Quill of the Dove

by Ian Thomas Shaw

“Marc, it’s too great a risk. The Israelis have denied foreign journalists entry to Gaza since Hamas drove out Shehadi’s men. It’s convenient for them. This way, no Western journalist can confirm the civilian deaths in the drone attacks on Hamas leaders.”

  “All the more reason to send me there.”

  Chevrier pauses. Taragon is tenacious. He will argue his point all afternoon if needed. And Chevrier is starving. What does he have to lose by allowing Taragon to pursue his crazy plan?

  “Fine. Do it! Now let’s order.”

  “There’s one other thing. I want Marie Boivin to come with me.”

  Chevrier looks Taragon straight in the eye. Why does he need the girl? Then it strikes him. What a man will do for a woman!

  On the ride in from Cairo airport, Taragon carries on the usual banter in Arabic with the taxi driver. Marie watches him closely. She wished she knew the language. Oddly, some of the words sound familiar. She feels honoured that Taragon has asked her to come with him, and is determined to do her best to support selling Arkassa to the Palestinians. For the first time in her life, she feels truly alive. She senses that they’re about to accomplish something historic.

  Taragon and Marie take adjacent rooms at the Hotel Longchamps in the central Cairo neighbourhood of Zamalek. From Cairo, they’ll travel to El Arish and then through the tunnels to Rafah in the southern end of the Gaza Strip. The plan is to surface in Canada Camp in Rafah, named after a contingent of Canadian peacekeepers who once had their barracks there. Taragon knows the place well. He recalls walking with Mathieu Hibou and Bronstein around a sewage-infested pond in the camp. Hibou was explaining how, with volunteer community labour and building material from his NGO, they’d soon drain the pond and turn it into a soccer field for the local kids. Taragon pointed to the Israeli sniper positions on the roofs of an unfinished building at the north end of the pond. “What about them?” he asked. “Oh them,” Mathieu said. “They’ll get free admission to the games.” Bronstein quoted Mathieu in his Haaretz article on Canada Camp. The snipers were recalled before the story was picked up by the international press.

  On the first night at the Longchamps, just knowing that Taragon is sleeping a few feet away disturbs Marie. She feels his presence, and despite her best efforts, he enters her dreams. In them, he stands on a balcony overlooking the ruins of Beirut. Smoke and fire are everywhere. She sees herself approaching him from the bedroom. He turns to her, his face is that of the boy, Munir. The fires in the background are quickly extinguished by a flash storm. Taragon’s face returns to the figure on the balcony. He steps towards her. She falls to the ground. A grey mist sweeps over her. The coolness calms her. The sun over the Nile ends her fantasy. She hears Taragon already hard at work in the adjacent room.

  Shehadi’s man waits in the lobby. He was starving for work—no, he was literally starving when the call came through. Like all of Shehadi’s men, he was forced to flee Gaza after Hamas put down the attempted coup. His funds have run out, and he’s ready to do anything to get something to eat. He studies the photos. Taragon, he already knows. The woman looks like the fair-skinned girls in Beach Camp, whose families fled Jaffa in 1948. The daughters of Crusaders, they used to call them. He is to guide them through the tunnels to Canada Camp. He knows the tunnels better than anyone in Gaza. He and his relatives helped dig them so that Shehadi could smuggle thousands of weapons, and other things—alcohol, drugs, fancy lingerie for Shehadi’s favourite women. He hates the man, but he belongs to him—he is owned by him—and will do what he’s told.

  The lobby is free of the usual presence of the Egyptian Mukhabarat, Mubarak’s secret police. Shehadi has dished out enough money to bribe them to take the day off. They’ll be back tomorrow though, looking to line their pockets again, but by then Taragon, the girl and he will be gone.

  Selima ‘Akkawi pauses before looking again at the photo album. She was disturbed when she saw the Canadian girl. The resemblance to her sister-in-law is remarkable. She doesn’t understand why Taragon doesn’t see it too. She tried to talk to him at the funeral, but they were constantly interrupted by men and women offering condolences. It’s not that every feature of the Canadian’s face is the same as Hoda’s nor is their complexion at all similar—still her sister-in-law’s remarkable beauty is there.

  It’s a quiet morning in Bikfaya—a good day to visit Nabil’s grave and talk to him. If there’s a connection between the Canadian and his sister, Nabil will give her a sign. She longs for signs from him, some sense that beyond this world he still exists and waits for her.

  Selima walks down the stone steps to the street. She hears a voice.

  “Bonjour Madame Selima.”

  “Ah, bonjour Monsieur Labaki.”

  “It’s beautiful out, isn’t it?”

  Selima lets her neighbour walk beside her for a few blocks to the stand to catch a taxi for the cemetery.

  “Your husband was a great artist. His death was a loss for all of us.”

  Selima finds it hard to believe the man. She knows his past. How he led the Maronite fighters against the Palestinians—how ruthless he was. It is true that later, as a minister in the government, he achieved many good things. More recently, he’s been pivotal in the reconciliation process. But can a past like his ever be forgiven? He lives beside her now, as she wiles away the days in her dead father’s house, and he seeks out her company at every opportunity. She tries always to be polite to him—she can’t afford to do otherwise. Many in the town still reject her for having married a Palestinian, and worse a Muslim. But Elie isn’t one of them. She doesn’t know why, nor does she understand the sadness of this man who was once a monster. True the sense of loss he projects dilutes his sins, but she isn’t ready to forgive him. Still, he could be useful to her.

  When she reaches the taxi stand, she turns to him.

  “Monsieur Labaki, there’s someone I lost track of during the war.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Nabil’s sister, Hoda. I need to find out what happened to her.”

  “When did you last hear of her?”

  “In 1982. We heard that she had returned to Sabra.”

  Elie Labaki frowns. Is this a trap, a veiled accusation?

  Selima sees the sudden change in his demeanour.

  “I only want to find out what happened to her. Nothing more. I understand that many bad things took place during the war, and that is behind us, all of us.”

  Selima’s words reassure him. If Hoda ‘Akkawi was in Sabra during the “cleansing,” then her identification papers might be still in the movement’s archives. They had catalogued many of these documents, along with field reports of that dreadful day, in the event that they would ever have to defend themselves in an international court.

  “Madame ‘Akkawi, can you get me a photo of your sister-in-law?”

  “Wait, I have one here.”

  Selima brings out of her purse an old black-and-white photo of herself, Hoda, and Nabil. How young they were!

  Elie looks at the photo. He instantly recognizes Hoda, but from where? He then compares the young Selima in the photo to the woman standing beside him. The years have not worn away her beauty. If anything, she’s more beautiful now.

  “I’ll see what I can do and let you know in a week.”

  “Thank you.”

  Selima looks at Elie. There’s a determination in his face, but also a softness. That he was brutal during the war, there’s no doubt, but now in the tranquillity of Bikfaya, she sees a fleeting dignity about him—a sense of pained honour.

  The taxi arrives. It’s crowded but there is one place left. The passengers in the car stare disapprovingly at Selima. They know who she is, who her husband was. A woman passenger edges her large frame over into the free seat. The driver politely asks her to move back to make room for Selima. She shakes her head and says she’ll pay for both seats. Two of the other passengers nod in approval. The driver looks at Elie and raises his hands. Elie leans into the window and whisper
s something to the men in the car. They know who he is. The large woman stills refuses to budge, but the men move closer to free up just enough space for Selima. The woman utters something unintelligible. The men’s faces redden. Elie holds the door open. Selima takes her place beside them. The car pulls away. She glances back. He’s still standing there … watching.

  What his contact in Israeli military intelligence has just told him worries Bronstein. Can it really be that the Mossad has hired Shehadi to eliminate Taragon? Have they gone mad? Bronstein must warn his friend, but where is he?

  He stares out the window. It’s summer and children play in T-shirts and shorts. Large oak trees shade the streets of Outremont. Sparrows chirp their happiness and discontent. The harmony of it all calms him. For a moment, his mind drifts away to the hills of Alonim where the red-breasted geese of his childhood fill the sky in perfect V-formations. A scent of lavender wakes him.

  “Ça va, mon amour?”

  “Yes,” he answers.

  Leyna places her hands on Bronstein’s shoulders and squeezes them ever so gently.

  “You looked peaceful just now.”

  “I was, but I now have to find Marc.”

  “Is he in danger?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s with Marie Boivin.”

  “Leyna, how do you know that?”

  “She told Minh Chau.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Somewhere in the Middle East on a special assignment. She was very secretive. She just wanted Minh Chau not to worry.”

  Bronstein thinks hard. Who might know where they are? Of course, Pierre Chevrier, Taragon’s editor. He could warn Taragon through him. That’s if Chevrier has the means to get a message through.

  “Look I might need you to translate for me. I need to talk to Marc’s editor in Paris.”

  Chapter

  40

  Gaza – July 2007

  SHEHADI’S MAN KNOCKS on the bottom of the hatch. It has taken them an hour to crawl through the tunnel from Egypt. Their clothes are full of dust. The oxygen in the tunnel is thinning out. Cold perspiration covers their foreheads. All this is a small price to pay to enter Gaza safely.

  “Don’t worry. I can hear them coming,” Shehadi’s man says to Taragon and Marie.

  The hatch opens slowly. Two faces peer down.

  “Marhabba. Ya Shabaab!” Shehadi’s man says.

  The men above pull him up and reach down to offer their hands to Taragon and Marie.

  Shehadi’s man soon realizes that his cousins are not alone. Three armed bearded men stand by the unlit doorway to the rest of the house. He turns to his cousins. “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry, we didn’t have a choice.”

  One of the bearded men steps out of the shadows, toting an AK-47. The muscles in his face are tense.

  “Mohammad Zarzawi, you’re under arrest.”

  “For what?”

  “For conspiracy to murder these two foreigners.”

  For a moment, Shehadi’s man looks down at the hole.

  “Don’t do it, cousin. They’ll catch you and kill you.”

  The other two men by the doorway move into action, grabbing Zarzawi’s arms.

  The third man extends his hand to Taragon.

  “I’m Adnan Barghouti. Abdullah ‘Akkawi was my friend.”

  “He was also ours.”

  “There was a plot to have you murdered. Your editor in Paris tipped us off.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How did he know?”

  “He just said that Jonathan had heard about it from his sources.”

  Taragon makes a mental note to call Bronstein as soon as he can safely do so. His friend must be mobilizing his support network in Israel. He knows that Bronstein’s connections inside the labyrinth of Israeli intelligence services are extensive, but will any of them actually support the initiative? Would any of them dare to stand up to the Mossad, which must have been behind the assassination of ‘Akkawi in Spain?

  “Do you know why we’re here?”

  “Yes. Arkassa.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Like I said, Abdullah was my friend. I’ll listen to you, but I don’t know if anyone else in Gaza will.”

  Marie shakes off the dust on her clothes and moves beside Taragon.

  “Adnan, this is Marie Boivin.”

  “Yes, we’ve been expecting her. Salwa, come!”

  A young woman in Islamic clothing steps into the room.

  “Salwa, you’re to accompany this woman everywhere.”

  “Yes, brother.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Leyna brushes her hair. Long strokes to straighten it. She looks at the wisps of grey. She’s now fifty-two. So much time has passed, and, until recently, each day has gone by faster than the last. But since he entered her life, time seems suspended. She touches the scars on her face. They seem less visible now. Is it her imagination? She looks over her shoulder toward the bedroom. She hears him move in the bed. She smiles, puts away her brush and removes the towel from around her. Naked she tiptoes to the bedroom and turns the doorknob. Bronstein is spread out on the sheets. She covers his body with hers, and he awakes to take her in his arms.

  The love-making lasts for an hour before both are satiated. Bronstein gives her a last, long kiss before rising up. She joins him in the shower, and again they make love. Neither can remember such pleasure, such closeness.

  Like teenagers, they walk down to the kitchen hugging each other and kissing. Bronstein tries to hike up her dress. She puts her finger to his lips. “Later! We have the whole day in front of us.” Bronstein puts on a sad face. She kisses him and whispers: “Please! I won’t disappoint you.”

  Leyna puts on the kettle, as Bronstein checks his cell phone for messages. A missed text message from Taragon—Call me when you can. Bronstein shows the message to Leyna. She nods. He goes to the living room and dials Taragon’s number.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me. Is it safe to talk?”

  “Yes, but let’s keep it short.”

  “You asked me to call.”

  “Listen, first, thanks for getting the word to Abdullah’s followers. Do you know who was behind the plot to kill us?”

  “The Mossad. They paid Shehadi to arrange it.”

  “Are you certain? I can’t believe that the Mossad would make a deal with a butcher like Shehadi.”

  “Don’t fool yourself. They’ve been supporting him for years. And now they’re in a panic. No one ever thought that a Hamas leader would make such far-reaching concessions. Arkassa risks undermining all the Mossad’s work in convincing the West that the Palestinians will never agree to a lasting peace.”

  “Unfortunately, Abdullah’s followers don’t appear to share the same willingness to compromise as he did. It’s going to be tough.”

  “How are they treating you?”

  “With a great deal of respect. It’s clear that they idolize Abdullah, even in death, and he’d told them of our friendship.”

  “What do we have to do to convince them?”

  “I’m not sure. Unlike Abdullah, few of the new generation here lived through the civil war in Lebanon. Some still believe that other Arabs will rally behind them to force a better deal with the Israelis. They’re also less concerned about Jerusalem than Abdullah was. Most are refugees from Ashkelon just across the border. Others are from Jaffa. They still dream of a full return to the 1948 borders.”

  “Well, that’s a non-starter.”

  “I know, but that’s what they want.”

  Bronstein looks down. Is this how it was going to end—a peace initiative that no one wants—then the hounding by his enemies in Israel until they can find a way to discredit him or eliminate Marc and him like they had Abdullah?

  “Jonathan, I need to get into Israel.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to convince Abdullah’s supporters that there are Israelis ready to come on board.
All the Gazans have seen is Israel’s iron fist and the fanaticism of settlers. When I spoke about you and what you, an Israeli, are doing to make Arkassa work, they didn’t believe me. They want reassurances that there are Israelis who are ready to come on board. Then, maybe they’ll compromise.”

  “Let me get back before you attempt to cross into Israel. I can try to mobilize people. We need to work together. Remember, Arkassa is as much mine as it is yours.”

  “Can you get me into Israel?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “The Palestinians aren’t the only ones getting people in and out of Gaza. Let me talk to a couple of people in Tel Aviv. In the meantime, keep your head down.”

  Marie moves beside Taragon.

  “Ask him if Leyna is there.”

  “Did you hear that, Jonathan?”

  “Yes. I’ll put her on.”

  Marie takes the cell phone from Taragon.

  “May I have a moment, Marc?”

  “Certainly, I need to speak to Adnan anyway.”

  Marie waits until Taragon leaves the room before returning to the call.

  “Leyna, are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you get a message to Minh Chau?”

  “Of course.”

  “She’s supposed to go to Beirut in a couple of days. I want her to meet a woman there called Selima ‘Akkawi. Her number is 710697 in Bikfaya. It’s about an hour north of Beirut.”

  “And what is she to do when she meets this woman?”

  “Ask Minh Chau to show the woman the copy of the photo I gave her. Maybe this woman has the answer I’ve been looking for.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get the message to her today.”

  “What photo is that?” asks Marc asks, having suddenly reappeared behind her.

  Before she can respond, Adnan interrupts them.

  “It’s time to go. You’ve been too long on the phone. The Israelis monitor these calls. Then the drones attack.”

  Adnan leads them through an underground passage to the basement of a neighbouring building. Like most of the neighbourhood, it’s covered with debris from recent aerial strikes. They wait. No drones attack this time.