by David Rose
“And I dare say they seemed credible and sincere. But allow me to explain a little of how they operate. I have been observing these extremist factions for many years. This is a textbook example of what is known as taqqiya.”
“Taqqiya?”
“It’s an old Islamic concept.” Amos looks smug. “It comes down to the idea that it’s not a sin to lie when talking to kufr, to infidels, if it helps the greater good. You could call it a license to bullshit in the service of the cause. Gary has already explained to you that the Janbiya is a front, an illusion. I cannot tell you how I know this, but we—myself and my colleagues—we are certain he is right.”
“If you say so, Amos.” After what he has heard from Ben-Meir, how can he take him seriously? “If you want to try to get me to swallow that, sure, by all means go ahead.”
“What do you mean, ‘if I say so?’” says Amos. “You’re suggesting that I’m wrong? That you know these people better than we do?”
“Adam,” Gary says reproachfully. “Amos is our friend.”
“Yes. I think you’re wrong,” says Adam. “What’s more, I don’t really think you believe it either. Why look for a complex explanation when a simple one seems obvious—that Morgan has been kidnapped by a jihadist group called the Janbiya al-Islam?”
He watches Amos stiffen. His baggy jowls are reddening, but he keeps his voice low. “I hadn’t quite grasped that analyzing the structures of jihadist terrorism was one of your specialties. Or perhaps you are one of those useful idiots who thinks these people are freedom fighters, with legitimate rights to express their murderous views. Of course I know about your legal work. But just listen to us for once. We can’t stop you from associating with those who not so long ago were sending kids to blow themselves up inside Israeli buses and pizza restaurants. But I do see it as part of my job to warn you that you’re wasting your time. Yes, Hamas knows where your wife is. But the very last person they’re going to tell is you. And in the meantime, it’s my duty as an Israeli officer to try to dissuade you from doing anything else that might get you killed.”
Gary interjects: “Or to put it another way, leave finding Morgan to us. We actually know what we’re doing. After what happened, it ought to be clear that you don’t. But Amos does have one more thing to tell you. But he’s not going to, unless you give us your word it goes no further than this room.”
“Fine,” says Adam. “What is it?”
Amos clears his throat again. “I can give you no details of what I’m about to tell you. But locating your wife may well be about to become a great deal easier than it is now, for one very simple reason: that Hamas’s days as a force to be reckoned with are almost over. I can’t tell you why, or exactly when. But it’s going to be soon.”
“What do you mean?” Adam is incredulous. “Are you trying to tell me that Hamas is about to be crushed by physical force?”
“As I told you, no details. But go home, and be patient. Soon there will be good news.” Amos throws him a twisted smile, then stands. “Gary, I must leave, or I’ll be late for my meeting.”
“Me too.” Gary stands too, followed by Mike. “Sorry, Adam, we have work to do. I’ll leave you with Eugene. He can make any necessary arrangements. So long.”
Adam remains seated, and watches as they leave. He doesn’t offer his hand. He has been planning to confront them about the tracker chip, but frankly, what’s the point?
“I’m sure we’ll see you again soon,” Mike says. “Hope everything’s okay with the kids. Safe travels.” Alone of the departing trio, his voice betrays a little warmth.
The door closes. Eugene and Adam are alone. “Can I offer you something?” Eugene says. “Some tea? Coffee? A soda?”
Adam waves his hand and demurs. “I’m fine.”
“Gary can be a hard-ass. I’m sorry. But …” Eugene shrugs.
“But?”
“We do have to follow his lead. His experience and his contacts, especially with the Israelis, are amazing. As you can see. That guy Amos—you know I can’t tell you his last name. But in the circles in which we move, he’s a legend.”
“Right.” Before Adam can say anything else, there’s a knock on the door.
“Enter,” Eugene says. Crystal, his assistant, comes in. She’s wearing latex gloves, and holding a padded envelope.
“This just came, addressed to you. It’s been through the scanner. It looks like another DVD.”
Eugene gets up and walks behind his desk, opens a drawer and takes out a sealed packet of gloves. He puts them on, takes the package, and examines it. Crystal leaves. “Hmm. It looks different from the other one. Apart from the obvious fact it’s got stamps on it and has been through the mail,” he says, squinting at the postmark. “Looks like it was sent from Ashkelon.”
Adam stares as Eugene opens the packet and reaches inside. There’s no covering letter, just the DVD in its clear plastic box. On the cover is a sign scrawled in thick, black felt-tip pen: “Morgan Cooper 2.”
Eugene must have realized Adam has seen it. “Shit,” he says.
“Can I watch it?” Adam asks.
“I’m sorry. I’m going to have to say no. I mean, this could be anything.”
“You mean, you’re worried I don’t have the stomach to watch a DVD showing my wife getting murdered.” Adam’s voice is thick. “You’re right. I probably don’t. But I think we both know it’s not that. It’s too soon. Come on, Eugene. I have a right to see this. Put it on.”
Eugene hesitates. “The answer should still be no. I really shouldn’t do this. But I guess you and I have known each other a long time, and since you’re here … Well, I get the sense you’re having trouble believing we’re on the same side right now. So if I did say we could watch it together, would you take that as a sign of good faith?”
“A sign, yes.”
Eugene keeps a television and a DVD player on a stand at the back of his office. He uses the remotes to turn them on, and slots the DVD into the loading tray. He sits down again and he and Adam turn their chairs to face the screen.
First there’s some static, but then it fills with the image of an airy, white apartment. To the left are big windows, with the glimpse of a balcony behind them, and facing them a table with an exquisite embroidered cloth. To the right is a wide upholstered sofa. The camera position is static, and at first the owners of the two audible voices are invisible. But Adam knows one of them straightaway: Morgan. The other belongs to a man with a light Palestinian accent, whose English is perfect. They’re talking about visiting with someone later that day, and discussing whether the place they’ve chosen will be safe.
“I think I know what this is,” Eugene says. “Fatah’s security services have bugged dozens of apartments and houses down there, places they think might be of interest. In fact, they’ve, uh, had some technical help from us. I think this comes from the apartment where your wife used to meet her main agent, a guy I hooked her up with. He’s from a well-known, wealthy family—Abdel Nasser al-Kafarneh. He went to school in America. Ah, yes, look, there he is. Good looking fellow, I got to say.”
A tall, slim man in a finely tailored suit has walked into view, apparently from a doorway off to one side: he’s carrying two glasses of tea. Adam can’t help noticing he is indeed unusually handsome, with animated dark green eyes, olive skin, and a goatee. The words of his conversation with Morgan are strictly professional. But in her tone, and in her frequent laughter, Adam detects a warm engagement. At last she too is in shot. Her hair is longer than she wears it now—or wore it before she vanished—and he makes a rough calculation: these sounds and images must have been recorded last year, near the beginning of her mission.
The screen goes blank again. It seems the DVD is some kind of compilation, for when the images return, Morgan and Abdel Nasser are wearing different clothing, and the light is different. There is no disguising the lack of formality with which they address each other.
“Why can’t your people see the consequence
s of the mistakes they are making?” Abdel Nasser says. “We only held elections because you insisted we do so, even though it was obvious that Hamas was going to win. And now you think you can simply reverse the result. What do you think this does for those of us who try to argue that the route to prosperity and statehood lies through constitutional politics, not violence?”
Morgan sounds embarrassed. “I know. I know. Look, I don’t make the policy. I promised you I would get your message across in Washington, and believe me, I have.”
“I believe you, Morgan. But I’m sorry, I don’t want to go on with this. It’s just not working out.”
Morgan gets up and speaks from somewhere out of shot. Adam recognizes what she’s doing: she’s making a last-ditch bid to persuade Abdel Nasser not to resign as her agent, and as she often does when she’s fired up about something, she’s on her feet, pacing around the room.
“If you want to know what I really think, I happen to agree with just about everything you’ve said,” says her disembodied voice. “Yes. America is treating Palestinians with contempt. What we’re doing is totally counterproductive. And while we’re about it, I think my bosses are assholes.”
Eugene breaks in, as crass as ever: “Shit. Gary’s not going to like this much.” He presses the remote. “I don’t think we can watch any more. This is straying into classified territory.”
“Bullshit, Eugene,” Adam says. “This isn’t about national security. If it’s anything, it’s office politics. Jesus. This is a video of my wife. You owe it to me to let it continue.”
Eugene hesitates, then lets the recording play again.
This time, Adam knows when it must have been shot, because she’s wearing a light knitted dress he bought for her last December. It must depict a meeting one or two visits before the one when she was kidnapped—a trip she made during Gaza’s mild winter. They’re on the sofa. Morgan’s sitting cross-legged, her back to the camera, and Abdel Nasser seems so close they’re almost touching. On the table, there’s the debris of lunch.
“I’d better be going,” Morgan says. “I can’t afford to miss my spot at Erez.”
“I know you have to,” says Abdel Nasser. “And the car will be waiting. But I wish you could stay.”
Abdel Nasser turns to face her and Adam sees her hand clasp the back of his neck.
“Be safe, Abdel Nasser,” says Morgan. “Don’t take any risks. Especially not for me. It’s just not worth it.” She laughs, a little self-consciously. “If I were forced to choose between my country and my friend, I hope I would be brave enough to choose my friend.”
“Casablanca,” Abdel Nasser says.
“Bogart channeling E.M. Forster.” She brings her other hand up to his face and kisses him on the mouth. For what feels to Adam like minutes, they hold each other, still kissing. Finally she pushes herself away, then stands. “Until the next time. And by the way, every time we say goodbye, I do cry a little. But usually not until I’m safely back in my perfect little life in Maryland. I’ll miss you.”
Eugene moves to turn the DVD off again, but Adam leans across and holds his wrist. “Don’t you bloody dare.”
Eugene sits back and for a final time the screen goes blank. When the recording comes back again, the picture is a little gloomy. It must be evening. They seem to be back on the sofa, and Adam takes in the back of Morgan’s head and the outline of her body. She is moving, up and down, backwards and forward, and the shocking thing is: she’s naked. She twists a little and he catches sight of her breast, partly cupped by a man’s hand, a hand at the end of a sallow, hairy arm, with manicured fingers that start to work her nipple. At the bottom of the screen he sees her bare buttocks, falling and rising, the rhythm and pace intensifying. She’s supporting herself with a palm on Abdel Nasser’s chest as she takes him inside her, and then she reaches behind his shoulder to pull him in more deeply, the way Adam knows she likes. At first, the recording is almost silent, punctuated only by heavy breathing, but then there’s a sound that cuts through his skull like a laser. It’s the sound which filled his dream this morning, the sound of Morgan intensely aroused, the sound she makes only when close to an orgasm. At the same time, he can see the start of an involuntary quiver in the lower part of her body. She’s not merely fucking this secret lover, she’s about to come.
“Turn it off!” Adam yells. “For fuck’s sake, turn it off!”
“A penny for them. You seem to be preoccupied.” Ronnie looks at him quizzically across the tablecloth of an Italian restaurant a short walk from his hotel, the candlelight reflected in her eyes.
“It’s nothing. Well, not nothing, but you know how it is. I can’t really talk about most of this shit. It’s been a difficult day. Some setbacks.” Adam waves his hands. “Enough about me. How are you?”
“I’m good. I’ve been taking it easy. Brunch with Rachelle, some shopping, a little trip to the beach. It’s so nice to be able to spend time with her again. In fact, if it had been anyone else, waiting until five in the afternoon before calling to ask me out to dinner, I’d have said no, and spent the evening with her and Avram. But since it’s you, and since it’s also your last night … well, just this once, I was prepared to make an exception.”
“I’m jolly glad you did.” He takes a large gulp of wine. “And by the way, you look ravishing.”
“You really feeling okay, Adam? It’s not that I’m lacking in confidence about the way I happen to look, but you don’t usually bother to comment on it. Actually, I got this just this morning.”
She pouts and twists her torso from side to side, emphasizing her breasts while displaying her new, hand-embroidered top.
“It’s great,” he says. “And you’re really in great shape. It suits you. Where’d you get it?” Even as he asks, he wonders why. Why is he asking her to talk about shopping? He stares at her even skin. She’s wearing a different perfume.
“So I thought that was quite a bargain—” Ronnie breaks off. “Adam, what’s up? You’re not even listening to me. What have you done with your head? You know, the one that contains that extraordinary brain that even impresses the US Supreme Court?”
He’s got to try to relax.
“Is it Morgan?” asks Ronnie. “Is there news?”
“No. Nothing. And the situation in Gaza only gets worse. But no. Nothing concrete.” He sighs. “I guess I’m just feeling down because it feels I’ve put my normal life on hold and dropped everything for this quixotic mission—and managed to achieve precisely nothing.” He decides to risk going just a little further. “And all the while, I can’t help thinking back to the problems we had. You know, the things you and I discussed back in America.”
He’s given her a cue, and she takes it. She reaches across the table and holds a palm against his cheek. This time he does what he hasn’t done before. He responds. He turns his head to her hand and kisses it.
“We deserve to live a little, too,” she says.
“Maybe we do.”
They finish their meal and pay the bill. Adam doesn’t have to ask if she’s coming back to his room; they both know she is. They slink past the receptionist into the elevator and as it makes its way to the seventh floor they face each other and kiss each other properly for the first time.
Once inside his room with the door shut behind them, everything’s a flurry, lit by moonlight, filtered by the window blind. Her brand new top, lacy bra, skirt, panties, and high-heeled sandals are already on the floor around the bed as Adam, now bare-chested, unbuttons his jeans and she pulls them down, followed by his underpants. She takes him in her mouth, touches herself to moisten an index finger, then uses it to tease his anus, jolting him with the fierceness of his pleasure. When he can’t take any more, he moves away and starts to descend, while she spreads herself deliciously at the edge of the bed. He longs to taste her, but she stops him, placing a hand on his head: “No, don’t do that. Not this time. I want you to fuck me.” She’s already taken a condom from her handbag and unsealed it,
and now she reaches for it from the bedside table and unrolls it onto him. He’d like to fuck her like a stallion for the rest of the night, but it’s been so long and he can’t hold back. Rather more quickly than he’d wanted, he fills the condom and slowly softens.
Afterward, she crouches over him, stroking his face. She lets him take her weight as she stretches out on top of him. “I know that you know I’ve been wanting to do that for ages,” she says. “You’re a good-looking, sexy bastard, Adam Cooper, as well as principled and brainy.”
“You didn’t come. I’m sorry. I was too quick. But it’s been a while.”
“It doesn’t matter. I will next time. It was wonderful.”
He stands. “I’d better get rid of this thing.” He goes to the bathroom, and disposes of the condom. When he gets back, Ronnie is sitting up, the sheet covering her breasts.
“I’ve got to get back to Ramat Hasharon. Rachelle will be worried. But we’ll see each other soon.” She looks as if she’s trying to read his expression. “Is everything okay, baby?”
He sits on the bed beside her, and she touches his nose with a fingertip.
“Listen. I’m not going to turn into a bunny-boiler if Morgan comes back and you decide to make a go of it. But like I said before, what happened tonight—we deserved it.”
Part of him wants to turn her over and begin again, but he doesn’t try to stop her getting dressed. He pulls on his clothes and walks her outside, where they soon find a taxi. Before she gets in, they kiss properly once more. But back in his room, a tautologous three-word sentence keeps on running through his mind. Ronnie isn’t Morgan.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Thursday, June 14,
and Friday, June 15, 2007
Adam had been out all day, and had only just returned from a meeting in London with a British human rights group which seemed to think it might find a use for his expertise. He hadn’t said anything to Spinks McArthur: so far as they were concerned, when the question of Morgan’s absence was finally resolved, he would be coming back to work. But like so much else in his life just now, the idea of returning to America felt almost unbearable. On the rare occasions when he did consider the future, he made two assumptions: first, that there was a better than even chance he wasn’t going to see his wife alive again; and second, that even if he did, they would not be together. No doubt Morgan would want to continue to travel in order to pursue her career. No doubt, he told himself, with each new mission she would take another lover. In all the circumstances, making plans to move to England with the children did not seem unreasonable.
