RAFAH, GAZA
June 10, 1967
Ido had found Alice, but Peter was still searching for Arie. The only news, which had not yet been officially announced, was the worst: Chaim Peled, KIA. The soldier who had escaped the tank with Arie Nesher had been found buried in a trash heap, shot, battered, with a slit throat.
The ambulance helicopter with Peter aboard followed the coast south until Gaza where it cut east, fast and low, to land in the newly occupied Arab town of Khan Younis, deliver medical supplies, and pick up more wounded. All the pilots knew was that the morose passenger they dropped off was a senior Mossad official. From the landing pad he rode in an armored personnel carrier to brigade headquarters in a Rafah schoolyard. Rows of APCs and Jeeps were lined up before the bullet-pocked white building, while soldiers maintained a perimeter around the four corners of the complex. Snipers on rooftops surveyed the area with binoculars, tanks blocked the streets, paratroopers piled their equipment for redeployment.
Peter hurried to the commander’s office, past an inner courtyard where lines of handcuffed Arab men sat in rows, heads bowed under the beating sun, waiting to be summoned by Shin Bet interrogators.
“Peter Nesher!” Colonel Uri sprung from behind his desk. “I didn’t know it was you coming. Why Mossad’s interest?”
“It’s been a long time,” Peter said, extending his hand. “And Mossad isn’t interested, I should make that clear. I am. Arie Nesher is my brother.”
The Colonel, unshaven and weary, looked hard at Peter, nodding with pursed lips. “I see. The Arie Nesher.”
Peter handed him a folder. “Here are the files of seven members of Fatah, they all live in Rafah, terrorists. I have a hunch they may know where he is, they may even be holding him.”
Uri went to the door and called out, “Get Ben-Tsion.” He turned to Peter. “He’s the Shin Bet chief down here, he’ll pick them up, if they’re still here. Most of the men have run.”
Peter paced, explaining his logic to the colonel, who didn’t dismiss the idea. “You have to understand,” the officer said when Peter finished, “this is our number one priority. We’ve had patrols out every minute, all day and night, looking for him. Shin Bet too. Those Arabs waiting outside? They’re from the area where he went missing, that’s why they’re here. Someone must have seen something. We’re on it, Peter. And I’ll be straight with you. You being here makes me very uncomfortable. The other poor sod’s family couldn’t come here, you’re pulling rank. I understand, I’d probably do the same. But I don’t want anyone here to know he’s your brother. Just say Mossad has its reasons.”
Peter nodded. He would have said the same. But he didn’t give a hoot what anyone said, he’d turn Gaza upside down to find Arie.
Ben-Tsion entered, a short gruff man with cropped iron-gray hair. He ignored Peter. The colonel didn’t waste words. “Arie Nesher, the MIA. Our friend here from Mossad thinks these people are worth checking on,” Uri said. “You’ll see why in the folder.” The Shin Bet agent took it without a word, glanced at Peter, and left.
“He’s a good man, Peter, but he has his hands full, to put it mildly.”
“Don’t worry, I’m used to it. They’re all like that.”
Colonel Uri chuckled, as a lieutenant rushed in. “Sir, they may have found the MIA. Comms from Gimmel patrol, a mile northeast of the refugee camp along the old railroad track.” The colonel glanced at Peter and back at the officer. “What do we know?”
“Just that. There is a contact now.”
“A firefight?”
“Not clear. Just that first word.”
“Get backup there right away. If they’re not needed they can return but get them moving.”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant ran out the door.
Peter raised an eyebrow. “You stay here,” Uri said. “No disrespect, Peter, but this is army. We’re handling it. Nothing you can do. But your timing, as always, is impeccable.”
Peter’s jaw clenched, but again, he knew the colonel was right. All the soldiers would need was more soldiers, not some civilian getting in the way.
He swallowed hard. “Are you going?” he said. The colonel hesitated. The area was calm and this was the biggest operation of the day. An Israeli life was at stake. And he hated the thought, but it was Arie Nesher, the tycoon. What the hell was he doing in a tank? Couldn’t he buy his way out of serving?
“All right, let’s go,” he said. “But don’t say anything, don’t do anything. We may need you to identify him if necessary. I hope it isn’t. Come.”
They raced out of the compound, dust flying: two APCs loaded with the paratroopers delayed from their mission north, led by two Jeeps, with the colonel and Peter in one, medics and their supplies in the other. An ambulance would follow.
When they found the patrol, guarding a single old man in a torn shirt sitting on the railroad track, the colonel cursed. “What the hell is this?” he demanded. “What’s the story here?”
When he came back to the Jeep he told Peter, “There was a language issue. The old man kept saying ‘jesh, yehud,’ which is about all the Arabic our boys know—army, Jew—but now a Moroccan soldier turned up, he’s translating. And this could be it, Peter. The old man says he has an Israeli soldier in his house. That he’s been hiding him.”
“Since when?”
“Five days. It fits. He says the soldier burst into his home at night, bleeding heavily from the head. His neighbors would have killed him, but I guess he’s one of the good ones, he hid him. He couldn’t get away to find a patrol until now because he was scared. He says it isn’t looking good for the soldier. Infection, he’s delirious. So he took the risk.”
“Is this too good to be true? A trap? I mean, if he’s delirious, making noise, the neighbors would have heard him,” Peter said.
“I’m thinking that too. But we have to check. Of course that’ll compromise the old man. The neighbors will know he helped the Jew.”
“One step at a time. Let’s go.”
The man refused to get in an Israeli Jeep in case the neighbors saw him, so the Jeeps and APC’s followed him as he hobbled, twenty yards ahead. Progress was slow. He looked over his shoulder many times, as if he’d changed his mind and was hoping the Jews had gone.
“Hurry up,” Peter muttered. “He’s a good man though,” he said. “We’ll have to look after him.”
“If it isn’t a trap.”
“Yes. What will you do when you get there?”
“Depends on the location. If it’s a narrow alley, in the middle of the refugee camp, we have a problem. And they’re all narrow, it’s like a maze.”
They bumped along in silence. The homes became smaller and crowded, sewage ran down the dirt track and gathered in ditches. It stank, flies buzzed in the jeep. The army had kept out of the refugee camp, one of the largest in the Gaza Strip. It had no strategic value, so there was no reason to risk patrols when every alley and rooftop could hide a dozen fighters who could shoot and disappear in seconds.
When the old man stopped and pointed, a paratroop officer approached him with the translator. The convoy halted behind them. Children stopped playing in the alleys to gawk and their mothers ran out, gathered them up, and scuttled away. Faces appeared in windows, women in scarves pulled back, their places taken by men. It was noon, the sun glared at them, glinting in dark pools of wastewater. Peter wiped the sweat from his face.
“Well, it’s about as bad as it gets,” Uri said. “It couldn’t be narrower. And it’s long too.” He looked down the alley, at Peter, down the alley again. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Uri said. “About how we should handle this?”
“You mean I go in? Yes, it makes sense. I can identify him. And alone, in case it’s an ambush.”
“You don’t have to. You shouldn’t even be here.”
“But I am. And I will.”
Peter’s face was set and grim as he stepped from the Jeep. “Wait until we see the APC blocking the other end of the alley,” the colonel said. “We’ll place groups of three in every side alley. If the shit hits the fan we’ll be with you in less than ten seconds.”
Peter snorted. “A lot can happen in ten seconds. Give me a weapon, at least.” Uri took an Uzi from a soldier to add to Peter’s own pistol. He handed it to him, with two fresh magazines.
One APC with a dozen paratroopers backed up, looking for a way to reach the far end of the lane. Minutes later it appeared, oddly foreshortened. It loomed over the wretched homes. The street was quiet, no children, no faces at the window, everyone hiding.
“Okay, good luck, Peter.”
Peter nodded and gripped the old man by the arm. They made an odd couple, picking their way past dirty puddles and scrap, the hobbling old Arab and the Israeli with a pistol in his belt, an Uzi in his hands.
Peter knew he was taking a big risk but there was no other way. After all, plenty of Arabs speak Hebrew. They could have taken an Israeli uniform from a corpse and put it on one of their fighters, to entice more Israelis to their death. Only he could immediately identify his brother, and there was no point risking anybody else.
The old man’s hands were trembling. Maybe terrorists had forced him to approach the Israelis, Peter thought, either that or he was a brave and good man. He’d soon find out, the hard way.
They crept along the alley, which was silent as the grave. Peter’s eyes scanned each hut, his Uzi following his gaze. Damn. He should have taken grenades. He’d love to have one in his hand right now.
Looking left, his skin prickled. Three Israeli soldiers were kneeling twenty yards down the alley, ready to sprint forward at the first gunshot. He’d feel better if they were at his shoulder, but that could alarm the people holding Arie, if he was here. They could shoot him and run. Better this way.
Seconds later the Arab stopped. “Whooa hina,” he said, “Here it is.” Peter pulled the man closer, scanning the silent alley, the menacing roofs. He gestured at the hut, his Uzi in the man’s back.
The old Arab nodded and saying something in a soothing voice in Arabic, he pushed open the door. It creaked and hung ajar, a harsh line of light cutting the darkness. Peter pushed him in and took a step, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He made out an old woman cowering against a wall, protecting two little children who were pressed into her long skirts. She pointed with her chin toward another door at the head of a narrow, dark corridor separating two more rooms. Sleeping rooms? That’s not right. Why so many? As Peter stared into the gloom, his neck hairs rose.
He prodded the old man, motioned with his Uzi for him to lead the way, but when the Arab glanced at his wife and hesitated, there was a scraping sound. A door opening? One of the rooms? It was too dark to see. Peter leapt to the side, grabbed the man, held him tight to his chest, he’d take the first bullet. He reached back and kicked the entrance door open farther, but it gave no more light. He signaled to the woman to get out. She shook her head and sank to her knees against the wall, still gripping her children. What’s she afraid of? Him, somebody else? He shouldn’t take a chance, he should get out now. But what if it was Arie? If they had him? They’d shoot him if they knew they’d been rumbled. No choice. Move. Fast.
Peter pushed the man forward so that he stumbled into the corridor. Step for step behind him, Peter yanked open one door, Uzi at his shoulder, finger tight on the trigger, he scanned the room. Nothing. He whirled round, opened the other room, and pushed the old man in first. It all happened in a flash, there was no room for failure. At his feet there was a blur of motion and a squeal.
A fat shape with a long thin tail, a rat, bigger and darker than any he’d ever seen, brushed against him, followed by two more. He lashed out with his foot, catching one square in the gut, lifting it feet into the air where it hit the wall. It fell to the ground, its feet scrabbling, and raced out of the door into the street.
Peter’s heart thudded against his ribs. He fought for breath. The area was clear.
The old Arab watched him wordlessly from inside the room. He shrugged and nodded at the wall dividing them from the first room. Peter nodded, picked up a gaslight for the man to light and carry.
The Arab led the way, the flickering light playing on the walls as he opened the door. The stench was overwhelming, a smell that you could feel. The Arab pulled aside a pile of mattresses to reveal a man, motionless, on his back, arms folded on his chest, legs crossed. Peter shivered. That’s how Arie used to sleep, as if in a coffin, when they’d shared a room. The Arab moved the light closer, it reflected off the whites of the eyes, and Peter saw, through the clotted blood on the head and face, it was his brother, with staring blank eyes.
Arie’s face and head were covered in sores, and he was trembling. His chin was slick with drool, his teeth chattered, he lay in his own waste. Peter stared, then burst out of the room and into the alley, shouting at Uri, “It’s him, it’s okay, come!” Two medics raced forward, with a squad of paratroopers. Peter ran back into the room, calling “Thank you, thank you” to the old couple.
“Arie,” he said, kneeling by him. “It’s over, you’re safe; it’s me, Peter.” He raised his brother’s filthy hand to his lips and kissed it, but there was no response in Arie’s eyes. “Arie, Arie?” His forehead was burning, his pulse was racing. Peter turned away and felt his stomach churn.