Jerusalem
Present Day
Prime Minister Yago Cantor was still in his residence in Beit Aghion, in Jerusalem, when news of the shooting filtered out.
He normally headed to his office at seven am, but that day had stayed back for several meetings.
He had just finished a briefing with his public security minister, Jessy Levitsky, when an aide knocked on the door and rushed in without an apology or a greeting.
‘You’ve got to see this.’ He picked up a remote and turned on the TV.
Cantor’s face paled when he read the scrolling banner beneath the images of the shooting.
‘That hotel … that couple,’ he whispered.
‘Those are the Palestinian negotiators,’ Levitsky replied grimly.
‘No one knew about them. How did it happen?’
‘I’ll find out.’
The prime minister leaned against his desk, following the news, while Levitsky, whose department oversaw the police, left the room, speaking softly in his cell phone.
Already, the Islamic countries were saber-rattling. Jordan and Egypt, Israel’s immediate neighbors, had threatened military action if Israel didn’t identify the killers quickly.
Saudi Arabia’s defense minister had upped the country’s alert level.
A phone trilled. The aide picked it up, listened, cupped the receiver and looked at Cantor.
‘It’s the American ambassador.’
‘I thought she was on vacation.’
‘She is, sir. She’s calling from the U.S.’
‘I’ll call her back.’
The aide murmured in the phone and left the room. Yago Cantor muted the TV, rubbed his eyes and passed a hand over his thinning hair.
He was powerfully built and had a personality to match. He looked around his home office, at the pictures of various prime ministers hanging on the wall. Some with families, others with American presidents or alone in the photograph.
A quotation by David Ben-Gurion, the first prime minister of the country, caught his eye.
In Israel, in order to be a realist, you must believe in miracles.
Cantor was a pragmatist. He was the leader of his right-wing party, had held together his coalition government through no-confidence motions, and was in his second term.
He had welcomed the U.S. administration’s Jerusalem embassy move. He also knew how that would affect the Palestinians and had set his plan in motion: bringing the Palestinians to the peace table, because he didn’t want to see subsequent generations of Israelis warring with their neighbors.
It hadn’t been easy.
Many in his party had criticized him. They said he was going soft. That the Palestinians had shown their true nature during the failed peace talks of 2014.
Cantor used his charm. He cajoled and persuaded, threatened and swore. He outlined the bigger picture. Surely everyone wanted lasting peace. Did anyone want to see terrorist attacks in Israel?
‘Do you want to see that for the rest of your lives?’ he challenged his party members, pointing to the TVs on the wall, which showed the scenes in Gaza. That was the Palestinians’ fault, his party roared back.
‘And they say Israel is the culprit. This will never end. Our two people, ours and theirs, have been at war ever since our country was born. Do you want this to continue forever? Your grandchildren and their children … you want them to live like this?’
There were a few feeble protests at that, but not as widespread as he had thought. That had given him confidence. He had pressed on, convincing his party, those in his coalition, as well as his cabinet.
Some in his party had wanted the Americans to mediate the peace process.
Cantor had exploded. ‘This is our country,’ he had stormed. ‘We don’t need the United States or any other country to broker peace for us.’
He had won his party over slowly, and then started working on the coalition partners. At no time did he reveal the full extent of his peace plan or when the negotiations would start. Only select members of his cabinet knew, and they were sworn to secrecy.
He had reached out to Ziyan Baruti, president of the State of Palestine, who had been initially distrustful.
‘Why should we believe you?’ that leader had asked Cantor.
‘Would I call you if I didn’t mean it?’ the prime minister had countered. ‘Can you imagine how hard it was to sell this to my party and my coalition?’
There had been silence on the other line. Baruti was familiar with Cantor’s party and with its sometimes hard-line stance toward Palestine.
The two men had spoken at length; then the Israeli stunned the Palestinian with his dream.
‘Do you mean it?’ Baruti had whispered after several moments of silence.
‘Yes.’
‘This could mean the end of your career. Your party will never accept it. Your country will not, either. You might even be assassinated by your own people.’
‘I am aware of that,’ Cantor had replied irritably. He hadn’t arrived at his vision in one morning. He had spent sleepless nights agonizing over it before deciding it was the right thing to do for his country.
‘That is why we do this my way. We negotiate and agree first, and then announce it to my country. The Americans, the British, the French, everyone will support this treaty. That will put pressure on my party. My country, my people will then accept the deal.’
‘Not immediately.’
‘No,’ Cantor had admitted. ‘There will be rioting in West Jerusalem. All over the country. It will take time. Maybe years. But in the end, it will be worth it.’
‘Inshallah. Enta ragel hakim,’ Baruti said in Arabic.
Cantor understood the words. He was fluent in it, even though Hebrew was his country’s language.
‘Thank you,’ he replied, touched at being called a wise man by the Palestinian.
He and Baruti weren’t friends. They had met a few times at carefully orchestrated diplomatic functions. Their private discussions had escalated to hostility very quickly.
That was just the way it was. No Israeli leader could be a friend with his or her Palestinian counterpart.
Cantor had researched Baruti for a long time before discussing the peace plan.
The State of Palestine had a complex government, partly because the region was split into two distinct territories, Gaza Strip and the West Bank, run respectively by the two major parties, Hamas and Fatah.
Both sides were in a continual state of conflict that often erupted in violence. Hundreds of Palestinians had died over the years because of the parties’ antagonism.
The West Bank was the seat of the Palestinian National Authority, PNA, the internationally recognized government of the state. This was a Fatah majority government, with Ziyan Baruti as its president.
The two governments in the Palestinian territories did not work together. They had their own budgets—both of which relied extensively on foreign aid and donations and had different administrative machinery.
Baruti, whom the world recognized as the leader of the State of Palestine, was widely perceived as a moderate, and the Mossad’s psychological profiling on him confirmed that.
By all accounts, Cantor’s counterpart was a mature man, one with a long-term vision. That personality had led the prime minister to take a leap of faith in Baruti.
To be called that by him … I reached out to the right man.
Encouraged, he had gone into the details of the logistics of the peace plan with the Palestinian, and the two men had discussed it at length.
‘You should not tell this to anyone,’ he had warned his counterpart.
‘Why?’ Baruti had demanded. ‘Surely, it is better to have this in the open.’
‘No. No one should ever know what exactly is being negotiated.’
Baruti had grumbled but had finally relented.
The two men had spoken a few more times after that, and a negotiation plan was struck.
Each country would have six delegates. The two teams would meet in Jerusalem, in an upscale hotel that was frequented by business people. Each negotiator would pose as a business person. Both teams would have security provided by Israel. The bodyguards would think they were protecting high net-worth individuals.
For added security, only Cantor and a few in his cabinet would know the hotel’s details. On top of that, the Palestinians would have to surrender their cell phones, and any calls they made or received would be monitored by the Israelis.
Baruti had balked at that but caved in when the prime minister insisted. The big picture was important.
Cantor was firm on an additional point: Neither team would know of his dream.
‘Why are they even meeting, then?’ Baruti had burst out.
‘They will start off as if they are discussing a conventional peace treaty. Later, we will tell them what the real goal is.’
The Palestinian understood. Cantor’s vision would be hard to negotiate. It was better that a conventional peace treaty be hammered out first and then the thornier issues be dealt with.
Nevertheless, he had protested. ‘This cannot be done in a few weeks. It requires months.’
‘Yes, I know. But in a few weeks, we can set the parameters of what we want to achieve. With the objective very firmly in sight.’
The negotiators were identified. Well-respected, experienced hands on both sides. They were all sworn to secrecy. The hotel was identified as well. One in German Colony, popular both with tourists and business travelers. The security personnel were handpicked by Levitsky.
Cantor’s plan worked perfectly. Both teams of negotiators arrived at the hotel. No lay person in Israel or Palestine knew who they were, or their purpose. Each night the prime minister called Baruti and briefed him on the day’s progress.
The first week was nearing an end. Cantor was feeling optimistic. He felt it was time to tell the negotiators of the big plan. His vision.
And then the killing happened.
Yago Cantor held his face in his hands, his shoulders drooping. I am lucky I am a widower and have no children, he thought. My marriage, my family, wouldn’t have survived this pressure.
He raised his head when his aide burst in again.
‘Did you see?’ his assistant asked.
‘What else is there to see?’
The young man pointed at the TV in silence.
The prime minister’s heart clenched when he read the latest rolling banner.
MOSSAD SUSPECTED OF KILLING PALESTINE NEGOTIATORS.