Abigail Spy Or Die

by Rose Fox

  “The woman’s name is Rania. She has blue eyes and a good head on her shoulders and she is exceptionally beautiful.”

  “How do you know? What led you to that conclusion? I mean that she has a ‘good head on her shoulders.”

  ”She is well informed and has a quick grasp,” he explained and avoided saying that she had reservations about him.

  “What did they talk about, what did they say? Tell us, speak, why do we have to extricate these things from you by force?”

  “Fine, so, I said that the ‘Mossad’ was planning a clandestine activity at our strategic sites and the people in charge did not correct me.”

  “Yes, what else?”

  “The Jewish woman stared at me in amazement.”

  “Yes, yes, continue,” Fereydoun instructed.

  Mas’habi omitted to tell them about his argument with Abigail about the reactor in Bushehr. He racked his brain desperately to recall the details of their conversation.

  “Well, what else was said there?”

  “Ah, yes, I asked her where she was from, and she replied that she was from Tel-Aviv. When I inquired whether she lived alone and when she began working for the ‘Mossad’, she avoided answering.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She asked if we were supposed to be friends. The truth is, I tried to persuade her to tell me a little more about herself, but I was unable to get her to do so.”

  “What a pity, it’s not like you. I thought you had more expertise in extricating information.”

  “I said from the start that perhaps it was worthless.” Mas’habi apologized.

  He raised his glass, which was already empty and turned it up to his mouth, looking for more drops of Coca-Cola and distracting himself. He seemed embarrassed at the remark they had just made about him.

  “Do you have any idea when this Jewish spy will arrive here? Can you also get to Aisha?”

  “I’m not certain, I think she is learning Persian and I guess she is due to arrive here soon on some assignment.”

  “Fine, firstly, it’s a good idea to eliminate Aisha,” Fereydoun announced and raised his hand, on which he wore a gold ring on his pinkie. This was his way of signaling that the meeting was over. Mas’habi rose, nodded his head and slowly left the room. He knew that he had not satisfied the intelligence officials, and a chilling feeling grabbed at his heart.

  At the door, the noise of the masses outside could already be heard. Mas’habi went down the stairs slowly and, out on the street, he searched for the car he had left there with some concern. But other than rivers of shouting people, pushing their way, he couldn’t find his car. As he moved ahead, he saw the car but a gang of people surrounded it and were shouting and waving sticks. They broke the windows and turned the car over on its roof as if it was no more than a toy. They egged themselves on with their roars, and one of them threw a burning plank through the windows into the building beside them. Within a minute, flames rose up high and black smoke billowed out of the building as the crowd raged even more.

  Mas’habi wondered what he should do. He retreated and decided to move ahead in the opposite direction to that of the crowds and barely managed to reach the entrance to the next building. There, he entered the stairwell and sat down on one of the steps, panted hard.

  Opposite he noticed a familiar figure and recognized him as Rulam. The man had a gun and his eyes were searching around. It was clear to Mas’habi that he was looking for him and that his life was now in great jeopardy.

  Indeed, he understood that the members of the committee, which he had just left, did not regard him favorably. But, he didn’t imagine for a moment that they were trying to get rid of him.

  ‘What to do, now?’ he pondered.

  He stood up and clung to the wall while he analyzed his situation. He realized that he should leave the country immediately and also understood that they were likely to make it difficult for him to escape. His brain worked feverishly. He felt he needed to get out and escape but forced himself to stand still and think slowly.

  ‘If they decided to annihilate me five minutes ago, the instructions might not have reached the Revolutionary Guards yet,’ he thought, and decided on the spot:

  ‘I’m not going to wait even one more second. I have to find transport because every minute counts.’

  Mas’habi peered outside and decided this was exactly the right moment to merge with the enormous crowd and disappear by mixing with the people. He went out of the entrance, marched with the throng, his eyes all the time seeking any possible vehicle that might speed him away to the country’s borders.

  He continued walking for another two minutes when he heard the shots. Suddenly he was hit in the back of his head, and everything went dark. He didn’t fall immediately because the dense crowds moved ahead as one body and bore him along, pressed between them. Blood sprayed forth from the two holes, one behind his ear and the other on his neck. The shots caused panic among the crowds. People began pushing one another and running wildly, and Mas’habi slipped between them to the ground and was trampled underfoot by the frightened masses. Dragged along the road, his body was mutilated almost beyond recognition.

  A quarter of an hour later, Rulam returned to the conference room and threw an object attached to brown strips of tape down on the table. Fereydoun frowned inquiringly at him, and Rulam spoke quietly:

  “They taped a recording device to his body.”

  “Oh, what a bastard! The scoundrel was playing a double game. He transmitted what we said to them and it would be interesting to know if he reported what he heard there to us.”

  All at once, Fereydoun roared:

  “Idiot, why did you kill him?! We should have strung him up in the Public Square like any ordinary spy we discover!”

  “That’s right! What a son of a bitch! We should have left him hanging for everyone to see what we do with a double traitor!” said Omar, excitedly, while Rulam remained silent.

  “Why are you silent? Why did you shoot him?”

  “Because I think that it’s important to eliminate a traitor like that immediately and on the spot,” he said. Fereydoun lowered his voice and answered him quietly:

  “So, how will the ‘Mossad’ know that he also betrayed them and was a double agent?”

  “We have to issue a notification of his capture with a photograph of his corpse.”

  “Where is that scoundrel’s corpse?”

  “Down below, on the street. I ordered them to drag it into the building.”

  “Well, at least you handled matters sensibly, as you should,” Fereydoun remarked and Rulam blushed at the unexpected compliment, sat down and excitedly began recounting his recent adventure.

  “The traitor tried to disappear among the demonstrators. I noticed him leave the building next door and attempt to blend into the crowd.” A note of pride rang in his voice. He dabbed the perspiration on his face with his sleeve and continued:

  “Gentlemen, I think it’s important to warn you that what is going on outside is about to get out of hand. Those hooligans are destroying everything, and I don’t know what we’re waiting for.”

  The echoes of rounds of fire penetrating the room were a response to Rulam’s remarks. Smiles spread, once more, on the lips of the bearded men.

  “That sounds good; the armed forces have apparently arrived and are dealing with the rioters.”

  With the gunfire in the background, Rulam glanced at Fereydoun and spoke.

  “I will sum up, the information we got from the traitor.”

  “If you’re referring to Aisha and that Rania with the blue eyes, then we’ll find a similar solution to the one you found.”

  “What?” Rulam insisted.

  The first step is to instruct border security to look out for a beautiful woman with blue eyes. What’s not clear about that?” Fereydoun replied.

  “And, when they catch her?”

  “Bring her to me and her fate will be like I suggested you should have
done with the traitor you killed.”

  Shortly after that, a photograph of Mas’habi’s mutilated body lay on Fereydoun’s desk.

  “Wow,” he exclaimed, “It’s impossible to recognize him! Perhaps we should blur those marks?” he suggested and pointed to the picture that even he found shocking.

  “Let the Zionists work out how he landed up in this condition, ha!” added Omar, who was Fereydoun’s right-hand man.

  “Good, then publish it!”

  *

  That day, a special edition of the Iranian newspaper, “Inshallah” appeared. Plastered on the front page was a photograph of the mutilated remains of Mas’habi and, indeed, it was hard to recognize him. His light-colored eyes were open on his disfigured face. Strips torn from his shirt revealed deep wounds, scratches, and purple bruises. The headline read:

  Iran Killed the Agent Planted by the Mossad

  The computer printout lay on the table in the apartment on Hagilgal Street in Ramat Gan. The two ‘Mossad’ agents, Barak and San, read the article and Barak tapped it and said:

  “Did they plant him with us?”

  “Yes, it’s possible. Abigail also distrusted him from the moment she saw him.”

  “Hey, you mean, Rania, right?”

  “Oops!”

  “That’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay. We make her feel guilty when we find her reacting instinctively to her former name,” he said as he glanced at the article again and suggested:

  “If it’s true that he was their plant, I wonder what information he passed on from our meeting with him, for example.”

  “It’s quite clear to me. He passed on details about Rania and, perhaps, even of Aisha, who came to the apartment that day.”

  “Do you know what I’m thinking, right now?”

  “The same as I am. That we cancel the plans he knew, the codes and…”

  ”Amazingly, the first thing that comes to mind is changing our agent’s name, which even we couldn‘t get accustomed to.”

  “What, again? That’s too much. At birth, they named her Naima, then, she got the name Abigail and now she’s Rania.”

  “Wait, you’re a genius, she can go back to her usual name, Abigail.”

  “No, I suggest she goes back to her name she had when she was born. Then see how fast she’ll get moving!”

  “Do you know what? I accept your idea, but about the color of her eyes, he probably reported what he saw – blue eyes.”

  “Right! So, she can go back to her natural eye color and get rid of the lenses.”

  Abigail arrived at their next meeting, blinking incessantly and wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. She could hardly open her eyes in the morning because the discharge from her eyes stuck her lashes together.

  “I need eye drops. My left eye is killing me and the other is also itchy.”

  “No, Naima, perhaps you should remove the lenses,” Barak suggested.

  “Remove them? Wait, what did you call me?” She stopped wiping her eyes and stared at him.

  “Naima. That’s your name, isn’t it?” She peered at him with her blue eyes, moving her gaze from him to San and smiled.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because I understand; you’re removing my new persona so that the miserable Iranian will appear to have misled them, right? I’d love to know how they caught him out.”

  “You also suspected him.”

  “But I didn’t think he was a double agent. I was bothered by the story that he left and returned to Iran twice and also at his arrogance when he boasted that his father was a genuine Persian… Big deal, a pure Persian,” she mocked.

  “Really? What’s special about that? I don’t understand. How does the fact that a man admires his father make him a traitor?”

  “I think that’s an unnecessary remark that has nothing to do with anything. Sure, he was a natural born Iranian so there was no chance that he would betray his roots.”

  “I don’t agree with you, but it was one of the considerations that led us to return you to your roots.”

  Abigail laughed with pleasure.

  “I have to admit that this time I’m delighted with your decision. If you please, I am going to arrange it immediately.”

  She left and went out of the room. San rapped his fingers on the table and said:

  “I’m worried and trying to go back and scan through the protocol to check what we said that day.”

  “Yes, we have to change codes, passwords, and pre-agreed signals.”

  “Of course, that’s why I invited Foxy and Zaguri to come here today.”

  At that moment, Abigail came into the room, her bobbed hair still brown, but her green, almost transparent eyes, made her look quite different. When San saw her, he thought it was a good thing that Barak had called for the photographer to take new passport photographs of her, and he hurried her off to prepare herself.

  “Why are you photographing me again?” She inquired, “I don’t think you should risk someone recognizing me.”

  “Who?”

  “My mother or even Adam, the Judge.”

  “But, your hair is different.”

  “Yes, but who else has eyes like these, eyes that only my mother knows I have?”

  San frowned and thought she had a point. He heard Barak explain:

  “Mas’habi may have told them that you have blue eyes, so it’s important to change their color,” and she nodded in understanding. “We will be discussing the Mas’habi affair this afternoon, at five.”

  “In that case, I’ll leave now,” She announced as she looked at her wristwatch. “It’s almost four o’clock already.”

  “No, you had better stay because it affects you, too.”

  Shortly before five, Foxy arrived, almost colliding with the photographer, who was just leaving the apartment.

  Foxy was a short red haired man with a narrow aquiline nose and close-set brown eyes and resembled a fox, which was how he had acquired his nickname. He was a mild-mannered, shy man whose many achievements had not altered his modest demeanor.

  At five o’clock, he was joined by his partner, Zaguri, who was his complete antithesis. He was tall, had graying salt and peppered hair and gray eyes. Unlike Foxy, he was very boisterous and on entering, he immediately greeted everyone with his booming voice. Then he noticed Abigail and from that moment his behavior changed.

  “Hi, who is the beautiful lady with us?”

  “This is Naima, she’s one of ours,” Barak announced and the tone of his voice cut short any follow-up questions.

  The printout of the Persian newspaper dealing with the demise of the spy and the ‘before and after’ pictures of him lay on the table and was clearly to be the subject of the meeting. Barak opened the discussion:

  “We met with this agent less than a month ago and we introduced them to one another.” He said and nodded with his chin in Abigail’s direction.

  “To her credit, let us say that she did not regard him as someone she could work with as a partner.”

  “Excellent, splendid, indeed,”

  “No, that isn’t today’s topic. It’s clear that the man reported details from our meeting with him, and we are meeting today to double-check ourselves.”

  “What was the subject of the discussion with him?” Zaguri inquired, and Abigail responded.

  “Mas’habi knew that we were planning to attack the Islamic Republic’s strategic sites,” and Zaguri raised his eyebrows in amazement.

  “Mas’habi? I thought his name was Razah. At any rate, that’s what is in this report.”

  “What, what!? Wow!” San exclaimed, “How could I have missed that? That’s shameful of me.”

  “Wait, and then another question comes to mind. Who put us in touch with him and how were his details checked out?”

  “What difference does that make now?” Barak interjected.

  It certainly does make a difference,” Abigail intervened, “after all it makes a difference whether th
e man was enlisted or offered his services to the organization, on his own volition.”

  San leaned back in his chair and spoke slowly:

  “Oh! I feel terrible as if I fell asleep on my watch. If I had operated like this in Iran, I would have been strung up, burned, and my ashes dispersed in the wind, long before that.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Zaguri pointed out. “Perhaps they would put you before a firing squad like an honorable traitor,” and San frowned at him.

  “Abigail kept her silence. She recalled her first interview with Barak and San, how they both knew more details than she could remember about herself, and she peered quizzically at San.

  He slapped his knee suddenly and cried:

  “Oh!” and the four of them were aghast.

  “We received the detailed information about him from a particular agent,” San announced, hesitant to mention the name of the operative, who brought him to them.

  “If that’s so, then we have our own home-grown blue and white double agent,” Barak added and he also looked appalled.

  “Now, it’s also clear how and to whom Mas’habi, I mean Razah, was connected,” Foxy remarked.

  “Okay, so what do we do next?”

  Barak rose, with his cell phone at his ear, and when he sat down again, announced:

  “Done!” and San remarked:

  “Now we have to do a total makeover because whoever brought Razah is fully informed about almost everything we do, and he knows a great deal.”

  “What luck we didn’t call him here today.” Abigail expressed her relief.

  “How did I not see it? Razah was the servant of two masters,” San remarked, ignoring her comment.

  The phone rang, and Barak put it to his ear, listened and then laid it down on the newspaper printout before him.

  “Who has seen Rashid recently?” Silence reigned around the table.

  “Rashid?” Foxy inquired, “I don’t know anyone with a name like that, how does he look and when did we meet him?”

  “The fellow with the pearl earring,” Zaguri added.

  “Ah, he appeared on TV, one Friday, only I didn’t know his name.”

  “What does he know about us?” San wanted to know.