Taking Morgan

by David Rose

  Rob smiled, and put his big calloused hand on Adam’s shoulder. “I hear you. I’ve had some pretty dark nights of the soul myself these past few weeks.” He shook his head. “I was never the greatest father. I did my best, but I guess I found a daughter hard to understand, though I was always so, so proud of her—prouder than ever now that I know all that human rights bullshit was just her Agency cover. But you know how it is: you may not always get your kids right, you may not always be able to meet their emotional needs, but the one thing I always thought I could do was protect Morgan from harm. I know this sounds stupid, but I kind of feel like I’ve failed.”

  “You’re right. It does sound stupid. But all the same, I understand.”

  “Well, you know me. I’m a practical guy. I don’t just sit on my butt. And I haven’t been. But even if the dawn is coming, this sure does feel like the darkest hour. The past few weeks have opened my eyes. Things I maybe always knew, but preferred not to face up to.”

  “What things?”

  “Well, in America we’ve grown used to politicians running for office who say things like ‘Washington is broken.’ But the folks who say those things, they’re talking about lobbyists, and the sleazy process of law-making. What I’ve learned now is that there’s a different, much more dangerous way in which the system is broken. A way that means that a brave young woman who was serving her fucking country can be abducted by a bunch of extremists, and it seems that no one directly responsible for her gives a shit.”

  “You’re obviously not saying this without good cause. Tell me more.”

  “I’ve been to DC twice in the past few weeks. I didn’t want to tell you on the phone, because I’m fairly sure those motherfuckers are listening—to you, if not to me. I’ve met staffers from the National Security Council, and the CIA. But excuse my French, everything these motherfuckers said was total, fucking bullcrap. They seemed to have only one concern: that I’d keep my mouth shut. They said they wanted to avoid a situation where the kidnappers might lose face if they released her. What they’re really worried about is that if it becomes known that an American’s been kidnapped in Gaza, it’ll focus attention on their own fucked-up operation. So far as I’m concerned, they can all go fuck themselves in the ass.”

  “We’re on the same page,” said Adam. “And they seem to be trying to keep me out of it, too. I had one of the Agency guys visiting me here just yesterday. He told me that if I went back to Gaza, I’d be as good as signing Morgan’s death warrant; that there’s some kind of fragile, back-channel negotiation going on, and if I go in, I’ll fuck it up.”

  “What do you think? You going to take his advice?”

  “It’s really difficult. I don’t believe a word he says. But on the other hand, just suppose he isn’t lying, at least about this—and I do end up wrecking things? Part of me tells me that to wait a few more days after so many weeks can hardly make much difference. On the other hand, what if something terrible happens as a result of that delay? I don’t know, Rob. I just don’t know.”

  “Jesus,” Rob said. “This isn’t easy. Maybe what you should do is fly to Israel as soon as possible, so at least you’re in position, and then you can decide about Gaza when you get the lie of the land.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  “Well, when you do decide to go, I want you to be aware of something. I was on active duty a long time, and you know what they say, there’s no such thing as an ex-Marine. I got contacts, Adam: people who stayed in the service and became general officers; who know their way around. Some of them even knew Morgan when she was growing up, and they’re fucking proud of her too. So when you go back to Gaza, bear in mind me and my buddies, think of us all as family, we’ve got your back. If you think you need help, you’re to holler. As I’ve told you before, you can call me any time, day or night. From time to time my friends and I have pulled off some shit that might surprise you.”

  “Excuse me if I’m sounding stupid, but what kind of shit do you mean?”

  “You ever hear of the incident at al-Qaim?”

  “No. What was that?”

  “This stays between you and me. Okay?”

  Adam nodded.

  “It was nearly two years ago. I had met some Iraqis through the seed business. They were looking for quality strains of wheat. Well, we stayed in contact after the invasion. They hated America for occupying their country and killing their relatives, but they hated al-Qaeda even more. For a while, they bided their time. Then, when they could see that most of their fellow Sunni leaders were starting to feel the same way, they began picking fights with those motherfuckers. The first place where it came to a head was al-Qaim, a town in the desert, close to the Syrian border. Unfortunately, my guys had bitten off more than they could chew, and they found themselves outgunned, pinned down in the desert. There were two hundred of them, but more than twice as many al-Qaeda. Night fell, and it looked as if when dawn came next day, they were going to be wiped out.”

  “What did this have to do with you?”

  “In America, it was still daytime. I was on my porch, contemplating my navel, and I got a call on my cell—all the way from al-Qaim. One of my buddies asked me if I could help.”

  “And?”

  “I made a few calls. I don’t need to tell you where. Anyhow, when the dawn came up in the al-Anbar desert an hour or two later, it wasn’t my Sunni friends who got whacked, but their enemies—by three US Marine AH-1 Cobra helicopters.”

  “You called in a helicopter gunship airstrike on the Syria-Iraq border while sitting on your porch in Taos?”

  “Yessir. I surely did.”

  “You’re not suggesting I ask you to organize an airstrike in Gaza? I mean, don’t you think the Israelis might just have something to say about it?”

  “I’m not really suggesting anything, Adam. Except, like I said, to bear in mind that we can do surprising shit. That we’re committed to this, and we will do whatever it takes to stop someone we love and admire from going through hell.” He stopped for a moment, overcome. “We’re not going to let her die out there, okay? So just make sure to keep me on your speed dial. Oh, and there’s something else.”

  “There is?”

  “My recollection is that for a liberal, you used to be a pretty fucking decent shot. You should get a little practice in. You never know. You might need it.” Rob reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with a name and number on it. “This chick is a friend of mine. She runs a little, uh, facility not too far from here. Her clients are a little, uh, unconventional. She’s expecting your call. Promise me you’ll pay her a visit tomorrow morning, before you get on that plane.”

  Adam reached across the table and clasped his father-in-law’s hand. “I will, sir. You can count on it.”

  It was a golden afternoon. At five past three, Adam joined the other parents outside Phil and Jim, the school on the edge of Port Meadow where Charlie and Aimee had now been pupils for almost two months. There were a few other fathers waiting for their offspring, but they were in the minority. To his relief, the women generally made little effort to engage him in conversation, and none to probe his circumstances. Aimee emerged in the company of Alice, her new best friend, a tall, precocious-looking girl with raven hair in a ponytail.

  “Dad? Can Alice come back to ours? Just for a couple of hours? Her dad will come to pick her up.”

  “Not tonight, sweetie. There’s something we need to talk about.”

  “Can’t we do it after Alice has gone? Please?”

  Adam was delighted that the kids were making new friendships. He knew how much they missed their mother, but in some ways they had never seemed so settled, and to them, Bethesda must seem an age away. He and they had passed more time in each others’ company these past few weeks than at any time in their lives. Not having to obsess about legal filing deadlines had its advantages. His resistance to Aimee’s request crumbled. “All right then. She can come.” He turned to Alice. “Have
you told your mother?”

  “My mum’s not here. She’s away in Germany on business. I’m allowed to walk home on my own, but if you lend me your mobile, I’ll call my dad to tell him. He won’t mind.”

  Charlie ran up, and gave his father an unforced hug. “Daddy! Can I go to Tom’s house? He says we can go catch frogs on Port Meadow.”

  “Okay, Charlie.” A sigh. “Let me talk to Tom’s mum. I’ll arrange to pick you up later.”

  Hours later, Aimee and Charlie had bathed and were ready for bed. Adam sat with them in the sitting room.

  “Guys. I know you hate it when I’m away. But I think I’ve got to make another trip. I’m leaving very soon—probably tomorrow evening.”

  “You’re going back to Israel?” Charlie’s eyes were wide. “Are you going to look for Mommy again?”

  “Yes, sweetie. That’s the plan.”

  “Do you know where she is? Will you bring her back? Will she be here for my birthday?”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly where she is. And I’m not certain yet about your birthday, although I’m going to do my best. But I wanted to be sure you two are happy with this—that you’ll be okay with Granny and Grandpa.”

  “Is it going to be dangerous? What if the bad guys shoot at you?” Aimee asked.

  “I hope they won’t. But I can’t be sure.”

  “What if you don’t come back?” Adam could see she was close to tears. “Who’ll take care of us then? What if you find her but they say you can’t have her back?”

  Adam didn’t know how to answer. But while he paused, his daughter spoke again.

  “Can’t someone else go and get her? Are you the only one who can find her?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, picking at the skin at the side of her thumbnail. “You do have to go. You have to find her, Dad. Just promise you’ll be careful.”

  Adam gave her a one-armed hug. Sometimes her maturity astounded him. He wrapped the other arm around Charlie. “I promise. I’ll do everything I can to be safe. I wouldn’t be doing this if I thought I had an alternative. I just wanted to be sure you’re okay with it. And I’ll keep my stay away as short as possible.”

  “You have to go. You just have to.” She buried her face in his shoulder, and he felt the warmth of her tears. He stroked her hair, and after a little while, they stopped. She looked up again, her eyes still moist, bravely trying to manage a smile.

  Adam turned to Charlie. “What about you?”

  “I just know it, I know it, this time you’re going to get Mom!” His excitement was palpable. “You are going to find her, and she will be back for my birthday, because anyway, it isn’t for weeks! Aimee, Mommy’s coming back!”

  Adam knew better than to puncture Charlie’s hopes. “I’m going to give it my best shot, little guy. The very best I’ve got.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Friday, June 22,

  and Saturday, June 23, 2007

  Morgan had a sense that Zainab had been avoiding her—or, at least, avoiding any chance of talking to her in private. She brought her food, removed her tray, and spoke to her politely. But she gave out no more information, and did not stay to chat. Her attitude only sharpened Morgan’s growing anxiety. Hamas might have defeated Fatah, but consolidating its power and imposing order was bound to take time. As to the journey of which Zainab had warned her, she felt a deep foreboding. How did they propose to transport her? How would they hide her?

  It was early afternoon when Karim and Abu Mustafa burst in, Karim jabbering excitedly in Arabic. He was holding a pair of scissors and a roll of black, reinforced duct tape. Zainab followed, bearing a thick, white cotton cloth. Morgan knew what it was: a Muslim funeral shroud. Now she knew the answer to the question which had been troubling her. They were going to move her as if she were a shrouded corpse, tightly wrapped in the Islamic style, but without any kind of coffin.

  “I am sorry, Morgan, but we have to make a change,” Abu Mustafa said. “We believe that this house is too conspicuous, and if our enemies try to find you, here will no longer be safe. But we have found a new place. It is not as grand as this villa, though I am sure that once we get there, it will not be too uncomfortable. However, we cannot take the risk of being stopped on the road. You will be on the back seat, wrapped in this shroud. If we are stopped at a roadblock, they will think you have passed away, and we are taking you for burial. But this requires us to ensure you remain completely still. You cannot move even a muscle. You must be totally immobilized.”

  Karim was carrying a small, zipped brown leather pouch. He opened it and took out a hypodermic, filled with a clear chemical.

  “This will not hurt,” Abu Mustafa said. “It is just an intramuscular injection, a sedative. It will make you sleepy. Please, roll up your sleeve and hold still while Karim gives you the drug. When you wake up, you will be in the new place.”

  “No!” Her voice was a shriek, impelled by sheer fear. “I will cooperate, I promise! I will not try to escape, and I will be still for you. But, please, I beg you, do not give me this! I am allergic to this type of anesthetic. If you give me this injection, I will vomit. Please, believe me, I am not making this up. But you don’t need to do this. You have guns. When we are traveling, I will know that if I try to make trouble, you will shoot me.”

  “Actually, we won’t be armed on this journey,” Abu Mustafa said. “We don’t want to cause suspicion. But that means we cannot take the risk that you even twitch a muscle.”

  “I can keep still. Absolutely still. I have been trained, for God’s sake! I swear that—”

  Saying nothing, Karim grabbed her arm, and forced her into a chair. She felt him squeeze her shoulder very hard, and then he took the roll of duct tape, wrapping it around her head several times, binding her lips tightly shut, and wrapping more layers over the bridge of her nose. He left only a tiny window, just wide enough for her nostrils. From her chin to her eyes, her face was covered. Then, while she fought a rising sense of suffocation and panic, Karim took the needle and jabbed it through the cloth of her long-sleeved top into her arm. Morgan remained dimly aware of being lifted, of being wrapped in the shroud, and being carried up the stairs, her head pointing downward. In her mouth, she was starting to feel a flood of that strange, warm saliva that often accompanies nausea, when at last she lapsed into oblivion.

  Morgan’s return to consciousness was as sudden as if she’d been fired from a cannon from the depths of a black mineshaft. She was lying on her side on a narrow, dusty couch, which was covered in a rough fabric. Her head was pounding, her throat lining burned, and her stomach was sore from heaving. Not for the first time since she became a captive, she stank of her own vomit. Someone—presumably Zainab—must have tried to sponge it away, for her chest and stomach felt damp. Her whole body ached, and she guessed she had been kept immobile for a long time in an unnatural position. But the duct tape, though it still formed a hard, sticky clump behind her neck and head, had been cut away from her mouth, and she was breathing freely. If someone hadn’t removed the seal, she would have inhaled the vomit and probably died. The shroud in which she had traveled—the cloth whose purpose might all too easily have become real—had been draped across her legs and lower torso as a blanket.

  She half-opened an eye, finding herself in a small, dingy room lit by a single light bulb. The walls were yellow, and in places the plaster was crumbling. It seemed to be night. There was a window to one side, covered by a plain, dark blind, but there wasn’t even a glimmer of light seeping in around the edge. The room held three other occupants: Zainab, Karim, and the creepy guard, Aqil. They had not noticed she was awake. Zainab and Karim were sitting at a table with a turquoise plastic, paisley-patterned cover, speaking intensely in Arabic. Aqil, as usual, was standing. Either they had found a way to move their weapons through the roadblocks, or they had managed to access an alternative supply: he was holding a Kalashnikov.

  Morgan knew enough Arabic to understand that Karim and Zainab’s conversat
ion was becoming heated. Zainab was not raising her voice, but she kept on using the word “haram,” a term that meant something unclean, religiously forbidden, or simply wrong, often in sentences which also contained Morgan’s name or simply “Amriki,” the American. Morgan guessed that Zainab was talking about the treatment she had seen her endure at the hands of Karim, and that she was telling him that taping up her mouth had been both risky and cruel. It must have been Zainab who had cut away the gag when they were already on the move.

  Karim did not appear to be taking Zainab’s criticism well. Although his voice too was barely louder than a whisper, he was beginning to hyperventilate, and the color in his face was rising. Morgan closed her eye again. She did not want them to realize she was conscious. This little drama was too important to miss.

  As the minutes went by, Karim’s voice became harder. Morgan could not make out many of his words, but then he said something she recognized, and knew to be deeply insulting. He was calling Zainab “magnun,” crazy, and using the term repeatedly. Morgan opened her eye again, just enough to watch Karim stand and make as if to leave. “Hallas!” he said: “e nough!”

  But Zainab was not done. Before Karim could pass through the open doorway, she let loose an angry stream, her loudest utterance yet. So far as she could tell, Zainab was accusing Karim of associating with a “yahudi,” a Jew or Israeli. Morgan caught another word: “khawan,” “traitor.” In her fury, Zainab was accusing him of betraying his own cause.

  Whatever their precise meaning, her words stopped Karim dead. His eyes black, he turned on his heel toward Zainab and bent down to where she was sitting. “Bint ish zaniya,” he said: “daughter of a whore.” He raised his right hand and struck her hard enough across the face to make her reel, then repeated the process against the other cheek with his backhand. Morgan heard Zainab’s teeth crunch. As Zainab tried to stifle a squeal of pain, he turned away once more, and, striding past Aqil without a glance, he left the room.