Nir speed-dialed Efraim Cohen. As the Mossad’s assistant director of Caesarea, his friend had to know what was going on.
The phone rang once, then twice, while Nir waved to a passing car. With a frightened look, the woman driving passed him. Nir’s call went to voicemail.
“One thing I can be sure of with Efraim. He’s not out jogging,” Nir muttered to himself, picturing his friend’s gradually softening physique.
The second car he waved to pulled to the curb just past him. Opening the door, Nir found a man who appeared to be in his sixties wearing a button-down shirt and a yarmulke.
“I need you to take me to my car immediately,” Nir said.
“Get in,” the man replied with a deep voice that spoke of years of tobacco addiction. Nir obeyed. The smell in the car confirmed the man’s long-standing habit. Odor aside, the interior was spotless and Nir got the impression that the man had probably bought the 20-year-old-plus Toyota when it was new.
Nir dialed again and listened to the ringing. The driver remained silent. That was one thing that Nir knew he could count on. Every Israeli had served in the military. Thus, every Israeli had at some time received unexplained orders they were expected to obey, a mindset that typically carried into civilian life. This wasn’t simply blind obedience to authority. Instead, it came from recognizing that Israel is a country surrounded by enemies, who every now and again will get on the wrong side of the border and attempt nasty things. It was obvious Nir’s driver understood this was one of those times, and that his passenger was involved in doing something to stop it.
Nir swore. The call had gone to voicemail again.
Quit screening my calls, ahabal.
He ignored the twinge of irony as he dialed a third time. “I’m parked by the power station. You have to take a few dirt roads to get there,” he said to the driver.
“I know the area,” the man replied, keeping his eyes on the road.
When Efraim finally answered, his tone made it perfectly clear that he had stuff to do and whatever Nir had to say was not part of it. “I can’t talk. We’ve got something going here.” Shouting voices on the other end of the call made it difficult for Nir to hear his friend.
“Let me guess. Gaza is popping off and you’ve got border breaches.”
“How…?” Efraim paused. Nir heard a door open and slam, immediately shutting out the surrounding din. “Tell me what you know.”
Nir filled him in on Yossi’s situation.
“Gliders?” Efraim asked. “Like towed-by-airplanes-then-released gliders?”
“No, the parachute kind with the three-wheeled thing underneath holding an engine.”
“They’re called powered parachutes,” said the man behind the wheel. Nir turned to him, but he kept his gaze forward. “I saw it on TV. They’re powered parachutes.”
“My driver says they’re called powered parachutes.”
When Efraim responded, his volume and pitch both increased. “Your driver? Where are you, and why do you have someone listening in on this call?”
Nir’s voice matched his friend’s. “I’m about fifteen minutes away from you, and I don’t have much choice. Now, tell me what you know.”
Efraim hesitated. “Can he hear my side of the conversation?”
“I’m on an earbud,” Nir assured him.
“Okay. All of our southern observation posts were hit simultaneously, taking out our eyes on the border. Then the rockets started flying.”
“So you thought diversion for the north,” Nir said. “Makes sense.” He glanced at the driver, who continued looking straight ahead. Oh well, in for a shekel…
“Right. We both know the Gazans can’t coordinate their efforts enough to field a short-handed football team. So, we’ve been rolling assets north. Only…”
“Only there’s nothing going on up in the north, is there?” Nir interrupted.
“Bul. Not a sound. We don’t even have an indication that Hezbollah has a clue that Hamas is getting stupid in the south.”
“So, what is the…?”
“Shut up a second.” The door that Efraim had ducked out through had obviously been opened again because the shouting was back. The ambient sound was muffled, but not enough for Nir to miss Efraim beginning to curse.
Nir pointed to where his car was parked, and the man angled toward it.
Suddenly, the sound through his earbud cleared up. When Efraim spoke, Nir could hear panic in his voice. “I’ve got to go, achi. They are pouring across the border and heading for the kibbutzim. Dozens of them, maybe even hundreds.”
“What about Yossi?”
“Feed me everything he reports to you. And, Nir, tell him he needs to run.” Efraim hung up.
The driver had stopped, and Nir reached for the door handle. Before he could pull it, he felt the man’s hand grab his arm with a surprisingly strong grip.
“I don’t know what is happening, and you know that I will speak to no one of this chance meeting. Just tell me, I have family south in Sderot. Will they be okay?”
Nir looked at the man, wishing he had hope to give. But the fact was he was so deep in the fog of war that he could neither give worry nor hope.
“Just pray, my friend. Just pray.”
Nir tugged the handle and jumped out of the car. As he did, he hit a speed-dial number.
After one ring, Yaron Eisenbach, the number two on his ops team, answered, “Go.”
“I need you to get everyone together,” Nir said as he slid into his Mercedes. Immediately he cursed himself for forgetting to lay down a towel as a barrier between his sweaty body and the leather seats. “Ops and analysts. Get everyone to CARL immediately.”
“Got it.”
“And don’t bother with Yossi. I’ll tell you about him when I get there.”
Yaron hung up. Nir tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and took a second to breathe and think.
Re’im is about 90 minutes away. That’s a long drive if this actually does turn into anything. Maybe I can convince Efraim to requisition a Blackhawk for us, or even just a police chopper.
He glanced at the phone and wondered if he should call Nicole. There was nothing she could do, but she did like to pray, and prayer never seemed to be a bad thing. But, ultimately, he decided against it. The news would only make her worry, and she had her own work to do.
Taking a deep breath, he picked up the phone and clicked back into Yossi’s call.