by Rose Fox
“Delay your arrival till eleven fifteen, and let them blow their fuse.” And he laughed at his double entendre.
“I get it.”
“You will board the ship at exactly eleven o’clock with a different “Bentley.” Listen carefully. Its number-plate AS-102 is almost exactly the same as the car you’re sitting in now.”
“Register at “The King’s Hotel” in the Maestri working class neighborhood for the next two nights, under the name “Barzani.” Karma guffawed.
“Once a Kurd, always a Kurd,” he said, “and where will I change cars?”
“I will make the exchange. Remember, there will be a different explosive device in the car I will bring you. It will exactly like the original plan you received and you will attach it to the underbelly of the other car, exactly as they told you.”
He reached the hotel at almost noon and parked the luxury vehicle on the slope of the parking lot. He got the key to his room and before going to the room he remembered to check that the registration number of the vehicle he arrived with was MS-102, a difference of only the first letter. Only now, did he understand that he had traveled all the way there with a bomb, set to explode and kill him at exactly ten o’clock, the time they had instructed him to board the ship.
He locked the door when he entered his room and to make breaking in difficult he went to considerable effort to drag an armchair on a rug and pushed it up against the door. He dashed into the shower and left the door open then stood under the flowing water for a long time.
Four hours later another “Bentley”, driven by Timmy, arrived at the hotel. He wore a hat, pulled low over his forehead and he entered the red, terracotta paved yard and stopped close to the guard. Timmy presented the pre-agreed identity card and the barrier was raised. The car slid smoothly down to the parking garage under the building. The headlights illuminated long rows of vehicles till they fell on an identical car. Tim parked his car that bore the license plate number, AS-102, checked again that the bomb in the glove compartment was set for a quarter past eleven, locked it and heard two short beeps. He hung the keys on the arm of the left mirror and walked to the other car, with the registration number, MS-102.
Timmy drove it out of the parking garage and parked close to the opposite sidewalk interleaved among other vehicles parked under a conifer that was shedding pine needles all over them. He lowered the back of the seat and fell asleep within minutes on a the comfortable upholstery.
And so it was that at one and the same moment, two drivers were fast asleep in two separate and identical “Bentleys”, thousands of miles apart in two different countries.
* * *
A few minutes ago, Abigail decided that she was late enough to confirm she was pregnant and couldn’t decide whether it ruined her life or made her happy.
Just then, Alice called and Abigail answered her distractedly.
“Hi, my dear, where are you right now?” she heard.
“I’m at home, just waiting for your call,” Abigail replied and heard Alice giggle with pleasure.
“You see, that’s what I love about you and that’s why I miss you so much,” and she added in the same breath:
“And so, we’re coming to fetch the Öcalan couple in another two days.”
“Wait, right now I’m only half the Öcalan couple, because the other half is touring around the country."
“Work or play?”
“He told me it was for play.”
“And do you accept and agree to that?”
Abigail wondered if this wasn’t the right moment to share the news of her pregnancy with her friend, when she heard Alice saying:
“I called you because we are planning to go shopping and sightseeing in Baku and I thought that…”
“Oh, how wonderful!” Abigail enthused, remembering her trip with Ilia to that beautiful city’s markets a few weeks earlier.
“Have you ever been there, Naima?”
“Yes, but that’s no reason to give up on another trip there. On the contrary, it left me with an appetite for more.”
So, it’s a date, Wednesday morning, at eight, so that we can manage as much as possible.”
“Should I come to you at eight in the morning?”
“No, of course not! Stay at home and wait for our driver to blow his horn.” She said and as Abigail was about to hang up she heard: "Karim is shouting to remind me to send our beauty his warm regards.”
Just then beeps from the radio communications device were heard and she went to decipher the coded message.
“Suleiman Lane at 11:00. Explanation of Savior Assignment procedure to be delivered close to appointed time.”
She glanced at the clock facing her. It was almost nine in the morning which meant that she would have to leave in an hour.
She assumed she would receive instructions for carrying out the assignment.
Now, she completely forgot her conversation with Alice and their planned meeting had been pushed to the corner of her mind. Even the recent awareness of her of pregnancy was completely ignored and her thoughts were focused now on checking the whereabouts of Suleiman Lane. She recalled a central street called ‘Lane’ that had stores and commercial buildings.
She parked two streets away and slowly made her way to it walking among people, as she surveyed the goods displayed in boxes, whose contents spread out on the sidewalks.
Two men in suits walked along the street, but then she observed that they were a man and a woman. The woman was dressed in a tailored suit and wore a black tie, just like her male partner. They were followed by a short Chinese woman carrying a straw basket with an infant inside it. Another couple, behind them, was also accompanied by a Chinese woman holding a straw basket containing a baby.
Someone touched her shoulder and she jumped in fright. It was a tall man, who signaled her to follow him. He blurted out the word “Savior” and followed close on the couples as if bringing up the rear.
They entered a building and a wooden door closed behind them. The place was dimly lit, crowded and looked like a house of worship. The tall man stood beside her, his palms pressed together as if he in prayer.
“Why here?” she hissed and also clasped her hands like him.
“Because we won’t be bothered here,” he whispered and added:
“I’m Kamil and you are about to hear about a radioactive process."
The Chinese women laid down the straw baskets on the floor and she observed that the babies inside them were actually dolls. The two baskets were raised to the rhythm of a song, and Kamil whispered to her:
“Listen to the words because their content explains the process. They are recorded, so you will be able to listen to them again.”
Each time the words, “Our Lord and Savior” were said, she saw how they raised the baskets with the dolls inside them as if they were a sacrificial offering. The metallic sounds of a harpsichord emanated from a radio and Abigail presumed that the device was also recording.
“When our Lord and Savior descends this Sabbath between the rods –
Between the rods,
In the area of the fuel and the receptor material –
The receptor material.”
Kamil pointed to the show in front of her and she closed and opened her eyes to show she understood that this Saturday she would go to a reactor where a nuclear procedure would occur.
A flame was lit in the center of the yard and a cart, in which rods were stuck, rolled in and stopped to the rear of the fire. Abigail recalled that nuclear fuel was usually arranged in reactors in the shape of rods and you can control their power and monitor the fission process that is generated in them and lasts a long time. She realized she was receiving a clear illustration of the process.
One of the couples dressed in men’s tailored suits drew another cart of rods and brought it very close to the fire. The woman began singing in a pleasant throaty voice:
“Our Lord lays them out like rods,
And the fire – pishp
eshash – splits us,”
And immediately after her, the man’s deep, strong voice responded:
“Our Savior receives our little friends –
And he – pssst – will stop and soothe us.”
Abigail smiled, understanding that “our little friends” that are received in the additional rods are a name for the neutrons that slow down the chain reaction of the process and calm it.
She wondered who had written the lyrics about the phenomena of the reactor that were being sung to a religious song like this.
“Ho, our Lord, the further we infiltrate the lines of fire –
So is our strength determined.
The more our Lord pushes us, the closer to –“
The song ended and a scream was suddenly heard:
“Pouff!!”
The fire went out and the melody ended, as a strong smell of plastic floated in the air. At that very moment, someone threw the doll babies on the spot where a moment earlier, the fire had burned and Abigail screamed and covered her eyes.
Silence fell so suddenly that her ears hurt and she peeped through her fingers. The dolls, which had been thrown on the source of the extinguished fire, twisted and turned into a foul-smelling colored liquid. All at once, Abigail felt pity of the doll-babies, perceived by her to be innocents that were being destroyed and tears welled up in her eyes.
Kamil pressed a small instrument into her hand and nodded to signify that the event had ended.
Abigail left the building, closed the large wooden door behind her and heard the jarring sound of its hinges. The daylight blinded her. The lips of a woman facing her moved, as she apparently spoke to her. Abigail heard her ask whether she needed help and what had happened to her.
“Thank you, I suddenly felt unwell but now, everything is fine.”
She felt so nauseous and dizzy that she did not object to the woman slipping her arm under her armpit and supporting her. She led her to an old wooden bench under one of the trees. When the woman left, she got up from the bench, leaned her head against the tree and vomited into the earth around it.
She found herself wondering what purpose had been served by watching such a ceremony and show. She didn’t notice the woman, who had accompanied her, was watching her from a distance.
* * *
Effendi Khaidar
The beep of an incoming call was heard on his telephone and Khaidar glanced at it.
“Call urgently.”
Effendi called immediately and raised an eyebrow when he heard the voice speaking to him. It was his friend, Mustafa, but his voice sounded estranged and distant and not like that of a friend. He thought that something could be wrong until he heard the first sentence.
“The Kurd is driving a car just like yours. He’s in Italy and is planning to kill you.”
“What, what?”
“He’s staying at “The King’s Hotel,” in the working-class neighborhood of Maestri. In the underground parking garage, there is an identical car to yours with a bomb set to explode on Saturday, ten o’clock at night.”
After a pause, Effendi heard the words:
“Take care.”
“How will he come to me this Saturday night?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t risk it. I would go to him, neutralize his plan, the bomb and him,” he said and hung up.
Effendi was not at ease and his suspicions had been aroused. He was familiar with the people in his organization and feared that this may be an attempt to trap him. This conversation reminded him of one he had held with his good friend, Rulam, who had invited him for coffee at “Amana” and he paused to reconsider his situation.
‘It’s a quarter past eight in the morning,’ he said to himself. ‘If I drive without a stop to “The King’s Hotel” in Italy, I will only arrive the day after tomorrow at night. In other words, in three days’ time,’ and he hesitated again.
If he connects the sense of alienation of Rolan's last night and Mustafa's today, and decide to wait - it may have been acting rather not risking his life. but that's not what happened.
Now, he thought to himself. ‘What if it’s really true?’
He decided not to take a chance and set off on the long journey, intending to reach his brother-in-law and check it out.
The sun made its way across the sky, the heat was intense and he looked for a place to rest. A sign directed him to a caravan park and Effendi, who was exhausted from the continuous driving, turned into a large plot, full of vehicles.
When he got out of his car, he stamped his feet and enjoyed the renewed flow of blood in his arteries. All around him were colorful containers that served as roadside kiosks and he made his way to one of them.
“A bottle of coke, please.”
Children ran around gleefully and he smiled. They reminded him of his two nieces, Kahit and Naziah, the daughters of his sister and Karma, the man he had been told today, was a threat to his life.
The kiosk owner looked at him and asked,
“What do you want?"
“Give me a hot dog,” he said as his eyes followed a little girl running away from a boy, who was chasing her. She fell on the sand, picked herself up and carried on running.
“Mustard? Some Salad?” the kiosk owner waited and followed Effendi’s gaze. “Kids, eh?" he laughed. “Are you missing yours?”
“Ah, yes,” Effendi replied, noticing the sliced bread roll in his hand.
“Add anything you wish.” He said and his mood improved. He waved his hand, refusing the change.
“Hey, how much longer is it to the Czech border?” He asked as he bit hungrily into the hot dog, only now realizing how hungry he was. A young man standing beside him said:
“If you take me with you, I can show you the way to the border.”
“What’s your destination?” Effendi asked him and decided at once that the journey would be pleasanter in the company of a passenger. They both took their meal to the car and Effendi noticed that the young man had a limp.
All the while, a yellow light flashed on Michael’s beeper, indicating that Effendi Khaidar’s car was at present in the Ukraine, close to the Czech border, and he was surprised. He called his son, Timmy, who was still sitting in the identical car under the tree opposite “The King’s Hotel” in Italy.
“Timmy, he’s near the Czech border.”
“Is that so? What’s the distance between us and what time do you estimate he will get here?"
“I’m not certain he knows about the car swap.”
Just then the light flashed to indicate that the car had changed its position and Michael summed up that he would call when he discovered where Effendi was heading to.
An hour later Effendi crossed the Czech border, glanced at the young, fair-haired man, who sat beside him and wondered whether to wake him up now or continue further on with him. All at once, he noticed that he was peeping at him through a crack in his eyes. The youngster straightened up in his seat and began by saying:
“I’m Oleg.” He paused for a second then continued speaking.
“Where do you come from, man, and where are you going, eh?”
Effendi glanced at him briefly and continued driving, watching the excellent highway racing beneath them. The young man casually put his arms out towards the glove compartment in front of him, where the bomb was hidden in a square box, and Effendi sat bolt upright in alarm. The sensitive steering of the car responded immediately to his fright and the car began to zigzag almost as if it was about to capsize. Effendi pumped the brakes and steadied the car to cruising again, but his elevated heart rate led him to slow down and stop. He turned to the youngster in anger, but the latter behaved as though what happened had nothing to do with him.
“Sorry, may I move to the back seat?” he asked. “I’m exhausted and this car is fantastic. What comfortable seats it has. I can imagine the back seat is as comfortable as a bed.”
His manner annoyed Effendi and he wanted to ask him to get out right away but, Ol
eg got out of the seat beside him and opened the rear door. Suddenly alerted, he cried out:
“Look I found a lovely silver button fixed to the padding of the car door.” He picked it up and examined it. Effendi stared at the tiny button and understood that he was now under surveillance.
“Give that to me!” he yelled and the young man recoiled.
“You’re being followed,” he told Effendi, still standing outside the car, “are you running away from someone or smuggling something?”
This was the last straw for Effendi. In his anger, he accelerated and the car leaped forward with its rear door still open. In his rear-view mirror, he noticed that the fellow was talking on his telephone. Effendi stopped and reversed. When Oleg saw the car reversing, he threw away the surveillance bug and ran in the opposite direction, as he shook his phone.
Effendi stopped the car, took his revolver out of his pocket, aimed at the back of the fleeing youngster and fired twice. Oleg stopped on the spot, threw his arms out to his sides and fell on his face as the telephone flew out of his grasp.
Effendi came out and ran him, turned him over with his shoe and stared at his expressionless eyes. Voices were heard coming from the telephone that had fallen on the road and Effendi picked it up and placed it to his ear. He heard words in Arabic and someone calling:
“Nimar, speak to me! I heard shots. What’s happening there?”
Effendi pressed the key, ended the call and put the telephone in his pocket. He pushed the young man’s body to the shoulder of the roadway with his foot. When he returned to his car, which was still idling, he thought about the words he had heard on the telephone. He stopped again on the side and pulled the phone out of his pocket to check where the call was from. On the monitor the number 112 appeared and he realized that the fellow had called the Ukraine police, probably to snitch on him.
“That’s all I need now – the Police!” he yelled and used the instrument to make a call right away.
“Jurgen, go to the Czech border!” he demanded, “one or two kilometers before the descent to Italy. Get rid of a body lying on the side of the road before the flies and the police get to it.” A second later, he added: “Come unarmed.”
