Taking Morgan

by David Rose

  Once again, they were sitting beneath the date palm. As well as the usual Middle Eastern breakfast, today there were glasses and a pitcher containing a dark red juice. “It is from the pomegranate,” Abu Mustafa said, pouring Morgan a glass. “A Gazan specialty.”

  Morgan was thirsty, and took a large gulp. “It’s delicious, really delicious.”

  “Zainab made it specially. It reminds me of home. My wife makes it too. So what about you? Who does the cooking in your household?”

  “Adam usually, when he’s there. He’s not bad at it.”

  “So modern. So Western. Does he travel often, too?”

  “Not so much these days. Not like he used to. Occasionally he’ll make a trip down to Guantanamo. It’s not like it was in the old days, when the kids were small, and he’d disappear to the South to investigate some death case, sometimes for weeks at a time.”

  “Didn’t that bother you, him disappearing and leaving you with the kids? I mean, that’s what you asked me about the way my wife regards my own absences from home.”

  Morgan raised a hand to shield her eyes against a ray of the sun that had evaded the fronds of the date palm. “Yes, it did. Of course it did. Look, I knew Adam didn’t have a choice. He was driven to do this work, and men’s lives depended on it. But all my life, through high school and college, I’d been taught to believe that men and women were equal, that the balance between them had changed. And suddenly my life didn’t feel so different to my mom’s, who never got the chance to establish a career because we were always moving, every time Dad was given a new posting. It might have been easier for me if our parents had lived near Washington. But Adam’s were in England, and my own were long plane flights away. It just never seemed to get easier. I never had a moment to myself. My life was just work, kids, work, kids. I never felt I was devoting enough time to either of them, and I never had any for myself. I was falling into bed each night feeling utterly spent, and, far too often, alone.”

  Abu Mustafa’s dark eyes met hers with new intensity. “In our culture, there would have been others to share the burden. The extended family, always ready to help. And did you have other anxieties when Adam was away?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, were you worried that while you were living a life of a drudge, devoting every moment to the kids and the CIA, your husband might have been diverting himself?”

  His question was intrusive, but she had to keep talking. “Yes. There were times when I was concerned about that.”

  “Go on.”

  “Look, I’m sure it’s no different for anyone whose spouse spends time away. But those cases get very intense, especially when there’s an execution date. People are thrown together. I remember there was one paralegal down in Georgia. Vicky. You know how it goes: younger than me, no children, able to commit every minute to the same cause that was obsessing Adam. It seemed like she was seeing more of him than I was for a while, and when I looked up her photo on the website of the local law firm Adam was working with, guess what, she was gorgeous. Meanwhile I was frazzled and exhausted. Finally Adam got this guy a stay and a new sentencing hearing, late in the afternoon on the very day he’d been due to die. That meant that instead of having to watch their client’s execution, all the defense team were out on the town in Atlanta, celebrating.”

  “And you thought they celebrated a little too hard?” said Abu Mustafa.

  “Yes. Back home in Bethesda, Aimee had croup. Had Adam been there, I would have taken her to the emergency room, but I couldn’t bring myself to wake up Charlie, who was still just a baby, and of course there was no one I could call to leave him with. I just wanted to hear Adam’s voice, to get some reassurance. I called him at midnight, and at twelve thirty, and every thirty minutes after that until at last Aimee stopped coughing and we both fell asleep around four. The next afternoon Adam bounded in, bursting with success, and a little bleary-eyed. He always insisted nothing ever happened, that they just stayed up late at a bar, drinking and chatting. I have to believe him.”

  “You have to, but really you don’t?”

  “What difference does it make? Right now, I can barely remember what it was that once seemed so important.”

  “And you, Mrs. Cooper? Have you ever been tempted?”

  Morgan detected a sudden beady prurience in Abu Mustafa’s eyes. “I already told you the answer to that question, the day before you and your friend almost drowned me. It hasn’t changed, and I suggest you change the subject.”

  Sunday morning: the start of Israel’s working week. Adam knew that Mike and Gary had been in the country for several days, and he was surprised he hadn’t heard from them. But he didn’t much mind. Since his meeting with Bashir, he had been busy. He had discovered that getting into Gaza was not a simple matter. He couldn’t just show up at Erez. He needed a sponsor, someone who had official access and was willing to make the necessary arrangements and provide a measure of protection. A few months earlier, he and Morgan had been to a cocktail party in Bethesda. They had been introduced to Colin Reilly, a genial Canadian who was running a program funded by the State Department, which was trying to teach the more amenable Palestinian factions the skills of modern political organization.

  Adam realized he might now be a useful contact, and two days earlier he had taken a bus to Jerusalem, where he and Reilly had lunched at an Arab restaurant near the Damascus Gate. Reilly promised to acquire the paperwork and take Adam to Gaza with him as soon as he could. They would not be staying overnight. Adam didn’t have much longer anyway. Every day he phoned Charlie and Aimee, and it was clear they wanted him back. The previous evening, his father had underlined their message. “I know you have to do what you can. But don’t stay away too long. You can always go back.”

  Adam had been wondering whether he might finally get the chance to go to the beach when his cell phone rang. It was Gary.

  “You doing anything, Adam?”

  “Not just now, no.”

  “Then perhaps you’d like to come by. We’re in Eugene’s office. You know where it is.”

  Mike was waiting for him in the embassy lobby, dressed in khakis and a floral Hawaiian shirt.

  “Be careful,” he said. “I don’t know what you’ve done, but the boss sure seems pissed.”

  Gary and Eugene were sitting at the glass conference table. “Adam,” Gary said, without offering his hand. “Sit down. And then, if you don’t mind, since we’re all working for the same end, I’d like you to give me an account of what you’ve been doing here.”

  “What, everything?” Adam asked.

  “Just the important stuff. I’m not interested in whether you’ve been sightseeing. But what have you done to try to find your wife?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  Gary looked at Mike and Eugene. “Gentlemen, Mr. Cooper is being a smartass!”

  Mike and Eugene looked embarrassed. “I’m not being a smartass,” Adam said. “I’m merely stating that my last message from Morgan was left on my voicemail thirty-two days ago, and you seem to have made remarkably little progress.”

  “Well, we might have gotten further if we weren’t having to spend our time worrying about you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is, what the hell were you doing with a member of the Hamas underground in an apartment tower in Lod? With a man, I might add, who is now in Israeli custody?”

  Adam could not disguise his emotions. He felt crushed. How had this happened? He had followed Imad’s countersurveillance instructions to the letter, and felt sure he had not been followed. But alas, he thought ruefully, unlike these men, he was no professional.

  “In custody? Why? For agreeing to talk to me?”

  “Oh, Adam.” Gary’s patronizing, bogus sympathy was sickening. “I know how hard these weeks have been. You’ve got guts, just like your wife, and that’s admirable. I understand what you’ve been attempting. We don’t talk to the Islamists, so you though
t that maybe, thanks to your legal practice of representing them, you could. But listen to me, for Chrissakes. Listen to someone with almost three decades’ experience. This region is a snake-pit. No one and nothing are as they seem. So your new friend Bashir al-Owdeh might have come across as ever so helpful, and no doubt he’s promised he’ll fix you up when you make your little trip to Gaza. Yes, my friend, we know about that too. But here’s the truth. Al-Owdeh is a scumbag. He’s been wanted by the Shin Bet for years. But you did them a favor. They were having you followed, and you led them to him. I guess that means at least some good has come of it.”

  Adam stared at Gary, his expression fixed, saying nothing.

  “Now, listen to the facts of life here. This group that claims to be holding Morgan, the Janbiya al-Islam. Well, I have good friends in this part of the world: seasoned Israeli intelligence officers who tell me things that they maybe shouldn’t. Guys I’ve known for years. I’ve been spending time with them, and they’re certain that the Janbiya are a fraud, a put-on.”

  “They didn’t look very fraudulent to me in that video. And the way they tortured my wife: that was definitely for real.”

  “Sure it was. And I don’t want to minimize it. But they’re a front. The kidnappers want us to think they’re some new bunch of radicals, way more extreme than Hamas. In fact, they are Hamas. Morgan’s kidnap is being staged to suit Hamas’s ultimate purpose—to take over Gaza and the West Bank. Whatever promises they might make, the last thing they’ll do is help you. That means that by going to Gaza and trying to hook up with them, you aren’t just risking your life. You’re wasting your time.”

  “What? How is kidnapping Morgan going to help Hamas? Sorry, but I don’t get it.”

  Gary sighed. “It’s complicated, like just about everything in the Middle East. So pay attention. What my sources say is going to happen is that Hamas will suddenly create a big media hoopla, saying they’ve found Morgan and liberated her. They’ll parade her on television and send her home, while telling the world this proves they’re no longer terrorists but a mature political organization, fit to be recognized by the international community. But Adam. It’s bullshit. Layer upon layer of lies and deception: that’s the way this region works. It’s all just an illusion, concocted to improve their image. You have got yourself in deep, way over your head. And now it’s time to get out. Go home. Spend some time with your kids. And be a little fucking patient, okay?”

  Gary sounded persuasive. But Adam did not believe him. His argument was far too convoluted, and if Morgan’s kidnap was merely a piece of political theatre, why had its perpetrators tortured her, using a method which might easily have ended her life?

  “I don’t really care what your Israeli friends are saying,” Adam said. “Maybe they’re right. But maybe they’re not, and if it’s okay with you, and actually, even if it’s not okay, I’d like the chance to judge things for myself. The Israelis can’t go to Gaza. I can. And I will. And then, when I’ve made my own assessment, I’ll go home. Or at least, back to England.”

  “You don’t work for me, so I can’t tell you what to do,” said Gary, his voice almost a hiss. “But I hope you’re prepared for your kids to be orphans, Mr. Cooper, because the way you want to play this, you’re going to get yourself killed. Your life is your own. But what does piss me off is that if you go to Gaza and pander to Hamas, it will achieve nothing, except to expose more decent people to the risk of being kidnapped. So, go on your precious little trip with Mr. Reilly. But bear the consequences in mind.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Wednesday, May 2, 2007

  Adam had bought himself a pastry the previous night, and while he waited for Colin Reilly he ate it with a cup of instant coffee that he made in his room. While he ate, he looked again at a report of the capture of Bashir al-Owdeh in the previous day’s Haaretz. He could not help feeling nervous that al-Owdeh’s friends in Gaza might blame him for his capture, but he was determined to use the phone number he had given him. What else could he do?

  He went downstairs at six thirty, and almost immediately Reilly pulled up outside in his black SUV. “Your papers are in order,” he said in a faux German accent. “You are free to enter Gaza—the place most people are desperate to leave. I’m sorry for the early start.”

  The city streets were still deserted, and soon they reached the highway. As he drove, Colin set some ground rules.

  “You have to understand that as a US government-funded program, we are strictly forbidden from having anything to do with Hamas,” he said. “I’ll take you into Gaza City and you can come up to my office. But after that, you’re on your own. I can’t let you use my drivers, either. I’m not planning to go out. I’ve got some management issues to deal with. But you need to be back at the office by four. Otherwise, we’ll be stuck in Gaza for the night. If you don’t make it, I’ll wait for you. But even if we manage to get into one of the hotels, you may not find it all that comfortable.”

  “I thought Erez stayed open until six?”

  “It does. But though I doubt it’s more than five miles from the office, that’s a distance that can take a while around here. You never quite know how it’s going to go with the roadblocks.”

  “Right.”

  “Still, with any luck, we won’t actually get caught in a firefight.”

  Adam spent the rest of the drive lost in his own thoughts. What did he hope to achieve? Did he really think he was going to run into Gaza for less than twelve hours, meet some Hamas militiaman who would promise to drop everything and find Morgan for him? Soon enough, his reverie was brought to an end. They were at Erez.

  “Here goes then,” said Colin, locking up the car. “Remember, the Israelis will know exactly who you are, and why you’re going in. But your papers say you’re coming as my assistant. Just stick to that story if anybody asks. They wouldn’t have given you permission if they really had any objection.”

  They were early, and stood outside the terminal in the warming sun. As they waited, the air suddenly trembled. From somewhere that sounded worryingly close came the gut-wrenching thump of an explosion.

  “Take no notice,” Colin said. “Some young would-be martyr just fired another rocket into Israel. Probably hit a lemon tree. Ah, look, the doors are about to open. We’re first in line.”

  Swiftly they passed through the formalities. Colin’s driver, Omar, was waiting in the parking lot on the Gaza side. In the past few days, there had been something of a lull in the factional in-fighting, and though they had to negotiate the various roadblocks, none took much time. Yet though the main road was broad and comparatively clear, as he looked to the side Adam sensed the impenetrable and perilous warren of dwellings that lay beyond, the labyrinth jammed between the sea and the Wall. Often it was visible, a gray concrete rampart snaking its way along the brow of the low rise that marked the eastern boundary of the strip, no more than three or four miles away.

  “Let’s hope they’re not holding her somewhere there,” said Colin as they passed the entrance to the Jabaliya camp. “I don’t think anyone would find her in that hellhole.”

  Soon enough they reached Colin’s office, a six-story structure that could have been a bank. They parked on a side street, by the back entrance, and took the elevator to the fourth floor. Adam hung back while Colin greeted a receptionist who wore a headscarf, as well some of the other staff. Big windows overlooked the grassy open space of Unknown Soldier Square. “Make the most of it,” said Colin. “This is as good as Gaza gets. The beating heart of the city.” He ushered Adam into an empty room with a desk and computer. “Make your phone call. If they agree to meet you, they can pick you up downstairs. Tell them to come to the al-Kafarneh building on the east side of the square.”

  Adam took out his cell phone and punched out the number al-Owdeh had told him to memorize. A guttural voice answered almost at once.

  “Hello? Marhaba? Is this Khader? This is Adam Cooper. I’ve been given your number. I want to meet you to tal
k about my wife.” He was trying to prevent the nervousness he felt from being audible, but even as he spoke, he knew he had failed.

  There was a pause, and it sounded as if the phone on the other end was being handed to somebody else.

  “Yes. Mr. Adam. Welcome. You are in Gaza?”

  Adam explained his location.

  “We will come in forty minutes. You will see the car. Be in the lobby.”

  When they come, there are three of them, all dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and leather jackets: an unofficial uniform. They all have beards, and they pull up at the curbside in another aging Corolla. Outside, the sidewalk is busy, and no one seems to pay attention. The man next to the driver catches sight of Adam through the glass lobby doors. Adam spots the car, hyperventilates, then stands and leaves the building. It only takes a second to cross the sidewalk, and the passenger in the back seat leans across and opens the door. “My name is Khader Abu Fares,” he says. “Welcome. Get in.” He does not smile. Adam slides into the available space on the back seat, and as soon as he shuts the door, the car begins to move. A dozen blocks from the square, it enters a narrow side street. Adam smiles to himself as he makes a private internal joke: Khader the cadre.

  “I’m sorry,” Khader says, “but this is for security.” He takes a thick blindfold from a small leather zip-up bag in front of him and ties it around Adam’s head. “Now get out.”

  Adam stands, still blindfolded. They are in the shade, and there is no traffic noise. He feels hands moving across every inch of his body, deftly removing his only possessions, his passport, wallet, and phone. Adam hears Khader talking to someone in Arabic, and then the sound of another vehicle driving away.

  “Now get in again. Get down, so you cannot be seen.”

  Lying on the seat, Adam senses the car’s bewildering motion: sometimes fast, sometimes slow; innumerable turns to left and right. Less than two hours ago, when he passed through Erez, he thought he had crossed the final frontier border between personal security and danger. Now he knows that that was only the beginning, and there may be many such barriers still to cross, each one leading to a deeper circle of peril. Finally the car stops.