Taking Morgan

by David Rose

  Morgan fully opened both her eyes and met Zainab’s with a look of horrified pity. As she stared at her, Zainab reached for a Kleenex from a box on the table and dabbed away tears. Karim must have cut her lip or tongue, for the corner of her mouth was beginning to well with blood. She touched it with her fingers and winced: it was evidently tender. Quietly sobbing, she shook her head. She was saying something that sounded like a moan, but was actually one of the words which had provoked Karim’s rage. She uttered it repeatedly: “Haram.”

  Soon Aqil left the room, locking the two women in behind him. A few minutes later, he returned with a bucket, indicating with a leering chuckle they would both have to use it to relieve themselves. Morgan struggled to a sitting position, and, crawling across the floor, she crouched in front of Zainab. Gingerly, she touched her jaw. The bleeding had soon stopped, but her mouth was evidently still tender. Morgan took a piece of the toilet paper Aqil had left by the bucket and moistened it with some water from a drinking bottle, dabbing at the cut on Zainab’s lip.

  “Is okay. You not have do this,” Zainab said.

  “Around here, sisters have got to be doing it for themselves,” said Morgan.

  “It’s just so weird, isn’t it?” Ronnie said. She and Adam were treading water, a few feet out of their depths. On the gentle shelf of Jaffa’s Banana Beach, that meant they were easily far enough out to sea not to be overheard. The lacquered harshness had gone out of the day, and the shadows were starting to lengthen. On the wide sandy beach, Rachelle was sitting on a lounger beneath an umbrella, reading a book. Avram, a strong, hairy, bear-like figure with a throaty laugh, had corralled Ronnie’s children, Ben and Sarah, into a game of matkot, the Israeli version of paddleball. Their distant cries of excitement punctuated the seaside tranquility.

  “What’s weird?” asked Adam.

  “That we’re here, where everything is so normal, despite everything that’s happened. It’s yet another gorgeous day. We’ve had a lovely lunch at the café, and apart from having to be on our best behavior, you and I can live our lives as we please.” Beneath the blue water, where it couldn’t be seen, she placed a toe against his crotch and wiggled it.

  “Ronnie, I—”

  “Shh. You don’t need to worry. I’m not about to jump your bones in front of my sister and my children, much as I’d really love to. Anyhow, we’d probably both drown if I did. I just meant to say that I look at this coast, into the haze by that distant curve where it stretches away to the south, and it feels so strange that less than forty miles away, it’s Gaza, where everything is so, so different. Where your wife is, and where you’re going to be risking your life tomorrow.”

  “Probably not tomorrow. It’ll take me a day or two to make the necessary arrangements. But hey, that’s Israeli geography. It’s a small country.”

  The schools in Bethesda had let out at the end of the previous week, and after less than a month back home, Ronnie had decided to bring the children over to spend the summer in Israel, emailing Adam to inform him of her intentions. When he replied with the news he was about to arrive on the overnight flight that morning, she had invited him to recover from his journey at the beach. He hadn’t required much persuasion. One way or another, their children’s closeness meant Ronnie and he were going to remain entangled. Of course, they would never sleep together again. But they needed to be able to relate to each other as adults, and as friends.

  Sleek and tanned in a dazzling white swimsuit, she stroked his groin with her toe again, forcing him to conceal his arousal by trying to start a water fight. Ronnie didn’t seem very interested in that, but with a look of regret, she slowly withdrew her foot.

  “We’d better be going in,” Adam said. “Avram will want us to join the matkot.”

  “Yes. In a moment.” She sighed. “Look at us all. Lunch was a gas, wasn’t it? Whatever this thing is between us, it could work, don’t you think? But it’s okay. I know you have to go back to Gaza, and that you can’t give up on Morgan. But just promise me you’ll be careful, okay? Don’t do anything stupid, and don’t ever tell those crazy Islamist motherfuckers that you have Jewish ancestors, because trust me, it wouldn’t make them happy.”

  “I promise. Solemnly. I get the point.”

  “And if you do succeed in bringing Morgan back, you’re going to have a lot to deal with. You don’t need extra grief from me. So if you should both end up in Tel Aviv, I’ll keep out of your way.”

  Her voice was steady, but he noticed a teary pinprick at the corner of one of her eyes and his heart surged. “You said we both deserved what happened between us. The truth is, I don’t deserve you.”

  “In fact, you don’t have me. Well, you did have me, but so far only the once.” She twisted, agile as a seal, and reaching beneath the water she grabbed his penis through the cloth of his swim shorts. Instantly, he started to stiffen. “But baby, though you may not realize it, you do deserve me. That is something very few people do.”

  She disengaged herself from his genitals, and slowly they swam to the shore, saying nothing. It seemed to Adam that his life had become surreal. This time the previous day he had been with Rob’s friend Amanda, a willowy blonde of a certain age in a green padded gilet and wellingtons, reacquainting himself with handguns and rifles at the underground firing range concealed beneath her Buckinghamshire farm. He surprised himself by how easily he had taken to handling firearms again. With a handgun, he found he could hit the middle of a body-sized target range almost every time. He looked up in time to dodge an oncoming paddle boat. The water suddenly felt heavier, for Adam knew that every stroke was bearing him closer to Gaza.

  Slowly the hours passed. Morgan, attempting to recover from her own ordeal, slept fitfully on the couch. The room was stifling, and although there was a fan, the power, as so often, was off.

  At last Morgan began to stir. Her head throbbed: the after-effects of the drug. Soon she was fully awake. Her eyes went straight to Zainab’s. She was still sitting in the same position, staring into space.

  “You’re still here? Are you okay?” said Morgan.

  “I okay.”

  “Your mouth? How is it?”

  “Is okay. Until now, I not eat. But I think it is possible.”

  “It would be nice if we could wash.”

  “Here no shower.” She pointed at the bucket. “You want toilet?”

  Morgan grimaced, then stretched, yawning. “I guess so. Sorry, Zainab.”

  Zainab turned to face the wall, while Morgan began to handle this primitive arrangement. When she was done, they moved to the table and sat facing each other.

  “Did Karim ever do anything to you like this before?” Morgan asked.

  “No, no. Never.” She shook her head vigorously. “He never touch me. He never yell at me. Before, he always give respect, because of my brother Khalid. But Morgan, before, always I follow him. I not say bad things, I not question him, because he is my emir. Maybe now he hit me because I am bad.”

  “No! This is not your fault!” Morgan was passionate. “No man ever has the right to do what he did to you. You hear me Zainab? You understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Are you a prisoner too like me, now?” Morgan asked softly. “Are we both Karim’s prisoners?”

  “I not know. Is possible. But I think soon he let me go. I stay here in case you sick again.”

  “Do you know where we are?”

  “Yes. It is Yebna. Is very close to border, to Egypt. Very conservative place. It is camp, for refugees, near Rafah. Karim’s people, his family, they live here, so he think he safe.”

  “His tribe is from Yebna?”

  “Yes. He trust the Yebna people.”

  “Are there tunnels in Yebna, Zainab?”

  “Yes. Many tunnels. The Yebna people is making much money. They bring the things from Egypt.”

  There was a knock. “Enter,” Zainab said in Arabic, and Aqil came in, bearing a tray with more water, flatbread and a dish of hummus. He se
t the tray down on the table, and left without a word, but this time, he left the door unlocked. They both began to eat.

  “Zainab, I want to ask you something,” Morgan said. “Do you know where Abdel Nasser is? Did he stay at the farmhouse when we went from that place? Was he also sleeping there? Did he come here with us?”

  “I not see Abdel Nasser. Until now, I not see him. But maybe he is here. Maybe they take him to Yebna.”

  Morgan chewed for a minute, then spoke again, her tone insistent. “Why did you agree to join Karim? I mean, why did you agree to help him when he decided to kidnap me? Did you believe that this would help the Palestinian people become free?”

  Zainab said nothing for a while. At last she took a deep breath: “Before, I think yes. I believe him. He tell me, if we take you, it is good because we show we are stronger than Hamas, and they are haram. But now all is change. I think Karim wants you because it make him feel strong. Before, I love him, I trust him. Not now. He not think about Palestinian people. He only think about Karim.”

  “You know, you could do something, if he lets you leave this house. You understand what I’m saying? You could tell someone where we are—someone from Hamas.”

  Zainab nodded. “I understand. Until now, I am thinking.”

  By the time Adam left the beach, it was getting close to sunset. He strolled through the Bauhaus boulevards toward his hotel, enjoying the warmth and carefree summer atmosphere. Everyone he saw was wearing shorts and flip-flops. He planned a quiet evening on his own, to gather his strength for the encounters soon to come. He was staying at the Cinema Hotel again, and as he pushed through its bronze and glass Art Deco doors, the receptionist beckoned him over.

  “Those gentlemen over there have been waiting for you,” he said in a thick Brooklyn accent, gesturing toward a group of three men sitting at a table by the elevators. “They wouldn’t say who they are, but they said their business is important. I didn’t really feel I had any reason to ask them to leave. I hope that’s okay.”

  Adam looked at the men and shrugged. He had never seen any of them before. “I guess so. I’d better find out what they want.”

  He strolled across the lobby and the oldest of the trio, a slim, balding man in his forties, stood. He was obviously Israeli, wearing sandals and a loose Hawaiian shirt.

  “Mr. Cooper?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Chaim Dore. I am the security correspondent for Maariv. And these are two of my journalistic colleagues.”

  The second man was some years older. He wore a beard and a well-worn, khaki waistcoat of the kind favored by photographers, festooned with pockets. He too stood and held out his hand. “Stephen Pearlstein. I’m the Israel bureau chief for the New York Times. We’re here to talk about your wife, Morgan. We understand she’s been kidnapped in Gaza, while on assignment for the State Department.”

  The last of the three looked altogether different: forty at most, a little overweight, and certainly overdressed; even in the air-conditioned lobby, his Marks and Spencer suit and gaudy silk necktie were making him perspire. “Derek Turner,” he said in a Thames estuary accent. “Like you, I’ve only just arrived—sent out here at short notice, hence my incommodious attire. I’m a reporter from the News of the World.”

  Adam blinked. “I see. Who told you I was here?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose my source,” Turner said. “I hesitate to speak for my colleagues, but I imagine they would feel the same. But whoever told us you’d be here isn’t really the point. As you can see, whoever it was, his or her information was accurate.”

  “And just what is that you want?”

  “A little of your time. An interview, somewhere reasonably private,” Pearlstein said. “I apologize for the intrusion. I know we come at a difficult time. Is there somewhere we can go?”

  “Can you give me a single reason why I shouldn’t tell you all to get lost?”

  Pearlstein looked at him with apparent sympathy. “Of course you’re perfectly welcome to tell us to get lost if you wish. But, sir, it could be that we know things you don’t, and if we could maybe sit and talk, you might hear something from us that could be useful. Plus, the mere fact that you’ve showed up and confirmed who you are is newsworthy. Like it or not, the fact of Morgan Cooper’s kidnapping is a story, and if you’re here too, well, that only makes it more newsworthy. You might be more comfortable if we agree to talk on background. But think about it. What have you got lose?”

  Adam felt helpless, and Pearlstein’s logic sounded irresistible. “Okay. We’ll go to the breakfast room. It should be quiet in there. I’ll see if I can get us some coffee.”

  As a lawyer, Adam had grown used to dealing with reporters, and he liked to think he knew the rules of the game. The important thing was to control the conversation: to say the things you wanted to say, and absolutely nothing else. “Okay,” he said as they sat down at a table. “Unless we later agree something to the contrary, this is all on deep background. No attribution for anything I say to ‘friends of Adam Cooper’ or any other such BS. Is that understood?”

  Dore and Pearlstein replied in the affirmative.

  “For now,” said Turner. “For the time being.”

  “I’m kind of surprised to find you here,” said Adam, looking at Turner with unconcealed disdain. “I wouldn’t have thought an American official being kidnapped in the Middle East is exactly staple fodder for a UK Murdoch tabloid.”

  “Then that’s where you’re wrong,” Turner said with a fleeting snigger. “We take, erm, international relations at both the political and the, erm, personal level very seriously, as it happens. And after all, in your case, there’s also the kiddies to consider.”

  “The kiddies? What do you mean, the kiddies? You leave my children out of this, or this interview is over right now. You got that?”

  “Steady on! Adam, mate, I’m not trying to cause offense. All I’m saying is the fact that your kids are staying with your mum and dad in Oxford—and no, that didn’t come from a confidential source, but a phone call to your father—gives the story an extra, erm, topicality for us, you know what I’m saying? A bit of a domestic angle, shall we say? We’re not about to publish their photos or anything.”

  “Anyhow, let’s get back to the main issue here, shall we?” Pearlstein said with unconcealed irritation. “Let me assure you, the New York Times isn’t concerned with the details of your childcare arrangements, and neither does it wish to intrude on their privacy.”

  “I’d like to begin by making something perfectly clear,” Adam said. “There’s a reason why Morgan’s kidnapping hasn’t been reported thus far. It’s that if you publish a single word about it, you will be placing her in jeopardy. I can’t stress enough how critical this is. But I’ll make you a promise: if you all agree to write nothing for now, I’ll give you all interviews when she’s free—to you and no one else.”

  “That is not possible,” Dore said.

  “What do you mean, it’s not possible? You think you can just sit here and play God?”

  “It’s not possible because Israeli Army Radio is already carrying the story, and has been for the past three hours. Just the basic facts: that she was on a human rights monitoring assignment, that she has not been seen since late March, and that both the American and Israeli authorities have been doing all they can to secure her release. It’s too late.”

  Adam fought for composure. After the weeks of imprecations from everyone at the Agency that he maintain total secrecy, this! “How has this got out?” he asked. “Has there been some kind of briefing?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t disclose what I or other journalists may have been told on the same background conditions under which you’re speaking to us yourself,” Pearlstein said. “Naturally, the last thing any of us want to do is to endanger your wife’s life. But as Chaim says, the secret is out.”

  Adam knew the only thing he could do was somehow to limit the damage. At least
he could try to avoid telling the world that he was in Israel to look for her.

  “All right. I’ll tell you a little about Morgan,” he said. “But only on one condition: that you don’t write that I’m here, because if that gets known, it really isn’t going to help.”

  With seeming reluctance, the three reporters agreed, and for the next half hour, Adam answered their questions. He tried to sound weak and uncontroversial, and to stifle any hint that he planned to go to Gaza. “I’m here because I wanted to be physically closer to her, and I’m optimistic that the chances of her being released soon are improving,” he said. He was also careful not to give the merest hint he had ever felt dissatisfied with the US government’s efforts to free Morgan, and insisted he was clueless as to the kidnappers’ identity.

  “So I guess we’re almost done,” Adam said finally. “But I want to ask you something before you go. Have any of you been in Gaza since the Hamas coup? Not you, obviously, Mr. Turner.”

  Pearlstein shook his head. “Not yet. Hoping to go next week.”

  “For Israelis, it is impossible to go to Gaza since the withdrawal in 2005,” added Dore. “Before, I went. But not now. I talk to people there on their cell phones.”

  “So what do you all think?” asked Adam. “You said maybe I’d learn something if I spoke with you. So tell me. What’s really happening there? How will it affect her chances of freedom?”

  “I am sure Hamas is soon ending the anarchy,” Dore said in his not quite fluent English. “All the armed factions know who is the boss, and if they don’t, they’re going to find out. I would say this means her chances have improved.”

  “One last thing,” Adam said. “You’ve already made clear you can’t betray your sources. But just tell me this. The person who told you I was in Israel, staying at this hotel. Were they Israeli, or American?”

  Dore and Pearlstein exchanged a glance. They both shook their heads. “Sorry,” Pearlstein said. “We just can’t go there.”

  “I see. Well, gentlemen, I can’t pretend it’s been a pleasure, but thank you for your interest. And I’m sure I don’t need to add this, but please, be careful what you write. Don’t make it any harder for the kidnappers to free her. And this you can have on the record: we love Morgan, me, my children, and all the rest of her family. We miss her very much, and we want her back safe.”