Chapter Ten

 

 

Gaza City, Gaza Strip, Palestinian Territories

June 17, 12:05 p.m.

 

The informant listened to the cheerful children’s shouts filling the room. He walked to the open window with only one glass pane intact and looked at the heated game. A group of eight boys had turned a stretch of the dirt road between a mosque in rubble and a series of demolished houses into their soccer field. They had used concrete chunks to mark the goal posts and were kicking around a small ragged ball with their bare feet. One of the boys sporting the colors of his favorite team—a tattered red Manchester United shirt—dribbled the ball between the legs of a defender, then kicked it hard toward the goalkeeper. The ball was high and to the left, and it sneaked in through the small hands of the short, thin boy manning the goal. The striker started his victory dance to celebrate his goal, but the goalkeeper and his teammates challenged the goal as off the post.

The informant had a good vantage point and he was sure it was a goal. But he said nothing and kept watching the spectacle. The boys’ shouts grew louder and their arguments began to be laced with swear words. A couple of them gave each other strong pushes. The informant thought they would exchange punches at any moment, but the boys resumed their game, happy as ever before. In the commotion, the informant realized he had missed what their decision had been about the goal. It did not really matter, since the game was not so much about the score as the joy of playing with friends.

He thought about how the boys’ game would be different if they lived in another part of the world, a country were mosques were not bombed and houses were not blown up by explosives. Somewhere they could play soccer in a real field, with goals that had nets and a referee to make judgment calls. A land where they would not live in fear of daily air strikes or fighting in the streets or tanks rolling up over their flattened houses. A place they would not grow up seeing their relatives and friends being killed day after day, and then pick up rocks and later on rifles to fight the neighboring enemy.

His mind returned to his own situation and the quagmire he had sunk in. The close call in Berlin had opened his eyes to the real dangers he faced when involved in such operations, especially when he came too close to the execution stage. But he would not be able to collect valuable intelligence if he always stood in the background, behind the monitor of his laptop, relatively safe in the secluded Internet cafes of the ravaged towns or freeloading on unsuspecting neighbors’ unsecured internet connections. He had to get near the action, to learn about the players and their moves. He had to be with the militants and become one of them. And stepping near the fire meant that he ran the real risk of getting burned.

He winced and frowned. He had lost the advantage of being invisible, and now secret agencies across the entire planet were looking for him. And it was all because of a stupid mistake. He was not supposed to be the driver of the van. He was supposed to control the communication gear of the strike team, and was never to leave the safety of the team’s apartment. But the driver ended up getting arrested on a routine traffic stop that morning and the informant was dragged into the operation at the last moment. Thankfully, he had been able to escape with the loss of only his anonymity and not his life.

But his life was going to get a hundred times harder than before. He had made it safely across the border to the Czech Republic and then to Austria with the assistance of his wide web of contacts. The IFB relied heavily on the Palestinian diaspora, and his countrymen were scattered across the globe even worse than the hated Jews. These trusted associates had provided him with a fake passport that, after he had come out of the hairdresser shop who was also a part of the IFB’s network, matched his new look: shaved head, a goatee dyed silver, and a pair of square black-framed glasses. The hairdresser could not do anything about the large burn scar on the left side of his face or the crooked nose he had broken twice when he was seven and eight years old while playing soccer in his schoolyard.

The passport had worked and had provided him safe passage to El-Arish in northeast Egypt, some twenty-five miles away from Gaza City. The informant had then made his way through the maze of tunnels piercing the ground and leading across the Egyptian border. It was the second time the informant was smuggled through the shafts, but his companions moved with ease through the spiderweb of passages less than four feet wide. The corridor was high enough in some parts that the informant walked upright, while in others he had to be careful not to bump his head against the coarse cement ceiling. Some tunnels were wide enough to allow for small cars to be smuggled through, and thousands of cars made it to Gaza through these routes.

There were hundreds of tunnels just like these, with offshoots to the sides that led to large rooms used by Hamas and other militant groups to hide from the Israeli troops, to store weapons, and to prepare their next attacks. Some of the tunnels took months, even years to dig at a cost of a few million dollars. Israel kept destroying the infiltration conduits, and Hamas and their associates kept building them. It was like a whack-a-mole game.

The informant’s cell phone beeped and the sharp sound pulled him away from this daydreaming. He walked to the table and glanced at the phone near his laptop. He checked the caller ID, cursed under his breath, and flipped open the phone. “Yes, hello. I was expecting your call,” he said and tried his hardest to feign excitement.

“What’s your progress report?”

The informant grinned. “I’m still trying to establish contacts, but it’s going to take some time. I just arrived in the city.”

“We are very short on time. Did you get to Gaza all right?”

“I did. Thanks for asking.”

The voice on the other end of the line let out a small snort. “What’s the situation there?”

“Tense. Hamas is furious about the failed bombing in Berlin. They are blaming the IFB for squandering a perfect opportunity. And Hamas, or at least some of its leaders, are looking for their chance to get in on some of the action.”

The voice snorted again. “They will, we’ll make sure they will. Have you talked to anyone about yesterday’s attack?”

“No, not yet. I’m expected to meet two of the IFB’s chiefs in about an hour or so.” He checked his watch and felt hungry. He made his way to the small fridge in the kitchen.

“Record the conversation and transmit it right away. And tell them you have a source who can acquire priceless intel their money can’t buy.”

The informant nodded but frown lines began to spread across his forehead. He had heard his handler’s orders many times before, the last time being the day before the Berlin incident. “I understand,” he said in a dry voice and opened the fridge’s door. He pulled out the paper KFC bag he had purchased in El-Arish before climbing into the small Toyota sedan with the three Hamas militants. They had all enjoyed a good bite of the Kentucky Fried Chicken. “I will do as instructed. And since you mentioned money, I will need a transfer.”

“Why? You were paid before arriving in Germany.”

“I had to use most of that money to buy my way out of that country and back into Palestine. And since now I’m in the process of recruiting assets and cultivating intel, money is necessary—no, it’s crucial—in securing access to the right people.”

The handler gave out a high-pitched laugh. “You take me for a fool? As soon as you mention your potential source, the IFB and Hamas will stumble over one another in their stampede to get the first stab. Hell, they’ll even pay you handsomely for that intel.”

The informant moved his cell phone away from his mouth and cursed his handler under his breath. But his tactic had been exposed. He was trying to make some money so he would have a way of getting out of Gaza City and as far away as possible from these scorched lands. Once the truth came out about his suspected role in this plot—regardless of whether it failed or succeeded—he and his family would become targets of both Palestinians and Israelis. A fistful of dollars would come in very handy to ensure that he, his wife, and his two daughters were beyond the reach of vengeful, bloodstained hands.

“You’re still there?” the voice asked with a hint of irritation.

“Yes, just considering my best approach.” The informant pulled a couple of fries from the brown paper KFC bag. They were cold and dry but his stomach demanded some food, so he chewed silently on one of them.

“Just follow the plan without adding, removing, or otherwise changing anything and it will go well.”

Easy for you to say. The informant strangled his thought. He swallowed his half-chewed fry, then said, “My worries lie with the fact they may suspect my involvement in the Berlin fiasco. It hasn’t been even twenty-four hours and the only survivor of that attack shows up with the promise of a powerful connection. It will ring Hamas’s alarm bells.”

The voice sighed, a long, deep sigh of exasperation mixed with annoyance. “We covered this before you were dispatched to Berlin. But let’s go over it again, to turn off your fears or worries. Both Hamas and the IFB are aware that Mossad is always trying to recruit from among their ranks. You’re familiar with the recent reports of Palestinians often being approached at the Erez checkpoint to spy on their homeland. So Hamas and the IFB are distrustful of any new elements appearing on the scene, be they Palestinians, Lebanese, Jordanians, or any other nationality. But you have been a dependable and trusted associate for many years. They have never suspected you and they’re not going to start now. They have no reason. We’ve given them no reason and neither have you. Right?”

“Yes,” the informant lied.

“And you’ve informed them of previous contacts with Mossad, when they tried to turn you against your brothers. The IFB poked and probed at the time, and their verdict was that you were clean and loyal to their cause. Now you’re going to them to inform them of another encounter with Mossad, but this time one of their agents is willing to trade in their secrets. It makes sense, and in their blinded, bloodthirsty state of mind, they will not doubt your story.”

I think you’re underestimating the IFB and especially Hamas. The informant finished chewing another couple of fries, then took a bite of a chicken leg.

“Does that make you feel any better?” The voice had a tinge of disdain, very subtle, but the informant was able to detect it.

“Yes, it actually does,” he lied again.

“Use one of the encrypted cell phones to call me on the number programmed in it once you’ve set the bait. Then destroy the phone, its SIM card, everything. Call me again on the second cell phone once they’re hooked and then destroy that phone as well. Do not use those phones to make any other calls.”

The informant nodded. Those measures were for his own safety as much as for that of his handler. Just the week before, two men suspected of spying for Israel were executed by the Hamas security forces that ran Gaza City. The men were discovered by a woman who spotted them, did not recognize them, and decided they looked suspicious, since they were examining closely the doors of some of the houses in the Zeitoun neighborhood. When the men were caught, one of them had an Israeli number on his cell phone’s SIM card. He had forgotten to delete it and that error cost them their lives. The bodies of the two collaborators were put on public display to deter others from committing such despicable acts of treason.

“How are we going to communicate after that?”

“Someone will meet you in Gaza City and tell you what to do.”

“How will I find them?”

“They know what you look like. They’ll find you.”

The informant shivered as a jolt of fear raced through his body. His knees buckled underneath him, and he almost dropped his cell phone. He reached for the edge of the table, steadied his body, then collapsed on the chair next to it. The chair whined with a loud, rickety creak. He took a series of shallow breaths, then said, “Yes . . . I understand.”

“Everything okay?”

“Uh . . . yes, just—it’s okay.”

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No, no, absolutely not.”

“Good, because it’s already too late. The plan is in motion and we can’t make changes. And I know I don’t have to say this, but I will anyway, to make everything absolutely clear: If I detect as much as a hint of double-crossing, I will tell Hamas about who you truly are and what you’re truly doing in Gaza. They’ll take care of you and your family. Understood?”

The informant began to choke on his own spit and had to put the phone down. He was painfully aware of the threat hanging over his head. No need for reminders from his handler. He felt the bitter acids from his stomach bubbling in his throat. He broke into a fit of loud coughs, swallowed hard, and picked up the phone.

“What the hell was that?” the voice asked. “You’re choking.”

“No, no . . . I’m fine. The room I’m in is so dusty. Not sure of the last time it was cleaned.” He looked toward the window and his eyes caught a small strip of the blue sky between two crumpled gray buildings. The bright color sparked a flicker of hope in his heart. Yes, he was going to get through this ordeal with his life and his family intact. He had to do it, if not for himself, then for them.

“All right, now you understand what will happen if you betray me or even if you think of stabbing me in the back?”

“You’ve made it very clear. I understand.”

“That’s terrific. Now hurry up and get me some results.”

“I will.”

The voice ended the call without another word.

The informant stared at the phone, then tossed it on the table. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to forget the conversation and his handler’s voice still ringing in his ear. But he could not. The woman was dangerous and she would not hesitate for a moment to make good on her threats. She was true to her word, like everyone else in Mossad.