by Rose Fox
ROSE FOX
ABIGAIL – Spy & Lie*
Rose Fox
ABIGAIL – Spy & Lie
© All rights reserved for the writer, 2015
The plots in this story, the characters and their names were created by the author and are exclusively the fruit of her imagination.
Any connection between the characters or names to those of people, alive or no longer alive is purely coincidental.
Excerpts from this book may not be reproduced, copied, photocopied, recorded, translated, stored in a database or distributed in any way, or by any means: electronic, optical or mechanical, in current use or that may be invented in the future.
No commercial use of any kind may be made of material included in this book or in sections or parts thereof, without the express permission of the author.
:
P R O L O G U E
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
P R O L O G U E
The sun had almost set and darkness shadowed the old lobby of the inn. Guests sat around. Some read, some chatted and yawned while others played chess or cards at small tables. No one paid attention to the young woman, seated in an old armchair, as she flipped through the colorful pages of a magazine.
Her name was Abigail. She had arrived at the dreary inn the day before and had taken a room for two days.
A shout, accompanied by banging, was suddenly heard from outside and Dimitri, the innkeeper, ran to the door. When he opened it, the shouting grew louder and everyone ran to the entrance, pushing chairs over behind them as they shoved forward in curiosity to see what all the fuss was about.
All eyes were turned to the source of the commotion. No one paid attention to the tall, slim, fair-haired woman, who broke free from the group surging towards the entrance and moved in the opposite direction of the crowd. She entered the empty lobby, looked around and noticed Abigail, sitting in the corner. She pulled a round tube out of her pocket, pressed it up against her victim’s face and squeezed a button. A white cloud sprayed out of the tube, leaving Abigail breathless for a second. She froze and sank back, her arms, dropping at her sides.
The shouting outside increased, people were hitting one another without even knowing who or why, as they attempted to retaliate.
The woman swept Abigail up on her shoulders with ease and strode out of the inn to a black SUV with darkened windows. She dropped Abigail down on the floor of the vehicle at the foot of the back seat, slid the side door closed and got into the passenger seat beside the driver.
In the seconds that followed, while they drove off, the woman pulled off her blonde wig, folded it and slipped it into the glove compartment in front of her, revealing a tall, slender man, who bore no resemblance to the woman who had seized Abigail less than a minute earlier.
Everything was perfectly coordinated.
The vehicle sped ahead at full throttle, turned onto the asphalt highway and drove eastwards to the border with Iran. It was joined by a grey car, driving in its rear.
In the distance, a gray motorcycle with a bearded driver was seen approaching them. The driver’s torn black cape flapped behind him and his dark beard was blown by the strong wind that streamed past him on both sides of the transparent windshield.
The tall man in the black SUV whispered into a radio transmitter as he glanced up at the rearview mirror, to check out what was happening behind him on the highway.
The grey car, travelling behind, swerved out of its lane at lightning speed and raced ahead in the face of the oncoming motorcycle. The cyclist tried to veer to the right, to dodge the car and get onto the side of the road, but the car lurched back in front of him and picked up speed. The grey car tore ahead savagely and reduced the distance between them.
Collision was inevitable, the impact was formidable as the front fender of the car had been manufactured especially for this purpose and was made out of steel, like truck fenders. The motorcycle braked and stopped short. The cyclist was stopped from being propelled forwards by his windscreen. He rose up in the air as if he had been fired from a cannon and landed on the highway with a thud. A bearded man got out of the car, hopping over the metal parts scattered around. After bending down to examine the man, he noticed a small package under the torn shirt of the unconscious cyclist. He detached it carefully and handed it to the tall man in the other car, who was watching what was going on with pursed lips. He dragged the cyclist back with him and threw him in his car.
On the floor of the gray car that hit him, lay Judge Adam Ayalon.
Carrying their human bounty, the two vehicles forged on. The destroyed cycle littered the highway, a black metal block surrounded by a dark, greasy liquid. The black liquid from the cycle, mixed with the dark blood that had oozed from the cyclist’s open wounds resulting in a nightmarish cocktail.
The two vehicles raced eastwards. Abigail lay on the floor of the SUV behind the driver and the tall fellow, who had kidnapped her from the inn. Her breathing was slow and heavy, her face as white as snow. The man lay in the grey car. The blood from the open fracture in his leg formed a pool beneath him. He was only semi-conscious, unable to get up or move. His leg was seriously injured.
“We have the package,” the bearded man reported over his radio.
In response, an order came from the SUV, carrying the still unconscious Abigail,
"Proceed to the lower part of the Subotnik mountain range," then dryly added over the radio: “Here’s some positive reinforcement. Your job on the cyclist was perfect. Congratulations.”
A minute later the voice continued.
“The package you found will be worth it all. Bravo!”
A quarter of an hour later, both cars reached the foot of the Subotnik Mountains. Here, an armored vehicle awaited them. Black stripes marked the length and the breadth of the vehicle like the skin of a zebra, which is how it disappeared from view as it blended into the play of light and shade on the wild vegetation around it. The back door of the armored vehicle opened and a frame with a netted bottom was drawn out of it, like a cabinet drawer. The two captives were loaded onto the net, which was pushed back into the armored vehicle and the door slammed shut behind them.
Round droplets of human blood that left a trail on the light-colored sand between the vehicles was Ayalon’s blood. No one heard the terrible screams of pain that escaped his throat.
The striped vehicle moved off at a decent speed, obeying all the local traffic laws, careful not to attract attention. After travelling for an hour and a quarter, it turned left and traveled up along a footpath through an abandoned wheat field. Tall, straight stalks with large purple heads of wheat hiding among them, waved back and forth, indicating that it was a place that no one ever tr
aversed.
The place was naturally protected because it served as a safe home for snakes that slithered easily around it, consuming the vast prey that the deserted wheat field offered them. Every few meters, there were snakes dens, so it was impossible to cross the field on foot.
The drive on the trampled grass jolted the vehicle forcefully, but the now unconscious passengers didn’t feel the vibrations. After a ten minute drive, the armored vehicle reached a low hill, where it stopped.
No human voice was heard in the entire area; only the vibrato of chirping birds and crickets curled into the air, background music to the rustle of dry ears of wheat. A minute later, maybe less, the figure of a man cut through the emptiness on the right of the hill. It was the guard. His clothes matched the shade of the sand and he stood close to the entrance of the cave, blending into the surroundings, as if he wasn’t there at all. The wooden door that closed the round opening to the cave had been covered with sand from the area and even someone standing close by, who didn’t know of its existence, would never have been noticed it.
The tunnel had been dug out in this abandoned place a long time ago and was designed to receive prisoners. Its planners had been careful not to interfere with nature and not to change anything.
The sun was already setting when the armored vehicle arrived, but the last rays of daylight lingered.
The vehicle turned so that its back door faced the closed entrance and waited. The driver said a few words into a radio transmitter and about a minute later the door of the cave opened. Small points of light, embedded like stars in the night, shone from its gaping mouth. The smells of mildew and moisture hung in the cool air that came out and soured the immediate outside.
The car door opened and three thick metal cables emerged from the cave and attached to the netted drawer of the car. The cables drew back and dragged the net, on which the two captives lay. When the net reached the sand, down in the cave, the bottom opened with a metallic click and slanted downwards. The two prisoners, their bodies lying across the cables, were half dropped, half-slid into the cold, dark grave.
The round entrance closed slowly and the dark cave turned into a living tomb, whose existence was unnoticeable from outside.
* * *
Chapter One
When Leila went into labor in the early hours of the morning, she realized the day had arrived. She sent her daughter, Liraz, to inform her sister Rama, who lived in an encampment a forty-minute donkey ride away. Even though she was giving birth for the fifth time, she expected help and support. She believed her sister should come and be with her. Leila wondered what was keeping her.
Her contractions were strong and so frequent, the pain came in waves. Leila could hardly bear. She held onto her hips and waited for the pain to ease as she bit her fist with all her might and resisted screaming. When the surge of pain passed, she moved slowly to the entrance of the tent and opened the flap for the umpteenth time and looked outside hoping to see the green truck in the distance. There was nothing but golden dunes and a transparent haze that rose up in the air and drifted above them.
She let the tent flap fall back again, went to the palette and disrobed, remaining only in her chemise. Now, she folded her legs and crouched down, pulling her knees towards her. Leila groaned and pressed repeatedly, stopping to take a breath. She rested and after a minute or more she pressed as hard as she could and let out a scream of pain. She took another breath and pressed but nothing happened and she felt as if she couldn't bear any more, but this time, when she pressed, she felt how the baby slipped from within her and when it came out she heard herself scream.
From outside she heard the echo of the hoarse cries of a crow, which landed on the sand. The smell of blood had drawn it to the tent of the mother and it cawed once more as its black wings fluttered in the hot air. The black bird began to teeter between the tents, its squawking sounding like the muffled ticking of a clock.
An easterly wind rose and swirled grains of sand in a circle, flinging them at the fabric of the tent with a grating whistle that was stronger than the wail of the baby, which was heard at that moment.
The air was hot and damp and Leila’s chemise clung to her body.
Now, she acted just as she remembered her mother and sister had when they attended her previous births. She pulled the cord from her body, wrapped it around her left fist and cut it with a knife, close to the tiny baby’s belly. She knotted its end tightly and rose to watch the little creature, lying beside her leg.
It was a girl. She lay on the cloth Leila had prepared in advance. The baby’s head was covered with a plume of wet curls. She was amazed to see their color, different from any she had known. The curls were much fairer, almost white. Exhausted, Leila don’t pay attention to that for the moment but fell asleep, holding the fair-haired, sleeping infant to her bosom.
Leila awakened at the cold and damp touch of her dog’s nose. Their yellow Canaan dog sniffed the baby lying in her embrace with great curiosity and Leila, tiredly, waved her away with her arm. Today, she would look after her newborn infant. Her oldest daughter, eleven year old Liraz, would carry out her duties as Leila had prepared her to do for the last two weeks.
She had not a shadow of doubt that, like all Bedouins born before her, this one would also live in tents and run barefoot on the hot sand, chasing after her siblings. In fact, she had no other expectations of her and was certain that, in time, the girl would marry a man of her father’s choice. Like her other children, that was the extent of her hopes and dreams for her new baby.
Leila had no idea that the infant lying in her arms at that moment would change everything. How could she have foretold the changes that were to take place in her tribe or even her country? Because of her child, people would disappear, be murdered or captured and that governments would be toppled.
Her husband, Sultan, did not come to the tent, nor did Leila expect him to. He was a Bedouin and never took an interest in the children he sired. This was a fact of life. When the children were small, they grew up on their mother’s side, the girls running around her tents. When the boys grew up, she sent them to be educated in the tents of their father.
Now, she had given birth to a girl, who was different from her other children, Leila chose to make an exception and present the infant to her husband. She waited for three more days to pass and, departing from custom, she herself entered the men’s tent, carrying the unusual new baby in both arms. She bent down and laid her on the mat at her husband’s feet. Sultan glanced at his tiny daughter and a whistle of amazement escaped his lips. He gazed at her fair hair and at her open eyes that stared unseeingly. They had no distinct color, although they were pale and almost transparent.
He smiled. “See how Allah has forgotten to color her eyes,” he remarked to Leila.
“What are you saying?” She said, breathing loudly, fearing that his remarks would arouse the evil spirits. “Look, he gave her eyes the shade of the sky with some of the color of leaves.”
Sultan looked at the little one’s head. “It looks like he also didn’t put enough color in your baby’s hair.” He spoke as if he was angry, but he stroked the golden hair of the baby lying at his feet.
Some minutes later her oldest daughter, Liraz, entered with a covered finjan and a set of tiny gilded cups on a tray. Leila poured some boiling hot coffee into a cup and served it to her husband and father of her children. She served the coffee in the cups she saved for special occasions.
“You have given me a beautiful daughter,” he said as he continued gazing at the amazing infant. He could not take his eyes off her but a shadow of concern clouded his thoughts.
Leila did not reply. She was depressed and saddened by news that detracted from the joy of this baby’s birth.
On the day Leila gave birth, her sister, Rama, was at the beginning of her seventh month of pregnancy and the birth also began suddenly. It was much too early. Her husband, Naim, raced off in his green truck to fetch the old midwife, the one t
hat had attended the births of his two older children.
When she arrived, Rama was only semi-conscious. The midwife looked at her large belly and shook her head as she mumbled that the baby inside her was apparently no longer alive. Rama was writhing in great pain, but, suddenly, she began screaming.
“Leila! Someone has to go to her, she needs help! Leila needs help! I think she’s in labor!”
Fifteen minutes later, maybe less, she lost consciousness and died.
Exactly the same day that the baby was born and Rama died, the rare white camel cow belonging to Rama and Naim’s tribe was delivered of a calf that was also white.
Leila continued sitting on the mat, quietly drawn into her grief and Sultan tried to encourage her.
“You gave birth to this child all on your own. Look, she really is special.”
Leila nodded and her eyes welled up with tears. Sultan tried a new approach to touch her heart.
“You know that if this girl was born at exactly the same moment her aunt died, then her soul is here, within her. Look, your sister’s soul is here,” and he pointed to the infant. Sultan hung up the pipe of his hookah on the hook of the bottle and a fine jet of smoke wafted out. He finished drinking his coffee and sighed with pleasure. He raised the cup a little and, with a measure of restraint, declared: “To the life of our daughter.”
Then Sultan carefully placed the gilded cup in Leila’s hand.
* * *
Contrary to custom, Leila was Sultan’s first and only wife. She was uncertain why her husband had not taken another wife, but she took no initiative in the matter and did not speak of it. Nevertheless, there were days which she preferred to forget. Those were the days when she heard strange sounds coming from the stone house that had been built near the tents of the tribe.
This was the house that Sultan, as a young newlywed, investing long hours of work, had built by the sweat of his brow. He laid the foundations about six months before their marriage and set the last stone on the birth of his firstborn son, Adel. There was no other house like it on the sands of the Negev and the young husband and father was very proud of it, in spite of the fact that he never bothered to sleep in it. He preferred his tent, where he ate, drank and received his guests and, in fact, the building of the house was proof of his love for the rare woman he had found and the family nest he had nurtured.