Somewhere in the Middle East
Several years before the Assassinations
The handler was in his private club and had just finished dinner when the two men dropped into chairs next to him, flanking him.
The handler didn’t recognize them.
‘Leave,’ he ordered, ‘I want to be alone.’
He saw his security detail move toward his table.
Neither man spoke. The one to his left loosened a button on his shirt and pulled it to the right.
The handler froze when he saw the tattoo. The events of that night came back to him in a flash. He had a handgun strapped to his left leg, just above the ankle. Could he reach it in time? He could shout, and that would bring his guards running.
‘If we wanted to kill you,’ Tattoo smirked, speaking in Arabic, ‘you would have died a long time back. We have been watching you. We know your routine. We could have taken you out several times.’
‘Why are you here?’ the handler whispered. ‘What do you want? Don’t think of kidnapping me. You can’t escape.’
‘You’re a very high-profile target. Our country will benefit immensely if we grab you. Make no mistake, we are capable of snatching you and taking you away. Your men,’ Tattoo snorted contemptuously, looking at the security guards, ‘are not capable of stopping us.’
‘We’re not here to kidnap you,’ the second man spoke. ‘I am Navon Shiri, he’s Eliel Magal.’
The handler reached out for his glass of water and drank it. He was buying time. He didn’t know where this was going and needed all his wits about him.
He spluttered at Magal’s next words.
‘We want to work with you.’
The three men spoke at length that night in the private club. No one disturbed them. Everyone knew who the handler was, and the reputation of his organization. The other diners left their table alone.
Magal and Shiri were orphans, the handler learned. They had lost their parents in a Palestinian attack in Tel Aviv when they were six years old.
They were each taken in foster parents in Jerusalem. It didn’t take long for Magal’s new family to discover the tattoo on his shoulder. They contacted Shiri’s folks and the two families tried to research the boys’ backstories.
They didn’t find much. They discovered that the Magal and Shiri families had migrated to Israel a couple of generations ago and had grown up in Tel Aviv. Magal’s father had been a teacher, while Shiri’s dad had been a taxi driver. The two boys went to the same school and were firm friends, a relationship that the foster parents nurtured and one that endured as they grew older and joined the IDF.
The handler scrunched his eyebrows at Magal. ‘When did you get your tattoo?’
‘When I was four. I don’t remember much of that time.’
‘What did your folks tell you about it?’
‘That it was a cool image. Nothing more than that. They didn’t tell anything about where they were from.’
‘Same with me,’ Shiri interjected. ‘It was only later, when Magal’s foster parents discovered his ink, our folks did their research, that we both found out who we were.’
‘How did you feel?’
‘Ostracized. The kids in school picked on us. Our folks, the new ones, didn’t hide where we were from originally. But we were mentally strong,’ he shrugged. ‘Our new families taught us to be tough.’
‘You are with me because of your origins,’ the handler stated in satisfaction, confident that the pull of his country was irresistible.
‘No,’ Magal replied flatly. ‘We identify as Israelis. Don’t read too much into our backgrounds.’
‘Why are you here, then?’
‘You wanted backstories; we told you,’ came the reply. ‘There’s nothing special about them.’
‘Other than the country your grandparents came from.’ the handler interjected. ‘My country.’
‘I said we are Israelis,’ Magal shrugged. ‘Your country has no meaning for us, other than a hostile target.’ He grinned.
‘As to why we are here…’ Shiri broke off a piece of bread and chewed on it. ‘We want to help you.’
That was the second shock the handler received that night. He stared in disbelief at the two men. They were calm, composed, returning his look with no expression.
‘Help me? Do you know who I am?’
‘Yes. Why do you think we came to you?’ Magal sniggered.
‘You just said you’re Israelis,’ the handler said harshly. ‘Your country and mine … we are hostile to each other. You said it yourself. We want to see you destroyed. I can arrest you and throw you in prison, never to be seen again.’
‘You can try.’ Magal tossed an olive into his mouth. ‘You won’t live the night.’
‘This isn’t a game,’ the handler replied with venom. ‘You—’
‘We came to offer our services,’ Shiri waved him to silence, ‘not to hear a history lesson. Your country … maybe it is ours, too.’ He pointed discreetly at Magal’s shoulder, at the tattoo.
‘I knew it!’
‘You don’t,’ Magal said sharply. ‘We aren’t sitting with you because of any emotional or subconscious ties to your country. We don’t think of countries the same way most people do. We are Israelis. It is a fact and nothing more. We have been thinking about this for some time. Of branching out. Your reputation as a handler is well-known. You plan well, support your operatives… that’s why we are here.’
‘And that’s enough for you to turn traitor?’
‘No. But the money you offer, and the game…’ he trailed off. ‘Don’t go looking for any deep meaning behind our motivations. We aren’t carrying any grudge against our country. We are not indulging in some kind of vengeance mission.’
The game. Over the next couple of hours, the handler found that the two operatives loved the clandestine business they were in. The hunt, the chase, the mission, that was what they lived for.
Their moral compass was virtually nonexistent, which made them top-notch killers. That absence of values also was the reason they could switch allegiances so easily. One day they could be working for Israel. The next, they could see themselves working for the handler.
The two men claimed they had been seeking something else, a bigger thrill. They had been drifting from mission to mission until the rescue of the journalist. The handler’s presence that night had shaped their desire. And here they were.
Magal swirled the wine in his glass, sniffed it and dropped another bombshell. ‘We have both been selected by Mossad. To join their kidon.’
He took a sip and looked over the rim of his glass. ‘Are you in with us?’
The handler didn’t take long to decide.
He was in.