Quill of the Dove

by Ian Thomas Shaw

  The mother’s story differs little from that of hundreds of thousands of refugees driven from their homes by the violence of the 1948 war. The Mughrabi family had intended to return when the fighting was over, but Israel’s victory prevented that. In vain, they waited for the international community to force Israel to recognize their right to return. But supported by the West, it flouted UN resolutions and humiliated the Arab states in three wars. The build-up of the PLO in Lebanon gave young Palestinians like Dalal the hope that they could do what the rest of the Arab world couldn’t.

  The Mughrabi family claims no knowledge of the planning of the attack and is horrified that their daughter was involved in the death of the Israeli children. But they know that they’ll never be able to express their views publicly. The PLO has already elevated their daughter to martyr status, and her actions are beyond criticism.

  Later, Riley will learn from senior PLO sources that the goal was to disrupt Egyptian President Anwar Sadat’s peace talks with Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin. The target wasn’t civilians but the Israeli Ministry of Defence in Tel Aviv. The plan went awry when bad weather forced the zodiacs carrying Dalal and her comrades to make an emergency landing forty miles north of the city. Determined to continue the mission, Dalal’s group hijacked a civilian bus. In the ensuing confrontation with the Israeli Army, most of the fighters and dozens of civilians were killed.

  Riley turns to Marc as they leave the cinder-box structure, which has been the Mughrabis’ home for almost thirty years.

  “The PLO is out of control. That girl was only nineteen and they made her into a killer. These suicide missions will turn the world against the Palestinians.”

  “You’re right, and the Israelis will now use the massacre as the pretext to invade Lebanon.”

  As they wait for Hoda, a group of Popular Front fighters led by Abdullah ‘Akkawi approach them.

  Marc embraces Abdullah, as they always do, while Riley looks on. Hoda comes out of the Mughrabi house.

  “What is it?” asks Hoda.

  Abdullah pulls the three of them out of earshot of his men.

  “I’m recruiting as many men as I can for Mieh Mieh. We’ll be ready when the Israelis come.”

  “You’re insane. The Israelis will overrun Mieh Mieh,” Riley says.

  “No, we don’t think so. The camp is of no strategic importance. Normally, it has only a small group of local men defending it. The Israelis won’t count on a significant force being in the camp and will likely just pass by it as they push north. Then we can launch our attacks from behind their new lines.”

  “That’s a huge gamble,” Riley says. “Are you ready to take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why are you telling us this?” Marc asks.

  “It is possible that I may be fighting for weeks behind Israeli lines, and Riley’s right, I might not make it out alive. If I die, I want you and Hoda to look after Hedaya and Munir and take them to France.”

  Hoda looks at her cousin, realizing the gravity of what he’s saying. Abdullah has already escaped death a dozen times, but fighting the well-trained Israeli army from behind its lines is virtual suicide. She also realizes that for the first time her cousin accepts her eventual marriage to Marc. She feels warm inside for his understanding and honoured by his entrusting his small family to them. She looks at Marc, who nods his head in agreement, and then turns to Abdullah.

  “We’ll do it.”

  Abdullah asks to borrow Riley’s Polaroid camera to take a picture of Marc and Hoda. As he focusses the lens, he’s struck by the beauty of the young couple. Hoda’s silky black hair graces her shoulders. Her skin, tanned like that of the women in the fields, is splendid in the lavender dress she bought in Cyprus. Marc’s Spanish features stand out, projecting strength, only to be softened by his green-blue eyes. Their children will be beautiful. He hopes to live long enough to see them born and then watch his son Munir play with his cousins. Abdullah has taken up the gun to defend his people, but today he abhors war. Perhaps, it’s the senselessness of the coastal road attack—the death of the Israeli children. If there were only another way.

  The telex machine in Riley’s office is hammering away non-stop. As everyone expected, the Israelis have made their move. Operation Litani, they declare, will rid South Lebanon of the PLO. The pundits are already predicting a total Israeli victory in forty-eight hours. After all, how can the Palestinians succeed where all the Arab armies have failed? But Riley isn’t so sure the Israelis will have an easy time of it. After all, Arafat and the other Palestinian leaders have been expecting the invasion for a long time and are prepared to hold their ground. And most of their men have cut their teeth battling the Christian militias, and have usually won.

  A knock on the door causes Riley to turn. Marc stands there loaded with cameras and a pack-sack of provisions.

  “Are you coming?”

  “Give me five minutes. Who’s our driver?”

  “A Shiite fellow from a village near Marjayoun. Evan found him for us. He knows the South like the back of his hand.”

  “And if we encounter Haddad’s forces?”

  “Half of this fellow’s family have been conscripted by Haddad, and he’s on good terms with the local Christians in Marjayoun. He can negotiate for us.”

  “And the Israelis?”

  “We’ll take our chances with them. They may not like everything we write, but so far they haven’t harmed any foreign journalists. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  “Have you let Abdullah know we’re coming?”

  “Yes. We shouldn’t have any difficulties getting through the Palestinian checkpoints. The Israelis haven’t reached Mieh Mieh yet, and if they do what they’re announcing on the radio, they’ll stop at the Litani.”

  “Good, we can use Mieh Mieh as our forward base then.”

  Riley fetches his pre-packed bag from the back of the office and picks up an unsigned letter that he wrote the night before. It’s a plea to his third wife, living in Stockholm, not to proceed with their divorce. In it, he tells her that he still loves her, and will see her as soon as he can. He signs it and hands it to his assistant.

  “Please mail this today.”

  Riley walks to the door to join Marc. He senses that there will be difficult times ahead for both of them.

  Hoda touches herself as she lies in bed, looking at the ornate ceiling in Marc’s room in Wadi Abu Jamil. She can still smell his semen oozing from inside her—the scent of apples. It was the first time that they completed the act of love, and it felt wonderful. His commitment to taking care of Hedaya and Munir convinced her that his promise to marry her is real, that she can trust him completely. They’ve agreed to spend six months more in Lebanon before leaving for France. It’ll be difficult to leave her parents, but she loves Marc too much to live without him. She knows though that marrying and living with a non-Muslim husband in Lebanon is almost impossible. But in France, they can live free.

  The BBC announced the news of the invasion in the early morning. Marc’s bag was already packed. For days, she’s known of his plan to cover the invasion from Mieh Mieh. He’s promised to return to Beirut if the Israelis advance beyond the Litani. Still, she worries.

  She showers, dresses and leaves a short note for Marc. In front of the neighbourhood grocery store, she hails a taxi to take her to Fouad Saadeh’s office. She will rendezvous there with Marwan to receive their new orders.

  Chapter

  30

  Montreal – April 2007

  MARIE OPENS THE WINDOW to let in some fresh air. It’s cold but soothing. She looks out at the last snow of a long winter coating Clark Park. Soon it’ll be spring. From the guest room come the soft murmurs of Minh Chau and Mathieu making love. It’s five in the morning, and they probably think that she’s still sleeping. But she can’t. Bronstein told them why he was in Canada after Mathieu discovered him at Leyna’s. He decided to trust in their discretion. As Bronstein explained the Arkassa Initia
tive, Marie began to see Taragon in a new light. She knew that he was altruistic and a maverick, but she never imagined that he would be the driving force behind a plan that could change the Middle East forever.

  She walks to the kitchen and turns on the kettle. A strong coffee will do her good. As she waits for the water to boil, she bathes in the light penetrating the frosted window pane. Slowly, thoughts of Taragon give her a tingling feeling. Intellectually, she wants to ascribe this to a sense of pride nested in the possibility that he might just be her father and is taking great risks in the name of peace. But there is more. A sensation that she can’t accept—one she has known too infrequently in her life or perhaps never really. She must see Leyna and Bronstein again. They could have the answers she is seeking.

  She hears the shower. Muted laughs betray her guests’ intimacy. She smiles. They’ll soon join her in the kitchen. She wants to talk to them about Taragon, but it’s too soon.

  Taragon’s new instructions from Paris are clear. ‘Akkawi is to wait for them in Spain. With Kressmann out of the game, they’ll announce the Arkassa Initiative to the world from the relative safety of Barcelona. Taragon will bring his contacts in the Catalan government up to speed.

  ‘Akkawi is worried. He’s received news that several of his closest supporters have disappeared. He doubts that it’s the work of the Israelis. He knows their tactics too well—don’t waste time on subordinates, strike at the leaders quickly and unexpectedly. How many Palestinian leaders had met their deaths from those targeted assassinations? Thirty, forty, perhaps fifty. No, the deaths of his people aren’t the work of the Israelis, at least not this time. He’s been away too long, and his opponents in Hamas are taking advantage of it. He’s always been a thorn in their side—never a true Islamist. But he still commands the loyalty of many in the movement.

  He can also count on the support of the leftists in Gaza. Co-existence still has currency with them—the dream of a secular bi-national state. The Arkassa Pact provides at least an opening for that. No doubt others will try to play spoilers. Corrupt Fatah officials will feel threatened by an agreement not of their own making, and one that will undermine their ability to milk the system for personal benefit. Few of the Islamic Jihad militants will ever come on board. Most of them are already in the pockets of Iranian hard-liners. ‘Akkawi knows he could still walk away from Arkassa, retire in Gaza, maybe take a new wife and be honoured by his countrymen for what he’d done in Lebanon. No, that would be a life for another man.

  Perhaps, he has already seen the shadow of his own death, flanked by the fleeting ghosts of his fallen comrades. And just maybe, the Arkassa Pact is the only gift to his people that he has left to give.

  Leyna shifts to her side. How it happened so quickly is still a mystery to her. Yes, she was attracted to Bronstein as soon as she saw him. Perhaps, Marc’s description of him, of what he’d done in his life, had impressed her. After the first evening, they spent several more exchanging views, not just on politics but also culture and art. He had time to talk. He was waiting for news from Taragon—what they would do next. Besides that, his only role was to lie low.

  When did it happen? She isn’t sure. During those long conversations, time stood still. In that mist of words, ideas and beliefs, there had been the first touch—his—and then her hesitation. Had she been flirting with him? Was her need so apparent, and he just reacting to it?

  She wants to sleep, but the morning light won’t let her, and for some inexplicable reason, she doesn’t want to shut the blinds. It’s as if the daylight is determined to bring her back from the darkness, the loneliness that she has felt for so long.

  Last night was the first time she’d made love since the brutal beating by a Chinese thug had left her scarred twenty years ago. At first, she turned off all the lights hoping that Bronstein would imagine her as she was in her youth—immaculate skin, not these hideous scars. But he turned the lights back on. He brought her to the bed. In the brightness of the room, she found reassurance in his gaze and succumbed to his kisses. When they had finished making love, she opened up to him about the scars, how she’d been beaten into betraying to the Triad killer the location of a friend. Her friend survived, but it did little to alleviate her guilt. It was the first time that she’d told anyone outside her family about it. He listened. He understood.

  Leyna looks over to her lover. He’s not there. She sits up and scans the room. He’s nowhere. Then from the kitchen, she hears his voice on the telephone. She throws a robe around her shoulders and quietly walks down the stairs.

  Bronstein is pacing the kitchen floor, his cell phone pressed to his ear.

  “I understand. I’ll come as soon as I can,” he says and hangs up.

  Leyna feels her heart drop. Is he leaving her already? Are her scars too ugly to bear? Doubt drowns the joy that she experienced this night. She yearns to be in his arms again, to feel his desire for her, to restore her belief in herself.

  Bronstein sees her. He walks over and kisses her softly on the lips.

  “How are you, my love?”

  She looks up at him.

  “Are you really leaving?”

  “Marc just called. Things are not going well. Kressmann won’t sponsor the initiative. We have to go ahead with Plan B.”

  “Which is?”

  He hesitates. Again he kisses her, and whispers in her ear: “I can’t tell you. It would put you at risk.”

  Leyna pulls back.

  “I would never tell anyone anything!”

  “Still, it’s too dangerous.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Tonight.”

  She hesitates and looks down. The question within her can’t be asked, but he senses it. He takes her shoulders and turns her so that she’s looking straight into his eyes.

  “I’ll come back. I love you.”

  A joyful sigh escapes her, and she looks at him as a bride to her betrothed.

  “I’ll help you pack.”

  “Not now. We still have time. Come.”

  Bronstein’s face beams as he guides Leyna back to the bedroom. The radiance in Leyna’s eyes tells him that she too has found something that both had thought long lost—the whisper of belonging to someone else.

  Chapter

  31

  Paris – April 2007

  MARC LOOKS AT HIS CELL PHONE. There’s a new text message. He opens it. Marie. He doesn’t need a distraction now. How did she get the number? Bronstein, of course. He reads Marie’s message carefully. It is cryptic. Marie understands the need to maintain secrecy through ambiguity.

  Cher M, I think I can help the AI. Will be in P tomorrow. Can we meet at the tourist trap at the same time as in N.?

  He remembers in their conversation in Nicosia, she asked him if he had ever been to Harry’s Bar in Paris. He had. She said that it was number twenty-five on her bucket list of places to visit in the world. Her editor had told her that every journalist should make a pilgrimage to the birthplace of the Bloody Mary. He had smiled and said that it was a tourist trap, but he would buy her a drink there if ever they were in Paris at the same time.

  He had planned to tell Marie about Arkassa on the seventeenth, the day he had hoped Kressmann would stand by his side to inform the entire world. No matter, tomorrow will do instead. Maybe she can help.

  He taps into the phone oui.

  He sips his coffee and tightens his fist. Three days have passed since their meeting, and not a word. The announcement of Kressmann as Sarkozy’s foreign minister is front-page news across Europe. He has already announced his priority: peace in the Balkans. Not a word about the Middle East. It’s clear that Kressmann won’t be able to bring Sarkozy around, even if he wanted to. Taragon has asked Bronstein and ‘Akkawi to meet him in Barcelona in two days. He now has to ensure he can leave Paris undetected. He worries about Leblanc. Why did Kressmann include him? Then he recalls Kressmann once told him how Leblanc had helped get the word out about Karantina. Taragon has no doubt ther
e are many layers to the man, some good and undoubtedly some evil. As for Carbone, he shrugs off the thought that the Corsican bagman can do him much harm.

  Ari Epstein hangs up the secure phone. It has been a very good day. Bronstein has been spotted in Montreal, and they have a full report of Taragon’s meeting with Kressmann in Paris. Ari calls up the cyber unit. He gives them the coordinates of Taragon’s new cell phone. The Corsican had obtained them from a French service provider, which has the roaming contract and depends heavily on French government largesse. Tomorrow he’ll send the agreed amount to Carbone’s Swiss bank account. He’s amazed how much easier it’ll be to track Taragon from this point onward. As for Bronstein, they’ve dispatched agents to watch the airport. When he leaves, they will have him. Only ‘Akkawi has been too clever for them. He escaped them in Athens, but it won’t be long before the trap closes in on him too.

  Ari calls in David. It’s time to put him to work.

  Chapter

  32

  Paris – April 2007

  HARRY’S NEW YORK Bar is filled to the brink with tourists, wowing at its inlaid ceiling and in awe of the beautiful workmanship of the thirty-foot counter. Taragon isn’t there for the aesthetics or the cheap thrills. He anxiously glances at his newly acquired Blackberry. He’s about to ditch his cell phone. He no longer trusts it after using it to contact Kressmann. Leblanc’s presence at the meeting alerted him to take more precautions. Kressmann is ambitious, and Taragon is no longer sure what games his old friend might decide to play, especially now that he’s currying Sarkozy’s favour.

  Ten past noon. Marie’s late. He considers leaving, but then she appears in a stunning red dress. She stands by the entrance and scans the bar. Customers, men and women, turn their heads to get a better look at her. Taragon realizes for the first time how beautiful she is. In Nicosia, he only noticed her eyes. There was something familiar about them—something he couldn’t place. Perhaps, he suppressed any other feelings he might have had. He’s been with many women but has only loved one. In any case, it isn’t the time to indulge in that sort of thing. He has more pressing matters to attend to.