by Danny Bar
Back home, she repeated the same process, and waited for the helper to come, just as they had agreed in advance.
The helper opened the letter, read the instructions written in it and hurried to Jamil’s hiding place.
“They want me to meet with an anonymous person in Nablus for further instructions.”
“Good, good,” Jamil demonstrated interested and enthusiasm, “where?”
“Next to the Nablus Cinema, tomorrow morning at ten.”
“How will you recognize him?” Jamil was curious.
“It was already evening when the agents phone in the offices of the Hebron district rang.
“May I speak to Abu Ghazall, please?” the agent asked.
The district secretary covered the phone with her hand and beckoned Amos to pick up the receiver on his table. Complete quiet settled in the room.
“Ahlan, ya habibi. Good news, hopefully?” Amos answered with curiosity.
“I have to meet you tonight.”
“Sure, when?”
“In an hour? Nine o’clock?”
“All right. We’ll pick you up at nine from the Mickey Mouse junction,” he repeated the details to make sure they were clear and immediately called to update Ronit, the desk officer who worked with him.
“Please check if there is any new information online,” he asked her.
“I already have. If there was anything new, I’d have updated you immediately.” Voices of children could be heard in the background.
“What would I do without you?” he laughed.
“Don’t overdo it,” she scolded him fondly, “I’m just sitting behind the computer,” she added with false modesty, after all, she was in charge of putting together the full picture out of all the bits of information that came from various intelligence sources regarding their district.
“You’re my eyes and ears,” he flattered her.
“Thanks. By the way, what appointments do you have scheduled this week?”
“I want to meet with a few agents to debrief them. Also, I want them to start actively snooping around, sit with people, sniff the cafes and keep their eyes peeled. Perhaps they’d be able to find some important information.”
“All right, I’ll go over all the information coming in, process it and let you know first thing in the morning.”
“I heard your children in the background, so I won’t disturb you. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Yes, it’s time to get the little rascals into the shower,” she apologized. “When are you meeting with Canard?”
“Nine.”
“Good luck and be careful,” she said softly.
In his eyes, the sole meaning of the red headlines in the morning papers or those of the television newscasts was the following: “Security forces are conducting a search for the terrorists responsible for the recent suicide attack.”
“The public is probably imagining dozens of armed soldiers leading terrifying dogs and scouring fields and houses in a hunt after the terrorists,” Ronit laughingly said when she went over the accumulated material in the morning.
“It always ends up the same,” said Amos, “in time, the dust of the headlines will settle and will people return to their daily routine, meet in coffee shops and talk. Then a single piece of information will come, just a single one, pointing out the identity of the terrorists responsible for the attack and their location.”
“God willing,” she smiled at him and hurried to check another news item appearing on the computer screen.”
4
The security team was waiting in the car next to the old British Tegart Fort at the Gush Etzion Junction, on the main road from Jerusalem to Hebron.
At the Israeli checkpoint, soldiers stopped a Palestinian taxi, ordered its passengers to exit and lined them up next to the vehicle. The soldiers seemed tense and nervous, after all, the junction had been the target of frequent terrorist attacks over the course of the past few years.
“Let’s get going before they suspect us,” the team leader suggested and they moved on.
A few minutes after sundown, a vehicle slowly moved toward the fallow field by the junction. Three of the Shin Bet agents jumped out the vehicle, slid into the nearby field and disappeared into the darkness. They took positions on a hill overlooking the access road and scanned the area with night-vision binoculars to make sure there wasn’t any ambush for the pickup vehicle.
Ten minutes before 7:00 pm the flickering light of a cigarette tip abruptly scratched the night-vision binoculars’ screens.
“There’s someone at the pickup point,” they reported to the team leader.
“Roger, keep following him.”
“The man is sitting not far from the pickup point.”
“It might be the agent, we’ll wait.”
Darkness returned to engulf the area, disrupted only by the occasional headlights of a passing car on its way to one of the Arab villages or Jewish settlements in the area.”
It was 7:00 pm when the team leader called them on the radio, “What’s up?”
“Everything is quiet,” they whispered into the microphone.
“OK then, I’m coming from north to south.”
“Flash the light!”
He did.
“OK we see you.” The Magic Flute stretched up as he saw the lights and tilted his head.
The vehicle stopped, the rear door opened and the agent rushed inside. The vehicle quickly took off. The security team remained behind few minutes more to make sure that no one was tailing the agent.
The pickup vehicle stopped at the entrance of a safe house.
The agent got off the car and was warmly welcomed by Abu Ghazall, “How are you, ya habibi?” he asked him fondly.
“I have something important to tell you,” Khalil said impatiently.
“Let’s have coffee first.” Amos suggested.
“All right.”
“How do you take it?” asked Amos.
“As usual,” answered Khalil and looked reluctantly at the armed security guard scrutinizing his every move.
“What do we need him for?” he protested.
“Regulations, Khalil, they apply to everyone. No one is doubting your loyalty, God forbid,” said Amos embarrassingly and hurried to make the coffee. “Tfadal,” he said and offered him a cup of black sada coffee, smooth, no sugar, just the way The Magic Flute liked it.
“Dayman, may the coffee always be on your table,” blessed him Khalil. A moment later, he began to speak enthusiastically, “A woman came to me today and told me I need to meet an anonymous man next to the Nablus Cinema box office. His identifying mark will be a bandage on his left hand and a password, of course.” Khalil was excited as he always was before an upcoming operation.
“Who’s the woman?” asked Amos.
“I don’t know her,” he apologized, “but judging from the clothes she was wearing, she is not from around here. She looked Frangi.”
“What do you mean by that?” wondered Amos.
“Modern, of course. She wore European clothes, and you know that women don’t wear pants in our villages. Oh, one other thing, she is probably Christian, because she had a cross hanging around her neck,” he smiled and continued, “after leaving my house, she went to the taxi station and took a taxi to Jerusalem.”
Amos wrote down the details and went to the telephone in the other room to update the head of the district.
“I will ask the Operations’ unit to monitor the meeting and follow the guy that will come to meet The Magic Flute,” the head of the district told Amos and let him continue with the debriefing.
A few minutes later, a phone call interrupted the conversation.
“This is Amir, from the Operations’ unit,” the caller said, “ask your guy if he can wait until I get there from Tel Aviv.
”
Khalil said yes and mentioned that he had told his friends he’d be spending the night at his uncle’s, who resided in a remote and secluded house.
“There isn’t a single telephone in the entire area,” he laughed and after a brief pause cynically added, “no electricity or sewage either.”
Amos laughed loudly and began to make small talk to kill the time until Amir’s arrival.
After a third cup of coffee he asked him about his brother.
“Alhamdulillah, praise be to Allah, he is working in Israel, thanks to your help and he is supporting the family a lot, since our father passed away, God have mercy on him.”
A sound of knocking at the door interrupted their conversation. It was Amir, and after exchanging greetings, he warmly hugged The Magic Flute then began to brief him about the forthcoming meeting with the anonymous man.
“Did she give you any hints regarding his identity? He asked the agent.
“None whatsoever,” Khalil replied, “even though I tried.”
“So let’s focus on the meeting and go over the identifying marks.”
After about half an hour, he finished the debriefing and continued to the briefing stage.
“We will drive you in our vehicle to the road next to the cemetery. From there, go straight to the meeting point. Don’t linger anywhere and don’t talk to anyone not related to the meeting,” he guided him, “stand next to the box office until the messenger you are supposed to meet arrives.”
The Magic Flute nodded and Amir continued, “I need you to give me a sign this is actually our man and not just someone who stopped by to ask you an innocent question.”
“I’ll brush my hair with my hand, like this.”
“Marhaa alik,” Amir flattered him, “Well, I am through, unless you have any question.”
“No, I don’t, it’s all clear,” said The Magic Flute and looked at his watch, it was midnight.
The pickup team dropped him off in the forest next to the village. From there, he continued to his uncle’s house on foot.
At 9 am on the following morning, he showed up as planned. He spoke little and his face was downcast.
“Shu fi?” What’s the matter? asked Amos with concern.
“Are you going to kill him?” Khalil asked with concern.
“To kill who?!” Amos was surprised.
“The man I am going to meet today.”
“No! By no means!” Amos raised his voice.
“Then, what are you going to do with him?”
“Nothing that might put you at risk.”
“If anything happens to him I will be the one to pay the price…”
“Rest assured, I give you my word, Khalil, have I ever failed you?”
“No, never,” he admitted with satisfaction and stood up, “shall we go?”
A commercial van carrying barrels and ladders stopped at the corner of the street by the Nablus cemetery, The Magic Flute naturally got out of the car, waved goodbye to the driver, and began to walk on foot. He crossed the city hall, which was brimming with people, and reached the cinema house five minutes before the scheduled time.
Saul, an agent from the surveillance team, dressed up as a woman, walked on the sidewalk on the other end of the road and accompanied him from afar. He wore a gray dress made of a coarse fabric that reached his ankles; around his head, he wrapped a white shawl that hid his face in the manner of the girls of the Islamic college in the city. Josh, His colleague, took a position in the local clinic’s waiting room, wearing a cast on his hand and a faded, brown jacket in the manner of the local villagers.
He followed The Magic Flute with his eyes until the latter had reached the cinema house and stood next to the box office.
“The agent has reached the meeting place,” Josh whispered into the radio.
“Try to spot the anonymous man before he reaches the meeting,” the team leader instructed them, “look for someone restless, wandering about and looking around suspiciously, male or female.”
“We’re trying, but it isn’t easy, the place is crowded,” Saul apologetically explained.
“Got it. Keep trying, we still have three minutes to go.”
Another minute had passed.
An excited voice was suddenly heard, “There’s a suspicious guy standing at the entrance of the infirmary, he is staring at our agent. It might be him.”
“Well done, take a picture of him.”
“OK,” said Josh. As he was preparing the camera, the man abruptly began to walk straight toward the agent, while darting nervous glances in every direction.
“It’s him. It’s him!” reported Saul excitedly, “His hand is dressed in a bandage.”
“By Allah, is Farid el Atrash playing today?” the anonymous man asked The Magic Flute.
“No, he is sick today,” he replied
“There’s a meeting! There’s a meeting!” said Saul and quickly continued to describe the suspect’s appearance. “Male, thirty years old, 1.70 meter tall, wearing a black t-shirt with a Toyota logo print on the back; black pants.”
The Magic Flute smoothed his hair with his hand with a natural movement.
“The agent has confirmed the messenger’s identity,” Saul continued to report from the door of a nearby store. “The two are leaving the cinema and are going toward the clock tower square.”
The anonymous man stopped by a green cart and ordered two glasses of tamarind juice for him and for the agent and they continued to talk several more minutes. They completely ignored the vendor’s presence. The latter continued to tirelessly rub his brass tray and even leaned closer to hear what the two were saying.
Saul entered a nearby shoe store to watch the two through the large shop window.
The shop assistant happily stormed him, “What can I help you with?” she asked.
He made a dismissive gesture, returned the shoe he held in his hand and thanked the vendor with a nod while securing the shawl on his face.
“Must be a farmer woman from one of the nearby villages,” the shop assistant clasped her hands, “they always come in to look and never actually buy anything,” she complained to her colleague and disappointedly returned to her place behind the counter.
“They are leaving,” the surveillance team reported a few minutes later.
The two continued toward the Mountazah, the city park located in the western entrance to the city, not far from the Nablus’ kasbah.
Josh exited the pickup truck and quickly set up a green cart on wheels, of the sort used by local vendors. He wore a knitted white skullcap on his head, such as the ones covering the heads of religious Muslims, and waited for the two men who gradually approached him.
“I’ve taken their picture,” he announced after the two had passed him and went inside the park.
In peaceful times, many families would to come to the Mountazah during the afternoon hours with their women and children and allow the little ones to roam freely on the paths of the garden or stroll along the ancient aqueduct. Then they would have boza for dessert, a homemade ice cream, prepared by the local kiosk owners’ own hands. But times change, the poor economy had affected the locals. The general gloomy mood did not help either, and the number of visitors had gradually dwindled.
During that particular time, the garden was completely deserted.
“They are leaving,” Josh reported as the two shook hands and left the park from two different exits.
He waited for the anonymous man to draw further away, folded his cart and returned to the vehicle. Once inside, he changed his clothes, glued a black beard on his cheeks and joined the team in following the suspect on foot.
The Magic Flute left the park and walked to the main street, where he was met by the pickup team.
Amos did not waste a moment, “Who is he? Where does he come fr
om?” he began to debrief the agent as soon as the latter had entered the vehicle.
“He did not tell me his name, but judging by his accent, he must be from the area of Hebron.”
“Are you sure?” Amos marveled.
“Yes, I am. You know, the people of Hebron have a way of prolonging the last syllable of every sentence,” he smiled at Amos. “I’m sure you know that fasolia means beans in Arabic. There’s a story about a man from Hebron coming to a greengrocer in Jerusalem and asking him: “’Do you have fasoliaaaa?’ The greengrocer answered, ‘I do, but not that long,’” said Khalil and his face suddenly turned serious, he lowered his voice and brought his face closer to Amos’ ear.
“The man I met is connected to the commander of the two suicide bombers.”
“What?” Amos jumped from his seat as if bitten by a snake.
“He is hiding in the Hebron area, the man knows exactly where, but didn’t tell me. He boasted that the man was planning another suicide attack that would be bigger and harsher than the last attack.”
“Will they meet again?” asked Amos.
“Yes, they will.”
“How do you know?” wondered Amos.
“Because he had a slip of the tongue. He said he was afraid to buy food for the guy in Nablus because of the Ramadan, so he will just wait and buy some food in Jerusalem.
“Bravo aleik” flattered him Amos, “anything else?”
“Yes. He wants me to supply forty-four pounds of RDX type explosives, urgently.”
“Forty-four pounds?” Amos was terrified, “That’s a lot.”
The agent nodded, “In total, they need 110 pounds.”
“110?” Amos’ face fell, “How will you deliver it?”
“In a dead letter box.”
“Where?”
“In the quarry next to Sair Village.”
“Did you have an exact explanation where to bury it?”
“Yes,” he answered and handed him a drawing he received from the man.
At the same time surveillance after the anonymous man continued in the narrow alleyways of the Nablus Kasbah until he entered a small house.