by Danny Bar
Either way, Amos’ main activities remained hidden from their eyes and he would meet with his agents only in carefully concealed locations throughout the country. Had he not done that, the agents would have been exposed and the locals would quickly come to brutal terms with them, just as the residents of Qabatiya had mercilessly done to their mukhtar, the head of their city, upon discovering he had been collaborating with Israel. They burned down his house with him inside it, banished his family members from their village and sentenced them to a life of shame and ostracism.
Aware of what was taking place in the minds and hearts of his agents, Amos would sit with them for many hours and conduct heart-to-heart conversations about anything under the sun, intending to deepen the human contact between them and earn their trust. It was only when the small talk would end, when the silence was disrupted with mutual greeting calls of “Ahlan, Ahlan,” that came to cover the awkward silence, that Amos briefed them about the information they must gather. “Look, ya habibi, there is a squad of wanted terrorists in your area. They need a hiding place, food and water. Someone must be helping them and buying groceries for them. Keep your eyes peeled for anyone buying large amounts of bread and vegetables for no apparent reason, or someone roaming the streets late at night or sneaking into an abandoned house at the outskirts of the village. Keep your eyes peeled and let me know urgently if you come across anything like these signs. Mafhum?” he looked into the agent’s eyes to make sure he understood his words.
Over time, Amos produced some excellent agents that earned him the high esteem of his superiors. The most prominent of these agents was Khalil, codenamed The Magic Flute.
Khalil was a former terrorist. He was twenty-two and remained a zealous bachelor, which was considered highly unusual in his village on the slopes of the Hebron Mountains. The harsh conditions of living in a place bordering with the desert had invigorated the local villagers and taught them to overcome the difficulties of daily life, settling for less while dealing with the ravages of nature that mercilessly struck them; sometimes in the form of a drought, other times in the form of jackals attacking their herds. Khalil was not a religious man and had his fair share of women. It was his so-called promiscuous lifestyle that attracted the attention of the village’s religious clerics. They pleaded with him to change his ways and had even brought him to the mosque, where they told him stories about the abuses of the Israeli occupation. He thirstily gulped down these stories of harsh General Security Service interrogations, or the killing of the organization members by Israeli Special Forces. Above all, they were all united in their deep hatred of the Israeli General Security Agency, known by the Palestinians as Mukhabarat.
“They know everything,” they warned him, “beware of them. You never know how they might tempt you into working with them. They don’t always force it on you, they mostly try to convince you in pleasant ways, and very rarely pressure you openly. Without noticing, you suddenly find yourself meeting with a man of the Mukhabarat in the middle of the night.”
“Mukhabarat?” his eyes flared with interest and in his heart he began to harbor dreams of harming the men of the Mukhabarat. Until he would be able to fulfill these dreams, he accompanied his friends who went out to throw rocks at passing military vehicles, or Molotov cocktail bottles in Hebron. Sometimes he would drag one of the villagers suspected of being a collaborator with the Israeli security forces to the olive grove at the outskirts of the village.
The turning point came when he had met Riad at the village club one evening and the latter tried to convince him into joining a terrorist attack on the Jewish settlement bordering with their village. As part of the preparations for the attack, Riad had equipped him with a Kalashnikov assault rifle and hand grenades.
Unfortunately for Khalil, one of the squad members was an agent of the Israeli Shin Bet. Two weeks later, in the dead of night, Israeli soldiers knocked at his door and arrested him. He and Riad were cuffed and taken from the village in the pouring rain. In prison, the two were separated and Khalil was taken for interrogation.
Lawrence, the Hebron district’s young interrogator, quickly learned that Khalil was a difficult nut to crack. With his mouth clenched, completely introverted, Khalil sat in front of his interrogators without saying a word for days on end. He even refused to reply to his interrogators’ “good morning” greetings, knowing that in doing so he would be surrendering to them.
His interrogators had tried to wear him down days and nights with long, meaningless monologues whose sole purpose was to make some initial communication, to locate the breach that would allow them to break through to him.
During one of those long monologues, Lawrence spoke about the fairer sex and made some suggestive remarks. He used a famous Arabic saying, “A single woman could please one man, but seven men could hardly please a single woman’s desire.”
Khalil laughed. A spark ignited in his ashen eyes. A tiny crevice had been opened. Lawrence skillfully placed a finger inside to expand it. The monologue had gradually turned into a brief conversation, followed by another longer one, until Khalil had opened up and began to speak. The two conducted long conversations in which they spoke about everything. The only thing they did not discuss was the subject for which Khalil had been arrested. In another conversation, conducted in the wee hours of the night, Lawrence had noticed the turbulence in Khalil’s soul and allowed him to speak undisturbed for long hours. Khalil told him about his wild lifestyle, about his loneliness and the family that had denounced him after he had drifted away from religion and began to stray in other paths.
Lawrence took two beer bottles out of the refrigerator and offered one to Khalil.
“I’m Muslim!” Khalil flinched, “it’s forbidden.”
“How sweet is the forbidden fruit,” Lawrence smiled and looked at him.
Khalil tilted his head and darted a glance at Lawrence, “Drinking alcohol is between me and Allah, and I won’t steer off the beaten path, but as for what is between me and you, let’s talk.”
A week later, the weekly precinct meeting took place and Lawrence asked Amos to meet with Khalil. He thought the man would be a good agent due to his personal qualities, his survival skills and his courage.
“A wild horse no one has tamed yet,” he defined him, “you might break your neck in trying to subdue him, but if you do tame him, he would be like a noble muscle-bound Arabic horse that would safely lead you on his back to your glory.”
Amos’ interest immediately flared. He wasted no time and set an appointment for the first available date in his diary. Numerous terrorists had come from Khalil’s village and enacted sabotage activities on the arterial roads next to it. Quite often, the tracks from the scene would lead to the outskirts of the village and then disappear. Amos understood what it meant. He often had to shift uncomfortably in his chair while suffering reprimands from the head of the district, who decisively pushed him to deepen the intelligence coverage in his area. “Wake up, Amos! The Muslim fanatics are taking over your area, mosques are popping up like mushrooms after the rain, the youngsters follow religious zealots, and from there, the path to actively indulging in terrorist activities is short. You must recruit someone from their midst. You have to!” The head of the district’s words echoed in his ears at the prison gates while arriving for his meeting with Khalil.
Amos found himself facing a young and handsome man with blue and blazing eyes and a blond mane of hair.
Those who knew a thing or two gossiped that his grandmother had fooled around with some Australian soldiers stationed in the area during the Great War. Khalil’s features were sharp, his build skinny, his upright way of sitting and the look in his eyes intense. He examined the man sitting in front of him.
When the conversation between the two began to flow, Lawrence left them to themselves and exited the interrogation room. The conversation revolved around the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and possible ways of en
ding it. In the end, they both agreed that the Israeli presence in Judea and Samara should end.
“Great, the conversation itself is the important thing, not its content.” Amos told his superior, “You established communication, it’s an important stage in the process of softening him up. Don’t forget it! Until now, you were the devil incarnate in his eyes, a man of the intimidating Mukhabarat, now he already sees a human being in front of him.”
“What’s next?” Amos pondered.
“Talk about common interests, the mutual benefit of the two nations,” said his superior and, after a pause, he added, “especially his.”
In their second meeting Khalil was more determined and aggressive in his opinions, “’Muhammad’s religion is spread by the sword’ and only by force of arm will we rid ourselves of the occupation,” he said fervently and his eyes sparkled.
Amos did not confront him at all. With great patience, he had made Khalil realize, after several long meetings, that they both shared a common interest and merely had different opinions about the proper way of realizing it. From thereon, it was a long way and many more meetings before Khalil was convinced that the good of his people required the continuation of the peace process and that everyone would benefit if they “Work together to prevent bloodshed on both sides.”
At the end of the meeting they parted with a handshake for the first time since they had first met. Before he left, Amos turned around and placed a packet of cigarettes on the table.
“Abu Ghazall,” Khalil called him in a scolding tone and handed him the packet, “you forgot your cigarettes.”
A man after my own heart, thought Amos on the way out.
The two had continued to meet over the course of two years. First they ate, then they indulged in deep conversation that fascinated Amos and opened for him a window into the depths of Khalil’s turbulent soul. Such conversations aided Amos in moving forward with the long and complicated process leading to recruiting, although the process had been slow and fraught with many crises. More than once, Khalil would refuse to meet with Amos. It was after operations taken by the IDF against terrorists during which civilians were killed. When Khalil finally agreed to meet him, he vehemently attacked Israel’s activities and the fact it had harmed the civilian population.
Amos listened and said nothing. As befitting a skillful operator, he knew how to make Khalil question the truth he had presented. That was enough for Amos to continue and seek pathways into his soul. He knew that eventually what would determine the outcome would not be Khalil’s political opinions, but his restless soul and if he would be wise enough to solve its mysteries, he would succeed in recruiting him.
It wasn’t long before a proper opportunity presented itself to Amos. The breakthroughs in the peace process had brought about the release of many prisoners, and Amos managed to include Khalil’s name in the mass wave of prisoner paroles. It wasn’t easy for him to convince the head of the district to approve Khalil’s release.
“Why should I?” the head of the district wondered, “he hasn’t promised us anything.”
“All the better. If he ever agrees to work with us, it would be only because we haven’t asked anything in return for his release. This is what he’s like, a man of honor.”
“And what happens if, God forbid, he returns to his erroneous ways and begins to carry out terrorist attacks again?” He tried to protest, but signed, albeit with a heavy heart, Khalil’s release form, “and don’t give him the agents’ phone numbers, only the administrative one, in case he decides to make contact anyway.”
The day of the release arrived. Khalil reported to the prison warden’s room, where Amos was waiting for him.
Khalil shook his hand and looked into his eyes with a soft gaze, “Shukran,” thank you, he whispered to him and placed his hand on his shoulder. From there, he went straight to the bus which took him and his friends to the Mukataa’, the Palestinian headquarters in Ramallah, where a festive ceremony awaited for them, presided over by the Rais, the Palestinian Chairman.”
Two months had passed and Amos hadn’t heard a word from Khalil.
“Well? He evaporated like the winter snow that had fallen in Hebron during the winter,” the head of the district teased him.
“Patience, man,” Amos told him, “even a foal waits for the grass to become hay.”
“I’ll wait, the Bedouins have taught me the value of patience,” his superior told him fondly and would have continued to wait had it not been for a telephone report he had received one evening. The report was of casualties suffered during a shooting attack on a family of settlers. The tracks led to Khalil’s village.
“Arrest him,” he instructed Amos. Amos tried to protest, but in vain. He left the district coordinator’s office in a state of extreme agitation, but had no choice but to obey the instruction he had received.
He called the local army commander, “Prepare a special unit for the arrest of a wanted terrorist. Departure from here at 1:00 am.”
Amos prepared himself a cup of strong Turkish coffee and closed himself in his room.
The phone in his office rang.
“How are you,” his wife wanted to know.
“Alhamdulillah,” thank God, he answered her in Arabic, “How was your day?”
“All right, I’m tired. The children have gone to sleep. They miss you.”
“So do I. I hardly get to see them lately. I forgot, there was a parent-teacher conference today, right?”
“Yes, of course. You would have been ecstatic if you were there,” she laughed.
“I’m missing their childhood,” he told her sadly.
“You chose this profession,” she reminded him without any trace of a plaintive tone in her voice.
“I don’t know anymore, whether it was a choice, or a path laid out for me by my grandfather and my father,” he laughed tiredly, “and I couldn’t possibly break the tradition.
“Perhaps you didn’t want to,” she laughed.
“I guess you are right,” he admitted.
“But at least you love what you are doing,” she comforted him.
“Yup, I thank God for that every morning and I thank you too for giving me the support I need to continue with my work.”
“Thanks, sweetie. By the way, I’ve heard on the news that there’s been a terrorist attack in your area.”
“Right. Two settlers were hurt. That’s exactly what I’m dealing with right now.”
“I thought so. You’ll probably come home very late.”
“Yes, I’m going out for an arrest tonight.”
“Who are you arresting?” she asked with curiosity.
“That guy I told you about.”
“What?” she sounded amazed.
“Yes, yes,” he said and a hint of sadness snuck into his voice.
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you once I get back.”
“All right. Anyway, there’s food in the fridge.”
“Shukran,” he thanked her in Arabic.
“Take care.” she whispered worriedly.
The hours passed and Amos got back to reading agent reports, occasionally writing remarks. The empty glasses of coffee gradually accumulated on the table.
At 10 pm, the administrative phone on the secretary’s desk began to ring.
Amos ignored it.
The ringing persisted.
The caller insisted.
After a lot of ringing, Amos had had enough, “Good evening,” he said in Hebrew.
“Abu Ghazall?” asked the voice from the other end of the line.
Amos’ heart skipped a beat.
“I have something important to tell you,” the caller told him.
“When?” asked Amos.
“Tonight,” he surprised him.
Amos hung up and immediately
called the head of the district.
“It’s a trap!” warned him his superior.
“It is not!” Amos answered excitedly, “Khalil is a man of honor.”
“You are naïve,” warned him his superior.
“I’m not,” Amos was insulted, “ I know him enough to take the risk.”
“OK, OK,” his superior surrendered, “I’ll let you meet him, but under a heavy guard.”
“Agreed,” Amos rejoiced, and quickly made all the necessary arrangements.
The meeting took place that very same night and Khalil gave Amos the names of the terrorists who had carried out the attack and the location of their hiding place.
“Their blood is on their own heads,” he said to Amos, “they would only bring calamity to our people. From now on, we will work together to ensure a better future for both our peoples.”
From that moment on, Khalil had become an agent and the computer gave him a codename, The Magic Flute.
Amos did not like that name. Something about it bothered him.
“Change it,” Orly, the district secretary told him.
Amos turned serious, “There are only two things in this world that one never changes, the name of a ship and an agent’s codename. It brings bad luck.”
“What is it that you don’t like about the name?” she marveled.
“It’s Mozart.”
Orly was unable to restrain a bout of laughter, “you’ve never been to a concert in your life. What do you care about Mozart?”
Amos laughed, “It’s not him, it’s his last piece.”
“The Requiem!”
3
Six years have passed since then, thought Amos.
During that time The Magic Flute had brought about the exposure of the entire religious and military infrastructure in the Hebron area and to the interception of all its senior members.
So far, he remained unscathed.
Amos was careful enough to keep him out of harm’s way and avoided any move that might bring about his exposure.