Blood Wine

by John Moss

  “Perhaps you are what you seem,” said Morgan. “Certainly all this is a long way from the mayhem that travels with your protégé, here, like a constant companion.”

  “The mayhem that led you here,” said Elke. “Sit down, please, and let us talk. It is important.”

  “Yes, Mr. Morgan. You are an essential part of the story,” said Professor Sayyed.

  “The story?” Morgan sat down.

  “You have been drawn into a complex tale,” the professor continued. “In this tale there are an infinite number of stories. Do not expect a resolution or closure. This tale will outlive us all. Perhaps we should both listen.”

  “Morgan,” said Elke, “the money from the drugs was being distributed throughout North America to bankroll terrorism.” Her face was in shadow but she leaned into the light. “There is an infection of religious fanatics that is spreading throughout the world.”

  “They operate under the banner of Islam,” said the old man, also leaning forward. “It is not the Islam I know, it is not the Islam of my ancestors, but they proclaim themselves Muslims.”

  “When the Tri-State drug lords and the Ontario mob learned what the money was for,” said Elke, “they declared themselves an enemy of the cause. Good business, perhaps. They cannot thrive without a stable society. But something more, call it patriotism, call it the primal need to survive, something else brought them on side.”

  “You told them?” said Morgan. “They didn’t know their suppliers were terrorists until you let them know?”

  “My job was to infiltrate through the wine operation. They had to believe they were discovering the truth by themselves. We had to work on assumptions about honour.”

  “Business and honour are not incompatible,” said Professor Sayyed. “Patriotism is good business even when the business itself is corrupt.”

  “We were right,” Elke continued. “Your Vittorio Ciccone, however, his arrest was a complication. We would have preferred to have him in a position of power to bring them down.”

  “The terrorists, is this the bunch that calls itself al-Qaeda?”

  “Yes,” said Elke. “Among other things. Think of an insidious contagion. There is no single leader, it is not a finite organism, it is a virus. We can only fight on a contact basis.”

  “And Bonnydoon Winery was one such contact.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then what are we doing here?” he demanded. “The three of us — is the professor one of yours?”

  “Professor Ali Rashid Izzadine Al Sayyed is not with Mossad, if that is what you are thinking.” All three of them laughed at the incongruity.

  “Let me explain,” said the old man. “I am, you might say, a magnetic pole in the distribution of forces at work for the eventual sovereignty of a free Kurdistan. Is that too lofty a way to say it, Mr. Morgan? I am not a leader in the political sense and I am not a mullah, although I take it as a compliment to be thought so. I am here, and it seems Kurdish nationalism in some modest way draws from me directions and force. Whether we will be successful, we shall see.”

  “But your sympathies as a Muslim, are they with al-Qaeda? How the hell does Mossad fit in? Isn’t Israel your enemy?”

  “Israel is the enemy of Palestine, yes. And I am for an independent Palestine, of course. As a Kurd, I am opposed to the regimes in Iraq and Iran and Turkey, although they are Muslim and I am a Muslim. There are many sides. You think we are strange allies, an old man and a girl, a Jew and a Kurd. The university is a wonderful place, Mr. Morgan. In the ivory tower, we were mentor and protégé. It was simple. We provided each other a cover of academic privilege.”

  “Were you with Mossad as a student?” Morgan demanded of Elke.

  “Yes, of course. Think of me as a scholarship student supported by my people. Professor Sayyed knew that when I came to him.”

  “We explored our common causes. The Jews are scholars as well as warriors,” said the old man. “They want to understand. And Muslims, we have a scholarly tradition. We need to understand as well. Intelligence and the university environment are not inimical, Mr. Morgan.” He paused, then added a satisfied, “Ho ho.”

  “And why me, why am I here in the middle of this?”

  “There is not a contest between opposing forces, Mr. Morgan. We are all caught up in the machinery of the universe.” He smiled beneficently, forgiving himself the cliché. “Think of a Rubik’s cube. Each time one facet is adjusted to a common colour, the coherence of the others breaks down, until you solve the puzzle and then it is just planes of colours, not very interesting at all. But, but, but, we are not on the outside of the cube, we are on the inside. Think of that. Inside the Rubik’s cube there are tensions and alliances constantly shifting as the facets on the outside are moved about. We are on the inside. Tensions and alliances, Mr. Morgan, tensions and alliances.…”

  “And I am here because?”

  “The enemy of my friend is not necessarily my enemy.”

  “You mean Israel?” Morgan paused to consider the implications of the old man’s assertion.

  “And the enemy of my enemy is not necessarily my friend,” said Professor Sayyed.

  “Al-Qaeda!” said Morgan. “And the moral of the story: Do not place your faith in aphorisms.”

  “Ho ho, Mr. Morgan,” said Professor Sayyed. “You understand, very good.”

  “You are here,” said Elke, turning to Morgan, “because I want you here, because we need you here. We need you to understand.”

  “What, exactly? What you’ve told me? What difference does it make whether I understand or not?”

  “We need you to understand your role in all this.”

  “Go on.” Morgan admired these strange allies, gathered here in academic chambers with their fingers on the pulse of the world.

  “You and Miranda, we needed to use you to bring down the al-Qaeda operation in Canada. Vittorio Ciccone, he was our instrument, but he was compromised. In the States, the Sebastiani family declared war on the terrorists. It is a war they could not win, no more than you can win a war against drugs. You cannot fight a virus with swords — or with guns.”

  “But they’re out of business.”

  “Temporarily, yes. They’ll steer clear of the Mafia now. We have slowed the contagion but by no means conquered it. They will shift alliances, perhaps consolidate, mutate into more virulent strains. And then they will strike, and they will strike again and again until they have dissipated their strength or destroyed the world.”

  “That is not rhetoric,” said Professor Sayyed. “They do not have to blow us up to bring us to ruin. They can force us to change our laws, shift our values, compromise our most fundamental beliefs, and we will destroy ourselves, Christians and Jews and Muslims alike. If we are not careful, we will become the cause of our own destruction — the inoculation will be worse than the illness.”

  “And in Canada,” said Morgan, “you think the terrorists still have the upper hand?”

  “Until the man known as Mr. Savage is terminated,” said Professor Sayyed.

  “And that is where I come in,” said Morgan.

  “Yes,” said Elke. “Savage must be quietly eliminated.”

  “Quietly?”

  “We cannot risk a trial,” said Elke. “It would send the terrorists into deep cover. We would lose too much, trying to flush them out and hunt them down. And the Mafia, they cannot be compromised.”

  “You must be joking,” Morgan exclaimed. “Why not? They do more damage than all the terrorists in the world.”

  “Mr. Morgan,” said Professor Sayyed, “we are not here to have a discussion about moral relativity. Terrorists strike at the foundations of civilization. Gangsters, they eat away at the edges. The difference, perhaps, between skin cancer and a tumour in the vitals; both virulent, but one is on the surface and the other buried deep within.”

  “I make no promises,” said Morgan.

  “Of course not,” said Professor Sayyed. “It is important for you
to know what is at stake. I am sure you want this Mr. Savage brought to justice one way or another. It is a terrible thing that he did to your partner.”

  “You know about that.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “Nothing surprises me at this point.”

  “Do you see, Morgan?” said Elke. “Israeli security and the dream of a Kurdish homeland, these are not so far apart. The professor and myself have causes in common and, of course, profound differences. But these terrorists, they will destroy any possibility of an independent Kurdistan, just as they will reinforce the Hezbollah extremists.”

  “You leave yourselves open.”

  “To argument, yes. To terrorist atrocities, yes. And you will be as vulnerable as we are, perhaps more so, because you will not be prepared.”

  “By you, you mean us?”

  “Exactly, Canadians, Americans, who live beyond the fear of attack or the logic of dreams. You think I don’t know all the arguments: how can we be in favour of a homeland for the Kurds but not for the Palestinians? Israel brutalizes the Palestinians, the Kurds must be subservient to the Islamic authority of Baghdad, Tehran, Ankara. Fine, let us argue — but not be awash in the blood of the innocent.”

  “Elke, are you an agent for Mossad, an apologist for Israel, or a champion for the Kurds against fundamentalist oppression?”

  “These are not mutually exclusive,” the old professor interjected. “Rubik’s cube, Mr. Morgan. If we could see all the tensions and alliances inside, the puzzle would lie in pieces, each facet a meaningless fragment.”

  “A final question?” said Morgan.

  “Shoot,” said Elke.

  Morgan looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Why Miranda and I, why not you, Elke? This is your line of work.”

  “Al-Qaeda knows me. When they picked me up in Rochester, it was the end of the line. Carlo Sebastiani asked me to go there as a mediator with the terrorists, to let them know it was over, to broker a peace settlement. Their response was pretty much what I’ve told you. They figured out I wasn’t there as a wine expert. I met with a cell in Rochester and we drove to the distribution centre in Buffalo. Their people were not happy so they took me to Canada to allow Savage to resolve the problem. No problem. Kill me. Unfortunately for Gianni, it didn’t happen that way.”

  “Why us?”

  “You were already on the inside. Miranda was involved in Ciccone’s trial and she was sleeping with one of theirs — Philip Carter, really an Albanian Muslim extremist by the name of Mohammet Jousef. She was a perfect connection between terrorists and gangsters. She was already in position, and you were a bonus.”

  “So you were faking it when you turned up at her place?”

  “Faking it? No, I was distressed. But yes, I was in control.”

  “You peed on her floor!”

  “What?”

  “On purpose, you peed your pants.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Morgan gazed at her in amazement.

  She smiled.

  Professor Ali Rashid Izzadine Al Sayyed busied himself adjusting the corner of a carpet with his foot.

  Miranda glanced out her bedroom window as she was getting dressed. The trees had grown since she was a child but she could still glimpse the river behind the houses across the road. Looking down toward The General Store, the name Millers displaced by a definite article, she caught sight of a car parked just at the edge of her line of vision. Ominously, it was not in front of a house.

  As she finished putting on her clothes, she called out to Frankie walking by in the hall to the bathroom.

  “We’ve got company.”

  “No!” Frankie exclaimed and strode into Miranda’s room. “Where? Who? Damn it. I’ll call Tony.” She strode back out the bedroom door.

  The three of them gathered in the living room. The drapes were still closed. Privacy was harder to come by and of greater concern in a village than in the city. Miranda’s mother had always kept the curtains drawn from dusk until mid-morning.

  “I wouldn’t count on them waiting until dark, not this time,” said Miranda.

  “How did they know we’re here?” said Tony. “If they’ve been there all night, why didn’t they take us out in the dark?”

  “Because they just arrived,” said Miranda. “They waited until office hours. They must have someone on the inside at Police Headquarters, someone who would know I owned a place here.”

  “Who would know that?” asked Frankie, implying that it seemed very personal to know her family home was in Waterloo County.

  “Yeah, maybe, okay, they went through my mail. I get bills for this place sent to Toronto. The bastards had better not have broken into my apartment.”

  “That’s the least of your problems,” said Tony.

  “Yeah, right.” Miranda walked to the front window and peered through a slit in the drapes between the folds of dark velvet so old the colour was an indeterminate bluish-brown-green.

  “Still there?” asked Tony.

  “No,” said Miranda. “They decided we’re too tough.”

  “Can we call for reinforcements?” asked Francine.

  “Cops. You want me to call in the police. Lovely, Francine. The irony’s almost worth the risk.”

  “Can we?”

  “Sure, but I guarantee these guys aren’t going to wait.”

  “How many of them are there?” said Tony.

  “I don’t know. Two, I think.”

  “Okay, our car’s in the drive. Miranda, you drive. Give me your Glock. I’ve got my own. Vittorio wouldn’t let us keep guns in his house, but I’m carrying, I picked it up in Toronto.” Tony took out a shiny semi-automatic, and grasping it awkwardly between his stump arm and his ribs, he slid the action back and forth, then he took Miranda’s gun, checked it, and tossed her the car keys.

  “So much for village life,” said Tony. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They slipped out the back door, out of sight of the parked car. Miranda got behind the wheel. Frankie climbed in beside her and Tony got in the back and rolled down the window.

  “They facing this way?” Tony asked.

  “Yes,” said Miranda.

  “Then drive straight at them. And miss. It’ll take them a minute to get their shit together. Let’s go, we’re off.”

  “You’re a good boy, Tony,” said Frankie.

  “Thank you, Francine. Let’s go!”

  Miranda peeled out of the driveway and barrelled down the road, dead set to hit the parked car, then careened around it, jamming the gas, sliding, roaring past The General Store in a whirl of noise that brought Mrs. DeBrusk, disgusted, to the door. The other car wheeled around and followed in roaring pursuit, no more than ten car lengths behind.

  Tony was gazing through the rear window, waiting for a good shot.

  “For God’s sake,” Miranda shouted, “don’t fire in the village.”

  “You know this road,” he yelled back. “Take it to the floor.”

  “It’s a straightaway,” she yelled. “A few hills, no turns, they’re gaining.”

  “Tony,” said Francine with authority that penetrated the noise as she rolled down her window. “Give me one of those guns.”

  He started to protest. She glowered at him.

  “You’ve only got one arm, give me your goddamned gun, Tony.”

  He handed her Miranda’s Glock. She leaned out the window, and the shrill whistle of a bullet made her flinch but she did not withdraw. Holding for a steady aim, she waited then fired.

  “You got them,” shouted Tony. “Got the windshield. Damnit, you need mushroom shells, Miranda. It just made a neat hole and missed the guy’s head.”

  Tony leaned out and took a couple of shots. The oncoming car swerved without slowing, as if they were dodging the bullets.

  Miranda could not wring any more speed out of their car. She knew this road along the river like the back of her hand. Over the next rise there was a sudden dip. If she braked when they dropped for
a moment out of sight, she could swerve through a gate into the trees. Then what? The only thing for it was to maintain the gap, if she could, until they reached Galt city limits, then try to lose them, oh God, on residential streets. That wasn’t the answer.

  Suddenly she heard a loud crack and a thump and the car swung crazily side to side. A tire had been shattered. She kept her foot down on the gas, rose up over the hillock and dropped down, wheeling sideways into the wooded lane.

  As the car shuddered to a stop among trees within sight of the road, Frankie fired off a couple more rounds into the other car as it skidded to a halt. Tony leaned out and fired. There was another thump and Tony twisted violently, slamming against the back of the seats.

  “Tony!” Francine screamed.

  He was alive and reached out to her. “Give me your gun,” he demanded. She reached to hold him. “Give me your goddamned gun. Now get the hell out of here, you two. Go, go, go.”

  Miranda reached back and brushed her hand against his face. “Thanks, Tony.”

  “I pay my debts. Go, take Francine, go on.”

  The shrill sounds of gunfire pursued the two women as they ran among maple trees, then cedars, toward the river. Suddenly there was a deadly silence, then a single shot. Both women knew what it was, but they kept running.

  On a small rise, they slowed and Miranda looked back. She could see the assassins making their way through the underbrush. She turned toward the river. This was familiar terrain. A sheer cliff dropped off ahead, but she knew where there was a cleft among the cedars that led down to the water. She grasped Frankie’s hand and drew her along like a friend through a treacherous obstacle course.

  “The Devil’s Cave,” she said, and Frankie nodded acquiescence, as if Miranda was making sense.

  Miranda used to come here with her father. Her sister always stayed home, but she and her father would clamber down through the fissure in the cliff and walk along to a bit of rubble that betrayed the cave in the limestone wall above. They would climb up, and her father would tell her about Foxy Smith, either a bank robber or a war veteran and homeless derelict, depending on which story he chose, who used to live in the cave. And that made the cave seem bigger than it was.