried woman, trying to attract attention to herself.”

  This time, she did raise her voice.

  “Effendi Khaidar, it is true that you are my brother, my elder brother, but you forget that I have a husband and you are not a substitute for him.”

  He spoke slowly when he asked:

  “Are you telling me that your husband approves of you appearing this way?”

  “He didn’t object.”

  Effendi remained silent. He almost burst out screaming and said that, as far as he was concerned, she was behaving like a wanton woman. He wanted to yell and slap her face and he restrained himself from tearing the clothes off the body of this Western woman facing him. Instead, he clenched his teeth hard and tried to calm himself. He knew and remembered that he needed her support and he inquired with restrained anger:

  “When did your husband see you dressed like this?”

  “Did you come here to make fun of me?” she asked as her voice rose to a scream.

  Now, tears rolled down her cheeks. She saw how her brother’s rage grew steadily stronger and her heart beat furiously.

  “He came home this year, in March, and stayed with us for seven months. You hear? Seven months! We didn’t just meet for a moment.” She recoiled in fear at the sight of her brother’s face and her heart raced. His wrath reached its breaking point and, without thinking, he made the error of his life and released the words he had held back until this moment:

  “ So, that must be the reason he has taken another wife – a respectable Muslim woman, a hundred times more beautiful than you. She will bear him sons, not daughters, who see how immodestly their wanton mother dresses and strays from respectability.”

  “What?!” she screeched, “get out of here, you wild bastard!” She stopped for a moment as she absorbed what he had just said.

  “A different woman? Another wife?! Khaidar, what are you talking about? I am his first and only wife!”

  “Is that what you think?!” He spoke slowly, in measured tones that emphasized every word and took pleasure in the expression on her agita
ted and anguished face.

  “Over three months ago, your husband got married at the Ayatollah Karim’s Mosque and left Iran with her to the devil knows where.”

  “Can you hear what you are saying?!”

  The whites of her eyes turned pink, her hands trembled and she was having difficulty controlling herself. She turned around suddenly and passed him on her way to the room. Khaidar rushed after her and saw her trying to make a call, grabbed the phone out of her hand and yelled:

  “You are not to call anyone, do you hear?!”

  “Tell me it’s not true!” she screamed, her voice begging. She picked up her hairbrush and flung it at him.

  Khaidar spoke more quietly now.

  “He did it all in secret,” then he lowered his voice to say what he had prepared to say in the last few days.

  “Salima, if you allow me to kill him the matter will be over, just as you wish.”

  Salima remained standing, her hand extended as though she was still holding the telephone and he continued, without pity for her. He felt it was now the moment for which he had come.

  “You should know that he could have died several times, but that woman saved him from being killed and…”

  “You’re a liar! You invented this just so I would agree to your killing him, so as to leave me a widow and his daughters, orphans!” She had turned as red as a tomato and she coughed wildly.

  “I always knew what kind of man you are! You are cruel and vicious. I don’t know how I could have depended on you!”

  He grew silent. His eyes opened wide when he realized that, instead of obtaining her agreement, he had turned her sisterly love to hatred, and heard what she said in cold silence:

  “Khaidar, if you touch him – you’re dead!”

  When he left the house, she waited in silence for a few seconds and then locked the front door. Only then did she call the number she had copied from Karma’s telephone during his visit.

  “I would like to speak to Yusuf or Mustafa,” she said.

  “Who is calling?” The voice replied, firmly.

  “Khaidar’s sister.”

  Seconds later she heard a hoarse voice that asked again: