Agent on a Mission Read online

  Abigail came to visit and lay on the braided rope hammock. Her hand rested behind her head as she gazed at her six-month old baby daughter. She was crawling now on the mat in her grandmother’s tent as she played with a tiny wooden sprig that a warm breeze had blown inside. Her dark hair had been trained into ringlets and her large pale eyes sparkled with curiosity as she looked around her.

  Two hours later, Abigail was on her way as she hurried to a court hearing with Gil Ayalon, the soldier she had brought back to Israel, the nephew of Adam, the Judge. The progress of his trial was very important to her and she still had not freed herself from the belief that, through him, she would be able to connect what she would hear there with the death of her father in the grenade explosion in the desert.

  On her way to court, she stopped at her home in Tel Aviv to pick up her mail. She found a note for an item of registered mail from the court and she went to pick it up at the post office on Esther Hamalka Street. She opened it and read:

  Ms. Abigail Ben-Nun,

  You are hereby summoned to family court at 16 King David Street in Tel Aviv.

  The hearing will be held on Thursday, August second at 11:00am in Room 32, in the presence of the Registrar, Mr. Nissim Bar-Adon.

  Abigail was furious when she realized how she had been deceived and she tried not to tear it up. Now, she was angry at herself for failing to foresee the steps that Justice Ayalon would take. It had been hinted to her that he was working against her, but she presumed that he was scared by her assault complaint or that she might apply for recognition of his paternity of her daughter. Suddenly, she understood that the date of the hearing was that day and she regretted having gone to the post office. Clearly, she could not avoid the hearing as she had signed receipt of notification for it.

  She managed to get to Family Court a quarter of an hour before the appointed time. All the papers concerning the birth were contained in the manila file under her arm, ready for the hearing, the nature of which was still unknown to her.

  Two couples awaited their turn. A young woman held on to her child as if she feared losing him. A spouse, if she had one, was nowhere to be seen beside them. Abigail sat at a distance from all them and waited.

  A woman, wearing a scarf indicating religious modesty, came out from behind a closed door and announced her name. Abigail got up and went into the room.

  Two bearded men sat at a table and perused some papers.

  “Do you have your son, Arlin’s, birth certificate?” one of them asked her. His lips were not even visible under his mustache and she corrected him:

  “My daughter, Arlene. Yes, I have the certificate with me.”

  “May I see it?” he asked eagerly and she opened the file, but suddenly decided to first find out why she had been summoned.

  “I regret I cannot show you my daughter’s birth certificate,” she said.

  “Excuse me?!” Agitated, the speaker stared at the man beside him and spoke to her again:

  “It will suffice to show us only the name of the father registered on her birth certificate.”

  He had a red beard and now his face was also red with anger. Abigail could see that he was furious and agitated.

  “If you please, no. Did you summon me to find out who is registered as the father of my daughter? I want to know if a claim has been filed against me, the name of the claimant and the nature of the claim.”

  “Mrs. Ben-Nun, no one has accused you of anything or made a claim against you. We just asked to see the birth certificate of your son, I mean daughter,” he spoke more gently this time.

  “But, I insist on knowing why I was summoned here today.”

  The second bearded man seemed to wake up suddenly and asked,

  “What is your occupation, Madam?

  “I am a lawyer,” she said and the two men exchanged glances.

  “If you please, wait outside and we will call you back immediately.”

  Abigail left the room. She noticed a shelf piled with files of forms and went to have a look at them.

  After a few minutes, she selected two forms from the piles, went out onto the busy street and did not bother glancing back.

  At home, Abigail filled in her details on the request form and added her remarks.

  I wish to order a DNA tissue analysis from Mr. Adam Ayalon in order to draw a comparison with that of my daughter.

  Then she went to her HMO branch to see the pediatrician, realizing that she also required a referral for Arlene’s DNA test.

  “I require a referral to do a DNA tissue test on my daughter,” she said.

  “Mrs. Ben-Nun, that’s an unusual request. What has happened?

  “I’m not married to the father and I want scientific certainty of his identity. There are places where verbal acceptance isn’t enough.”

  “Why? Have you come up against problems?”

  “Almost. And this is just the beginning.”

  “You will have to bring her to the lab. By the way, how old is she now?

  “She’s almost eight months old and lives with my mother in the south.”

  “Wherein the south? What city?

  “She’s in the Negev.”

  “Which settlement?”

  “She lives in the encampment of the Ka’abiah tribe.”

  “Excuse me, why there? In the desert? What did she do to deserve that? Is she Bedouin?

  “Indeed she is. And not just a Bedouin, she’s also the daughter of a Bedouin,” she said with a marked Middle Eastern accent and added:

  “I am also a Bedouin like her grandmother and the whole family, of course.”

  The doctor’s mouth dropped open and he screwed up his eyes. He stared at her and smiled as Abigail declared defiantly:

  “Right now, my Arlene is living in the very best home I could possibly find for her.”

  He signed the document, gave it to her and laughed as he said:

  “Good luck.”

  Abigail took Arlene to the lab in Be’er Sheba together with her sister, Latifah. The tests took about ten minutes and when they ended, they were free to go out for a walk. They treated themselves to ice cream and lemonade and Abigail gazed with pleasure at her daughter clapping her hands in delight after each lick of the ice cream and smearing it on her dark cheeks and cute little nose, as she babbled baby talk and enjoyed being kissed by her Aunt Latifah.

  When they got home, she left Arlene to have fun with her sister and thought it was time to fill out the second form she had taken from the Family Court. She was so certain of receiving a positive answer to the DNA tissue comparison tests between her daughter and Justice Ayalon.

  I wish to set a date for a hearing to present new data to the court.

  I would be grateful if you could coordinate this hearing to enable Justice Ayalon to attend in person.

  She signed her name below and prefixed it with “Advocate” and after further thought, added in brackets, "Arlene’s mother."

  The following day notice of a registered letter awaited her at home. It read as follows:

  Matching tests were not possible because of the non-receipt of the male DNA sample for comparison.

  Abigail sighed. She picked up the phone and sent a text message to the Judge, who hadn’t turned up.

  Justice Ayalon, do not run away from responsibility.

  This is only intended for your acknowledgement.

  His laconic, but far from amusing response had no connection to her text message. It seemed the judge was convinced of something.

  The hearing in our matter has been fixed for September second, in the morning. I will be there.

  A minute later she received another text message in which Adam wrote:

  The test was taken last Tuesday.

  She was puzzled, but satisfied. Two weeks later she found notice of “registered mail” and this time, she was certain of the response.

  On her way out of the post office she ripped the envelope open with her finger, pulled out the letter and looked
at it unemotionally. Suddenly, she stopped and her mouth fell open.

  A comparison was run between the DNA from human tissue from

  Adam Ayalon and Arlene Ben-Nun.

  There is a mismatch and there is no connection between the two of them.

  Abigail called the Family Court.

  “What is your name, please?”

  “Abigail Ben-Nun.”

  “How can we help you?”

  “A hearing has been fixed for September second. I am unable to attend and I request a deferral,” she said as she tapped her pen nervously on the paper in front of her.

  “You cannot cancel this hearing so it will take place even in the presence of only one of party.”

  “Excuse me. I did not request a cancellation, I requested a deferral. After all, I initiated the hearing.”

  “I’m sorry Ma’am.”

  “May I speak to one of the judges?”

  “It’s not customary.”

  “Thank you. I understand,” Abigail said.

  It was clear that something improper was going on. A few minutes later she called “Dor” the institute where the tissue testing had been carried out and whose phone number was in the form she had received.

  “May I speak with the secretary,” she asked.

  “Yes, speaking.”

  “This is with regard to the tissue test conducted at Mr. Adam Ayalon on August 14th.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m his partner. You were asked to draw a DNA comparison with my daughter, Arlene Ben-Nun.”

  “I understand. Yes, what is the problem?”

  “May I come and talk to you and check with the person who carried out the test?”

  After some hesitation, the secretary asked:

  “What is your name Ma’am?”

  “Abigail Ben-Nun. I’m the mother of…”

  “Yes, yes, I regret, the test and its result are confidential.”

  “Can I come today?”

  “It’s a pity to waste your time, Ma’am,” she said and hung up harshly.

  Abigail remained seated, wondering how to continue dealing the matter without resorting to legal action and then got an idea. She would consult with Judge Anton Stolov, their mutual friend, but there was no reply when she called him. She left him a message.

  I would like to meet with you. Please call me.

  When she still had not heard from him in the evening, she decided to try and reach him again. This time, he picked up the call.

  “Hello Justice Stolov, how are you?”

  “Hi, Abigail, it’s good to hear from you. How’s your baby?”

  “She’s become a purebred Bedouin. She crawls around on the mats in her grandmother’s tent and I know that my mother is very happy about that.” She laughed and immediately added,

  “I need your help. Where are you now?”

  “But remember, we only speak about good news on the telephone, right?” Anton reminded her and continued,

  “I hope everyone’s alright. Is it something urgent?”

  She didn’t respond because she hadn’t decided what to say:

  “Come to my chambers in the Tel Aviv Court at, let’s say, six o’clock. Does that suit you?”

  “That suits me very well,” she said. “By the way, I never got to ask, why aren’t you serving as the Judge on Gil Ayalon’s case anymore?

  “We agreed. We only talk about good news on the telephone, right?” was his answer.

  Abigail arrived at exactly six o’clock, but the Judge was not in his chambers. She went to the office of his secretary, to Dora, his faithful office manager of many years.

  “Hi Abigail, Judge Stolov asked that you wait for him. He’s been delayed.”

  She wandered down the long corridors of the courthouse while she waited, looked at the lawyers, waiting outside the judges’ chambers or hurrying on their way with binders or briefcases in hand.

  As she passed a young lawyer she was unfamiliar with, she heard him, say,

  “I’m Advocate Eran. Are you joining the hearing of Alon versus Alon?”

  Abigail sensed fright in his voice. She stopped beside him and decided to tease him a little for her amusement.

  “Yes, why not? Perhaps I will join the team. What do you think?”

  “But why?! The guy’s already confessed. Look, no one held a knife to his throat or forced him to sing. He simply confessed and he really doesn’t…”

  “Calm down Eran, I’m just passing by,” she smiled and touched his arm gently. “Hey, you really got a fright, am I a nightmare to people here?”

  She smiled as he sighed with relief and continued roaming aimlessly down the corridor. She mused on this brief conversation, unsure whether it flattered her or not.

  Ahead, she saw judge Anton walking towards her, extending both his arms to embrace her.

  “Sorry, that was an important private conversation. Come; let’s go into my chambers and talk.”

  He unlocked the door to his chambers and waved her in. Abigail waited till the judge sat and only then sat down. Silently, he looked at her expectantly.

  “I need a court order to open the mouths of some people at the ‘Dor Institute’. I think something improper, perhaps even criminal, is going on there."

  “Wait a moment. What did you have to do with the ‘Dor Institute’?

  She hesitated briefly before answering.

  “DNA tissue matching tests for my daughter and her father.”

  “Before we discuss a court order, can’t the problem be resolved in a conversation?”

  “I tried, but they wouldn’t cooperate. They said it was a matter of confidentiality.”

  The judge creased his brow and, as Abigail wondered whether it was wise to involve him in the matter, she heard him ask,

  “Why was a tissue matching test carried out? Is there a dilemma regarding the father’s identity?

  “Arlene is a specific man’s daughter. Of that I am one hundred percent certain.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I asked for tests to be conducted to prove his identity because he summoned me to Family Court.”

  “I understand. So there are problems here. So far, so good, but why do you require a court order?”

  Abigail took an envelope out of her bag, pulled out a letter and laid it on his desk.

  “This is the answer I received yesterday.”

  Anton read the letter, looked up and appeared not to understand.

  “I don‘t see a problem here. It says he’s not the father,” he said, pushing the document away.

  “Okay. I started out by saying that only he could be the father.”

  “Right, but what’s written here doesn’t confirm what you’re saying."

  “Well,” she said, “since I am convinced that he is the father, I wonder and am even suspicious. I’ll be satisfied if they say that there was a mess-up at the lab.”

  "A mess-up? Do you need a court order just to get them to double check or are there some other ideas rolling around in your pretty head?” And Abigail smiled.

  “Fine, I’ll tell you exactly what I’m thinking. In my opinion and based on the answer I received here, the person from whom the data for the test were obtained really isn’t the father.”

  Now the judge leaned back and smiled.

  “Now, listen to the voice of logic. Everyone carries an ID card. That institute is a reputable one and the staff is aware of the legal repercussions that follow the results.”

  “Except when…” she said, carefully weighing every word she was saying, “Except when the person involved is someone special, someone with influence, and someone who knows how to move things and take protect himself.”

  “Now, really! What are you talking about? Can you divulge who this special person is who can make things happen to suit himself?”

  Abigail hesitated, looked at the judge and said quietly: "The man is Judge Adam Ayalon.”

  Anton’s jaw dropped and he pushed it closed a
gain with his hand.

  “I don’t believe it! When? I mean when did the relations between you take… did they occur on a regular basis? And, does he now deny the relationship?” He was stunned and upset at what he had just heard.

  “A hearing in Family Court has been fixed for September second.”

  “Ah, I suppose you’re demanding child support for your daughter.” And Abigail dismissed his remark with a wave of her hand and a disparaging remark.

  “I don’t need his support and I am not sure I’m even interested in Arlene making his acquaintance. I just want to take revenge.”

  Anton stared at her, shifted around in his chair. “I suppose you’re going to tell me what happened and that there was a continuation to your romance.”

  “Absolutely not! But there was an act of violence and assault that do not befit a judge."

  Once more, judge Anton raised his eyebrows.

  “Really, and who did you divulge the assault to?”

  “No one. I know that the correct thing would have been to report to the police. I have a tape of what was said between us at that same terrifying meeting. On second thoughts, I confided in a colleague and decided to delay making a report.”

  The Judge pondered and mumbled,

  “How did a smart woman like you get entangled in something like this?” and Abigail knew that it was more of a statement than a question.

  ”The relationship between us was a one-night stand, in London, when we were both drunk. The truth is that I don’t remember anything that happened between us.”

  “So, how…?”

  “I obtained pictures of both of us, that evening in the hotel lobby when we were walking together, both of us intoxicated. All I remember was waking up in the morning in a hotel room and I must admit that he was no longer there when I awoke.”

  “Well, well, where does that leave us?” The judge smiled indulgently, “it leaves us with a fine young woman who is a combination of a judge and an advocate, and who’s also nobody’s fool,” he said joylessly.