Abigail – The Avenging Agent: The agent appears again (47 page)

Leila stared at them.  Then, she turned
her gaze to three younger women, the wives of her sons, who never knew Abigail,
but had heard tales of her and her heroic exploits.  Now they heard her repeat:

“She is alive.”

Liraz moved to sit on a different
cushion:

“Mother, think about what you’re saying?
All of us, including Arlene, were at her funeral and saw her being buried.”

“Look here, on the corner of the canvas,”
She said.

Miriam looked, and her
eyes widened. Words, written finely on the back were like a signature.  She
murmured them aloud.

Abigail Ben Nun

31
^st
August 2014

“Oh, she was buried in May 2014.  So
how, in Allah’s name…” and she fell silent in fear.

* * *

            The session at the
Intelligence Committee was stormier than ever.

            Six bearded men, senior
members of the Republican Guards and leaders of the Iranian regime, heard this
morning about the killing of Abdul and Mahmoud, their two intelligence agents,
in Israel’s Negev desert.  The two had been selected from a list of dozens of
operatives and that fact added to their anger and astonishment.

The people were so upset that they
called for action:

“Hang the members of the committee, who
selected Abdul and Mahmoud!

Fereydoun spoke:

“Oh, what a disgrace, a little girl led
her parents and cousins to our people.”

“And we, naively, thought we were
sending our best men,” Mustafa added.

Fereydoun’s voice choked up with anger. 
He regarded it as his personal failure because, as the Head of Intelligence, he
had the last word and had approved the two men for the assignment.

They all knew that the painting that was
discovered in the darkness of the tunnel underneath the ‘Imam’s Mosque’ was a
treasure and the only lead they had. When they had brought it to Fereydoun, he
muttered:

“At long last, they’ve made their first
mistake.”

He planned to get permission today from
the other leaders to retaliate in a manner that would make a profound
impression on the enemy.

“I turn to you, Rulam, because you are
our man of ideas.  I can not forget your excellent handling of that double
traitor, Razeh, when you saved our honor.”

Rulam smiled and nodded and Tommy, the
youngest member of the group, who was in his forties, allowed himself to answer
in his stead.

“Our enemy is having too many
successes.  He is hitting us hard, putting reactors out of action, sabotaging
oil derricks and equipment and even, computers.  What’s going on here?” 
Fereydoun shrank back in his seat.

“I didn’t understand you,” he said. 
“Make yourself clear and don’t just throw accusations in the air.”

Tommy didn’t seem to hear him and
continued reciting the recent successful hits.

“For example, how did that island with
that whole drilling tower on it, sink in the Straits of Hormuz?  How did that
bastard know that the computer cables, which had only recently been laid, are
located under the Imam Mosque in Tabriz?”

“I don’t think it’s necessarily the work
of one person,” Mustafa remarked.  “If I remember correctly, on the same day
that the drilling island was sabotaged, there was also a hit on the reactor at
Bushehr.  You will surely agree with me that it is unlikely that one person
pulled off all this.  In my opinion, several people are in this together.”

“But, how did they know that all the cables
of the central computer of all our nuclear installations pass through the
tunnel?”  Tommy asked.

“And how are we to explain the explosion
of the “El Cabo” with its cargo of our ‘Shihab 3’ missiles, remember?” Yusuf
added.

There was an uncomfortable silence as
Yusuf examined the painted canvas and spoke in a loud voice.

“Let’s be practical.  This painted rag
is all we have.  It may belong to someone, who is always attacking us.  I
suggest we focus on it, see what information we can glean from it and stop
throwing out accusations and assumptions.”

Rulam said:

“Come on, Yusuf! It’s just a painting. 
Three women and a little girl.

“But, it’s also a painting of the place
where Mahmoud and Abdul were murdered,” Yusuf replied.

Five pairs of eyes stared at him as the
people understood the logic of his remarks.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Mustafa asked Fereydoun.

“Those two, Allah Yerachmu (may Allah
have mercy on their souls), reached the family of the saboteur and they killed
them, even without provocation.”

Yusuf hurried to speak.

“I don’t understand, Mustafa.  Are you
planning to take revenge on the whole tribe?” 

When he received no response, he asked
once more:

“Are we talking about attacking an
entire tribe?”

Since his question was met with silence,
he sensed that he had understood correctly, and remarked:

“Gentlemen, it seems you misunderstood
me.  My intention is to use them to reach the scoundrel, a member of their
tribe, who is working against us in our territory and not attack all of them.”

Fereydoun’s face was flushed and Yusuf
knew that he had led them to think that as a result of his earlier remark, and
he hurried to clarify:

“Just a minute, are we getting carried
away!?

Feridun hit the table and shouted: 

"Had we drifted? No,
you’re the one who is confused, Yusuf.  If we don’t attack everything that is
dear to that bastard, he won’t understand and will continue to hit us and wipe
us out.  Do you understand that?!”

Rulam suggested:

“Put out an order to dispatch our select
unit.”

“Good,” Mustafa said, “I propose that
you photograph the painting and throw it over a pile of their dead. It will be
like a signature approving the operation, and those who need to understand will
understand.”

Yusuf continued studying the painting.  He
saw the signature in the corner of the painting, then also turned it over onto
its other side and noticed the signature and the date marked beside it and
remarked quietly:

“We’re dealing with a woman, an agent.”

“What? Is a woman capable of pulling off
these attacks?”

“First of all, yes.  At any rate, the
handwriting proves she’s a woman.  I say that she painted a portrait of her
family and apparently, she comes from the desert she has illustrated here.”

“So what?” Fereydoun inquired hoarsely.

Yusuf continued and wasn’t listening to
what the others were saying.

“I think she is dangerous and I don’t
believe that wiping out the members of her tribe will get her back to cooking
in the kitchen or hanging out the laundry.  On the contrary, she will wreak
vengeance on anyone she suspects of attacking her tribe.”

Mahpour
, who had been
silent till now, snorted in disgust:

“Spoken like a loser.”

“If we want to be efficient we have to
seek her out and kill only her, as we did to Razeh.”

 “The heart of a woman beats within you and
you even think just like one.”  Mahpour insulted him and looked at Yusuf with
eyes filled with hatred as he said:

“If we listen to him – nothing will get
done.  We, the men, must preserve our honor.” 

*
* *

The encampment of the ‘Alheb’ tribe
consisted of eight tents.  Six of the tents - the smaller ones - surrounded the
two parents’ tents. The men’s tent was almost empty now and the women’s tent
was bustling with activity, as usual.

            Today,
the only ones sitting in the men’s tent were thirteen-year-old Hassan and his brother
Kabir, aged twelve.  Masoud was to join them when the full moon appeared a
second time, in other words, in two more months when he would reach the age of
ten. It would be time for him to move to the men’s tent and liberate himself
from the care of his seven sisters.

Mansour aged five yelled from outside
the tent.

“Someone’s coming! 
Someone’s coming!”

Mansour had never seen cars speeding as
fast as these, in the desert sands and he stared curiously  but prepared to
escape the approaching cloud of dust.  He waited courageously until they were
facing him and then he fled into the tent, to his mother, Jamilla, where she
sat nursing his baby sister who was born a week ago.

His beautiful fifteen-year-old sister,
Amana, had taken the family under her wing now.  Her thick black braid fell
down on her back as she hurried to embrace Mansour and she also heard the
screech of tires in the desert sand.  Her two-year-old brother bawled and
raised his arms to be picked up.  She swept him up in her right arm, pushed the
tent flap aside with her left hand and looked outside through the opening.

“Mother, we have guests
,”
she called out in a loud voice.

It was the custom that
people coming to them would receive hospitality from the tribe since there was
not another tent in a radius of dozens of kilometers around.  Their closest
neighbors were the members of Abigail’s ‘Ka’abiah’ tribe, who lived on the rear
side of the yellow dunes, fifteen kilometers from the border with Jordan.

Amana stared at them, astounded by the
covered faces of two men.  She let the tent flap drop and hesitated whether she
should bother her mother, who was preoccupied with the baby or go out alone to
face the two men.

“Who are they?” her sister Latifa asked
and curiously ran to get a glimpse of the guests.  When she drew aside the
opening to the tent, a short volley of shots burst out and Latifa dropped to
the ground.

Jamilla screamed.  She ran with the baby
in her arms and knelt beside her daughter. Just then there was another burst of
fire and she sank on top of her dead child.  The boys and girls in the tent
shrieked and ran around like crazy, but when another barrage was fired, nothing
happened.

Amana hushed everyone and listened
expectantly, her chest rising and falling as she breathed wildly.  The braid
had come undone and her hair hung down around her face giving her a wild and captivating
appearance of a young girl blossoming into womanhood.

The volley heard was directed at the two
boys who came out of the men’s tent to satisfy their curiosity and fell on the
sand beside the tent.  Another figure got out of the car and stepped over the
bodies of Latifa and Jamilla on its way into the women’s tent.

All the children surrounded Amana and
hugged her.  The man cold-bloodedly raised his rifle and released low spurts of
fire as he sprayed the tent from its length and breadth.  As a background,
shots were heard from the second tent like a duet, and they, both,
complementing and sounds as music's sounds of Death.

Yet another man stepped
out of the rear of the car and went over and made his way methodically between
the six other tents, which were occupied by the married sons and daughters of
the Alheb tribe.  He killed all the tent dwellers, men, women, and children,
and didn’t even spare the dogs and camels around and then, returned to the car.

When the car
disappeared in a cloud of yellow dust, only the week-old infant was left.  She
bawled for a long time until the men of the tribe returned and discovered the
catastrophe.

Spread over the small pile of bodies at
the entrance to the tent was a photograph of a painting of three women and a
young girl sitting in a tent. A snow white camel and a huge palm tree appeared
outside.
Two parallel lines had been drawn across the
photograph like a canceled bank check.

The murderers sped across the desert
sands and one of the killers texted a short message.

“Mission Accomplished”

            The investigators, who
arrived at the scene of the massacre, stood and stared. They were unable to
absorb what had transpired.  Shortly afterward, eight ambulances arrived,
racing across the desert with their sirens blaring then departed in dead
silence, loaded with the bodies of the victims.

* * *

            On
the day of the massacre of the 'Alheb' tribe, Foxy returned to Israel with new
information and even before the wheels of his plane touched down, he received
notice of the meeting.

            The news of the terrifying
murder had not yet reached them. Everyone knew that the Iranians were
frustrated by the incessant series of attacks on their country, especially
because of their inability to apprehend those, who were attacking them
mercilessly and left no trail.  Information about the satchel that had fallen
off Abigail’s back in the ‘Imam’s Mosque’ had also reached them.

            No
one made light of Iran’s intelligence capabilities and the worst was feared,
which was why Barak awaited the information that Foxy had with him.  He strode
into the room, panting and waiting impatiently for the man.

            The
meeting began as scheduled and as soon as he sat down, Foxy declared:

            “I
have proof of a connection between the attempts on Abigail’s life.”

            “Is
that so?  Let’s hear it.”

            He
removed a minute audio cartridge from an interior pocket in his collar and a
minute later they were listening to a recorded conversation.

         
“Yes,
I hear you, speak, don’t mention names, and be brief.”

            “Ah,
ya'Effendi, I want you to know that he is leaving me and is telling stories
about some mission.”

            “Mission?
Did he say where?”

            “He
said in ‘the field.'  He told me things about 'them', I don’t know who they are
and it also doesn’t interest me…”

           
A
woman’s crying was heard and it was difficult to understand the words she said,
almost shouting, and the people leaned forward to hear.

            “Delay
him, cancel the mission, do something, make it difficult for him!”

           
The
man ended the .conversation.

           
“Fine,
I’ve got it.  Good thing you called today, my sister, I always knew you were
larger than life!”

            San
asked:

            “When
did this conversation take place?”

            “Oho,
it was weeks ago.  Shortly before the explosion of the arms’ freighter.

            “What?!”
San jumped and held socket of his missing eye, as if he had just lost it this
moment. 

“So why are we only hearing about it
now?!”

            And
Barak asked:

            “Are
you certain?”

            “As
sure, as there’s a tomorrow.  If we don’t interfere and get hold of him right
away, Karma may well make it to heaven, speeding along in a “Bentley de Luxe.”

            Barak
faced him and murmured:

            “If
I ignore your last remark, the person who dispatched the motor-cyclist assassin
against Karma two years ago was none other than Effendi Khaidar.  He is Karma’s
brother-in-law and  the brother of the woman we just heard on tape.”

            “Bingo!”
Michael exclaimed and added:

            “And
he is the man, who brought the soldiers and the dogs to the tunnel and who
planned the assassination at their wedding, as well as in the car on the farm
after they were married.”

            “Oho,”
San remarked and the telephone rang.

            Barak
picked it up and from the expression on his face, he appeared to be emotional
at what he heard and called out loud.

            “Turn
on the TV, quickly.  They’re showing the tribe that was wiped out in the south.”

            Even
before seeing the photographs, he had a feeling that this slaughter was an act
of vengeance against the agent and his heart beat hard.

            The
pictures rolled rapidly on the screen.  The camera panned the killing field,
but the faces of the victims were obscured.  The newscaster quoted newspaper
headlines from all over the globe that expressed disapproval and disgust at the
slaughter.

            “Wait,
what is the response of the Iranians?” Barak inquired.

            “Silence,
as usual.”

            Just
then, the camera panned across the group of tents against the desert background
that surrounded them and Barak looked at the pictures from close up and called
out:

            “Oh,
it’s a case of mistaken identity.  These tents belong to a different tribe!”

            “It
looks like internecine accounts about land rights or revenge being settled
between tribes.”

            “Inaccurate,”
Foxy pointed out, “Look at this paper.”

The
camera stopped on a photograph placed on a small pile of bodies at the entrance
to one of the tents.  Something in Arabic was written on it and Barak
exclaimed:

“Oh!”

“I didn’t manage to
read it. What’s written on the photograph?” Foxy asked and Barak said out loud:

"This is our answer to the
artist.”

            “Oh,
this is a very hard answer, indeed!” Michael remarked.

“Look, it’s a painting of three women
and a little girl in a tent,” and Barak nodded as he said:

            “She’s
stubborn as a mule.”

            “Who? 
We have a portrait of three women and a young girl.  Which of them is
obstinate?”

            “The
one who drew the three of them and insisted on taking the painting, and this is
the result.”

            Michael
looked at him quizzically and San explained:

            “Lucy
painted the portrait of the women of her family.”

            “Do
you mean to say, she is the painter?”

            A
minute later, Barak described in a restrained voice how he had taken all the
pictures she had painted from her house and still had them stored.

            “But,
she apparently insisted on drawing them again, and simply sacrificed them like
a gift.”

            They
were all silent and Barak turned off the TV.

            “But,
how did they know exactly where to find them in that desert? Michael said in
surprise.

            “Well,
the fact is, the background of the painting brought them to the Negev and the
Bedouin tribe.”

            “What
makes you so certain?”

            “Do
you remember the two, who were killed on the dunes?  Did you give a moment’s
thought to what brought them there – well, here’s your answer.”

            “Then,
they killed…”

            “No,
they were mistaken and they murdered another tribe.”

            “Yes,
they were searching according to the landscape in the painting.”

            San
sighed.

            “The
damage has been done, and I want to return to your remark that something will
happen tomorrow evening in a luxury car.”

            There
was still an awkward silence and the topics they had been dealing with made it
difficult to return to the discussion.  Michael took a breath and spoke.

            “Okay,
let’s get back to what I said before… no, wait a moment, it’s still too difficult
for me after what happened there,” and San came to his rescue.

            “You
said that tomorrow, ‘the Noodle’ is scheduled to travel in a luxury car and
that we ought to get in touch with him right away or  something like that.”

            “I
intended saying that he was given the job of attaching a bomb to an identical
car and he is supposed to board the Turkish ship.  But, hey, why am I telling
you this since you already know the details of this matter.”

“What
are you talking about?!” Barak demanded.  What’s this job we’re supposed to
know about?”

“Í
understood that this was the next mission our man was to be sent on.”

“Who
sent him on it?”

“What?!
 Michael was horrified, “just don’t say that this instruction was not
dispatched from here!”

“Absolutely
not!”

“Oh,
in that case, we have to stop him!” Michael said agitatedly.

“They’re using our agent to take out
someone and possibly they will even kill him too.”

            “How
did he receive this assignment?  Or, to be more correct, how did they get the
code to reach him.”

            “It
doesn’t matter anymore.  Now, we have to delay him.”

            “Yes,
but, in my opinion, ‘the Noodle’ is already on his way and there is no chance
he will answer us.”

            They
were silent.

            “I
have a suggestion.” Michael offered.  “We have Timmy, my son. He is our man in
Azerbaijan and has been posted to shadow the couple.”

            “Good,
draft him a message, right now!”

            Michael
wrote the message as follows:

“Delay
‘the Noodle.'  He received a false assignment.

Give
him the cipher code to receive the cancelation.”

Almost
an hour later reached Timmy to the couple Öcalan's home, to move the
message to her husband, who was already deep in his mission.

* * *

      
In
the meantime, Karma reached the meeting place, to received the twin car and the
timed explosive device.

            Two
men got out of the car that was parked in the dark and stood on either side of
it.  Their heads were covered with wool caps with holes for their eyes and his
heart raced wildly.  He felt as though they were about to execute him, so he
remained seated in his car.

            After
about a minute, he summoned up the courage to go out to them.  One of them
extended his arm and patted the car Karma had stepped out of as if he was
patting the rear of a purebred racehorse in an attempt to assess its value. The
moon and starlight illuminated a box the second man handed to him.  Karma took
it from him without a word.

            “It’s
intended for another car, identical to this one that is at present being driven
on the roads in Europe.  Its destination is Syria in the Middle East.”

            “How
will it reach Syria?” he asked nervously and stared at the holes in their caps
at their eyes.

            “When
that car reaches Italy it will sail on a ship to Izmir in Turkey.”

            “And
how do I fit into this plan?”

“You will drive this one to Italy and
wait to board the same ship, with it, is that clear?”

Karma made an effort to absorb what he
heard.  The second young man approached him, wrapped an arm around his
shoulders like an old friend and directed him towards the car he had gotten out
of.

“This car runs like a well-oiled girl
and is ready for you.  That’s also how you’ll feel when you drive it.”  He said
and Karma glanced at the dashboard and shrank back at its grandeur.

“Okay,  am I going to drive this to
Italy?”

“Yes, you will wait there until Saturday
night, in two days’ time and then board the ship “Ankara” with it.  It is
scheduled to sail at precisely ten o’clock at night.  Is everything clear to
this point?

Suddenly, he felt pressured and asked:

“What if I don’t get there in time?”

“Good question.  Here, this is Ian’s
number.  He is on the ferry.  If you are late, call him and let him know that
he must wait for you.”

"To start driving you have to make
this code, and here it is." he said and gave him a note they had prepared
in advance, when they meant to give him Ian's number.

Ian was a seasoned seafarer and a member
of the ‘Kaukab’ organization and he was supposed to bring the cars on the ferry
to the ship.  The masked men equipped Karma’s telephone with a tracer so they
would have control and know when the Kurd reached the harbor.  Ian had been
also instructed to get rid of Karma as soon as he will come. 

Karma got into the car and before he put
the code he opened the box and peeked inside.  The bomb was a timed device and
had been as carefully placed in the box as a baby in a cradle.  At the time, it
didn’t occur to him to check the time the explosion was set for and he put it
in the glove compartment.  He Punched in the code, turned the key in the
steering wheel lock and the car slid forward silently.

The smooth ride on the excellent highway
made Karma sleepy and his eyelids grew as heavy as lead.  He turned on the radio
to keep wakeful and the sounds of music swelled all around him in the car.  The
song that was playing was one he had listened to many times with Abigail and he
mused how much he would give just to be listening to his beloved wife.  His
telephone vibrated.