30

IDF NORTHERN COMMAND HQ, SAFED, ISRAEL

The Sikorsky UH-60 helicopter burst over the ridge and came into view.

It circled the base once before descending onto the landing pad.

Major General Yossi Kidron watched from the edge of the tarmac, then stepped forward to greet the two principals as they exited the Black Hawk. The first was Asher Gilad, head of the Mossad, Israel’s foreign intelligence agency. Right behind him was Tomer Ben Ami, deputy director of the Shin Bet, Israel’s equivalent of the American FBI. Neither man looked happy. Nor did their security details, all of whom were anxious to get their protectees out of harm’s way.

“Is everything in order?” Gilad asked in Hebrew over the roar of the chopper’s engines as they were hustled inside the secure facilities.

“Yes, sir.”

“No one has talked to him yet?”

“No, sir,” Kidron assured him as he led both men down several flights of stairs, past numerous armed guards, and through two sets of steel doors. “Okay, we’re here, gentlemen. How do you want to do this?”

“Yossi, you and I will stay behind the glass,” Gilad said. “Tomer has the most experience with interrogations. And his Arabic is better than mine. Okay?”

The Shin Bet deputy director nodded and handed his sidearm to Yossi for safekeeping.

Tomer waited several moments for the others to get into position.

Then he took a deep breath, motioned to the guards to open the door, and entered the interrogation room. Waiting for him was a young man chained to a metal chair, sitting behind a metal table, perspiring profusely.

“Good morning,” Tomer said in Arabic. “Welcome to Israel.”

The boy said nothing, yet his eyes darted around the room and toward the two-way glass, as if he expected more people to be coming through the two doors to the left and right of the table.

“Are you thirsty?” Tomer asked. “Has anyone given you something to eat or drink?”

No reply.

Tomer turned to the two-way glass and asked if he could get some water. A moment later, a guard entered and set two plastic cups on the table along with a liter bottle of water. Tomer poured them each a glass. The boy hesitated, but after Tomer took a sip, he drank all of his. Tomer poured him another, and this, too, he polished off quickly. A third time, Tomer filled the cup. This time, the boy took only a sip, then set it down. His hands were shaking. His right knee was bobbing up and down. And he didn’t seem to know where to settle his eyes.

“My name is Tomer Ben Ami,” the Shin Bet officer began. “What’s yours?”

The boy said nothing but instead fixed his gaze on the cup sitting on the table in front of him.

“How long have you been a member of the Radwan Unit?”

This startled the boy, who briefly looked up, then back down at the cup.

“It would be better for you and for your family if you go ahead and answer my questions now rather than later,” Tomer said. His tone was calm. But the message was menacing and was intended to be.

Still, the boy said nothing.

“Okay—let’s try something else,” Tomer said, leaning forward. “Your name is Tanzeel al-Masri.”

The boy looked up immediately.

“You’re seventeen years old. Your eighteenth birthday is coming up in July,” Tomer continued. “You were born and raised in Beirut in a devout Shia family. Your mother is Lebanese, born and raised in Sidon. Your father is Egyptian, born in Alexandria, though he spent much of his life in the oil fields of Libya, where his father and brothers worked to provide for the family. You have six brothers and sisters. But today let’s focus on your eldest brother, Amin.”

Still nothing.

“Amin al-Masri, infamous deputy commander of the Radwan Unit,” Tomer went on.

The boy was visibly astonished.

“Yes, Tanzeel, we know all about you and your brother. And we know all about your family’s long devotion to Hezbollah. We know that your father, Marwan, before his untimely death, was close to Imad Mughniyah, the founder of Islamic Jihad and the number two man in Hezbollah, the man long known as al-Hajj Radwan. The unit in which you and your brother serve was named after him. What’s more, we know that your father had American and Israeli blood on his hands. He helped Mughniyah torture and kill the CIA’s station chief in Beirut in 1985. He helped mastermind the bombing of our embassy in Buenos Aires on March 17, 1992. The list goes on and on.”

The radio receiver in Tomer’s ear crackled to life. “Show him the pictures,” said Asher Gilad from the other side of the glass.

Tomer reached into his leather jacket and pulled out six black-and-white five-by-seven photographs. He looked at each one for a moment, piquing Tanzeel’s interest, then set them on the table.

The boy’s eyes grew wider.

“Do you recognize these people?” Tomer asked.

Though Tanzeel did not speak, the answer was clearly yes.

“This one of your mother, Jabira, was taken as she walked home from the grocery store in Al-Dahiya. Remember Al-Dahiya, Tanzeel, those wretched, poverty-stricken suburbs on the south side of Beirut? You grew up in Haret Hreik, did you not, Tanzeel? Of course you did. And your mother still lives there.”

Tomer set the other photos on the table one by one.

“This is a cute one, isn’t it? Little Hala. What is she, ten years old? How happy she looks at the Islamic girls’ academy she attends. But I think this one is my favorite. Farez. The youngest of your clan. And your mother’s pride and joy. What is he now, six? No, he just turned seven. He certainly loves to play soccer with his friends. Have you ever seen a more adorable little boy?”

Tomer was quiet a moment, letting the images and message sink in. But there was more.

“Let’s see, here’s a lovely drone photo of your apartment building,” Tomer said. “Here’s one of your front door. And one of your mother drinking tea on her balcony.”

A minute passed.

Then two.

After three, Tomer spoke again. “Do you really think we don’t know everything about you, Tanzeel, about your family, about your brother? Even as you and I sit here, Israeli forces are moving through the streets of Haret Hreik, disguised as Hezbollah commandos. By sundown, your mother and sweet Hala and adorable little Farez will not only be in our possession but in custody, here on Israeli soil. So long as no harm comes to the Americans your brother has captured—so long as he releases them all quickly and without any injuries whatsoever—your family will be safe. But if your brother acts, shall we say, imprudently . . . well, let’s hope it does not come to that.”

It was all a lie.

The photos had been taken months before. Both Tomer and Asher Gilad had implored their prime minister to authorize an operation to acquire the al-Masri family. Reuven Eitan, however, had refused to authorize anything of the sort, not even dispatching Mossad agents to place al-Masri’s family under surveillance so they could grab them if the PM changed his mind.

Nevertheless, it all seemed most convincing to young Tanzeel. He was not ready to say anything. Not yet. Not now. It was too soon. He was too shell-shocked. But in time, Tanzeel would talk. Of this, Tomer had no doubt.