Warm and welcoming, the 504 man introduced himself as Stavro. While Nir didn’t expect to hear the man’s real name—that just wasn’t Unit 504’s way—the nom de guerre took him a little off guard. Stavro was the name of a famous Lebanese cartoonist who had laid blame for the war on all sides, including Israel. However, the middle of an operation in enemy territory was not the place to hold a political discussion.
It was nearing 04:00 when they approached the gates of a compound in the small village of Mechref, very near Rafik Hariri University. Still a good half-hour drive south of the Beirut port, this was about as far as they wanted to go until night fell once again.
A muscular man with a full head of black hair and a thick mustache pulled open the front gate, then closed it again once the van had gone through. Nir had already stepped out of the van and was stretching when the man reached him.
“It is good for you to be here,” the man said. There was no clear expression on his face, but the tone of his voice and the slight squint of his eyes made it clear that he meant his words. “You are Tavor?”
Nir put out his hand and the man took it.
“Alif, who you lost last year, was a good friend of mine. He spoke quite highly of you,” the man continued.
“Alif lived as a warrior, and he died as one. I think of him every day.” As their hands separated, Nir asked, “What may I call you?”
“You may call me Farzat.”
“Interesting. I hope your hands are in better shape.” Syrian-born Ali Farzat was another political cartoonist who focused on events of the Middle East. In 2011, after hitting a little too close to home for Syrian president Bashar al-Assad’s tastes, he was pulled from his car by masked gunmen while in Damascus. They then beat him and broke the bones in his hands as a warning for him to tame his pencil.
Winking, the pseudo-Farzat wiggled his fingers, then said, “Actually, all I need are these two fingers.” He made a finger gun and pulled the trigger. “Now, introduce me to the rest of your team.”
The rest were already out of the van. Nir gave their names one by one.
“You are all most welcome,” Farzat said, his arm extended toward the house. “This is not my home. Let’s just say that it belongs to all of us—the Israeli people. Please make yourselves comfortable. We will soon have a meal, then I will allow you to sleep before your operation tonight.”
Nir heard a whirring sound and saw that Imri had just sent a fresh drone into the air. Moments later, another landed in his outstretched hand. Their small drone arsenal consisted of two mini-UAVs, with a pair of batteries for each. The three-hour batteries gave them a total run time of six hours, but that would get cut in half if they used the infrared function.
“Keep your eyes open,” Imri said.
“You bet,” came Liora’s reply. The concern in her voice was evident.
They entered the house, and each man found a bed. As the food was cooked, the team went over their gear, checking loads, slides, batteries—anything that could get dirtied or fouled by their hike through the hills. The food was average, but there was plenty of it. When the time came, they hit their racks with stomachs full of lamb and pita.
Nir’s sleep was restless. When he finally woke up, he checked his watch and saw that it was 11:37 a.m. He had been out for only two hours. Pulling out an encrypted phone, he texted:
how goes it there
Nicole’s response was quick.
Okay. Ramsad came in earlier. Will be back
for raid tonight. Lahav is driving everyone
crazy telling them about the poles he designed
for you guys and for Ehrlich’s team.
Nir smiled. He thumbed:
next time just tell him that even a trained
monkey could put together a pole with
climbing nubs. hes very proud of those
climbing nubs. dinner at chichukai when i get
back? a little white fish tamari to celebrate
I’m in! What are we celebrating?
you
Nicole sent back a blushing emoji.
Liora’s voice crashed through their little moment. “Three technicals are approaching your neighborhood. Two have guns mounted in the back.”
Dafna broke in. “Three men in the bed of each. Assuming two to three in the cab. So, minimum of fifteen, maximum of eighteen.”
Nir was up and running toward the front door. “It could be nothing. Are you sure they’re coming our way?” His team ran up around him.
It was Nicole who answered. “I can see them. They’re moving fast. They all look like they’re ready for a fight. It’s possible they’re going somewhere else, but not probable.”
“Farzat! Stavro!” Nir yelled. The two men burst through the door.
Nir pulled his Jericho and leveled it at Stavro. “Which one of you sold us out?”
Stavro’s eyes were huge, but Farzat stepped in front of the gun. “What are you doing?”
Nir held the gun steady. “There are three pickups heading our way loaded with Hezbollah. How would they know we’re here unless one of you said something?”
Farzat stepped forward so that Nir’s pistol was pressed against his chest. “Listen, ahabal, we didn’t tell anyone. Who knows how they found out? Maybe a neighbor saw you driving in. Maybe the woman in the next compound watched when an old man dressed in black took a leak on the orange tree out back?”
“Crap,” said Yaron.
Farzat continued. “Listen, Tavor, we are on the same side, and we’ve got about three minutes to get underground before the guns on the back of those technicals light this place up.”
The man was right. This was Unit 504. This was an elite squad. If he couldn’t trust them, then who could he trust? He lowered his weapon and holstered it.
“Show me what you mean by underground,” he said.