by Rose Fox
“Ah, would that be instead of enlisting in the army?”
“Yes, indeed.”
That evening, Abigail went to an apartment in Ramat Gan. She climbed the stairs nimbly and entered a regular looking apartment.
A slender man waited at the open door. He wore rimless glasses on his beaklike nose. His hair was almost completely white and cut very short but his face was youthful and almost handsome.
He extended his hand to shake hers and said,
“I’m Barak,” and led her to one of the rooms behind him. A young slanted-eyed man stood up and extended his hand to her and said:
“I’m San.”
Abigail glanced at them embarrassedly and heard Barak address her:
“We know that you are the daughter of Leila from the Bedouin Ka’abiah clan.”
His words were so pleasing that she immediately felt at ease, smiled and listened appreciatively.
“We called you today because we need the benefit of your Bedouin attributes.”
Barak did not tell her and did not share with her that the Israeli ‘Mossad’ had reached her after following and investigating Naim, her uncle, who was known to cross to and from the bordering Arab countries for many years.
“Hey, did you also approach my girlfriends? Will they also be serving in this way in the army?”
The answer boosted her self-confidence.
“Only you were called up for this and we ask that you do not divulge anything that has been said between us, here today.”
“How will I explain to them that I am with you instead of enlisting in the army with them?"
At last, San made himself heard:
“When the time comes, we will find a cover story for you to tell them that will explain why you aren’t enlisting in the army like everyone else.”
“When will I start working for you?”
“We’re not going to fix a date, but this is the direction. Just carry on; complete your studies and we will contact you in due course.”
The days that followed dulled her memory of the meeting and Abigail continued along the planned course of her life.
The three best friends, Abigail, Rina and Natty, applied for and were accepted to study law at university. Together they lived through the stress and exams as they supported and reinforced each other.
Five years later the three girls graduated and received their law degrees and accreditation. In jubilation, they threw their mortarboards up in the sky and in front of the camera. The camera snapped the three of them embracing and holding up their certificates from the Law Department at ‘Bar Ilan’ University. They each framed a copy of the picture to take home with them.
Abigail was called up to the stage and the Deacon awarded her a cum laude certificate of distinction. In the audience, Arlene wiped away a tear.
* * *
Chapter Five
The ringing telephone woke Shimon, the policeman.
As he picked up the call he saw the name of the caller on the display screen and cursed under his breath, but straightened up and sat on the bed, like a soldier. He answered the phone completely alert now and tense.
“Ahalan, Kif Halak, (Hello and How are you), ya‘Ashraf?”
Shimon knew that Ashraf’s decision to call him himself and not send someone to speak to him in his place was a sign that all hope was lost. Clearly, what was about to be said was of great importance; of such great importance as to waive the rule of secrecy.
Ashraf spoke, “you know Sultan’s daughter, the one with the light eyes and the golden hair, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. Who’s this Sultan?”
“You know, I speak of the little Bedouin girl from the Ka’abiah tribe.” Ashraf’s voice was tense and impatient.
“Who? What Bedouin girl? Where does the Ka’abiah tribe live?”
A groan was heard and there was a moment when Shimon considered hanging up, but he was too scared.
“Please get me more details about her and her whereabouts.”
“Details? Where should I go to find details and about whom, exactly?”
Ashraf didn’t pay attention to what Shimon said and continued talking,
“Find out how she has disappeared, where she disappeared to and where she is now, do you hear me?”
He was aggressive and angry and Shimon felt completely lost in the flood of information he was hearing.
“Ashraf, in the name of Allah, what Bedouin girl are you talking about? Where did you say that the tribe is located? Give me the details again.”
Ashraf answered impatiently.
“Listen. I think the girl’s name is Nazima or Nashima or something like that. She belongs to the 'Ka’abiah' tribe and lives in your little Negev desert. And yes, her father’s name is Sultan.”
“Okay, carry on.”
Ashraf expelled his breath noisily.
“So the story is like this; his daughter disappeared from the tribe a long time ago. I searched for her and, believe me, I’ve looked everywhere. No one knows where she is or they know and won’t reveal where she’s hiding. You, Shimon, will search for her and find out if she’s alright and where we can find her!”
“Where should I start? Give me a clue.”
“Try approaching someone from the tribe, perhaps Naim, I don’t know.”
“Why, what’s the story with her?” Shimon asked. He was frightened and confused by all the details he had been given, but Ashraf hung up and he was left sitting on his bed, holding the silent telephone.
A sense of real and imminent danger twisted his stomach and he knew he had better find her as soon as possible. He began planning his moves to make contact with the people of the desert.
* * *
Very early in the morning, two camps faced each other in the blazing desert sun. They waved cloths and sticks over their heads, shouted with enthusiasm and yelled calls of encouragement to the group of camels racing across the sand.
The sun was blazing hot, but the spectators paid little heed to it. They were enthralled and all eyes were transfixed on the important camel race between the riders of the great Ka’abiah clan, led by Adel and the riders of Naim’s tribe, led by his son, Walid.
Adel, Sultan’s son, rode very fast on the back of a white camel cow, spurring her on with his feet and his knees. He leaned over her back, tensely wound up like a spring and glanced behind him, at the camels chasing after him from behind and on either side. His jaws were clenched as he mumbled words of affection to his camel, Ramia, his mother’s favorite and a gift from Naim in honor of the birth of Adel’s sister, Naima.
It seemed that Adel’s camel was going to win the race. He raced ahead confidently, some three meters ahead of the others. Even now, he thought how much beating his cousin, Walid, meant to him. Another camel, light on its feet, tailed them with considerable success. The rider was Naim’s son, Walid, a handsome and slender man, also not one to give up easily on a challenge, goaded the tall animal onwards. The camel raised her head wildly and galloped towards the finishing post which was some two hundred meters ahead. Her dark eyes were fixed on it as she was approaching. The other camels and their riders trailed behind at varying distances as the drivers yelled and urged their camels on.
The snorting camels, the roar of the spectators and the squeals of the children, who stood along the road, were camouflage for the police cars that began gathering at the end of the track. They waited in tense silence for the bucking and galloping camels coming towards them, seeing the enormous white cloud that rose from the desert sands.
The numerous police cars and the screaming spectators, all enveloped in a cloud of dust appeared like a mirage that rose up and floated in the desert, as if taken from a scene in a movie.
Adel was the first to notice the police cars in front of him and loosened his grasp on the camel beneath him. It took no more than a few seconds, but that was enough for Walid’s fast mount, which was at his heel, to pass Adel, reach the finish line first and win the race.
Behind them, there were cries of disappointment from Adel’s supporters and screams of joy for Walid, the victor.
The victorious camels were foaming at the mouth and restlessly stamping on the spot. The other camels in the race came up to the finish line one by one.
Adel counted twelve police cars. He was aware of Walid’s victory and acknowledged it with a nod that was barely visible but the winner did notice it. He nodded again in the direction of the police and Walid turned his face and saw them.
Two black uniformed groups stood between the cars, holding white clubs. The police insignia on their peak caps shone silver in the sun, creating blinding flashes in the eyes of the spectators.
The two groups continued facing each other. A policeman walked forward and made his way directly to the mount of Walid, the winner of the race. The policeman extended his arm to grab hold of the camel but Walid reined him in and the camel recoiled and kicked wildly. Walid immediately regained control of him.
“Are you Walid?” asked the policeman.
“What’s this about?” Walid replied.
“I have to ask you to dismount. I have a search warrant,” the policeman announced, waving a piece of paper.
“A warrant to search me or the camel?”
The skin on Walid’s face stretched over his high cheekbones and he tensed. His mount moved restlessly and he pulled the reins to try and calm her down.
Almost shouting, the policeman ordered him,
“Get off the camel and let’s deal with the matter.”
Walid looked thoughtful. He glanced sideways and checked if people were noticing what was happening and witnessing his shame and humiliation. It was clear to all that his pride had been hurt.
Suddenly he threw up his right leg and kicked the surprised policeman in his face. The officer grabbed his face in his hands and fell to his knees, rocking and twisting in agony. Blood spurted out between his fingers and dripped down on the sand.
The policemen surged forward, but Walid was already taking flight into the desert, as he pressed his knees on the belly of the tired beast that ran with all its might. The policemen dashed back to their cars and the chase through the dusty sand of the desert began. Eleven police cars raced in pursuit of the galloping animal, as they blew their horns and sounded their sirens.
Suddenly, the police cars broke away into two lines to outflank the camel on both sides. The camel was exhausted from the effort of the race and struggled to keep steady on its feet.
A revolver stuck out of the window of one of the police vehicles and a single shot was fired. The camel fell to the sand with a groan that was heard far and wide. The cars stopped haphazardly. An officer ran to where the camel lay, poked around in his saddle and stood up gleefully. He swung a small bag on a black cord and waved it in front of the cops. Walid stood beside the wounded camel, which was writhing in the sand and stared at the bag, open mouthed and surprised.
Adel would never forget the sight of Walid’s face as he passed him, handcuffed, the muscles of Walid’s jaw twitched in anger and impotent outrage. He saw Walid biting into his flesh as his dark eyes flashed with unfathomable hatred.
Two days later, Walid was brought to court to be remanded.
Justice Anton Stolov waited for the guards to remove the handcuffs and leg irons.
Behind him, the policeman whispered a few persuasive words to the prosecutor and defense counsel, completing the first stage in Shimon’s plan.
Shimon had investigated and discovered a family connection between Walid and the Bedouin girl he had been ordered to find. It was clear that no one could possibly discover that Ashraf had ordered him to find Abigail. His trick was to get his hands on someone from the Ka’abiah tribe and, through him, obtain information about her and turn her over to Ashraf.
The judge drew the attention of the court by banging his wooden gavel on the block on his desk and spoke for the record.
“In view of the evidence and based on confidential information received in the defendant’s case, the court hereby remands the suspect for ten days.”
The defense counsel rose and intervened, “I wish to draw the court’s attention to the matter of disclosure of information. The defense requests that Your Honor instruct the prosecution to reveal the identity of the snitch, sorry, the informant, in the matter of the accused.”
Even before the Judge could respond, the prosecutor jumped to his feet and immediately objected.
“On the contrary, I request that the court keep the name of the informer confidential. The prosecution alerts the court and addresses the fact that the defendant concealed drugs during a camel race, an event that was attended by children and young people. The prosecution requests that the court deal severely with such a suspect and certainly not incriminate the person who denounced him. The court should deal with the guilty party and not with the messenger.”
Walid got up and spoke heatedly without being asked,
“It’s all a lie. I swear I have never dealt in drugs, Your Honor, Sir. I have no idea how they got into my camel’s saddlebag! This is a serious mistake. Someone planted it there on purpose.”
The prosecutor ridiculed him:
“Of course, now you’re going to tell us you’ve never seen drugs and you’re also going to tell this honorable court that drugs don’t exist in Bedouin tents.”
There were only a few people in the courtroom. Someone laughed and applauded. The defense counsel got to his feet immediately.
“The defense objects to the snide hints of the prosecution.”
Before the Judge could respond, Walid shouted, "I beg of Your Honor! Sir, I would like to say a few things, but I want to speak freely, without questions.”
The Judge regarded the accused, thought for a few seconds and said “the court will permit you to speak freely.”
Walid announced, “I swear before Allah that I, Walid, have never dealt in drugs.” He was flushed and the swollen veins in his neck bulged.
“I was raised by a wonderful Bedouin mother, who died in childbirth when I was ten years old. My father, Naim, a proud and unique man, taught me moral values and respect.”
Clearly, Walid had difficulty gathering his thoughts and the prosecutor got to his feet, but the Judge raised his hand and he sat down again. Walid continued speaking, without taking in what was going on around him.
“I am a college graduate, but a Bedouin, at heart. I am not threatening, but warn you, without fear, that if I find out who planted that bag…” he shut his eyes tight and his voice sounded strangled as he continued,
“… I ask, no, I beseech you disclose the name of the informer. I am not the man you are looking for and I am not a drug dealer. How can I persuade you to disclose the name of the person who incriminated me?”
His remarks echoed in the courtroom. The Judge looked at the accused and glanced inquiringly at the policeman, who energetically shook his head in objection.
The policeman answered quickly, “We never reveal the identity of the informer” and added: “It’s never done and never will be!”
“I hereby terminate discussion of the case. The Bedouin defendant is remanded for a further ten days.” The Judge banged on the block with his gavel.
From his vast experience, Shimon knew that he might be able to use the defendant’s hurt pride to his advantage. From that moment, he tried to catch Walid’s eye. He looked at him and traced a circle in the air to signify ‘later’. A few seconds after that, Walid passed close by and the policeman did something that isn’t done. He hissed the name 'Sultan' through his pursed lips.
At that moment Walid was alerted. He suddenly grasped that the policeman had revealed the identity of the informer and he wanted to respond and inquire, but, the policeman quickly turned on his heel, pushed the swing door open and disappeared through it as his footsteps echoed in the courthouse corridor .
Chapter Six
It was still dark outside when Don woke up. He glanced at his wife, Irit, who w
as moving restlessly beside him in their bed. She opened her sleepy eyes.
“What’s the time?”
“Go back to sleep. It’s early. Everything’s fine; I’m getting dressed and I’ll be on my way.”
Today at 7:00 the bus would leave for the airport at Lod and he was to catch a flight to Cyprus - as a tour guide.
He finished dressing in two minutes, shouldered the large bag that he had prepared the day before, glanced again at his wife, Irit, and went down the stairs to the living room. A moment later he left, not noticing he had forgotten the blue envelope containing his group’s hotel coupons on the dining room table.
Don loved his job as a tour guide, especially when the tourists gathered round him. He especially liked their attempt to stay as close as possible and hang on to his every word. Don glanced at his wristwatch. It was 5:30 and he drove off, happy and light-hearted.
A while later, a shiny black car drew up to the house Don had just left. A handsome man, in a white shirt, black pants and a narrow black tie that hung all the way down his shirt, got out of the car. He was Advocate Ronen Bar-Chen, who had arrived secretly to be with his lover, Don’s wife, Irit.
At this very moment, Don reached the outskirts of the neighborhood and noticed that the blue envelope with the hotel coupons for his group was missing. He banged the steering wheel and cursed quietly to himself. Don glanced at his wristwatch and in spite of his concern that he might miss the bus, he decided to go back home. At the end of his street he released his safety belt and opened the door. He got out of the vehicle, left it running with the radio on and dashed up the path to his house.
The music blaring out of Don’s car could be heard in the bedroom.
“What’s that, where’s that music coming from?” Ronen asked.
“Oh! You’re right. I think someone’s coming into the house!” Irit cried. Ronen went out of the bedroom and stood at the edge of the three steps down to the living room where he saw Don.