by Rose Fox
“Khaidar, if you touch him – you’re dead!”
When he left the house, she waited in silence for a few seconds and then locked the front door. Only then did she call the number she had copied from Karma’s telephone during his visit.
“I would like to speak to Yusuf or Mustafa,” she said.
“Who is calling?” The voice replied, firmly.
“Khaidar’s sister.”
Seconds later she heard a hoarse voice that asked again:
“Who is speaking and how can I tell it’s you?”
Instead of answering, she replied:
“Effendi Khaidar hides his blue star between his thumb and forefinger under a band-aid, and he is now in the United States.”
She heard breathing on the other end of the line though not a word was openly uttered and she took advantage of the silence and spoke:
“Effendi Khaidar has betrayed you. He did everything possible to prevent the assassination of Karma.”
“Who is Karma?”
“My husband, his brother-in-law…”
Someone nearby remarked:
“Ah, yes, the Kurd, who married the beautiful tour guide,” and Salima shuddered. Her anger blazed to the point of burning, Now, she understood that her brother had been telling the truth and she didn’t know how and where to direct her anger and said at once:
“I confirm that you may kill…”
Just then the call was disconnected and Salima wondered if she should call again and she choked. She beat her fist on the wall beside her and roared out loud at the pain she had inflicted on her hand with the blow.
The conversation made waves that spread wider. Already, that day, a meeting was urgently arranged. Three bearded men listened to the recorded conversation and Mustafa remarked:
“You must be aware that this was not just any another conversation. This is about the betrayal of the organization.”
“It seems to me that he has been caught up in a family feud so extreme that…”
“Forget about the family feud, I’m not talking about that. I am addressing the fact that Effendi prevented us from exterminating that Kurdish bastard who is a ‘Mossad’ agent.”
Yusuf rapped his fingers on the table and said:
“I have a really straightforward idea! Listen, we will set them up against one another and they will send each other to hell.”
Mustafa shook his head and said:
“No, that’s not right, because if he really objected and prevented his extermination, do you think that all of a sudden he is prepared to kill his brother-in-law?”
“Wait, he doesn’t have to know who he is going to assassinate. We can take steps to transmit a message to the Kurd to blow someone up and will actually be…”
“Come on, really. Who will give him an instruction like that?”
In response, Rulam took out a folded page and spread it out in front of the other two.
“Here is the page with the codes to decipher the broadcast signals he receives.”
“Whose? How did you get hold of it?”
“With the help of Fatima, our agent, who cleans hotel rooms. She picked up the page that the Kurd left on the table after receiving one of his assignments.”
“Well done!” Mustafa complimented him, giving him a thumbs up, “we’re greenlighting your plan.”
In the hour that followed, a detailed plan was put together. The idea was to falsify an order that would be transmitted to Karma. He would be told to plant an explosive device in Effendi’s car, without knowing, of course, who was driving the car. For this purpose, he would be given a “Bentley”, identical to the one his brother-in-law drove.
“I am arranging for the car. Does anyone know if Effendi still drives his “Bentley?” inquired Mustafa, the senior of the three, and added:
“Rulam, you will take care of the bomb, that’s your specialty, and we will leave the other matters that have to be coordinated to our Yusuf, as usual.”
“In that case, I suggest that it should not take place on our territory. What about distancing the execution of the plan to Turkey?”
“That’s fine, but why Turkey, of all places?”
“The Kurd grew up in the Turkish tents and that’s where he will end his life.”
“You initiated the suggestion so you should continue it,” Mustafa decided and Yusuf began thinking aloud.
“I also suggest that the bomb should not be planted on land but on a ship so that the explosion takes place in the land of his birth.” And asked at once:
“Who will draft the order on behalf of the ‘Mossad’ to the Kurdish traitor?”
“All of us,” replied Mustafa. “But, first, let’s find out which ship sails the route to Turkey.
After inquiring into the Turkish shipping companies, it was decided to send him on the Turkish vessel, “Ankara” but then, Mustafa stopped and looked at his colleagues.
“There is a problem. I don’t know their password to him.”
Silence reigned and they stared at one another.
I am going to take a chance and send the instruction without a password. We have no choice. Let’s disregard it and pray that the Kurd isn’t too pedantic.”
Within an hour, the instruction to Karma was drawn up and transmitted to him.
“Receive a car and a package which you will plant in the identical vehicle
on board the “Ankara.”
You will receive details at the meeting tomorrow, at Midnight.”
And, indeed, Karma received the radio communication, deciphered it according to the key he had and did not pay heed to the fact that he had not been given the password.
It didn’t occur to him for a moment to wonder what had happened. It was a deviation that could cost him his life.
*
Effendi’s flight landed at the Iranian airport at seven in the evening. He was tired to death and in a foul mood. He went through passport control and customs quickly and turned to the enormous airport parking lot that spread out over hundreds of acres. After an exhausting search, he discovered the silvery “Bentley” with the registration number MS102, pressed the key and heard the two short beeps. The first thing he did was to call Rulam, his good friend from the organization.
“Hi, how are you? What’s new under our Iranian sun?”
They were close friends and often met for coffee at the “Café Amana.” They would listen to the clattering of Backgammon dice being thrown on the boxes and pass the day doing nothing.
“Where are you calling from?” Rulam asked. The tone of his voice was unusual and Effendi caught a strangeness in his voice and raised his eyebrows.
“Hi, Rulam, it’s me, Khaidar,” thinking he hadn’t recognized him yet.
“Yes, A’halan, where are you? I was looking for you the whole week,” he said, hiding, of course that he knew Khaidar had traveled to the United States.
“I went on some errands, met a few people and rested before returning. What’s new? Is everything all right?”
“Yes.”
“What’s new with you, man?” he asked and instead of an answer, he heard Rulam ask him:
“Do you still drive that silvery “Bentley” of yours?
“Yes, of course, why did you ask?”
Rulam ignored him and suggested:
“Come meet us at our café and we’ll talk.”
“About what?”
“We haven’t spoken for a week.”
Effendi looked at his watch, yawned loudly and decided he was too tired to travel such a long distance now. He decided that the luxurious car seat suited him better and a few hours of good sleep would suffice to revive him.
Before he fell asleep, he thought over the events of his visit to his family.
He knew that his situation was worse than it was before his conversation with his sister, Salima. But, even in his wildest dreams, he never dared to think she would squeal on him and give her approval to the organization to eliminate him.
&nb
sp; R e v e n g e
Newspaper headlines screamed:
“Lead discovered to hackers,
responsible for the countrywide computer virus attack.”
Abigail read the reports disinterestedly, but then her heart missed a beat and she caught her breath as she continued reading.
“The hacker’s backpack, containing documents,
was found in the area of the attack.”
Now, Abigail recalled that she had dropped her bag as she made her crazed dash along the dark tunnel to escape the dogs and had abandoned it on the tunnel floor.
She didn’t know what had happened that day under the Imam’s Mosque.
Ali had lit up the walls and the ceiling of the Royal tunnel, casting light on the giant cables, alongside which, he noticed the camouflaged backpack. The dogs barked and he pointed to the bag. One of the soldiers picked it up as he yelled for joy and swept it up victoriously above his head.
“Idiot, throw it on the floor! It might be booby-trapped!”
The soldier dropped it in fright and they both retreated, but nothing happened. They waited a few minutes. Ali sent the soldier back to fetch it and shouted to him:
“Check it out and feel it before you bring it to me.”
“It’s empty, there’s nothing inside.” The soldier announced and peeked inside.
He touched something, felt that it was a piece of cloth and pulled it out.
“Hey, it’s a hijab, it’s nothing more than a woman’s bag. How did it get here?”
“No way! Did those bastards dress up as women?” Ali asked. “Continue examining it more thoroughly.”
The soldier sat down, put his hands into the bag and pulled out a rolled cloth, spread it out and shouted again:
“I found a painted canvas, just doodles!”
Ali illuminated it with his flashlight and mumbled:
“Interesting, very interesting,” he exclaimed and kneeled to get a closer look.
In the painting, a woman was depicted in a tent with two young women and a little girl. Through the flap of the tent, a white camel, an enormous palm and yellow sand appeared in the background.
Another soldier came up behind them. He was Ibrahim, their commanding officer. He stood over them, looked at the painted canvas and hit Ali on his back as he yelled in his deep bass voice.
“In the names of all Allah’s holy prophets, what crazy good luck we have!”
“It’s only a painting, Sir,” Ali exclaimed, but Ibrahim didn’t even answer him. He leaned over the painted canvas, noted the clothing worn by the painted figures and noticed the resemblance between them.
“It’s a family,” he said, “they resemble one another and it’s probably the family of the bastard, who was here in the tunnel.
Ibrahim pulled out his communications device and made a call.
“Commander, Sir,” he said, “I have discovered something and we can stuff down the throats of the people who messed with our computers.”
“Come over here and bring it with you,” his commander barked.
He was excited by what he had just heard because they had been chasing the wind until this point. He turned back and looked at Emir.
This time, Emir came to inform them that they had traced a radio transmission and caught three ‘Mossad’ agents after cracking their communication code.
“Apparently, we are getting another agent who made a mistake.”
“Is that so?” Emir enthused, “now we are holding seven ‘Mossad’ agents and it seems it’s time to consider executions.
That very day, the rolled canvas reached Iranian Intelligence, which examined it under a magnifying glass. Sallah raised a troubling assumption:
“Perhaps, they left it there on purpose, just to mislead us or it was just lost by someone.”
“I don’t think so. We are dealing with a thorough and efficient enemy and that is not his style.” Ibrahim stated. I think it’s most unlikely that this painted rag was just accidentally lost by someone,” he laughed out loud as he enjoyed considering the possibility of the idea.
“Not necessarily, Sir. Precisely because the enemy is so thorough, they could have left the bag behind as a ploy to confuse us with an idiotic painting.”
“Do you think that all the figures painted here, the little girl and these women, are working against us?”
“They look like real people to me, people who live in the desert where the sand is altogether yellow, perhaps, too yellow.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“In our deserts, in the Sahara, in Abu Dhabi as well as the Turkish and Iraqi deserts, the color of the sand is pale, much lighter than the color here.”
“Explain, Sir, what are you driving at?”
“I’m wondering if it isn’t by chance that small desert in Palestine, you know, what do they call it?”
“Negev, Jezreel Negev. If that is so, then the people dwell there in tents and if I’m not mistaken, they are Druze or Bedouin.”
“Well done!” Ibrahim patted Ali on the back, “since you are familiar with this, get a move on and start working.”
He turned to the others, excitedly.
“We are now looking Bedouins or Druze, who live in the yellow sands that resemble these figures. The moment you find anyone resembling them, let me know and we will carry on from there.”
Fereydoun, the Head of Intelligence, was assigning the new tasks.
“Ibrahim, you will select the team to explore the deserts, but only after the people receive my approval.”
“No problem. They will appear before you tomorrow. All you have to do is equip them with…”
“That’s clear. Ali, you take care of making copies of the painting you found in the enemy cyber warrior’s kitbag.”
*
Little Arlene, Abigail’s daughter, had already wandered far away from the tribe’s encampment. She was leading the tribe’s sheep and goats to the yellow dunes.
Arlene did not remember her mother. She had come to terms with her death, just like all the members of the Ka’abiah tribe. She would never forget her mother’s funeral, when she had held onto the hand of her weeping grandmother, Leila.
She was not yet eight years old and was proud that they relied on her and permitted her to herd the flock that numbered some thirty-five sheep and eight black goats, on her own.
A large billy-goat walked ahead, leading his group of females. He lowered his head that bore menacing horns and threatened to gore anyone coming towards him.
Two black and white dogs raced around the herd as they barked and chased after a sheep that had dared to wander out of the group’s territory and didn’t stop until it returned to the fold. The hot wind rolled the light tumbleweed balls of dry twigs over the sand. The child stopped near the steep dune, taking care to remember her grandmother Leila’s warning not to climb the dune with the herd, lest the animals sink in the sand.
She sat at the foot of the sand hill and leaned against the split trunk of a tree, enjoying the meager shade of its flat top. It provided slight relief from the terrible heat of the yellow desert. She blew into a hollow bamboo stalk in which she had made holes and produced jarring tones. The sheep bleated in response and she imagined they were her friends, blew her flute, talked and sometimes also sang to them.
The skies were blue and the sun beat down mercilessly. Her blue eyes, whose shape resembled her mother’s, closed for a few minutes and she woke up when the dogs barked. They pawed at the earth and looked in the direction of the dunes rising high up around her.
Arlene tried to hush them up, but they obstinately continued their angry barking as if they smelled an unfamiliar scent that threatened their territory. She rested her flute against the tree trunk and made her way quietly to the dunes. She made a broad circle around them and there, she saw them.
There were two of them. They lay on their bellies, holding large rifles that they rested on the sand. They were facing the sand dune and did not notice the l
ittle girl, peeping at them. The dangerous smell of an unknown intruder aroused her Bedouin nose. She retreated quickly to the flock, raised her flute to her lips and blew her usual tune as she hurried the sheep to follow her back to the encampment, to her place of safety.
She made her way to the camp in the space of a few minutes, during which she didn’t stop playing her flute. She knew that this way, she demonstrated calm to the visitors. At the same time, it was a warning to the members of her family, who were not accustomed to hearing the sounds of her flute near the tents.
Her uncle, Adnan, came out of the men’s tent.
“Hey ho, stop playing that flute! Why are you returning now?”
She raised the flute in the air and signaled towards the dunes from which she was returning, raised two fingers in the air and when he looked at her in puzzlement, she said:
“There are two of them, with rifles and they’re lying on the sand to the rear of the dunes,” and panting excitedly, she saw her uncle’s eyes widen with interest.
“What, what happened?” Sharif, her nine-year-old cousin, came out and Adnan hurried him to go back into the security of the tent. In the following seconds, Yosef, Leila’s husband, came out too and when he heard what Arlene had seen, he suggested calling Mahmoud and, perhaps, Halil and Adnan, as well. He hurried into the tent and And also called the tribal Mukhtar, his brother in law, the husband of Miriam, his sister. They lived in the tribe’s tents that were a fifteen-minute camel ride away and spoke to him quickly:
“There are visitors in the area, armed and lying in ambush. Arlene discovered them, but they didn’t see her.”
“Is that so?” I’m coming right away and will bring what’s necessary. Take out whatever you have, too.”
In the minutes that followed, preparations went full-steam ahead in the tribe’s encampment. The flap in the canvas of the men’s tent, which was always kept open to cool the air, was lowered and closed. The mothers and children left the two women’s tents and gathered in the great dark tent, with Leila, the mother of Abigail and of the whole tribe.
The sheep were bleating as they were gathered and huddled together between the slats of the picket fences. A sharp odor was emitted from the compost heap when the piles of straw were removed from it and thrown into the cattle enclosure. The white camel cow that appeared in the painting, brought by the uninvited guests, was tethered to a peg of the women’s tent with a thin rope. It chewed the cud of food, it had regurgitated. After it folded its legs beneath it on the sand, it whinnied to call the foal, which was also light in color, to come and sit beside it.
