Maryquest

By Norm Minor

American journalist Mary travels to Algeria to investigate the brutal death of her college roommate, also a journalist and colleague. Once there, she builds a family around her in a country unwelcoming of reporters to the point of criminal violence. When her plane explodes after leaving Algeria, it perhaps shouldnt come as a surprise.

The death of her twin sister throws Janets life in the United States into upheaval as she prepares her own trip to Algeria to find answers. Shes met with suspicion but soon finds a small group of global journalists who are willing to help her find the truth about Mary. To complicate things, it would seem Mary was involved, perhaps romantically, with a group member named Michel.

Together, they risk life and freedom to report on conditions in a country that, in the late twentieth century, many considered the most repressive and ruthlessly corrupt police state in the worldone that seemed to do everything imaginable to silence the voices of those who tried to expose the terror. What began as Janets search for closure becomes a much bigger adventure as she joins the ranks of Algerian journalists as a screaming voice in the foreign wilderness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Oct 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480836792

Norm Minor

Norm Minor is an attorney and actuary who consults with corporations and trusts of all sizes. He is a partner in a firm based in Massachusetts, working with clients in the United States and abroad. Norm and his wife enjoy spending time with the seagulls at their compound on the Maine coast.

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Copyright © 2016 Norman Minor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover image by Elizabeth Wallace.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-3680-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-3678-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-3679-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016954884

Archway Publishing rev. date: 10/31/2016

CONTENTS

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

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10

11

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INTRODUCTION

MaryQuest is a novel set within the author’s perception of Algeria in the middle of the last decade of the twentieth century. The reader may recall that Algeria, which was forcibly colonized by France in the nineteenth century, broke from France to become the People’s Democratic Republic of Algeria a few years after the middle of the twentieth century, following a long and bloody war of independence, which cost the lives of about a million Algerians and tens of thousands of Frenchmen.

Since that time, the young Democratic Republic has been plagued by bitter violence among religious, government, and military elements, each of which wants to prescribe the basis for national law, and some of whose leaders want to tap the country’s vast natural resources for their own private piggy banks.

While the story is fictional, the plight of journalists in Algeria was only too real. In the period during which this story takes place, dozens of journalists were raped, killed, kidnapped, or otherwise brutalized, just for doing their jobs—bringing the unsullied and uncensored truth to the country and to the world. Indeed, the danger to journalists had become so prevalent that some members of the media withdrew from the country.

This novel centers around a small true-to-life group of global journalists, and the risks they faced in researching and reporting on conditions in a country that at the time many considered to be the most repressive and ruthlessly corrupt police state in the world—one that seemed to do everything imaginable to silence the voices of the media that tried to expose this.

The narrative ends a few years shy of the twenty-first century, in the midst of the also-bloody Algerian Civil War, with the Democratic Republic still reeling from a long-lasting state of emergency, and still trying to function without any resolution of the most insidious of the country’s problems.

1

Mary walked resignedly into the small Algerian airport, her ivory-white skin and blue eyes, as well as a few wayward strands of blonde hair, in stark contrast to the hijab that covered her head and most of her shoulders.

Her thoughts were a long way off as she pulled out her ticket and passport and handed them somewhat perfunctorily to the uniformed man at the security checkpoint. He took them, looked at her and then at her passport, then nodded to his supervisor, a short, balding man with bored demeanor, who came over and took the passport. He scrutinized the passport, then peered closely at Mary, then again at her passport, and then, without ever changing his expression, took her by the arm and led her around the still-very-long check-in line, over toward manual screening.

Mary sighed quietly; she was used to the ogling looks and manual screening that security men were wont to give to young women traveling alone. She knew that there was no point in protesting—at least up to a point—as it would only delay her departure. She steeled herself for what was to come, prepared to endure just a little. But, surprisingly, the supervisor took one last look at her, and again at her passport, and then handed the passport and ticket back. He then motioned with his hand that she should proceed out the door to the plane, without going through manual screening, or without even looking into her backpack or the napkin-covered basket she carried.

Mary was surprised that she was being told to board the plane with no screening at all, such as might be the case for a government official or a high-ranking army officer, but she presumed it was because this airport had no female security agent available to check her out. She smiled to herself, thinking that it could also mean that she was looking a little too haggard today to be of any particular chauvinistic interest.

As she walked out toward the small plane, her emotions were at war within her, not unlike the country she was leaving—engaged, as it was, in a violent civil war, as well as surviving under the country’s long-lasting state of emergency. Although she was determined to get away for a few days of thinking, she had difficulty overcoming the urge to do an about-face and abort this trip that her heart wasn’t really into.

She crossed the cracked tarmac to the portable airplane stairs, and went up into the plane, mulling over how different this trip was from the others she’d taken. During the last few years she’d taken media assignments in different parts of the world, with little or no advance notification, ever willing to leave wherever she was, always eager to discover whatever it was that lay ahead. But this time it felt different; as incongruous as it seemed, what she was considering leaving behind was exactly what she had been searching for. So, as she walked down the aisle to her seat, her mind struggled with the contradiction, trying once again to convince herself that she had to do some serious thinking—thinking that would best be done away from here, and away from him. But it still took her strongest resolve not to turn around and walk right back off the plane.

Things had risen to a head recently, things, of course, being her relationship with Michel. Michel and the other journalists had become her de facto family in the past year; virtually everything she did was related to the work, and almost everything she did she’d done together with Michel. For a woman who had for so long been so stubbornly independent, Mary had, in the past year, become increasingly interdependent with Michel, as though she no longer had existence without him—and, albeit incongruously, this both satisfied and concerned her. It was this internal conflict that precipitated her hiatus into Morocco, on the Atlantic coast of North Africa.

Mary’s interest in Algeria had actually begun before she’d come to Annaba—before she’d even met Michel. Her intention in coming to this country was to get involved in reporting on the complex aspects of the country in general and, very importantly, to find out what had caused the brutal death of her college roommate, also a journalist, and a colleague as well. The plight of the journalist in this country, caught among the various warring factions, had reached out and attracted her from beyond the borders of the country, most recently from Bizerte, a seaport town in northwestern Tunisia, where she’d stayed for almost a year, that period cut short upon hearing of the unexplained death of her journalist friend from college days.

The difficulty and the danger of journalism in Algeria turned out to be what she’d expected them to be, and fully satisfied her adrenaline-crazed craving for excitement and challenge. But then along came Michel, focal to the journalists, doubly focal to Mary. Was he too just part of the danger and the excitement of the moment, or was he perhaps something more? How would she and Michel feel toward each other when all of this was over—when he returned to the sedentary life of a university professor, and she began routine reporting in a more stable Algeria?

This time around, she had to be sure. She’d gone to the brink of total commitment with a man once before, only to see the relationship come to naught and almost destroy her. Because of this she had hardened her heart—at great expense to her soul—and resolved at that time that she would never again let herself become emotionally dependent on any man, regardless of who he was, or of how much she cared for him.

She leaned back in her seat as the plane rolled out into position, made the 180 turn, and then roared down the runway, gaining speed for the takeoff. Through her window, as the small plane passed the terminal, she saw the friend who had driven her to the airport, waving as the plane swept by.

She had originally been scheduled to leave several days later, but had run into young Christopher, who had been extremely distressed. After listening to the problems that one of his married paramours was having with her husband, and how he wished he had a few more days to straighten things out, she had agreed to trade her flight for his earlier one. Christopher was grateful, and had surprised her with the large picnic basket she carried onboard, assuring her that it included her favorite foods. She breathed in deeply once again; if the smell was any indication, he had certainly kept his word about that. But as to how he managed to switch reservations—well, she had learned not to ask pointless questions in Algeria.

As the plane lifted off and headed west, she was surprised to see Ramon, an associate in the local journalist cadre, slouched in a seat just a few rows behind her. It was easy to spot him, because the plane seemed to be less than half full—quite strange in light of the fact that Morocco had just closed the land border because of a deadly attack in the Moroccan city of Marrakech that Morocco blamed on terrorists from Algeria.

She knew that Ramon and Michel were getting ready to head off to a pivotal meeting with the results of some research that they and another small group of journalists had been working on, collecting information that, had it been committed to writing, would never have passed government screening. Michel was to have flown to the meeting earlier, but she hadn’t known when they’d finished the analysis of the research, or exactly where the meeting was to be. Following protocol among the journalists, neither she nor Ramon acknowledged the presence of the other except with an inconspicuous nod, at which time she noticed the hint of a frown on his face when their eyes met, after which he slouched back in his seat and closed his eyes.

She leaned back in the uncomfortable seat and closed her eyes, trying to visualize the cottage she’d rented on the Moroccan coast; she hoped that they’d received her wire, saying that she was arriving several days early. Ever since childhood back in Maine, the fresh air off the Atlantic had a way of clearing her head; she wondered if the onshore wind in Morocco would be as fresh and clean. She would spend some time by herself and think things through, and try to put the last year in perspective. If she couldn’t become comfortable as to herself and Michel, she would just keep right on going, but she reached hopefully into her pack to touch the return ticket.

She and Michel had been virtually inseparable for several months, but now, apart for only a few days, she was already missing him. Trying to explain to him that she needed some time to herself was difficult; now, leaving hurriedly without saying good-bye, she wasn’t exactly sure she understood it herself.

It didn’t seem possible that a year could’ve passed since she came to this country, yet so much had happened during that time that it seemed as though she’d been in Annaba forever.

Her early weeks in Algeria had been difficult, and not very successful professionally, mainly because she had lacked any sort of support network. Trying to sort through the often conflicting information on her own, without any amount of cross-referencing and peer review, had produced less-than-optimal results—as indeed her head office had not-so-delicately suggested, presumably after comparing her reports with output from some of the other journalists.

Sometime after she arrived in Annaba, she’d scouted out some of the other journalists who networked together and shared an enviable professional rapport, but her early attempts to get into the group hadn’t been successful, apparently due to their caution as to journalists that none of them knew. When she found out that many of them had some sort of connection with university, she’d signed up to monitor a graduate course in journalism there.

Eventually she’d developed a kinship with some of them and gradually found her way into the group, which led to the desired professional relationships. The group gatherings had brought her in contact with one Michel Trudeau, their acknowledged guru. Before long, she and Michel were together almost every day, mostly wrapped up in the work, but somewhere along the way, she and Michel had also become wrapped up in each other.

Mary’s reminiscing had her smiling to herself, until she drifted off into a half-sleep.

2

As she slouched in her half-asleep state on the plane, Mary’s mind drifted back to the day around a year ago when her personal relationship with Michel had begun.

On that day she and Michel had met at the café in the morning and had ordered the restaurant’s signature picnic lunch. To any who might have observed them, she and Michel were just two friends getting ready for a picnic in the country, not two journalists off on a clandestine communication assignment. Except for their purpose, they could well have been what they pretended to be as they readied to head out of town and up through the foothills into the mountains.

Halfway through their second cups of coffee, the food basket had been ready, and they’d driven out of the city in the topless four-wheeler, the breeze ruffling their hair and caressing their faces as they drove along. Because it would be necessary to drive for several hours, appear to picnic for about an hour, and then drive back, they’d made no attempt at secrecy. Indeed, their openness was their cover, as was usual for members of the group, who would often disguise their secretive endeavors with various social activities.

Although they had by that time worked closely for a few months, she’d actually known very little about Michel, except for what she’d heard, which was unsatisfyingly little. They’d met some months before in the café, having been introduced by a mutual friend in the graduate school, but their early conversations had been only in relation to the course, which he’d taught a few years earlier. She had known that he’d been a photojournalist and technical support for some years before that, and had, prior to the time they’d met, earned his living working as a part-time foreign correspondent, and as an adjunct professor at university, following a year-and-a-half period of mandatory military duty, serving as a radioman.

She’d also heard that he’d been married to another journalist, who’d been active in the group. It was broadly known that she had died as a result of a vicious interrogation by some soldiers, after which Michel had urged, in fact had almost pleaded, that there should be no interpersonal relationships within the group. As Mary’s feelings about romance were compatible with the rules, she initially had no objection. She felt safe with him, albeit developing a fondness for him, and, she believed, he for her.

However, their going together on this particular day apparently had nothing to do with any feelings that either one may or may not have had for the other. Gitanne, another member of the small group of journalists, who had, somewhat by default, become responsible for coordination and communications within the group, had arranged the trip, for one reason because Michel was a man and Mary was a woman—thus providing the social cover—but mainly because their talents were compatible with the task at hand. His job on that day was to locate the hidden transmission equipment and perform the necessary maintenance; hers was to send and receive confidential information to and from their contacts within and outside of the country.

The drive had been pleasant and uneventful, most of the talk relating to a last-minute review of the work to be done. They’d estimated that it would take about an hour to locate the equipment, perform the activation, maintenance, and communications, and then to close it all down before the army or one of the guerrilla groups could pinpoint their position.

Although they’d already talked their way through the mission several times in the last few days, they discussed it again, fine-tuning every aspect, shaving critical minutes off of the work. Because of the chance that they could be stopped and searched by the army or a terrorist group, every detail of their mission had to be committed to memory.

Their plan had been to drive to a point about a half mile from the transmitter, which was located on a relatively high place in the hills for maximum transmitting range. The transmitter was carefully hidden while not in operation, but while in use could not be kept concealed. Because of this, their plan was to set up a four-poled tent shelter, clearly visible from the air, and adequate to partially conceal two people from view.

Michel would slip away to the transmitter to uncover the equipment and perform any necessary maintenance, while Mary would keep vigil. She would be tending a smoky fire, hoping to distract any patrolling plane or roving patrol from the site of the transmitter, while connected with him by a small radio clipped inside her blouse. After the maintenance and testing were completed, he would return to the campsite, and she would go to the transmitter to do her work, while he would continue the smoky distraction at the tent.

They arrived at their destination without incident and set up the tent, gathered dry wood and green brush for the fire, and then arranged a stone circle and started the fire. Michel had quickly slipped away through the woods to the transmitter, as Mary tended the fire and began thinking through the communiqués one last time, walking in and out of the tent as she did, rehearsing out loud so as to pretend talking with him, in the event that anyone had her in telescopic view. She laid the blanket on the ground, keeping part of it in view from the air. They exchanged brief encrypted words on the radio to be sure they had contact, and then continued with their chores.

In what she clocked as nine minutes, she received the signal that he had located the transmitter and was about to crank it up and test it. Nineteen minutes after that, he let her know that everything was in working order, and that he was about to head back, leaving broken branches to guide her to the transmitter. She noted the time, expecting him back in nine minutes, but in six minutes he’d come back into view, walking very briskly although not running. It was then that she’d seen the single-engine army lookout plane coming more fully into her view. She’d seen it earlier at a much higher altitude, but now it was gliding lower, tipping its wings so that the pilot would be able to observe the ground below more clearly.

Without a word, Michel had come directly to her and pulled her down on the part of the blanket that was in aerial view, and began kissing her and caressing her body animatedly. Understanding the intent of his actions, Mary responded in the same manner, while the plane circled lower so that the pilot could keep them in view. When the plane continued to circle, she had surreptitiously unbuttoned and opened her blouse, then rose and waved. The pilot had smirked and stared at her partially naked torso, barely avoiding a tall tree, convincing them that the distraction was working.

When the plane finally headed off, they had lain there, psychologically exhausted, until they were sure that the danger had passed. Then Michel had raised her by the shoulders and pulled the sides of her open blouse together, saying, I am so sorry, Mary, but I could not think of any other way to distract the pilot.

It was then that she had looked deeply into his eyes, opened her blouse again, and slowly brought her bare chest back down on him, and pressed her mouth to his, first lightly, then more firmly. She had then rose, looked questioningly into his wondering eyes, and again came down to kiss him, this time for several moments, this time with his cooperation. They had lain there for some time, her body on his, the emotion blocking out the potential danger.

After a while he’d looked without expression into her face, and then put his hands to her shoulders again and raised her. As she smiled and buttoned her blouse he said, We have to leave here quickly; the pilot will likely have radioed our position, and the soldiers could be here any minute. I already shut down the transmitter and put it back into hiding.

He got up, still looking with a puzzled expression into her face, and then took her hand to help her to her feet. They quickly extinguished the fire, scattered the rocks of the fireplace, and took down the tent. He packed up everything into the four-wheeler while she doused the fire, then took a branch, swished around the fireplace area, and scattered some green brush around. She had then, quite remorsefully, thrown most of the food from the basket into the woods, saving just a few bites for themselves. Soon, all traces of their having been there were gone, and they were driving back down the gravel trail. They were clear of the forest just as darkness began to engulf them, without encountering anyone.

Neither had spoken from the time they’d broken camp until she peered across at him in the dim light and said, Michel, I’m sorry about what I did back there; I don’t know what came over me. I know why you did what you did, but for just that one moment I guess I wanted to pretend it was something else—that we were just a man and woman on a picnic in the country, doing the things that normal men and women in normal countries do, and not a couple of covert journalists out on a secret assignment in a screwed-up country. I guess I needed to escape from reality, if only for a moment.

Michel had glanced across at her in the flickering light of the car, but had said nothing, his gaze a mixture of question and concern—with just a hint of warmth. Mary had blushed deeply, and then continued in what she hoped was a lighter and humorous vein, Okay, then, back to reality. Protocol says you’re supposed to take my phone number before you never call me again.

Mary, he’d said, after an audible sigh, trying to interrupt her, a broad grin mixed with astonishment beginning to engulf his face.

Not having heard him because of the road noise, she’d continued. But, honestly, is it so wrong for two people to grab a moment of warmth, or whatever the hell that was back there?

Mary! he’d interrupted with amused frustration, as though it were he who should have been out of breath.

Michel, she’d said, still not having heard him, I don’t care what you say; that one moment back there was wonderful, and it made me think that, once this country goes to a real democracy, there will be time for other things.

Michel had spoken again, this time more loudly. Mary! But just as he’d spoken her name the road noise had subsided, and it sounded like he was shouting at her. Mary had stopped, leaned against the opposite door, looking first at him and then lowering her eyes, and then across at him again in the half-darkness of the car, a small smile finally coming to her face as she caught on to his bemusement.

He hadn’t relieved any of her confusion when he’d said, My Lord, woman, how can you talk so much without taking a breath? He’d glanced at her as he said it, and she’d seen his grin broaden into a half smile.

By then they’d gotten back to the city, nearing her flat, and driven the rest of the way in silence, smiling somewhat shyly at each other from time to time. He’d stopped the car in front of her building, gotten out and come around to open her door. He’d taken her hand to help her out of the deep seat, then touched her cheek and kissed her lightly on the forehead, as she looked silently into his eyes, still wondering what he was thinking. Without speaking, she’d handed him her key and walked toward her door, and stood aside while he unlocked and opened it, and then handed the key back to her. She’d stood there looking at him as he walked back toward the car; but then, without a word, he’d stopped, turned around and looked back at her, and come back, taking her in his arms and kissing her. He’d then scooped her up and carried her inside, kicking the door closed behind them.

Later, as they’d lain with their bodies still entwined, he had grinned and spoken. Mary?

Yes, Michel?

You surely do ramble on sometimes. She’d risen and kissed him, and cuddled closer. Does your rambling always lead to great sex?

From her vantage point snuggled into his neck she’d bitten him, and they’d wrestled their way off the bed and onto the floor, thus giving him a chance to answer his own question. It was nearly dawn when they’d fallen asleep.

3

When the man in the airplane seat across from Mary snored and snorted noisily in his sleep, she awoke with a start. She sat up straight in her seat, her wonderful half-dream recollections interrupted.

All at once fully awake and aware of where she was and where she was heading, her smile faded, and she couldn’t make any sense whatsoever of this trip. Her mind was flooded with questions and contradictions.

What am I doing? I know what I want without going off on some cockeyed tangent. So what if there is some risk! All of life is a risk; there are no guarantees. Why am I punishing Michel, and me, because a relationship in the past went sour? It’s not Michel or the work; it’s that I’m afraid I’ll be hurt again. But aren’t love and pain just part of being alive? Oh, why am I being so foolish?

Another wave of euphoria came over her, and she was suddenly so ecstatic she had to share it with someone, and of course she knew exactly who that someone had to be. As soon as she landed, she’d track down her twin sister, Janet, and con her into hopping the next flight down. Of course she’d have to be more circumspect this time; Janet was beginning to wise up to her shenanigans. The last junket she’d conned her into had been in Australia, in the crocodile-infested outback. She’d missed not calling or seeing Janet for so long; they’d always been so