by Ann Fillmore
Jerking the stack of printouts from the plastic, he flipped through them and went cold. Marion Tidewater had no doubts as to the origin of this material.
A frigid wind hurled sand and dry leaves through the black night of narrow wadis and valleys that cut the terrain above Kiriat Shimona, the northern-most kibbutz in Israel. On the border, several miles further on, was the Good Gate. Here is where Habib Mansur had crossed into Lebanon, here is where he was to be delivered. Harsh mercury lights illuminated the entire three-meter-high border fence, the complicated zigzag wire fence structure which contained the actual Gate and went down into the staging area for tanks, missiles, rockets, antiaircraft guns, and other military machinery. The twenty-four-hour cafe at the taxi turnaround was busy as usual and Taqi parked close.
Devi, in her army uniform of khaki pants and dark green sweater with leather elbow patches, her rifle slung over her shoulder, and her pistol on her hip, went to talk to the local defense force commander who was expecting her. She saluted, he saluted. Carl-Joran remained sitting in the Mercedes, slumped down, hidden. Bonnie, dressed in one of Devi’s army outfits and Russ, in a thick bomber jacket and heavy boots, took seats in the light at the cafe. They ordered tea and coffee respectively.
The baron was not happy about this arrangement. Halima was still not ready to let him show himself outright, so he sat with the back door unlatched, ready to jump out. The boss had spoken, he would follow her orders.
They waited, and waited.
Around midnight, Bonnie, her stomach finally loosening the tight clench it had been in since leaving Haifa, considered for the umpteenth time talking her husband into giving up for the night and going down to the hotel in the kibbutz. Not a single person had gone through the Gate either way for hours.
At that instant, a thin young man hesitantly, cautiously, began walking from the Lebanese side of the zigzag toward the Gate. The Israeli defense force commander and Devi, rifles resting on their arms, went to meet him as he stepped through. They took all his weapons off him: rifle, pistol, knives, and his papers were scrutinized before Devi led him to Bonnie.
“I am to talk to women?” the young man squawked toward the commander and Devi translated.
“Prove to me you are Bedouin and that you bring Haji Mansur,” Bonnie insisted, hoping her voice didn’t crack and give her tremendous fear away. She felt Russ’s big presence behind her, but still, she knew she was face on with a dangerous man.
Devi translated.
“Who are you?” the young man spit at Bonnie and Russ took a step forward, as did Devi.
“The baron’s wife.”
“Your gray hair will not protect you if you lie,” said the young man with certainty. “Follow me to that side of the Gate. If the haji agrees, he will come forth.” The young man did not look directly at anyone anymore. He kept the hood of his burnoose tight around his head and face and brushing Devi aside, started back to the Lebanese entrance of the zigzag fence.
“Can we assume the enemy accompanies our haji?” Russ said after him and when Devi had translated, the young man nodded.
The Israeli commander stopped at the borderline. Devi continued alongside the small group. “I go in front. Russ, walk next to Bonnie.”
Pushing the Mercedes door open a bit further despite Taqi’s admonition, the baron stuck a long leg out, wanting very badly to be at his wife’s side.
Going only as far as the first checkpoint in the zigzag Gate, the young man stopped and spun on his heels. “I am sure the baron himself must come,” he insisted.
“No! It is enough your comrades and the haji see me,” declared Bonnie. Devi shouldered her rifle, finger brushing the trigger as she translated. Russ Snow towered over all of them and felt like the primary target.
“Perhaps my chief cannot allow the haji to come through,” warned the young man.
“Your chief is not a cruel man,” Bonnie continued. “He will not keep a dying man from safety. The enemy will not influence a chief such as yours, will they?”
At that, the young man’s eyes sought out Russ’s eyes, the only other man in the group.
“There is danger in the Gate. You would let women lead the way?”
“Two women in fact,” shrugged Russ with a nasty grin.
“So be it,” said the young man, resigned, and led the way into the final leg of the zigzag enclosure. Russ with Devi behind him and Bonnie behind her followed quietly, committing themselves to the penned-in area.
From the other side, a group of men in Bedouin burnoose robes embarked on their walk into the zigzag, carrying a larger man in an arm sling. That man was obviously weak, his head lolled and he seemed barely able to hold himself upright. At the exact center of the enclosure, the men carrying the man gently let him onto his feet. He instantly fell forward and Russ jumped quickly to catch him.
At that very moment, four of the men threw off their robes and grabbed for the big Indian. The remaining men—the real Bedouin, including the young messenger, still wrapped in their burnoose, quickly traversed the Lebanese side of the zigzag back the way they came and disappeared into the black night.
In a flash, as the four aggressors, each with a hand on Russ, pulled guns from under their shirts, Devi jammed her rifle under the first man’s chin. Stalemate. She shouted at the fallen man, “Habib! Is that you?”
“Yes,” came his faint voice.
Devi glanced at Bonnie. “Get him out of here.”
“I will do my best,” she responded and reached down and lifted the haji putting one of his arms over her shoulder. It was slow going. Bonnie staggered with the load because Mansur had almost no strength at all.
Devi Hamberg pushed the first man’s head back with her gun and snarled, “Notice that the commander of the Gate guards is ready to fire several rockets across the border. I know you are not Lebanese and if you return over there, after the rockets land, they’ll kill you.”
Slowly, the four men’s weapons lowered. Devi and Russ disarmed them and Devi motioned for all but their leader, the small guy with Devi’s rifle bore under his chin, to leave. Russ grabbed him and dragged him forward. They made their way back through the Gate and through the zigzag, catching up to Bonnie. Devi held the rifle behind their captive while Russ lifted Habib. Then they moved faster.
The commander and the baron, who finally could not stand it any longer and had jumped from the car, were waiting as they came out and they helped Russ put Habib in the Mercedes. Russ climbed in the front, the Carl-Joran and Bonnie in the back.
“We will meet you at the hospital in the village,” shouted Devi as the Mercedes sped away, but by the time she arrived there, Bonnie and Habib and the baron had been airlifted by helicopter to Haifa. It was up to her now to take care of the prisoner. The commander had released him to her. She phoned Dr. Rachel Bar-Fischer who agreeably responded yes, of course Ali Muhit, the personal assistant to the Darughih Quddus Sadiq-Fath, could be incarcerated at her facility. With pleasure.
Emergency medical staff were waiting on the roof as the Medivac landed. The two paramedics on board the chopper had already stripped off the dirty robes and awful bandages that had held Habib together for the last few days. Bonnie heard the woman paramedic comment that they’d be lucky if he didn’t have gangrene.
“GWS through the right shoulder downward, lower back, thigh, and left calf,” shouted the paramedic handing Habib down to the ground crew. A stream of shouted statistics followed the crew into the hospital. Bonnie, Carl-Joran, and Russ found themselves left behind in a lounge near the operating theatre. Waiting again.
“You go to your rooms,” the baron ordered Russ, “and take Bonnie to our suite. You don’t need to stay here.”
“I’ll go,” said Russ and as Bonnie started to refuse, a doctor came from the operating room. Tired, he did smile though as he pulled off his mask.
“Mansur has one strong constitution. How he made it through, I really can’t explain.” The doctor pulled off his gloves. “We got two
of the bullets out; the one in his shoulder that went straight down into an arm muscle and the one that went into his hip. We’ve put him on a regimen of antibiotics and antifungal medications. Hopefully that will kill the bugs he picked up along the way. You folks might as well go home. He’ll be asleep until morning.”
“Thank you, doctor,” said Carl-Joran standing.
“Just tell Legesse she owes me on this. She’s been onto me already, on my cell phone in the operating theater for God’s sake, and I want to make sure that woman knows her precious haji will live.” With a sigh, the doctor wearily pulled off his apron and tossed everything into a nearby bin.
The bright winter morning peeked over the Haifa cliffs and the golden dome of the Bab as the three took a taxi to the Nof. Before Bonnie joined her gently snoring spouse, she called the Weisburg Hochschule and left a message for Jani that included the phone number of the Haifa hospital. As sleep caught up with her, she wondered how Trisha was doing and she felt a pang of homesickness. No matter how wonderful the company, how great the adventure, there is nothing like your own bed in your own home, she thought.
Ali Muhit was numb with exhaustion and contrition. An Israeli woman doctor had ordered him into a locked room in a building surrounded by razor wire. This woman was in charge. She gave the orders and workers dressed like nurses followed these orders. Although food was offered, Muhit didn’t feel like eating. He couldn’t sleep. For the first time in his life, he was helpless in front of women.
He couldn’t tell if it was day or night when they came for him, the woman in charge called doctor and a tall black woman who dominated the entire small room where they took him. To his total and complete mortification, she was also called doctor. The women tried several languages: English, French, Arabic, and he pretended ignorance. A quick whispered conference and in came a well-dressed man with the clean, sharp features that obviously identified him as descended from the ancient Persians. He spoke eloquent Farsi.
Muhit was about to answer when he noticed the ring on the man’s finger containing a large flat ruby with the inscription Allah u abha Baha’u’llah. Muhit’s lips scrinched shut in a tight line. First women in power, then the only speaker of Farsi was a Baha’i. Naturally, the Baha’i man would take orders from a woman. Baha’is believed women were equal with men. Heresy. Ali Muhit could not respond to any of this. It was not in his remit. It did not fit the order of his life. He hung his head in absolute shame.
“That’s all right,” said the Baha’i man, “we’re negotiating with your commander, Darughih Sadiq-Fath. The terms will be easy for even him to swallow. Hear what I say even if you cannot find it in yourself to respond.”
Ali Muhit swung his chair away to face the wall.
The Baha’i man went on, “In return for absolving the fatwa on Baron Hermelin and his entire family, you will be kept here and kept alive. As long as the fatwa remains gone, you will live. Is that not a good deal?”
To the wall, in a very muted voice, Ali asked, “And my family? Will they be safe? Will I ever see my grandchildren again?”
“That is not in our hands,” said the black giantess in Arabic, “it is in the decision of your superior.”
“Then I am doomed,” murmured Ali, “to loneliness, for the rest of my life. He will never let my family out of Iran.”
“We can discuss that down the road a way,” said Dr. Legesse and the Baha’i man translated it into Farsi as she and Dr. Bar-Fischer stood up. Ali Muhit peered around, wondering what they meant.
As Rachel closed the door to the interview room, she said to Halima, “Think we could get those cataracts of his taken care of? It’s such an elementary procedure.”
“When can you schedule it?”
“Early next week?”
Halima nodded. “Anything to make life easier for the old man. Go ahead. Bill it to us and the contact lenses too, if he needs them.”
Siddhu reluctantly held out a sticky note with the code on it. Russ had almost had to pry the code from Siddhu’s brain with a can opener, or so it had seemed. First had come Singh Siddhu’s long lecture in florid British English about keeping secrets and how important it was not to interfere in Tahireh Ibrahim’s life once she had returned to Paris and became the famous model Gillé.
“We cannot have her as an agent if she cannot become this other personality when she is home. She is famous, a bloody famous model, who stands in great spotlights!” Siddhu, with waving arms and fluttering hands, insisted as Russ tried valiantly to nod in agreement at all the correct junctures. Siddhu ended with, “You do not disturb her. You understand?”
Russ nodded again. “I do not disturb her, ever.” He gently plucked the note from Siddhu’s finger. “I promise on my mother’s ancient name, Snow-from-Night-Sky, which is an honorable name, I promise!”
“Bloody right,” sighed Siddhu and backed out of Russ’s alcove. He conferred briefly with Devi and then took off for a briefing with Dr. Bar-Fischer and Halima over the cataract operation for their prisoner.
As Russ plugged in the code for transmission to the Hospital de la Croix St. Simons where the Torture Treatment Centre was housed, Devi came up behind him.
“My mom sent me some fresh lamb from the kibbutz. Want to come to dinner tonight? My apartment? I know the kitchen in your little house really sucks.”
“Well, a stove that doesn’t work and a sink that’s all plugged up doesn’t help.” Russ had found a small, abandoned dwelling on the outskirts of Haifa and had great plans to rebuild it. At the moment, it was more like camping out with the biggest problem being the neighbor’s goats who had considered it shelter for years and were cranky at being evicted. They’d twice eaten their way through the scrap wood he’d put over the holes in the walls. Russ carefully composed the message to the model Gillé, who so graciously volunteered her time at St. Simons, saying Habib Mansur was doing well and would be back on his feet in about a week. As the message was sent, Devi leaned against the doorway.
“She doesn’t date,” said Devi.
“I’m not sure I follow you,” Russ looked up the Israeli girl who sported a new hairstyle and a pretty blouse. She seemed slightly uncomfortable in both.
“Tahireh doesn’t…” Devi blushed and suddenly Russ caught on and helped her with the explanation. “You mean she keeps her life simple.”
Devi said, “Yes. I mean, she’s not gay. She’s famous. It’s difficult for her.”
“I understand,” Russ insisted, “I really do.”
“So, do you like lamb? I make a super curry, hot enough to clear all your sinuses in one go.”
“Sure,” Russ grinned. “What time?”
Jet lag didn’t seem to affect Bonnie at all. She was up with the birds and out with Misimoto surveying the ginger crop and a new pond for catfish that had been dug in the upper pasture. Groundwater was slowly seeping in and would reach the correct level in a couple days. Misimoto was worried that the catfish would arrive before the water had clarified, but Bonnie pointed out that catfish were not too particular about water clarity and, in fact, liked mud. Gryphon enjoyed the muddy pond immensely. For a brief while, he forgot his constant surveillance of ground squirrel activity.
Carl-Joran slept late and spent his waking time practicing his martial arts or hiking. Bonnie went back to work with her library research. Trisha taught health classes and her basketball team won two and lost one. The Thai girls flourished, their English improving by leaps each day. Misimoto’s stock of catfish adjusted to their pond without any problems, just as Bonnie had predicted.
Fourteen days passed before the phone call came. It was Barbara Monday and she talked with the baron. There was a woman in Montana. That wasn’t far from California, right? The wife of a wealthy cult leader, she’d managed to escape to a shelter in Helena, but the entire shelter could be in danger if she stayed much longer. These cultists were end of the world freaks and carried big, ugly guns.
And where would this poor woman go if they could get her out o
f Montana, Bonnie had inquired of Barbara and the baron.
Barbara explained that Halima Legesse had already arranged for Crystal, the woman’s new name, to go to India. Before her cult entrapment, she’d been a third grade teacher. Lama Kazi Padma-Lakshi could use a teacher in his village. How soon could Carl-Joran and Bonnie have her safely on a flight out of San Francisco?
Carl-Joran looked at Bonnie who promptly said, “Within the week.”
END