ABIGAIL_SPY & LIE

by Rose Fox

  He greeted Sharif, “A’halan! (Welcome)”, ran over to him and hugged him warmly and then immediately pushed him away to see him better from close up. He wondered if there was any connection between recent events and Sharif’s visit today. Slapping him on the shoulder, he said: ““A’halan, Champ. (Welcome). What an important guest!”

  Sharif, whose beautiful and delicate features completely contradicted the ‘Champ’ image referred to in Yigal’s greeting, smiled shyly and whispered, “A’halan we’Sahalan, (Hello and Welcome), Yigal.”

  “Come, let’s go and sit in this corner,” Yigal suggested.

  He pulled out a chair and sat facing him. Yigal signaled to a waitress to bring refreshment for the guest and five minutes later the fumes of coffee rose in the air as two cups were set down in front of them on the table.

  “Yigal, could we speak privately without being overheard?” Sharif requested.

  Yigal rose and nodded with his head towards the back of the store and as he walked, he winked and asked,

  “Remember?”

  “Do I remember? Those memories are what keep me alive,” Sharif responded.

  Yigal hesitated to open the subject, but blurted out:

  “I was sure you wouldn’t ignore what has happened to all of us and especially to our Adam. I know you, Sharif. What are you planning?”

  “Absolutely nothing, I’m not going to do anything. Do I look like Rambo to you?”

  Yigal pulled down the flesh over his cheek with his finger, as if to say: ‘Who do think you’re fooling?’

  “Tell me,” he asked.

  “Okay, you won’t be surprised if I tell you that I am really suffering and that I cry at night. I can’t stop thinking of a way to reach him.”

  “Reaching who? Adam?”

  “Yes.”

  “What? You want to get to where he is now? Tell me Sharif, are you sane?”

  Sharif fidgeted with the tablecloth and remained silent. Yigal waited and after a minute said,

  “Tell me, Sharif, do you know you can trust me?”

  “No question, that’s for sure. You know, of course, that’s something the biggest liars always say.”

  Sharif laughed and Yigal laughed with him and decided to leave off and not press him any further to talk.

  “Have you eaten anything today?”

  “I’m always open to suggestions.”

  After five minutes, they returned to the table, which had been laden with the goodies “Yigal the Greek’s” restaurant had to offer. Sharif nibbled a little at all the various dishes with obvious pleasure. He rested the fork on his plate and took out a note. He asked for a pen and wrote something down, folded the note and gave it to Yigal.

  “When I go, or if I disappear, you can read this note, but not today. I just felt the need to write something that came into my head right now.” He continued eating in silence, put down his fork and said, “Yigal, I need a little money for airfare and I seem unable to arrange it. How much can you spare?”

  “Where to?”

  “There.” He pointed upwards.

  “Come on, really, how will I know the cost of the ticket?”

  “Ah, let’s presume the Far East, no, Russia, no, to…”

  “I get it, okay, I write you a check.”

  Sharif nodded and said no more. He waited patiently till Yigal finished writing the check, ripped it out and handed it to him. Sharif folded it without looking at it and hugged Yigal. His hug was especially tight and close, like a farewell.

  As Sharif left, Yigal stared after him as he put distance between them and his eyes welled up with tears. He loved this guy. Then he remembered the note but, keeping faith with Sharif’s request, he did not open it, but put in on his table and went about his business. A few minutes later, he turned to the table and saw it had been cleared the dishes, glasses and the note had disappeared. Initially, he thought to find out whether it had been thrown in the trash, then he shrugged and continued with the routine of his day.

  That night after the restaurant had emptied of its diners and as he was about to turn out the lights, Yigal noticed the note on the floor, near the leg of the table where they had sat. He picked up, straightened it out. The paper was wet and the letters had smudged but were still legible.

  I SWEAR THEY WILL BOTH COME HOME.

  “I know,” Yigal said out loud to himself, folded the note and put it in his wallet.

  * * *

  The days raced by and Sharif knew he couldn’t continue living like this. He decided to set out on the mission but didn’t know where to start. He debated where to go, whom to meet and even how to introduce himself. Finally, he booked his flight.

  He was so excited he could hardly sleep the night before his departure.

  He smiled to himself when he recalled how at one point he tried to call Adam for his advice with the rescue he was planning. The number he called rang and he waited till he heard the message:

  “The subscriber is not responding.” When he called Adam’s second number, the ring was followed by:

  “The subscriber is unavailable at the moment. Please try and call later.”

  Suddenly he remembered, hit his forehead and told himself: ‘Oh dear! That was a knee-jerk response!’

  Now, he rolled onto his other side, but despaired. He was bothered by the thought that he hadn’t managed to pay his rent for the last month in his apartment. Since it was important that people wouldn’t be looking for him, he rummaged in his wallet and found two 100 shekel notes and three 50’s, which would suffice for the remaining seventeen days left this month. He put the notes in a heap in an obvious place on the counter and placed an overturned glass on them.

  It was still dark outside and the street lights burned. He had time, so he sat thinking if there were any more details he might have forgotten.

  Two days earlier, he had gone to the bank and opened his savings deposit of money he had put aside over the years. Then he purchased his air ticket, but not with Yigal’s money. He transferred that to the Ayalon family. The truth was that Sharif had never met Adam’s wife and he also didn’t know to what extent she was involved in her husband’s clandestine activities, but, somehow, he felt moved to send the money to her. He put the check in an envelope and sent it to Adam’s address. On the back of the envelope he simply noted ‘Sharif’ as the sender without giving an address. It gave him satisfaction to do this.

  A red nylon bag, bearing the Coca-Cola logo lay on the chair. He placed a set of clothes and a pair of socks in it and wondered whether to take his ID documents or leave them at home, but realized that he would have to identify himself at the airport, so he put his passport and ID card into the nylon bag and glanced at his one-way ticket to France.

  His plan was to begin his search on the coast of the Black Sea in Russia. He planned to get there from France by taking a taxi and crossing the countries of Europe till he reached the shores of the Black Sea.

  He suddenly remembered his hasty meeting there with Adam and it brought a smile to his lips. He recalled that he had delivered the two motorcycles to the luxurious hotel on the Black Sea and this was also the reason he decided to begin his journey there.

  He stood up, made a fist and closed his eyes. He found himself swearing an oath not to return without Adam and Abigail. He couldn’t explain why, but he had a nagging feeling they would be back here, perhaps, without him.

  Sharif left his home at dawn, without locking the door. He hailed an empty cab on the street to the airport. Since he had no baggage, he checked in very quickly and boarded the plane.

  By eight in the morning he sat silent in his seat, eased it back a little and closed his eyes. At eight twenty, the plane ran down the runway and when it took off, his heart beat faster and Sharif swallowed loudly and was certain his neighbor was watching him. A flight attendant offered him a beverage and sandwiches and Sharif took a buttered roll in transparent nylon wrap and put it in his red bag.

  When he closed his eyes agai
n, he thought.

  ‘It’s Sunday, December 10th, 2014; Adam and Abigail have been held as hostages for five months already. No, it’s been almost half a year since then’.

  The day before Sharif had heard the news anchor give the count of one hundred and fifty five days since their abduction.

  Then he repeated the new name he has taken to himself.

  ‘From today, I am Mahmud Talal, an Arab from Tul-Karem in Palestine.’

  Sharif decided that his backup story would be that he decided to enlist in the Shi’ite militia to liberate his Palestinian nation. He continued memorizing the plan he mapped out for himself.

  He decided that he spoke Hebrew, because he feared that if the fact was somehow discovered his credibility would be compromised and he especially feared that. Sharif was familiar with the mentality of the people he intended to reach. It was clear what could happen if the trust they placed in him was violated or if he aroused even the slightest suspicion.

  Then he decided to add another layer to his plan. ‘I will tell them that I know Israel well and have traversed its length and breadth so I can be of great use to them and contribute to their knowledge of the Zionist enemy’s country.'

  For the moment it looked really simple, he would concern himself with finding out who they were later, how to reach them and how to infiltrate their ranks. But then, he fell asleep.

  * * *

  When he left the airport he left his passport and ID card under a bench and, for the present, had no identifying document on his person. He thought it wasn’t worth forging papers in his new identity so that their validity would not be checked to see if he was telling the truth.

  Out of the buildings, he approached a taxi that stood among a long, winding line of taxis. The driver was smoking leisurely and Sharif approached him.

  “I need a very long ride.”

  “Where to?” The driver asked, as he inhaled his cigarette deeply, then threw the butt away and started the cab.

  “To the Black Sea.”

  “Where?!” the driver’s mouth dropped open. His face grew long and he frowned, drawing his eyebrows into a straight line above his nose. He stroked his chin and gazed at Sharif hesitantly. He appeared to think the man was making fun of him, but Sharif waited in silence.

  “How much would you want for the trip there?”

  The cab driver was still staring at him, then his brows relaxed and he laughed together with the amount he quoted.

  “Eight hundred rubles.” He blurted out as he switched off the car engine.

  Sharif opened the door and sat down beside the driver. Without arguing he peeled half the sum from a roll of banknotes in his hand. He noticed how the driver’s eyes grew round with the greed.

  “Listen, I can get to the Russian-Iranian border, but it’s likely to take us two days at the very least.”

  The driver had still not taken the banknotes from Sharif.

  “Time isn’t important and I also don’t mind if you pick up passengers on the way,” Sharif offered. He proffered the money to the cab driver, who stared at him again in puzzlement, but put out his hand quickly to take the notes. The cab driver sneaked a smile and glanced once more at the strange, naive passenger that Providence had sent him.

  “I’m Mahmoud.” Sharif announced in Arabic, but the driver didn’t respond.

  They continued on their way in silence. From time to time, Sharif released a short statement about his past in the hope of making some point of contact with the cabdriver. Sharif had decided not to underestimate or miss any opportunity of moving closer to his goal, which even now, he was unsure of. He thought that he could never be certain who he was dealing with and he knew he would be playing the game of his life from this moment on.

  The news was being broadcast on the radio in Russian. The driver turned up the volume.

  “I’m Sergei, I speak Arabic and can even chat a little in German,” the cabdriver boasted.

  “Nice, very nice,” Sharif responded, pleased that the driver was talking at long last.“Yes, passengers from the airport, near the Black Sea, they taught me German and Arabic.”

  “Nice, very nice,” Sharif said once more. “Where are you from?”"From the Caucuses.”

  Once more, there was silence and the newscaster continued talking in Russian. Sharif took a deep breath and, without giving it thought, asked in a matter of fact way:

  “Sergei. Tell me. Did they say anything about the hostages?”

  Sergei threw him a quick glance then turned his gaze back to the roadway that was slipping by beneath his wheels. He was silent and Sharif held his breath and wondered whether he hadn’t revealed too much about himself, when at last the cabdriver responded.

  “Yes, I heard about a light plane that took off from the airfield near the Black Sea. I was told they had taken the body of an Israeli, who was murdered at the tourist resort.”

  Sharif almost yelled in surprise. His breath froze and didn’t blink even though he knew this referred to the second judge that Abigail had gone to replace.

  Fine, it seems that here, you know more than the Israelis,” Sharif said quickly and sank back in his seat.

  “The Israelis? Really? How do you know what the Israelis know?”

  “I live in Tul-Karem, there in Israel. Only Arabs live in my village, but we listen to the radio.”

  “Aha,” Sergei exclaimed, and Sharif glanced at him cautiously, wondering whether he had overdone things again this time.

  He was tired after the flight and the long, bumpy taxi ride and his eyes closed.

  He didn’t know how long he slept and when he woke up, he caught fright when he discovered he was alone in the cab and the driver was gone. A shadow of concern stole into his heart; he straightened up in his seat and rubbed his eyes.

  According to the clock on the dashboard it was seven forty and it was still as light as day. He opened the car door and looked around. There were many trees, all coniferous, but they stood quite far apart and didn’t look like a really dense forest. Rain had begun to fall and Sharif wondered whether he should go looking for the driver when suddenly, he appeared, chewing a rolled flatbread sandwich and handed a paper bag to Sharif.

  “I didn’t know what you like to eat, so I brought you the same,” he said.

  Sharif took the bag from him, pulled out the rolled pita and began eating it with gusto. Within a few minutes he had consumed it and looked at the driver who was chewing leisurely.

  “Do you want more?” the driver asked, speaking with his mouth full.

  “No, thank you,” Sharif replied, yawning noisily and holding on to his stomach as if he had just eaten an entire lamb. “That was good and very timely,” he added as he exhaled loudly, to the laughter and amusement of the cabdriver.

  When the cab driver finished eating, he threw the wrapper out of the window and straightened up in his seat. He started the car and they drove off. They drove for another hour, perhaps an hour and a half with Sharif dozing and waking intermittently. The car bumped when the driver went off the road and continued driving on a dirt track. Sharif opened his eyes and looked at the drab old building facing them.

  “What do you think about spending the night here?”

  “In this building?” Sharif wondered, scratching his head and answering laconically.

  “Actually, why not?”

  “Look, the board and lodging are on me and tomorrow at six we’ll continue on our way. Okay?” The cab driver suggested and without waiting for Sharif’s answer, he got out of the cab.

  The rain got heavier and Sharif ran after the driver into the building. A strong thunderstorm rolled in the sky above them and sleeping in this place now seemed to be the best possible idea.

  At five thirty the following morning, Sharif was already on his feet, ready to continue the journey. The evening before he had managed to shower in a very meager drizzle of water, but it had been sufficient to refresh him and remove the dust of the journey from his body. He stared at the cloth
es he had taken off, decided not to be fussy and put them on again because who knew what the way ahead had in store for him.

  He sat waiting quietly but the driver was nowhere to be seen. He went to the counter and rang the small bell that stood there. He waited patiently and, after a few minutes, rang it again. Then a young man appeared, yawning loudly with his mouth wide open.

  “Yes, who called me?”

  “I did. I’m waiting for the driver I arrived with yesterday,” Sharif explained.

  The young man’s hair was unkempt and he was unfocused. It was clear he could hardly open his eyes. He mumbled something in Russian and Sharif shook the youngster’s hand to get him to focus but gave up trying. He turned towards the shabby torn diary on the counter and ran his finger down the names until he found a Sergei’s room number.

  He went to the room and knocked on the door. There was no response so he opened the door and looked inside. The room was empty, the bed was made and it was clear no one had slept there that night. Sharif looked in the dining room and didn’t find him there either. He sat down and decided to continue waiting for him. He waited for a long time and then grasped what he had avoided understanding earlier. First, he put his hand into his plastic bag and saw to his dismay that his wallet had disappeared and there was not a single Ruble left among his things.

  Sharif spat out a whispered curse between his lips. He thought about reporting to the police but his instincts told him to keep a low profile and he rejected the idea. He decided to carry on under his own steam, gratified that he had gotten this far. He got up to leave, raised his arm to say good-bye to the young man but the latter stopped him with a scream and put his hand out to him, demanding payment.

  “The driver paid,” Sharif informed him.

  “No one paid,” the fellow replied, angrily.

  Sharif decided to share his problem with him. He opened the bag and let the fellow, who stared at Sharif quizzically, look inside.

  “I fear the cabdriver stole my money and already made his getaway yesterday,” Sharif told him.

  “I’m sorry, but you have to pay,” the fellow shrugged.“I have an idea. If I have no choice then I agree to spend today working at anything you wish and that’s how I’ll pay. What do you say?" Sharif suggested.