by Rose Fox
That moment, when she had placed her family's painting, would cause inestimable damage, a damage she could not take into account.
*
At ten o’clock in the morning, the plane taxied down the runway, picked up speed, began its lift-off and Abigail curled up in her seat. She knew she had a few hours flying ahead of her to Azerbaijan and fantasized that she was setting out on the trip of her life.
She revised and memorized her cover story again. She was going there to guide groups of tourists in the northern region of Slovakia. Next week, she was booked to take a group to the Low Tatra Mountains. They would be setting out from a small village called Stary Smokovec. She had researched the village on “Google” and found out that it served as a regional center for the arrival and departure of walking tours and car trips. It was also mentioned as being the reason many hotels and rooms for tourists were available there.
“Listen,” Barak told her at the last meeting. “You’re going there as a Muslim woman, living an ordinary lifestyle, in spite of your work as a tourist guide in Azerbaijan, the country that borders on Iran.”
“Aha, Aisha told me that almost no women work outside the home in Iran.”
“That may be so. Your cover story is that you were born in Iran, grew up and lived near the Mediterranean but returned to your beloved birthplace as a guide, leading groups of tourists,”
“Yes, that’s clear.”
“We suggest that, after a reasonable time, you should buy an apartment where you will lead a blameless lifestyle.”
“I understand, completely above suspicion.”
Her role was clear. She was to do whatever she could to sabotage Iran’s arms race. Iran vociferously declared that it was building nuclear reactors to produce electricity and energy. But, in fact, the country was preparing to develop nuclear weapons.
All the while, San remained silent and had not interrupted till now.
“I suggest that you begin your visit there at Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan, instead of Stary Smokovec,” Barak mused out loud.
“Yes, indeed, we have good relations with Baku but precisely because of this there is a danger the Iranians will suspect her.”
“And because it is a friendly place, you have to be especially careful.”
“That’s clear.” She agreed.
“What’s clear? Naima, you have to assume from the outset that everything we know – is also known to the Iranians."
“But, in Baku, they won’t ask unnecessary questions.”
“Is that so? You’re new to all this?” Barak stated. “Keep your eyes and ears open. Always watch your back even when everything appears to be calm and quiet.”
At home, Abigail sat at the computer and surfed the Internet. She was looking for additional information about the country she was about to reach.
Azerbaijan is a Muslim country, whose citizens are Shi’ite
Though its government is secular.”
Now, as she sat on the plane, she pressed the button to incline the angle of her seat but it fell back all at once opening up like a bed. When she heard someone behind her exclaim “Oh” to her, she got up immediately.
“Sorry, I guess one has to take out a license to operate these seats,” she apologized, straightened up the seat and closed her eyes. With her eyes still closed, she continued reviewing her cover story.
Barak said to her, then:
“Okay, let’s get on with your cover story. Now, young lady, I will ask you a few questions that may come up in the future.”
“Yes, what, for example?”
“Tell me, for instance, why you’re still single?”
“I left my isolated family when I came down from the mountains and worked in a profession connected to nature and leading tourist groups.”
“Remember that you are a modest and reticent Muslim woman, who doesn’t readily form relationships, especially not with men.”
“Yes, everyone knows what becomes of unmarried Muslim women, who do have such relationships,” she remarked.
San chuckled and Abigail saw that Barak was displeased.
“On Wednesday, in two days’ time, your first group will await you at the Tatra Mountains. Prepare yourself and be professional,” he added.
“Yes, I understand.”
“You’ll be diving headfirst into the assignment. Remember to focus on the points we talked about.”
San went out to the kitchen and returned with three glasses of tea, raised his glass and made a toast:
“To our lives and your success, 'Lucy',” He said, waiting for her response, which, of course, was immediate.
“Lucy?”
“Yes, that’s our nickname for you, and right now we’re drinking tea in the custom of a typical Iranian family.”
All this came to mind in her musings now when she heard.
“What would you like to order, Ma’am?”
“What’s on the menu?”
Anxiety for the future had given her stomach cramps and she could barely swallow her meal.
Her neighbor smiled at her and inquired: “Are you touring?”
“Yes, to Stary Smokovec,” Abigail replied and the woman narrowed her eyes as if trying to recall the name.
“It’s a village in the Tatra Mountains, in the high altitude region,” Abigail explained and asked her:
“What is your destination?”
“I’m on my way to my family, for a month’s holiday.”
“Everything is alright, I hope,” Abigail blurted out politely, without any particular interest and did not expect the response she received. The woman shook her head in the negative and her eyes welled up on the verge of tears.
“No. Things aren’t alright. Our baby died.” Her chin trembled. “He was almost two months old.”
“Oh no, you don’t say,” Abigail said as she grasped her neighbor’s hands, “and where is your…?” and immediately grew silent.
“Where is my husband?” She laughed weakly. “My husband, Karim, was obliged to remain in Israel. He is the Ambassador of Azerbaijan to Israel and decided to send me home alone to recuperate and get back my strength in the bosom of my family.”
“Is that so? I am Naima, what’s your name?” almost blurting out that she was also from Israel.
“Pleased to meet you, I am Alice,” she said and sighed deeply.
They were both silent. Abigail closed her eyes and heard her neighbor speaking quietly.
“We’ve been married for five years already and I only barely managed to conceive.” Her voice was full of tears. “I can’t describe what a tragedy it was to lose that baby.”
“Oh, I’m sure it was awful.”
“What can I tell you,” she continued and this time, she wept openly.
“I’m not sure whether thirty days or even a hundred will be enough to help me forget.”
“Listen, Alice, I don’t think you should ever forget,” Abigail said. “But you will grow stronger and move on in your life.”
The two of them hugged and Abigail felt the woman clutching her tightly, perhaps too tightly.
They spent the rest of the flight in a heart-to-heart conversation. Abigail learned that Alice flew on this route often and she was impressed with her eloquence, beauty, and personality.
“It’s a pity we’ll be taking leave of one another soon,” Alice complained and Abigail nodded in agreement. She knew she could not befriend everyone she met. Nevertheless, she wondered how it might be possible to keep in touch with her.
“Please fasten your seatbelts. In ten minutes, we will be landing in Bratislava, the beautiful capital of Slovakia. The weather waiting to greet you is unseasonal for this region, it is overcast and rainy.”
“That really is surprising,” Alice remarked. “Usually it’s dry here and there is hardly any rain.”
They exchanged phone numbers and when they disembarked Abigail followed in the shadow of the Ambassador’s wife. She went through the arrivals inspection counters, confi
dently leading Abigail along in the wake of the other passengers till the taxi rank, without any delay or unnecessary questions and they embraced.
Abigail got into one of the cabs that stood in a long line and opened the window.
“Don’t forget me,” Alice entreated her. “We must meet, do you hear? We must!”
“Fine, we definitely will. I love you and I’m sure the next time we meet, you will be healthy and happy.” Abigail replied.
She waved to her and then rolled up the cab window.
They did not know that their meeting had been pre-planned nor could they have known, of course, how fate would surprise them with a special bond that would be woven around their sincere friendship.
“Where to, Ma’am?” The cab driver asked as she rolled up her window.
She had made a note of the name of the guesthouse that had been booked for her before she left home and now she attached it to a banknote and showed it to the driver. He nodded, and within a minute they drove out of the terminal. The long trip made Abigail tired and she fell asleep and woke up when she heard the driver announce:
“We’ve arrived. This is where you get out.”
She looked out through the window, still sleepy.
“Here is the light rail station,” the driver pointed to the right of the road. “This train goes right to your hotel, the ‘Chai Huneh’ (‘Tea House’).
While she waited at the station, she expected to see a powerful locomotive with noisy smoke-filled carriages and was amazed when the train that arrived was modern and colorful. It sped along the rails passing from village to village as it climbed the twists in the uphill route with ease. When they called out the name of the village, “Stary Smokovec,” she got off the train and stared at it as it disappeared, thinking how convenient this means of transportation was.
Both sides of the road were densely built up and neon signs twinkled on the front of the buildings advertising the businesses conducted in them. She glanced at the note in her hand and saw that one of the buildings was named ‘Chai Huneh.'
A bead curtain hung over the entrance and when she drew it aside, it made a pleasant sounding rustle. Facing her she saw a large lobby and in the distance there was a circular reception desk to which she made her way.
A scrawny man with a mustache peeked at her with curiosity and after a brief check handed her a key. Abigail noticed a small tattoo of a glowing turquoise star on the back of his hand and almost complimented him on it. Instead, she merely smiled and thanked him, then followed his direction to the stairs leading to the second floor. The place was bustling with people, coming in and going out and the bead curtain rustled incessantly behind her.
Abigail remembered that this village was located at an altitude of one thousand meters in the Tatra Mountains. It was a magnet for tourists, who came there for recreation and to see the sights. She was exhausted from the journey and decided to wait until the next day to ask the man with the mustache questions. She would also visit the adjacent streets and perhaps travel again on the light rail train that had brought her to the village.
As soon as she entered the room, she put down her bag and sank onto the bed, fully dressed. When the morning light filtered into the room through a gap in the rough fabric of the drapes, she opened her eyes and sat up in bed. She got up and looked for the bathroom, but noticed there wasn’t one in her room, and grimaced in disappointment. On her way to the door, she passed the scratched mirror and shrank back when she saw a Muslim woman looking at her, then laughed when she remembered that she was looking at her own reflection.
Five minutes later she went down to the lobby. The place looked entirely different from the day before. The sun’s rays filtered through the stained glass windows and softly colored the arches of the high ceiling. An aroma of cooking reached her nose and Abigail glanced at the light marble stairs that led down to the dining hall and went downstairs.
As she entered, she looked around and chose to sit in the corner of the dining room from which she could observe the people entering the room. Her stomach rumbled and reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since noon, a day ago, on the plane. She saw the food was laid out at the corners of the dining hall and she went there and chose a long bread roll and a yellow omelet and returned to her table. She drank half a cup of dark tea she poured for herself and walked out onto the bustling street.
Wherever she turned, she saw pensions and guest houses and wondered at the wisdom of her dispatchers. The place was buzzing with tourists and foreigners, so her presence aroused no interest and not even a shadow of suspicion.
Around her, in every direction, the Tatra Mountains rose with their enormous trees and densely vegetated slopes. The view was breathtakingly beautiful. Abigail wanted to reach the mountains and estimated that it was a long way. She considered using the light rail she had arrived on when at that moment a train came and solved her dilemma.
After a fast ride on the light rail, she disembarked and looked up in amazement at the mountain. Groups of tourists gather around and she wondered whether to join one. She noticed that the women in one of the groups uncovered their hair, wore T-shirts and pants and decided to join them. She approached the group and heard the tall guide speaking in English peppered with words in Persian. He glanced at her and she returned his glance and asked him a question in Persian:
“May I?” Then she turned her hand up and asked: “How much?”
He signaled twice with his fingers spread out and added in Persian:
“Later.”
When he raised his arm as a signal to follow him, Abigail joined the group.
They reached the nearby cable-car station. Two open awaiting the visitors filled up within a few minutes. The doors shut and both cars began to ascend slowly up the huge mountains. Below them were spectacular slopes and the vegetation varied with the changing altitude. Cries of wonder greeted the falls sighted below them as the water rushed and bubbled furiously and broke the sun’s rays into flashes of purple and orange rainbow hues. Clouds of mist swirled around the falling water and evaporated.
The cars stopped their ascent and the doors opened, revealing a path, and the guide led them along it. The trail wound up the mountain to a village that was so beautiful it took Abigail’s breath away. It appeared to have been taken from a large painting.
It was already noon when they reached the shore of the lake and the people were tired of walking in the heat for over an hour. There, the guide asked them to separate into groups and handed out bottles of liquid refreshment and packages of food. Someone pointed to the high slopes in the distance and yelled:
“Hey, look at them! We’re riding cable cars and walking and they’re rope-climbing.”
They could see people, tied to gigantic rocks with ropes, who were climbing up the high slopes.
“They are climbing to the Chatot's dwellers," explained the guide, "You can see that they are carrying backpacks with food and drink. Without them, the Catot's dwellers would have no food.”
When they returned to the pension that evening, she was thoroughly exhausted from the effort of walking and climbing up the mountain trail had made her ravenous. She entered the dining hall, sat at the same table she had occupied that morning and after looking at the other tables, decided to order fish. She beckoned to the waiter, who arrived and stood stiffly beside her, and asked her ceremoniously:
“What fish would Madam like?”
“What do you recommend, Sir?”
“Trout, of course.”
The waiter brought her a large silvery fish and proudly announced:
“It was freshly caught today in the icy springs of the region.”
Abigail was amused because he spoke as if he had caught the fish himself. As she ate it, she felt lucky that the food served here was to her taste, until she met up with the local soup, cooked with beef and sour cabbage. She turned up her nose at it and pushed the plate away to the center of the table.
As she left the dining room, Abigail pass
ed by the counter and the quick glance from the man with the mustache, caught her attention. She had already learned that his name was Emir and had spoken to him in the morning, but the way he looked at her gave her a strange feeling. She stopped at the counter, but he moved away from her. Interestingly, the color of the stone in her ring darkened.
For the present, she did not attach any importance to the tiny turquoise star tattoo on the back of his hand. She didn’t yet know that it was the mark of the ‘Kaukab’ (star) group, a murderous organization, operating throughout the Iranian State.
*
Attempted Assassination
“Sir, I report that the young fellow is here, Sir!”
Col. Edward, Bill’s commander, had heard about Karma from Jalal, from the time he had worked at Hamis’ tavern.
“Good, how does he strike you?”
“Well, the fellow is motivated, crazy for action, and easy to influence. He’s like clay in a sculptor’s hand.”
“Is that so?”
“I think we should exploit every second of his excitement. The only problem is that he insists on bringing his dog which, by the way, is named Abdul. That is, the dog, of course.”
“What? Abdul? I suggest you get on a plane, rather than sail. If you ask me, I have no problem if he brings his Kurdish dog.”
In the two days that followed, the two became firm friends and when they embarked on the plane, Karma felt so close to Bill that he allowed himself to tell him his dreams.
“I fantasize about enlisting in the Kurdish Movement and becoming one of its courageous freedom fighters.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and I imagine them sending me back to the mountains and fighting like a genuine Kurd.”
“So, what’s stopping you from remaining here with them?”
“No, not them! I’m talking about the organization that is training in the Nevada Desert.”
His honey-colored eyes sparkled as he whispered to Bill:
“I heard that the members of that group have no chance of fighting in my country because they are persecuted and murdered there.”
