Abigail – The Avenging Agent: The agent appears again (15 page)

“Why?  Isn’t it important to find out
what happened?”

“Naima, I thought you were smarter than
that.  Listen to me, and listen well.  A place where you leave a bomb that
doesn’t detonate is out of bounds for you.  Anyone who comes there, after you,
will know that there has been an attempt to sabotage.”

“So, what’s to be done?”

“Oh!  You simply get away from there as
fast as you can and plan something else instead.”  He smiled at her, examining
her almost transparent eyes, which he had already heard of.

“Any
more questions, Madame Saboteur?”

“Yes,
how does one deal with fear?”  And without waiting for an answer, she ran to
the sea.

“Exactly
what you’re doing now!”  He yelled after the figure that was running away, but
his voice was carried away by the wind and did not reach her ears.

Captain
Yoav stared at the waves covering Abigail, laughed and waved to her as she came
up out of the water, her clothes soaking wet and the wind blowing her dripping
hair.

Two days earlier she received a light
brown backpack with camouflage spots that reminded her of American army
fatigues. 

Abigail was not supplied with an
identifying document.  The organization was careful not to equip her with any
false registration that might tempt someone to try and verify it.  They did not
want to risk arousing even the slightest suspicion about her.

“There will be someone who will register
you, your place of birth, your parents’ names and address, which will change
according to where you live, or course,” Barak told her.

“But I have no document or registration
of any kind on me,” she countered. 

“You are an Iranian woman, who lives in
Azerbaijan and that has already been established and documented.”

She did not know that even before her
arrival it had been arranged next to whom she would sit on the plane.  Since
Abigail was supposed to land in Azerbaijan, the Ambassador of that country in
Israel, Karim Kodor, had already been approached.  Apparently, his wife was
taking a family holiday, following a miscarriage. 

“What do you think, should she be part
of the entourage?”

“No, I think it would be more natural if
they were to become friends on the flight."

And with this the matter was closed.

The last few minutes before Abigail
left, she glanced at the image reflected in the mirror before her and saw a
Muslim woman.  She ran her hand over the abaya robe that hung loosely on her
body, covering her entirely, and the scarf that covered her hair and she
grimaced and stuck her tongue at her reflection. From behind her ,reflected in
the mirror, was the painting she had unrolled and spread out on her bedcover
and she turned to it.

The members of her family gazed out of
the eyes she had created.  She lovingly caressed their images and then decided. 
She rolled up the painted canvas and slipped it into the corner of her
backpack.  At that moment, she felt as if she had put her ID card in her bag.

This
was a moment of tremendous mistake, a giant one which will cause a damage that
she could not imagine. Untold damage.

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, confidently 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.