Authors: Denise Kahn
The other hostages were freed. Alejandro started to rush outside. One of the commandos stopped him. “Not yet. Wait until the signal.” He saw the desperation on Alejandro’s face. He had heard the screams. “It will only be a few moments.”
The rest of the unit had charged the other tents, again in complete silence. The terrorists were asleep. The Israelis opened up. They met no obstacles.
0445 hours. It was over.
Ruth covered Monique, who was semi-conscious, and helped Davina put her shirt on. She was in terrible pain and could hardly move. The first blow to her shoulder had turned into a large hematoma. She had bruises all over and her face was swollen. Jacques was barely conscious. A broken rib had cut into one of his lungs. Blood trickled out of his mouth.
In five minutes, two helicopters were in sight and descending fast. As they landed, fresh troops hurried out and into the encampment. They had ten minutes. The first commando group rushed into the big Chinook with the hostages. They carried the wounded to the big bird with the red cross painted on its belly. Jacques and Monique were placed on stretchers. The blanket that covered her was soaked with blood. Horror spread over their faces. They watched the medical team furiously work on them. Alejandro held Davina as carefully as he could. He was crying.
At 0500 hours, the big helicopters were airborne, moving away from the encampment. A huge explosion resounded from the desert. The tents and everything else in the camp and around it, as well as the hang gliders, blew up.
“That’s the end of those fuckers,” Shamir said, then quickly turned to Davina and apologized for his language.
“That’s quite alright, Colonel,” she said quietly. “I’ve said a few choice words myself.” She looked at the people on the helicopter. “Thank you.”
Davina went to her best friend and gently kissed her cheek.
“Davina,” she whispered.
“
Oui, Monique
," Davina answered. She put her ear close to her lips.
“Davina, I’m dying.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Davina, listen.” Monique shut her eyes and opened them. “Listen. I want you to promise me something.”
“Name it.”
“Promise you will sing.”
“Monique,
you
will sing.”
“Promise me, if I can’t, that you will sing. Promise me, Davina.”
“Alright, I promise.” Her tears fell onto Monique’s face. “I promise, I promise.” She began to sing softly to Monique.
“No,” Monique said with great difficulty, “I want everyone in the world to hear you…”
One of the soldiers quickly handed Davina a microphone. It was connected to both helicopters.
Davina took the microphone and with all the control she possessed slowly started singing a Hebrew song they had sung together in the past.
“Bashana Abaa…, next year there will be peace...”
Both helicopters, full of men and women sang with Davina.
Shamir cleared his throat and went into the cockpit. He shook hands with the pilot. “Well done, Captain, thank you. Can you send a message to Number One?”
“Right away, Colonel.”
“Good, here it is then.”
The message reached William Walters and the others at the American Embassy in Paris.
0530 hours. The telex machine in the communications room was receiving a message. Walters, Dickinson, Duvalier, as well as Ephraim and Leo ran over to it. It was printing. Yes, this was it. How did it go, they wondered.
PLEASED TO INFORM YOU...
OPERATION NIGHTINGALE COMPLETE SUCCESS.
ALL TERRORISTS INCLUDING ENEMY BASE
COMPLETELY DESTROYED.
NO ONE FROM TEAM WOUNDED OR KILLED.
ALEJANDRO, ADAM, ERIC, PERFECT CONDITION.
“Formidable!”
Duvalier exclaimed. The telex continued.
REGRET TO INFORM YOU MUSTAPHA, EGYPTIAN
GUIDE, FOUND DEAD. ALSO…
William thought he was going to faint
. ...JACQUES BADLY HURT SHOULD RECOVER.
DAVINA...
Here it comes
...BADLY BRUISED BUT OK.
William sighed with relief
.
MONIQUE CRITICAL. IN COMA. BADLY MUTILATED.
DO NOT KNOW IF SHE WILL MAKE IT.
REGARDS, Y.S.
♫
HAIFA
CHAPTER 7
Captain Adam Spencer was the only one of the group who stayed on in Haifa, where the Israeli helicopters had taken them directly from the Egyptian desert. Adam and his co-pilot returned to Cairo to retrieve the DC-3, and then Eric, who longed desperately for the peace of his home in Cork, left that very day for Ireland, promising that he would be back to work in a week. Adam told him to take two. But he only needed a week, Eric protested. A week with his Scottish fold cat Sally. Actually, it wasn’t his cat; the cat belonged to the neighbors but whenever Eric returned home after a long haul of flying, the cat came visiting. She stayed with him, she ate with him and slept with him, for the entire time he was home, which was never very long. Sally had become like an anchor for Eric, a reminder that he had a place, a home of his own, where someone, who happened to be a cat, was waiting for him.
“
Two
weeks with Sally, and that’s an order,” Adam warned him. He had become like a father to Eric, a man who was his boss but also a man who would hug him and let him cry for as long as he needed.
“Right then,” Eric said, “two weeks, it is.”
“With Sally.”
They hugged each other again and Adam watched Eric board his plane for home. It was then, at that moment, seeing the last of Eric disappear that Adam knew what he was going to do, or rather where he was going. He was going back to Haifa.
Adam and Ruth Rosenblum had already exchanged good-byes, promising to get together soon, which of course meant
someday, maybe,
Adam told himself, wondering what Ruth would say when he appeared on her doorstep so soon.
Ruth didn’t say anything, at least not right away, not until after they broke off a long passionate embrace. They spent the week together, most of it in bed, making love, talking, but not of the future, that was too difficult. They did not go there until their last night together. Adam could not bear to leave her without some hope of seeing her again. He wanted more than this, much more, and he wanted it so much that he dared not push her too far.
“Have you given it some thought then, luv?”
“I have, Adam, but it’s not that simple. I’m not really my own person, I can’t be. I belong to the military and to my country. I have a duty to fulfill and I can’t just drop everything at a moment’s notice. It would be very difficult to just get up and go.”
“I understand.”
“Besides, I don’t know if I could live a life of leisure day in and day out. I know I’d be happy by your side and we would be passionate for days...”
“
Days
?”
“Possibly years. The passion doesn’t go on and on forever. That’s the way it usually works.”
“Maybe we’re not so usual, Ruthie. Have you thought of that?”
“Adam,” she said and looked into his eyes. “Passion isn’t what concerns me the most.” How could she explain to him what it meant to be an Israeli? It wasn't just her country. Her feelings about it transcended the idea of homeland. She needed to be a part of it, she needed to defend it as well as live in it. He could never totally be a part of this. And even if they lived together in Israel, she would still be in the military and they could not be together whenever they wanted. She would still go on dangerous missions because that is what she did best. She wouldn’t have it any other way. He would be miserable whenever she left the house. He wouldn’t know if she was going to buy lamb chops or blow up a terrorist encampment. And how could her mind be focused a hundred percent on her mission? It couldn’t be. She would be thinking of him, and that might be just enough to cause the mistake she was not allowed to make. How could she make him understand?
“Adam,” she tried again. “You are a military man yourself or you were. You have souvenirs on your body and in your heart that will always remind you.” She caressed the scars on his back. He had not spoken of them, and he realized that he needn’t. She didn’t need to be told about what happened to him before the Black Angel in Vietnam. She could probably well imagine the details. Ultimately, war is war; the details probably don’t matter anyway. Getting shot or tortured in a rice paddy can’t be much different in a desert.
“But, Adam. I care about you. I care very much. No one can ever take that away. Nothing can. These days with you have been so wonderful. I’ve never been so happy.”
She was a little surprised to hear these words, her own words. But l
am
happy, she told herself, happier than I have ever been. Surely, it is every woman’s dream to be happy with a man, a special man. “I’m sorry, Adam. I’m not your typical woman.”
“That’s my girl, thank the Lord.”
He could wait. It was against his heart’s will and desire, but he could wait. Of all the goddamn luck. Here she was, in his arms, and he had to wait.
After Haifa, Adam went to his home, a cabin in the northern woods of Maine. This had been home for ten years now, longer than any other place he called home. He chopped wood and finally replaced the rotted front roof gutters. In ten days, he was ready to move on. He called Eric.
“How’s Sally?”
“Ah, she’s grand,” Eric said, happy to hear Adam’s voice. “We’re moving now, are we?” They were indeed. The Black Angel would be hauling cargo. First stop was Alaska. Then Malta.
“Malta? Saint Paul was shipwrecked on Malta.”
“You don’t say.”
“As long as it’s out of the desert.”
“Yeah. And the jungle.”
“You know what we’re carrying?”
“Dog food. To Alaska, as far inland as we can get. The huskies up there are starving. They’re dying, every day. There’s not enough fish to feed them all. That’s what they eat in the winter, fish. And there’s no fish because we keep accidentally dumping shiploads of oil in the water. Fish don’t like oil in their water.”
”And Malta?”
“I don’t want to chop any more wood this winter. After Alaska, we’re going to need Malta.”
♫
PARIS
CHAPTER 8
The doctors said Monique may not recover. She had a severe concussion and slipped into a coma while being airlifted out of the desert. There was always that chance she would come out of her coma, but even if she did, they did not know what her state of mind would be. Davina was with Jacques to hear this news. Jacques’ punctured lung and his shattered bones mended but he was still a broken man. He left the hospital too numb to speak. Davina knew he needed to be alone but she feared for him.
Jacques desperately wished he could have taken Monique's place. Better yet, he wished he had died back there in the desert. He aimlessly walked the streets of Paris. How would he survive without her? Life meant nothing without Monique.
When Jacques was released from the hospital he wandered into a bar that night on the Left Bank, where affluent guys like him were supposed to hang out. He felt as though he had no one in the world. He knew of course that Davina cared for him like a brother, but she was out of reach. Alejandro was his best friend, but he too was out of reach. They all were. He needed Monique and that was impossible, out of the question. He drank champagne, affluent wasted
mec
that he was. A good deal of it. He looked into the glass and decided that this was his only friend. You make me feel good, he told the bubbles. I can talk to you and you don’t think I'm a fool, he babbled. But what about tomorrow morning, are you going to kick my head around like a mule or will you still be sweet and continue to be my friend? I know you, you're devious. You have unscrupulous ways. When I least expect it, you will take your revenge like the rest of this goddamn world. Always from behind, always stabbing you in the back. You're like a bad disease, you're contagious, you would actually let me get hooked on you. You're like a prostitute, sweet and sexy until it’s time to pay, and then you become lecherous. Will you be like that, little bubbles? No, you wouldn't do that to your old friend Jacques. I have been nothing but nice to you. I put you in a beautiful crystal glass and let you sparkle like little stars in the sky. The glass is clean—that's what the bartender claims—and transparent. That way you look radiant, like a ray of sunshine and you can look out at this cruel world of ours. Of course I only want the best for you, my friend, and I will take good care of you just like my little Monique. But I didn't, did I. I let those bastards kill her. But she is not dead. Jacques stood up and held on to the walls as he walked out of the bar. His legs buckled under him and he grabbed a street lamp to cushion his fall. On his knees in the dead of night he sobbed, alone.
Davina was at the hospital every day, all day and all night in the first weeks. She went back and forth from Monique’s room to Jacques’ room.
Alejandro thought this excessive. He blamed the incident in the desert. “Are you moving into this hospital?” he asked her. “What about us? We have a home.”
After Jacques was released, Davina continued going to the hospital. She did not spend the nights there, but she spent a large part of every night and day at Monique’s side. Alejandro tried to convince her to take a break. “She has the best care,” he said. “What could you possibly do for her that the doctors aren’t doing?”
“I don’t know,” Davina said. “I just have to be with her.”
Alejandro persisted. He was hoping that the bad dreams would stop, that she would be able to finally put all that had happened behind her. At night, she woke up screaming, and she would not talk about the nightmares. There was no reasoning with her. Alejandro wanted desperately to put it all behind him.
“
Querida
, I’m really tired,” he said one night. “Why don’t we see Monique in the morning after we’ve had a good night’s sleep?”
“I didn’t ask you to come with me,” she snapped. “You of all people should understand,” Davina said, her voice rising. “Our friends need us, Alejandro. You should be the one with Jacques. He’s your friend more than mine or at least he was your friend.”
“Who do you think you are, Florence Nightingale? Alejandro asked, his Spanish temper overtaking his usual calm diplomacy.”
Davina’s cheeks reddened. Without saying another word, she gathered her purse and jacket and slammed the door to their apartment with all of her might.
He had gone too far, he knew, but when he thought of how she had decided on her own to spend nights at the hospital without consulting him, his anger returned. She did not return to the apartment for several days. Alejandro knew she would never forgive him.
A week later when Davina finally calmed down she thought about the man she adored and went home. She found him camped out on the couch in their apartment. Empty Scotch bottles littered the living room. Alejandro was asleep on the sofa, his hand touching one of the empty bottles. He looked haggard. He had lost weight and he had not shaved in days. Davina quietly went to the kitchen and made breakfast. The smell of the eggs and ham cooking awoke Alejandro, and the sight of the food made him nauseous.
Davina moved another empty bottle to place the tray on the table. They stared at each other, both of them wanting only to be in the other’s arms but their stubborn pride prevented this.
“When did you eat last?” she asked.
He shrugged.
She scooped up some egg onto the fork and brought it to his mouth.
“Why do you want me to eat? Are you feeling sorry for me or what?”
“Why should I feel sorry for you? I feel sorry only for little animals that are hurt.”
“So, now I’m an animal?”
“No, I didn’t say that, and if you don’t mind, my arm is getting tired holding this fork.”
He stared at her. Had she forgiven him? He remembered her shoulder and the other bruises and cuts. Her arm was out of the sling now. “How is your arm?” he asked, lightly touching it.
Davina shivered at his touch, an electric current coursing through her. Every time he touched her, even now. “It’s much better.”
“I’m really glad to hear that,” he said gently.
“Would you please eat,” she said, exasperated.
“Why?”
“Because…”
“Because why?”
“Because I love you,” she whispered.
He opened his mouth and chewed slowly, both of them still watching each other. He took the fork from her. “I’m sorry, my love.”
“I’m sorry too.” She kissed his forehead.
“No, it was my fault. I wasn’t there when you needed me. I behaved like an ass. Please forgive me.”
“Let’s just forget it.”
“Come here,” he said softly.
They held each other. Alejandro wanted to talk about what had happened. They had not made love in a long time. “
Mi amor
, do you want to talk about it?”
Davina laid her head on his chest and sighed. “Not now. Just hold me. I need you. I need you to hold me..”
Jacques still held on to the lamp. He slowly lifted himself up. It was already very late when he found himself standing in Place Pigalle in Paris' red light district. Hookers in shorts and T-shirts approached him. He waved them off. He wanted no part of them, he wanted his wife. A young prostitute walked up to him. Her nipples stood up under her skimpy shirt. He would not have looked twice at her if she hadn’t reminded him of Monique. She was petite like Monique but on second look, she didn’t resemble his wife at all. She was a
trotteuse
,
after all
.
Now she
looked at him questioningly.
“Yes," he said simply, surprised at his own words.
She took him by the hand and led him down a back street into a hotel, the kind nobody in their right mind would actually want to stay at for any length of time.
“Hundred francs," the receptionist muttered under her garlic breath.
Jacques paid her and took the key she held up. The girl led him up the stairs to a darkened room with a large bed, a nightstand and a lamp with no shade. Two rats scurried across the floor. Two lovers, Jacques thought morosely.
“It's going to cost you two hundred,” the young woman said. “All extras one hundred more, and I don't do any kinky stuff."
Jacques handed her two hundred francs. She quickly put the bills in her purse and got undressed. Jacques watched her. He did not move even when she was naked. She undressed him. Still he did not move. She knelt before him and tried to please him. Nothing happened. It was as if Jacques’ mind was subconsciously telling his body that every organ was dead—starting with his heart. The woman continued with every trick she knew, but still she did not get a response.
The prostitute took out a small vial and spoon from her purse. She filled the spoon with the powder and held it under his nose. “Take a deep breath,” she instructed him, holding one of his nostrils shut. Jacques obeyed. "Now the other," she said after quickly refilling the spoon. He inhaled again. His nose went numb and his brain exploded with the cocaine. She rubbed some of the white powder on her gums. Again she took tried to arouse him, and this time, she got a reaction, although it was minimal, and she was certain that this guy definitely had a problem. She did not get too many of this kind, not this bad. She led him to the bed and spread some of the white powder on his genitals. Soon he was hard. He suddenly grabbed the young woman and exploded into her.
“Again,” Jacques said, “and don’t stop until I tell you.”
She straddled him, moved rhythmically on top of him. He took one of her breasts, gripped her buttocks, pulled her down on him. He thrust into her until he climaxed.
He watched her get off the bed and wanted more. "Get another girl," he ordered. "I have plenty of money and I want to spend it."
She had seen his wallet. There was a bundle, and she could have it all. "You want action, Monsieur, you'll get it, , I just have to make a phone call."
“Make it fast."
She went down the hallway to a payphone and dialed a number. She spoke a few words into it, went back to the room.
"My friend will be here in twenty minutes. Is that alright?"
“Fine."
A short while later there was a knock on the door. The prostitute unlocked the door to let in a black woman with a model’s figure. She wore a mini-skirt, a tank top and no bra. "So the man wants action?"
“Yes, a lot."
“Where's the money?"
“Bring me my jacket," Jacques ordered.
The black woman handed it to him. He took out a thousand francs and held up the money. “You don't stop until I tell you. Is that a deal?"
The women looked from the money to each other.
“You have a deal, Monsieur," the black woman said, very businesslike.
“Good. What’s your name?"
“Arlette."
“And yours?"
“Muriel."
Jacques sat up against the headboard. His pupils were dilated and he was getting another erection watching the black woman undress. Her nipples, contoured by dark wine colored circles, were erect. Her lips were full and sexy.
Arlette lit a joint and put it between Jacques' lips. He took a long drag and immediately felt a buzzing in his head. The three of them shared the marijuana.
They didn't stop for three days. Three days of sex and marijuana, cocaine and amyl nitrate. They did not sleep or eat. The drugs had taken care of those needs. But something in Jacques snapped and he became violent. "I want something stronger!" He yelled.
The prostitutes had taken the drugs themselves, but it was nowhere near the amount they had pumped into Jacques. Muriel took out a different vial, of white powder, from her purse. She put some of the heroin into the spoon and held a lighter under it until the powder became liquid. This she injected into a vein in Jacques' arm.
Jacques’ mood changed quickly. He relaxed. For the next two days, this was all he wanted, the heroin. He had found a new friend. On day six of the orgy, Jacques' eyes rolled back into his head until only the whites showed. His body began to convulse.
The prostitutes had seen it before—it was the beginning of the end. They quickly got dressed and left, taking Jacques' wallet with them. They took out the money. Muriel noticed a business card. She dialed the telephone number on it.
“
Hallo, oui
?" Davina answered.
“Do you have a friend named Jacques?" Muriel asked.
“Yes. Where is he? Do you know where he is?" Davina knew something was very wrong. She hadn't heard from Jacques in almost a week. Now she was frightened.
“He's at the Hotel du Midi, in Pigalle, room number five. I suggest you hurry." The line went dead.
Davina ran out of her apartment on the Avenue Foche and miraculously found a taxi. She gave the driver the address and slapped a hundred francs in his hand. "Fly!" she ordered him.
He did. They arrived in fifteen minutes. "Wait here," Davina said, hoping against hope that this was the wrong place, that Jacques could not possibly be here. The odor of stale filth and mold assaulted her senses as she ran up the stairs. She did not bother to knock.