NEARLY TWO YEARS LATER
DAMASCUS, SYRIA—JANUARY 18, 2010—15:45 / 3:45 P.M. EEST
Mahmoud reached under the dashboard of the Toyota Corolla. He found the battery wires, then pulled them and attached one to the other. The lights on the dashboard came on—a good sign.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” his partner said.
Ignoring the prodding, Mahmoud wiped his sleeve across his forehead before the sweat could reach his eyes. He wrapped a piece of electrical tape around the wire connection, then identified the starter wire. After stripping it, he took a deep breath. What came next was the tricky part.
When he first learned how to hot-wire a car, he was a little too sure of himself. That overconfidence had earned him an electrical shock that drove his head up into the steering column so hard he’d suffered a concussion. He could still hear his trainer’s laughter as he stood over Mahmoud’s shaking body.
Carefully, he touched the starter wire to the combined battery wires. The Corolla started up. Yes. Halfway there. The car was running, but the steering column remained locked. “This is the part they don’t show you in the movies,” his trainer had said.
His partner, a fellow late-twenty-something Palestinian named Muhammad Nasr, handed him an old claw hammer and a dingy, yellow-handled flathead screwdriver. Mahmoud pounded the screwdriver into the keyhole. When it was well secured, he twisted it back and forth while racking the steering wheel left and right. The lock mechanism broke. Mahmoud stepped out with a satisfied smile, and Muhammad slapped him on the back before slipping into the driver’s seat.
After checking to make sure his partner had arranged the boxes properly to block the driver’s side of the back seat, Mahmoud walked around the car. He lifted a water bottle from on top of the trunk and drank the remaining half, then tossed the empty toward the base of a chain link fence that stood at the front of the car. The physical exertion, his nerves, and the heavy black coat he wore had him drenched in sweat. He reached up and made sure his yarmulke was still secure after rooting around under the steering wheel.
“How do I look?” he asked Muhammad, posing with his arms open and a goofy grin on his face.
“Like a Jewish dog.”
“Arf.” Mahmoud laughed before dropping into the passenger seat. The two men drove off, the old Corolla trailing a thin line of black smoke.
They already had their target area picked out as they left the city limits of Ashkelon. Soldiers of the Israeli Defense Forces would often hitchhike from bus stops when they were on leave. Hodiya Junction was one of those stops and stood just about five kilometers to their east, not too far north of the Gaza border. The proximity to Gaza had been preeminent in their minds when they’d chosen this location, because that was the direction they would be fleeing when this was all said and done.
As they drove, Mahmoud tried turning on the air conditioner but with no luck. He cranked his window halfway down. He was about to ask Muhammad to do the same thing, but he saw his friend staring at him and laughing.
“What are you laughing at?”
“You look ridiculous.”
“You look just as bad.” Mahmoud opened the mirror in the visor to look at himself.
They were dressed as ultra-Orthodox Jews, completely in black except for a white shirt under their suit jackets. Not many Jews would get into a car with two young Palestinian men who were wearing their traditional black and white keffiyehs wrapped around their heads. But who wouldn’t trust a couple of friendly, Jewish scholars offering them a ride?
“I have never been so hot in my life,” Mahmoud said. “How do they live like this?”
But instead of answering, Muhammad pointed forward. “There it is.”
The intersection of two main roads was up ahead, and a covered bus stop sat on one corner. About twenty people congregated in the shade, and another ten or fifteen milled around in the sun, some holding newspapers above their heads as a makeshift screen. Mahmoud counted seven Israeli Defense Force soldiers—four gathered in a group and three others standing alone. The IDF was everywhere.
Mahmoud’s heart raced, and he prayed silently. Give me strength, Allah, to do what you have called me to do.
Muhammad pulled the car up alongside the soldier farthest from the shelter.
After cranking the window the rest of the way down, Mahmoud asked in Hebrew, “What is your name, friend?”
“Avi.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back home to Ashdod.” He had a hopeful look on his face.
“Ah, just up the road.” Mahmoud smiled, praying that the accent he’d been practicing would hold up. “Well, Avi, we just happen to be going that direction too. Would you like a ride?”
Avi lifted his bag from the ground. “Yes, sir. I would, very much. Thank you.”
As Avi approached, Mahmoud said, “You’ll have to sit behind me. We’re delivering some goods, and they’re taking up much of the back seat.”
“No problem.” Avi slid into the car and placed his bag on his lap.
Muhammad put the car in gear, then drove off.
“May I put the window down?” Avi asked.
“Of course, of course,” Mahmoud cursed himself for the crack in his voice. His heart was still racing with fear and anticipation. He couldn’t believe he was finally going through with this. Since the time he was young, he’d bragged that one day he would do something this bold and daring.
Three kilometers passed, and he saw Muhammad give a brief nod. Mahmoud reached down to where he’d stashed a battered 1911 .45 ACP handgun next to his seat. Turning around, he locked eyes with the IDF soldier, then fired a round into the young Jew’s face. A hole opened under the young man’s eye, and blood and brain matter flew out of the back of his head.
Revulsion and elation filled Mahmoud…until he saw that the soldier wasn’t dead. He hadn’t even collapsed. Instead, he smiled and reached his hand into his own bag. Panicked, Mahmoud fired again. Another hole in the soldier’s face, then more gore out the back. Still, the man stayed upright. His smile turned into a condescending grin, and he began slowly shaking his head. A gun slid out of his bag, and he raised it.
Mahmoud pulled the trigger again and again and again until the slide locked back and he was out of ammunition. The soldier was pocked full of holes, but his grin remained unchanged. His gun was leveled, and Mahmoud could see down the darkness of the barrel.
“You are a foolish, foolish man,” the Jewish soldier said as he racked a round into the chamber. “Don’t you know that Israel never forgets?” He pulled the trigger.
Mahmoud cried out as he awoke. His clothes were soaked in sweat, and his heart was racing. The bedroom door opened, and his wife poked her head in. “Are you okay?”
It took a moment for Mahmoud to orient himself. “Yes, yes. It was just a dream.” He waved her away. He was glad the lights were down so she couldn’t see the fear on his face.
“I’m sorry.” She held up her hands and prayed a brief dua. “I seek refuge for my husband in the perfect words of Allah from the evils of Satan.”
“Thank you, my wife. It was time for me to get up anyway.”
“Then I’ll leave you.” She closed the door behind her.
Mahmoud continued to lie in the cool darkness of the curtained room, staring at the ceiling. When he’d shot that Israeli boy 21 years ago, he’d fired only one bullet, after which the soldier was most definitely dead. He and Muhammad had buried him not far away from the place of his execution. Three months later, Mahmoud and some other members of Hamas had abducted another IDF soldier. He was the driver that time, so one of his Palestinian brothers had the honor of putting a bullet into that dog.
Ever since those first righteous assassinations, Mahmoud had been a marked man. Yet even though those Israeli sons of the devil had found ways to take their revenge on many of his friends, they had not caught up with him. Not that they hadn’t tried; he could just see them coming. Allah had blessed him with a special ability to know when people were sneaking up on him. That’s how he got the nickname “the Fox” from his comrades in Hamas.
But eventually even foxes are caught. He wasn’t afraid to die a martyr’s death. He’d spent his life serving Allah. Born nearly 50 years ago as Mahmoud Abdel Rauf Al-Mabhouh in the Jabalia Refugee Camp in the Gaza Strip, he’d known hardship his whole life. Gaza was a dirty, dusty wasteland filled with cement and rubble. It was a violent place where he had to learn to defend himself from an early age. Even though gangs and factions lived within the camps in Gaza, Mahmoud knew two things united him to every Palestinian: a love for Allah—although some loved him more than others—and a hatred of the Jews.
When he was a teenager, he joined the Muslim Brotherhood. That was where he learned what Allah expected from him. That was also where he was taught how to hurt people. He already had street-fighting skills, but then he received real combat training. He and his brothers from the Brotherhood put their violent training to use every chance they had. Sometimes they would hear about one of the houses or cafés where fellow Muslims gambled and then raid them and beat the participants. Mahmoud used sticks, ax handles, lug wrenches—anything he could get his hands on to remind those back-slidden sons of the Qur’an where their allegiance lay.
And it wasn’t just gambling that triggered their righteous wrath. Any infraction—drinking, stealing, adultery… They all demanded some level of punishment that he and his brothers were all too happy to mete out. It was exhilarating.
In his twenties, Mahmoud was arrested by the IDF for possessing an AK-47, and the Jews had locked him up for a year. With nothing else to do, he and his fellow inmates plotted ways to carry out their revenge against the hateful Israelis. Two years after he was released, he had his opportunity, finding himself in the front of that Toyota, dressed as a religious Jew with a .45 next to his seat.
Mahmoud rose and padded across the polished cement floor to the bathroom. After snapping on the light, he looked at himself in the mirror. In one month he would turn 50. Despite the life he’d led, he felt he still looked fairly good. The hair on his head remained dark, as did his thick mustache and the small patch under his lower lip. His wife had hinted about his weight, but he wasn’t at the point of worry.
He brushed his teeth, stripped out of his sweaty clothes, and stepped into the shower. Afternoon naps were not the norm for him, but he had a late evening of meetings and then tomorrow an early afternoon flight to Dubai. He would be there only a couple of days, and there were certainly worse places to go, but he was nervous anytime he left the safety of Damascus. Dubai, in particular, caused him concern. Compared to visits to Beirut or Tehran or even Istanbul, the openness of the United Arab Emirates left him vulnerable.
He rinsed his hair. The fox will just have to keep his eyes open. Allah, please make sure those Jewish hounds stay far, far away.