Jerusalem
Two days after Assassinations
Nine Days to Announcement
Alice Monash clasped Zeb’s hand in both of hers. Her eyes were moist. ‘You did everything that you could. Heck,’ she laugh-cried, a tear sliding down her cheek, ‘you didn’t have to do anything. You could have been a bystander. You saved many lives that day. My daughter …’ she sniffed and wiped her eyes. ‘You couldn’t do anything more.’
Lauren Monash had been on a month-long backpacking trip to Thailand, her trip paid for by her parents as a twenty-first birthday gift.
Coincidentally, she was to catch the same return flight as Zeb the next day. On her last night, she had gone to the nightclub, and there, her young life had ended.
Alice Monash had pulled several strings to learn his identity. The Thai police gave her a name that turned out to be fake.
The U.S. ambassador to Thailand said he had been ordered to collect a man from hospital and escort him to the airport. He had been expressly forbidden from asking any questions.
‘Who gave you those orders?’ she had demanded.
‘The State Department.’
That department ignored her requests. Months passed, but she didn’t give up. She persisted. She had threatened, cajoled and persuaded people until finally, Clare, a close friend, admitted that Zeb Carter was one of hers.
‘I want to meet him,’ Alice had told her, after letting loose a furious tirade at her.
‘He doesn’t want to meet.’
Zeb knew the ambassador had moved heaven and earth to get to him. He had ignored her efforts. What could he say to her? That if he had acted faster, if he had shot when he was beneath the crowd, maybe, just maybe, Lauren would have been alive?
‘You aren’t responsible,’ Alice squeezed his hands, seeming to sense his thoughts. ‘You can’t go down the could have, should have route. You can’t blame yourself. Tom and I don’t. We lost Lauren that night. It has left a hole in our lives that cannot be filled. We have learned to live with it. We want you to put it behind you and move on. And we want to say, thank you.’
‘For what, ma’am? I didn’t do—’
‘You tried,’ she said firmly. ‘For which we will be grateful forever.’
They sat in silence until one of the suits at the perimeter of the café shifted on his feet. That reminded Zeb.
‘Ma’am, I really can’t protect you. There is another job that occupies—’
‘I know,’ she patted his hand. ‘This was the only way I could meet you. I made arrangements while on the flight. Our embassy’s arranging a security detail for me.’
‘Does Clare know? She didn’t tell me this change of plans,’ Zeb asked, much relieved.
‘No,’ the ambassador chuckled. ‘She didn’t tell me your identity. Not for several months. This is small payback.’
Her smile faded. ‘You know what’s going on here?’
‘The peace talks? Sure.’
‘You don’t know the big picture, do you?’
‘Both sides are negotiating a deal, aren’t they?’ he asked, puzzled.
‘Yes, but there’s more to it.’ She gnawed at her lip and then sighed. ‘Zeb, if Clare or Avichai Levin didn’t tell you, neither can I.’
She looked at him, worried that he would take offense.
He didn’t. He was used to need-to-know. His boss and the Mossad director would have their reasons.
She relaxed when he shrugged. ‘I will be spending my days with the negotiating team. Will it be possible for you to escort me from the embassy to their hotel? And back, in the evening?’
‘Ma’am, you said you have your detail.’
‘I do. I would feel safer if you were around, too. If it helps, I’ll be keeping a low profile. This is the Israeli and Palestinian show. We’re in the shadows.’
‘Low profile? You’re the ambassador to Israel!’
‘I know.’ She laughed. ‘This job is always in the spotlight. Well, I’ll be trying my best to be as invisible as possible.’
He thought fast. He didn’t know where the negotiators were holed up. Somewhere in Jerusalem for sure. Joining her detail twice a day will crimp my plans. I don’t have much time.
He felt the diplomat’s eyes on him and grimaced inwardly. The negotiators will be in some hotel in the city center. Shouldn’t take me more than an hour in the morning and another in the evening, if I join her team.
‘Sure, ma’am, though there might be times I can’t make it.’
‘You’ll give me notice?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Can you come with me, now?’
‘I’ll drop you off at the embassy, ma’am.’
He walked with her through the terminal and out, slipping into close-protection mode. The suits fell in step behind them as they checked out other travelers automatically, looked for signs of danger, exits and shooting angles.
They reached his rented SUV without any incident and, a minute later, they were away from the airport.
Gaza Strip, a couple of hours later
‘Do you know where the negotiators are?’ Abdul Masih asked.
He was in a small house in Deir Al Balah in the strip, with two other men. Narrow lanes, crowded houses, electricity cables hanging overhead, chimneys and TV dishes sprouting from rooftops marked the Palestinian city.
The men were heavily armed, as was Masih. Outside, children played in the darkening night, but no adult ventured near the house. The sight of menacing-looking heavies loitering outside was enough to deter people.
‘No,’ one of the men shrugged. ‘We have tried hard. Our informers in Jerusalem have no clue.’
Masih stroked his beard. He was lean, gaunt-faced, and had an air of restless energy around him.
He moved from house to house, never staying in one place for more than three nights. He had a core group of men around him always, his protectors, who checked out each accommodation prior to his moving in.
The EQB had built a series of elaborate tunnels that ran beneath the Israel border and opened into various locations in Jerusalem and its outskirts.
Tunnel was a glorified name for the narrow passages, which often weren’t more than crawl spaces.
The Al-Qassam militants used those subterranean routes to infiltrate into Israel and carry out their attacks.
It wasn’t easy. The IDF were continually searching for and closing down tunnels. Sometimes they trapped the militants inside and collapsed the passages on top of them.
It was a continuous, deadly cat-and-mouse game. Hamas and EQB teams continually digging new burrows, the Israelis shutting down those they could find.
‘There’s something,’ Qadir, one of Masih’s lieutenants, spoke. ‘One of our spotters at the airport, he has some news.’
‘What?’ the commander uncapped a bottle of water and washed his face. He wiped it with the sleeves of his shirt and drank the remaining liquid, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.
‘The U.S. ambassador. She arrived in the evening.’
Masih stilled. His eyes glittered.
‘She has gone to their embassy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Follow her, wherever she goes. She will go to the negotiators. There, we’ll find the Palestinians.’
Qadir wiped his palms on his trousers, uneasily. ‘If we take her out, the U.S. will join the Israelis in attacking us.’
‘So what?’ the EQB leader paced the room. ‘Mossad killed our people. We need to retaliate. If Monash dies … we have survived for a long time. We’ll survive even if the Americans bomb us.’
‘Follow Monash,’ he gestured, and his men left the room.
Somewhere in the Middle East
The handler had returned from a meeting with the Supreme Leader. The two men had discussed matters of state, alluding only discreetly to the ongoing operation in Israel.
The leader didn’t want details. He didn’t care that the handler had pulled off the biggest coup of his career by recruiting Magal and Shiri. He was happy that the two Palestinians had been killed, but he wanted more. He launched into a tirade the handler had heard several times. About the Great Satan, about the Jewish nation, how the West was conspiring with the Israelis to overthrow Islamic governments.
The handler didn’t interrupt as the Supreme Leader ranted for half an hour. He put on an expression of agreement and leaned forward as if listening attentively, nodding occasionally. The two men shared the same objectives. But I can do without the sermonizing.
The leader finally ended with a demand. When would he see results?
‘Soon, sir,’ the handler had bowed his head and left.
He logged into his screen when he was back in his office and set up a call with the two operatives to discuss the upcoming mission.
‘That hotel address you gave us,’ Magal exclaimed, ‘It’s on Emek Refaim! The same street the other hotel was.’
‘Yes. I think the Israelis are getting overconfident,’ the handler replied.
‘No,’ the kidon replied thoughtfully. ‘German Colony has many business hotels. That one will be well protected by police. Entry will be extremely difficult.’
‘You’re saying it is impossible?’
‘No.’
‘Today is finished. You have eight days left. Seven, really. You won’t be able to do much the day of the announcement.’
‘Seven,’ Magal agreed. ‘What about Raskov?’
‘He’s under control. If anything changes, I’ll take care of it and let you know.’
‘What about collateral damage?’
‘Don’t care. The Palestinians are the main target.’
Ein Kerem
Magal hung up, removed the SIM card from the burner phone, and cut it to strips. He extracted its battery and smashed it with a hammer. They would dispose of the device’s remains in a drain. Standard operating procedure.
The two men had moved back to the Ein Kerem safe house after their meeting with Epstein. ‘You think he believed us?’ he had asked Shiri after their meeting with Levin’s investigator.
‘Yes. He hasn’t followed us. Hasn’t tapped our phones. Besides, our cover is tight. The handler has made all arrangements. Peter Raskov will come through for us.’
Magal wiped away all traces of the destroyed phone and looked up when Shiri returned, carrying two plates. Their dinner.
‘Do you wonder why we are doing this?’
His partner looked at him, puzzled. ‘This? Working with the handler? Killing Palestinians?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you identify as?’
‘Me? I am Eliel Magal.’
‘Are you Israeli? A Jew?’
‘I am Eliel Magal.’
‘How do you feel right now?’
‘Alive.’
‘How do you feel during our usual Mossad missions?’
‘Mechanical.’
Shiri nodded in satisfaction. Magal had answered his own question. It was simple.
The two men were Israeli but had never felt like they belonged in the country. Perhaps it was due to their early years.
At school, no one had gotten close to them. Their origins, which everyone knew, were an invisible stigma.
Not Israeli, their classmates would snidely whisper as they excluded Shiri and Magal from activities.
That tag, not Israeli, followed them into adulthood. Even in Mossad, the previous ramsads and some operatives behaved differently around them. Even though Magal and Shiri were the best in the kidon organization.
However, it wasn’t their sense of not really belonging that drove them to work with the handler.
It was simpler.
We live in the dark. We live on the edge.
The relationship with the handler offered them all the edge and darkness they longed for. That defined them. That was who they were. If the world called them traitors, so be it.
They knew what they were doing was considered morally wrong by others. But questions of morality had never bothered them. Patriotism wasn’t a word they identified with.
The two men dug into their dinner and made plans for turning live Palestinians to dead ones.