Taking Morgan

by David Rose

  “They knew? They fucking knew?” Adam could not stop his voice rising in pitch. “You mean this has all been a set up?”

  “I told you, I don’t have proof. But it is possible, yes.”

  “But why? Why would anyone do that—deliberately put a loyal officer into harm’s way? And with people like that?”

  Ben-Meir wore an expression of helplessness. “I don’t know. I cannot imagine an adequate reason. And as I told you, I could be wrong.”

  “This old colleague you thought you trusted, the guy who asked you to approach Morgan to make sure she went to Gaza, is he the same Israeli you think knew she would be kidnapped? And does he happen to be called Amos? If so, I’ve met him.”

  Ben-Meir gestured apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’ve said enough. I can’t tell you anything more. Just make sure you’re not late at Erez.”

  It’s evening. In the airless Gazan summer, it feels like the hottest part of the day. Morgan sits on the bed in the same room in which she returned to consciousness after her journey from the farmhouse, the room which has become her current cell. She’s sweating, dizzy, and dehydrated; her empty water bottle has not been replaced for hours, and her head is beginning once again to throb. She has had no opportunity to wash, and she wears the same gray sweatpants and gray cotton top in which she was forced to travel; she still smells faintly of vomit. For a moment, she fantasizes about ice-cold sodas and beer, and then about a long-ago August hike in the Catskills, when, feeling as dry as stick insects, she and Adam had peeled off their clothes and bathed naked in a waterfall, followed by a glorious al fresco fuck. At least her thirst means she barely needs to urinate: for this, there is still only the bucket. There is nothing to read, nothing to see, and no one else in the room. Noises penetrate from the outside world, but they seem to make no sense. The window is permanently covered by some kind of shutter that she cannot open from the inside, though she senses she is two or three floors above the ground, perhaps in some kind of apartment block. Earlier today she heard strange sounds, as if something heavy were being manhandled behind her locked door up a flight of concrete stairs; there were grunts of effort, and she thought she recognized one of those grunting as Aqil. Just as in the old days, the only person she has seen lately is Zainab, who once again seems to be able to come and go freely. What has become of Karim, Abu Mustafa, and Abdel Nasser? She has no idea.

  The old normality of her incarceration has been shattered, and the part of her brain that became accustomed to captivity gropes for a new routine. But the part that is still the mind of a trained intelligence officer knows that she is approaching an endgame. Several times during the day, she has heard Israeli F16s flying low, their roars met with shouts of panic from the streets. An hour ago there was a helicopter, hovering for several minutes seemingly just tens of feet above her head. And there is almost no food, only flatbread and a little hummus. No tea, and nothing hot. The power is off for many hours each day.

  She hears at last the only sounds that promise any relief: the key being turned, the heavy bolts on the outside of the door being drawn back.

  “Morgan? I am here.” Zainab.

  She comes in, Aqil with his Kalashnikov close behind. Zainab is carrying a tray. It seems heavier than usual. With a surge of relief, Morgan sees that Aqil is carrying a new, clean bucket, some toilet paper, and two big bottles of water.

  “I have cucumbers,” says Zainab. “More hummus, olives, dates, and bread. This can, is tuna. Here, more water. Now I take bucket. Aqil has new one.” She sets the tray down beside Morgan on the mattress, and takes the impromptu chamber pot. As she bends, her face is momentarily hidden from Aqil. She looks straight at Morgan, grins, nods, and, with extravagant theatricality, she winks.

  “Is done,” Zainab whispers. “What we talk about. Is done.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Monday, June 25, 2007

  Adam needed no persuading to follow Ben-Meir’s instructions. After they had finished their meal, he strolled back to the hotel through Tel Aviv’s carefree streets, feeling tempted to call the children; he was likely to be gone for several days, and if anything were to go wrong, at least they would have heard him reassure them of his love. But he knew his communications were almost certainly being monitored, and so sent only a short email to his parents. In this he told a lie, that he planned to visit the US embassy at some point over the next couple of days, and afterward would decide what to do.

  To his surprise, he slept relatively well, then rose at five, slipping out of the hotel with only a light backpack, telling the sleepy receptionist he was going to take a walk. So far as he could ascertain, there was no one following him, but nonetheless he took basic precautions, strolling by a convoluted route to a taxi rank near the seafront. He bought some coffee and a pastry from an all-night kiosk, then woke a dozing driver. As they left the city, the streets were still deserted, and Adam was standing in the Erez parking lot by seven fifteen. A uniformed IDF officer who had watched him arrive waved at him through the plateglass door of the terminal and unlocked it.

  “Mr. Cooper?”

  “Yes.” There was no one else in the huge, echoing hall. The man took his passport, squinted at it, then unlocked the door to one of the booths with a bunch of keys which hung from a chain. He found a pad and stamped it, handed it back to Adam, and pointed to the door which led to Gaza.

  “The CCTV will be off for less than five minutes. Don’t look back.” Moments later Adam was in the yard, waiting by the sliding electronic door in the security fence. It opened and he stepped through. This early, there was no one on the far side: no sign of the usual gaggle of drivers and hungry-looking porters. He strode down the walkway alone, and across the sandy wasteland beyond. Finally he reached the wooden shack that served as the Palestinian border checkpoint. A small group of armed Hamas militiamen dressed in blue fatigues stood by while one of their colleagues unlocked it. As Adam approached, one of them walked toward him, weapon at the ready.

  “Amriki?” he said. “Sahafi? Journalist?”

  “Yes, I have an American passport,” Adam said. The man beckoned him toward the shack, where a new printed sign warned that any alcohol discovered in luggage would be poured away on the spot. High above, invisible, Adam recognized the buzzing of an Israeli drone.

  “You are early,” the Hamas militiaman said. “Border is closed. How you come at this time?”

  “I have, er, an appointment,” said Adam, ignoring the man’s question. “Please, I must call my friend, Khader Abu Fares.”

  The Hamas man sounded impressed. “You know Doctor Khader? You have his number?”

  With a momentary stab of panic, Adam realized the only number he knew was the one that Bashir had given to him weeks earlier at their unfortunate encounter in Lod. Fortunately, he still remembered it. He reached for his phone, but the border guard offered his.

  “Please. You can try.”

  Adam punched in the numbers, and Khader answered almost immediately. As soon as Adam identified himself, he was effusive.

  “Adam! Habibi! Welcome back to Gaza! You wait there ten minutes. I am sending a driver for you. I think this is a great piece of luck that you have come today. It is an excellent time for your visit.”

  In less than twenty minutes, a black SUV with tinted windows was racing up the road toward them. It stopped beside the shack. Another man in blue fatigues emerged, opened one of the passenger doors, and motioned for Adam to get in. Every trace of the anarchic chaos which had been so visible during his last visit had disappeared. There were no roadblocks, and despite the three-wheelers and the pony carts, the morning traffic moved smoothly. Along the road there were stalls, selling dusty fruit and vegetables, and bread shops with orderly queues. They passed a line of teenage girls on their way to school, neat in their dark blue uniforms and gleaming white headscarves. Soon the vehicle was easing through the gates of a high-walled compound. It stopped at the entrance to a three-story building, with a broad covered porch and a p
ortico framed by bougainvillea. A sign stated that Adam was entering the headquarters of the Palestinian Authority Preventive Security Organization. The description, he mused, was out of date; according to the news media, all the Preventive Security Organization’s members in Gaza were dead, in jail, or at home, having been fired and disarmed by the Gaza Strip’s new rulers. Khader, who was also wearing the ubiquitous blue fatigues, was standing by the doors to welcome him. As Adam got out, he embraced him warmly.

  “Come. We will go to my office. I have news.”

  They climbed a pale marble staircase, then turned left along a corridor. There was a sense of bustle: officials came and went along the corridor and in and out of its offices, some in uniform, others in pressed trousers and smart, short-sleeved shirts. Most were clutching files. Toward the corridor’s end, Khader opened the door to an anteroom and bid Adam go in front of him. He paused to exchange a few words with his assistant, a young woman in a long-sleeved dark gray dress and headscarf, then led Adam into a spacious office with air conditioning, a hardwood desk, a new computer, and a large-scale map of Gaza pinned to the wall. Two black leather sofas and an armchair were arranged around a coffee table.

  “You will take coffee or tea?”

  Adam asked for tea with mint.

  Khader gave orders to the assistant through the open door.

  “Nice office,” Adam said.

  “I think it has been built with the generosity of European Union taxpayers,” Khader said. “So, thanks to them for that, and thanks to God you are here, anyhow.”

  While they waited for the tea, Khader inquired after the children, and how Adam had been coping. When their drinks arrived, he stood, and closed the door.

  “Yalla. So.” He looked up at Adam and fixed him with his dark brown eyes, smiling triumphantly. “Our intelligence staff have been busy. Since we have restored order, we have checked many leads, many sources of information. The power of the criminal collaborators with the Zionist entity who controlled the place where we sit has been smashed. The people feel safe again, and they trust us. Because of that, they are happy to give us information. This is the reason that we now know much more about the Janbiya al-Islam. We know the name of their leader. It is Karim Musleh. He is a very dangerous man, and he has fought in Afghanistan, the Balkans, and Chechnya. As I told you before, he is a takfiri; he believes that people who do not agree with him are not Muslims, and can be killed with impunity. We also know his deputy; he is a Jordanian Palestinian. His name is Abu Mustafa. And here is the best news. We know where they are holding your wife. I hope you are ready, because we are planning to free her very soon. Tonight.”

  Morgan has spent half the night brooding on her conversation with Zainab. Now, as she wonders whether she really has managed to set in train the events that may lead to a rescue, she hears a sound through the wall, a cross between a gasp and a whimper, as if an errant pet has been struck a cruel and unexpected blow. The thin masonry barely muffles what follows: thumps on the floor, the footfalls of someone trying but failing to get away from an assailant, the rattle of a door handle that has been locked, and a succession of yelps, first of anger, and then, unmistakably, of pain. There is sobbing, and Zainab’s voice shouting in Arabic; as before, Morgan catches the word haram. A chair or some other piece of furniture is knocked over, a booming vibration that makes the floor of her own room shake, and something else heavy falls to the floor: a softer impact this time, that of a human body. A guttural male voice yells, and increasingly its owner sounds out of breath; it’s the voice of someone who doesn’t keep in shape, and relies on sheer bulk. It must be Aqil. She makes out a few more words: “sharmoutah,” the Arabic term for “bitch,” spat out with terrifying venom, and bint himaar, “daughter of a donkey.” He follows them with something worse; now he’s calling Zainab khoos umk, “your mother’s cunt,” a phrase as taboo in Arabic as it is in American, and barking an order: kol eyri, “eat my dick.”

  This last evokes an anguished protest. Morgan hears the sound of another blow, and then a piercing scream. Thus far, none of these sounds transmitted across the lathe and plaster barrier that separates her from Zainab and Aqil has had any kind of pattern. They’ve been the sounds of a ragged, uneven attack. Now, however, they become more rhythmic. The man stops speaking, and his grunts are deeper, more visceral. As well as effort, there is pleasure in them, a gleeful slavering as the noises emerge: he is enjoying himself. Morgan imagines him sweating, his dirty breath and yellow teeth in Zainab’s face, and she trembles as she hears Zainab’s shrieks mount in their pitch and intensity.

  Finally they find a rhythm. She is screaming now with all the air in her lungs, a metronomic, disembodied ululation, four high Cs to the bar, a hundred beats to the minute, allegro fortissimo, a song of pain and desperation. The blood rushes to Morgan’s head. She cannot simply sit here while Zainab is raped. Whatever it takes, she must do what she can to stop this happening.

  She starts by banging and kicking on the locked door, careless of her safety or the consequences. Let the neighbors hear her yelling in English: it can’t make anything worse. “Let me out, you motherfuckers! I am telling you, let me out! You call yourselves Muslims and you let this bastard commit rape, so stop, stop, stop, right now! This is haram. Let me out!” Nothing happens, and Zainab’s cries continue, more distressing than ever. Aqil sounds as if he is close to his climax, and Morgan turns her attention to the wall. Picking up a chair, she begins to batter it, in the hope she will break it down. She sees the first layers flake, and she batters it again with redoubled strength: in less than a minute, she thinks, she will be through. With more blows, she feels it beginning to give. She swings the chair again and again, gasping with the effort; for a moment she pauses for breath. Zainab’s screaming has stopped. Then the door is flung open, a shadow fills her horizon, and someone pounds her head with a rifle butt. The darkness is instantaneous.

  When she comes to, she is lying on the floor, her hands bound tightly in front of her. With a stab of shame she realizes she has soiled herself: her legs are wet, and there is the sharp smell of urine. Karim is standing over her. In one hand he holds a pistol, in the other three white tablets—a triple dose of sleeping pills.

  “You sit,” he says.

  She obeys, struggling to wrest herself upright.

  “Now listen. I don’t worry if you die. But you make this noise, is dangerous for me. You take this, or I kill you now. You will sleep.”

  She takes the tablet from him. At least it’s not another injection. She wonders whether she can only pretend to swallow it, but after handing her a bottle of water, Karim first watches as she takes a gulp, then forces her jaws open and inspects the inside of her mouth. He leaves and locks the door. As the minutes pass, she feels unconsciousness return.

  When she finally awakes, she feels groggy and disoriented. There is no electricity, and outside the light has almost gone. But through the gloom, she sees that a belt-fed heavy machine gun on a black steel tripod has been dragged into the room and placed by the window. Her head throbs, both at the front and on one side; a combination of dehydration and the effects of the blow. The pain in her temple is sharp, and when she moves her jaw she cries out involuntarily: she prays her skull has not been fractured. She looks to the corner and she sees she is not alone. Watching her wake is Abu Mustafa, the whites of his eyes gleaming orbs. He moves across the room toward her, his motion almost silent.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, softly.

  “What the fuck do you care?” She feels her arms cramp. “Can you at least untie my hands? These plastic cuffs are really tight, and I feel as if the circulation to my hands is being cut off. And give me some water?”

  “I am sorry. I am truly sorry for what has happened.” He is whispering. “You must know what I think. You surely recognize that I am not a barbarian. Aqil is an animal, and his behavior disgusts me.” He grimaces, then helps her sit, unscrews the top from a bottle of water, and holds it to her lips. She drinks t
hirstily. He offers an arm, and she staggers to sit on the couch.

  “I am sorry, but I cannot untie you. Karim will be back. Aqil is just outside. But Morgan, please, we must talk. We do not have much time.”

  All afternoon and well into the evening, Adam has waited at Khader’s headquarters, mostly on his own, in some kind of common room. A television fixed high on a wall plays Al Jazeera in Arabic, and from time to time Khader’s assistant brings him tea. He has nothing to read, so he has nothing to do but fret. At six o’clock, two men in uniform who speak almost no English took him down a corridor to the building’s Spartan canteen, where they ate hummus, a finely chopped salad, cold flatbread, and chicken. Afterward, Adam returned to the common room, where he snatched a nap on the couch. At around nine o’clock, Khader reappears. He is carrying a map and other papers. He sits down, and spreads the map out on a low table.

  “I’m sorry I had to leave you alone for so long,” he says. “But I know you will understand. We are planning our operation. Insh’Allah, in just a few hours, we will be celebrating success here together with your wife.”

  “Insh’Allah. So tell me. What are we planning to do?”

  “We? I do not think you can come with us. It could be dangerous. You should wait here.”

  “No.” Adam is firm, insistent. “I’m not going to do that, Khader. I’ve come this far, and I’m not going to back out now. And anyway, if I’m with you guys, when Morgan sees me, she’ll know this is a rescue operation, not another attempted kidnap. My presence could really help. Who knows? Maybe she’ll get some chance to escape.” Adam smiles. “And besides, since you and I last met, I’ve had some shooting practice. Give me a gun, Khader. I know how to use it.”