Nicole opened the door. A man stood in the hall holding a stack of towels.
“I am Burhan Bakir. I’m here for your massage.” He was slight, but with surprisingly well-developed arms that showed through his uniform.
Nicole pulled the soft lapels of her hotel robe tight against her neck and said, “Ooo, yummy! Please come in.”
The man smiled and nodded. Hefting his table, he followed her into the main room of the suite.
Nicole turned, letting her recently dyed blonde hair cascade over her shoulders, and swung her arms open, indicating the room. “Will this work?”
“This will be perfect, ma’am.” He set down his bag and began to move aside a long glass-top table.
Meanwhile, Nicole flopped into an overstuffed chair and crossed her legs in front of her. “You said it’s Burhan, correct?” At his affirmation, she continued, “Listen, Burhan, if I’m going to be comfortable, I need you to call me something other than ma’am. Would you please call me Nicole?”
Burhan looked at her for a moment before saying, “Of course, Miss Nicole.” There was still a little hesitancy before he said her name, but it was progress.
As she watched him set up his massage table, her mind went back to an evening four weeks ago at Yaron’s house. He and his wife had a little bit of property east of Netanya with a couple dozen fruit trees and too many chickens. Everyone from the ops and analytic teams were there, except for one. Much less rowdy than their gatherings of the past, it was still a nice time to get away from the office and stretch one’s arms a bit.
It was nearing 9:00 p.m. The burgers, lamb kebabs, and a few of those pesky chickens had all been polished off by that time. A healthy fire was burning in the pit, taking off the chill of the evening. Everyone had a beer or a soft drink in their hand and toasts were being offered up to Yossi and Doron.
Nicole had been keeping her eyes on the long driveway, and when she saw headlights, she got up and went inside to the kitchen. A foil-covered plate sat cooling on the top shelf of the refrigerator. She pulled it out, unwrapped it, and walked out the front door.
“Miss Nicole, the table is ready,” said Burhan, shaking her from her revelry.
She smiled.
Miss Nicole. I suppose I can live with that.
As she stood, Burhan continued, “I will go into the next room so you may lay down and prepare yourself.”
“Sounds swell,” Nicole said. Then, with a wink, she added, “And no peeking.”
Burhan flushed. “Of course. Never,” he said as he hustled out of the room.
Once the room was clear, she let the robe slip from her bare shoulders and lay face down on the table. Her cheeks cushioned into the soft face pillow. And even though she was wearing bikini bottoms, she still tucked the sheet up above her waistline.
“I’m ready, Burhan.”
A moment later, she heard the Syrian’s accented voice next to her. “Please let me know if there is anywhere in particular you need me to work on as I go.”
“You bet.”
Over the years, Nicole had enjoyed so many Swedish massages that she knew the process by heart. As Burhan began the effleurage focusing on her circulatory system, her mind went back to Yaron’s house.
Nir was just stepping out of his Mercedes when she reached him. Rising up on her toes, she gave him a peck on the cheek.
“Long meeting,” she said, not as a question.
“Yeah, but good. Very, very good.” Taking the plate she was holding, he added, “This is perfect. They brought food into the office, but it wasn’t difficult to pass on dry falafel and hummus knowing that Yaron’s barbecue was waiting.”
“Figured as much. Now, come on. Everyone is dying to hear what you have to say.” She slid her arm in his and they walked around the side of the house. Cheers and greetings met them as they rounded the back corner.
Nir spotted Yaron and held up a skewer that was already nearly empty. “Achi! ”
Other cheers went up for the host of their feast.
Someone jumped up from the group and rushed to Nir. Passing his plate to Nicole, Nir wrapped him in a bear hug. “Avi, I’m so glad you came.” Avi Carmeli had been a member of Nir’s ops team before being severely wounded in the arm during an operation in Dubai. At first it looked like they’d be able to save the limb, but an infection a few months later took it from him. Avi was a brilliant strategist, and his heart was already with the team.
“You couldn’t keep me away. Riding a desk sucks. Got any jobs for a one-armed man?”
“I think we’re short a bandit,” called out Yaron.
“I’m pretty sure we have some paper that needs hanging,” added Dima.
Avi gestured his lack of appreciation.
Nicole was startled from her reminiscence by a hand very near her thin, cotton no-go zone. But then she felt Burhan’s hands stop their traveling and begin to knead. This was the beginning of the petrissage. “Please make sure you really get my lower back. Those carry-ons are a nightmare.”
“Yes, Miss Nicole.”
As the Syrian’s hands began to work her lower back, Nicole once again went back to that night at Yaron’s. Nir had tried to eat, but everyone wanted the news right away. Finally giving in, he nodded to Dima, who apparently was overseeing the alcohol distribution. He reached into a cooler, pulled out a Goldstar, and tossed it over. Nir pulled a tactical knife from his boot, popped the cap, then closed the blade.
“I’m assuming that everyone knows about Operation Wrath of God. If you don’t, you probably shouldn’t be in the Mossad.”
“Or even in Israel,” added Liora.
Operation Wrath of God was Israel’s response to the murder of 11 athletes and coaches at the 1972 Munich Olympics by the militant Palestinian group Black September. Over the next 20 years, at least 18 members of the terrorist group were hunted down and killed by the Mossad. Wrath of God was the operation that solidified the reputation of Israeli intelligence as the best and most ruthless in the world.
Nir continued. “We aren’t calling this Wrath of God 2.0 or anything. However, the same attitude exists from the prime minister to the ramsad and on down. Everyone involved in the leadership of October 7 has got to go.”
Words of affirmation and commitment sounded throughout the group.
“The IDF is doing a great job with Hamas down in Gaza. The problem is that those who are really responsible—Haniyeh, al-Natsheh, al-Arouri, Mousa, all those guys—they’re all living it up in luxury hotels in Qatar and Turkey and Iran. You all know that.”
Nir paused. All eyes, including Nicole’s, were on him.
He took a long swig of beer to draw out the anticipation before finally saying, “That, my friends, is about to end.”
Cheers and whoops sounded out from around the fire pit. Everyone was not only ready, but excited to bring revenge against the terrorists who had taken their friends, their families, their peace.
Nir continued. “In the same way we talk about Operation Wrath of God, the next generation at Mossad will talk about you and Operation Amalek. Yariv, tell us about Amalek,” pointing to the new guy with the mouth of his bottle.