Jerusalem, Israel
Eliel Magal woke up when the city was still dark.
No, he corrected himself, when he cracked open the window and peered out at the quiet neighborhood. It was grey. Dawn was approaching fast.
Five-thirty am. He didn’t have to look at the bedside clock to know what time it was. He always woke up at that hour, a deeply ingrained habit.
He padded to the small bathroom and, when he emerged, knocked on the door down the hallway. Navon Shiri opened it instantly, eyes alert, hair brushed neatly, dressed in plain white.
The two men went to the kitchen and prepared breakfast. Warm milk for Magal, cereal and a banana for Shiri, who took his bowl to the living room and turned on the TV, to the Palestinian Broadcasting Corporation, PBC, channel. The programming wasn’t available in Israel, but the two men had piggybacked on an illegal feed and were able to watch the content.
Magal joined him on the couch, and the two watched the news in silence.
The two men could have been brothers. They weren’t. They were lightly tanned, with dark eyes, short cropped hair, clean-shaven. Five feet, six inches tall. No distinguishing features. Nothing about them stood out.
Magal’s glass clinked when he placed it on the table as he watched the screen.
Gaza was burning, as was the West Bank.
The United States had opened its embassy in Jerusalem, and that had triggered intense outrage and violent protests in Palestine.
Thousands of Palestinian protesters had gathered at the border fence and had thrown Molotov cocktails, burning tires, stones, whatever missiles they could find, at the Israeli Defense Forces, IDF, on the other side of the fence. The IDF had fired in return, and dozens of people had been killed.
Shiri peeled his banana and flicked to another news channel. Different reporter, same coverage. He went back to the previous one and bit into his fruit.
The two of them didn’t need to discuss the riots. They knew what had happened. Every person in Israel and Palestine knew of the region’s history and that of Jerusalem in particular.
Palestinians believed they were an oppressed people, Israel the oppressor. The majority of Israelis believed they were defending their country and their land.
Nabil and Shiri didn’t look at the screen when the reporter brought up a map and went through a history recap.
In 1948, Israel declared itself an independent state. The next day, war broke out between a coalition of Arab nations and the newly formed country. Jordan occupied West Bank and East Jerusalem. Egypt took over Gaza at the end of the war.
In 1967, there was another war, at the end of which Israel occupied East Jerusalem, Gaza, Golan Heights and Sinai. In 1979, Israel and Egypt signed a historic peace treaty and Sinai was returned to Egypt.
That eventually led to what the Palestine state currently was, a country in two geographical parts. West Bank, bordered by Jordan to the east and Israel in all other directions, and the Gaza Strip, which had the Mediterranean Sea behind it, Egypt to the south and Israel at the north and west. Palestine’s two regions did not share a border between them.
The politics and governance of the state were divided, too. The West Bank was administered by the Palestinian National Authority, while Gaza was ruled by Hamas, which, Israel, the United States and the European Union regarded as a terrorist organization.
The reporter droned on about the status of Jerusalem, that East Jerusalem was claimed by Palestine but was controlled by Israel. Shiri tuned to Kan TV, the Israeli channel. Similar news, with an Israeli slant. He grunted in disgust and was about to turn off the TV when Magal raised his hand.
The reporter went into breathless excitement mode.
‘There are several rumors,’ she said, leaning forward, her eyes sparkling, ‘that Israeli and Palestinian negotiators are meeting in secret to work out a historic peace accord. Government officials on both sides have declined to comment on this.’
She went on about the significance of the development, if true, and at that point Shiri turned off the TV. He finished his cereal and went to the kitchen, where he washed and rinsed his bowl.
Magal yawned and stretched. ‘I’ll get ready,’ he said.
Shiri grunted and peered out of the kitchen window. It was seven am. Light traffic outside in German Colony, the Jerusalem neighborhood they were in. He went to his room and changed into a white shirt and khaki trousers. Walking shoes over his feet. A Glock 17 went into a holster attached to his belt. He adjusted his loose shirt to ensure the gun wasn’t visible to the casual eye. In his trouser pockets went several spare magazines.
He emerged from his room to see an old woman in the hallway. She was in a patterned dress that fell below her knees. Hunched over, her white hair tied in a neat bun. Glasses on her wrinkled face. Left hand trembling as she held a walking stick. Right hand clutching a large bag, which seemed heavy.
Magal, the woman in disguise, placed the bag on the floor and flexed his fingers. Shiri toed it and felt something hard inside it. He peered down and nodded in satisfaction when he saw the shape of a Galil MAR, an Israeli automatic rifle.
‘Ready?’ he asked in Hebrew.
‘Let’s go,’ Magal replied.