The Shahid's Widow

by Danny Bar

  Yasmina blushed.

  “Next time we meet I want to show you pictures of someone, perhaps you might recognize him.”

  “Very well, yalla, I will go now,” she said and stood up.

  In the vehicle, she put on the wide dress she wore in her house and village, and at 10:00 pm she got off the car close to the cemetery. She walked the rest of the way home. The sound of the barking dog welcomed her.

  Khalil, she thought happily and quickened her pace.

  “Where does this bird roam?” she heard a stern voice from behind the vine bushes.

  “Jamil…” it was hard for her to hide her disappointment.

  “Where are you coming from so late at night?”

  “Mind your own business and take off your shoes before coming into the house,” she snapped at him with a grimace.

  “I haven’t showered in a week,” he apologized. What do you have to eat?”

  “Bulgur.”

  “And meat?”

  “I have no one to prepare meat for.”

  “Yalla, that’s also good,” he answered and fell on the plate she placed before him. Yasmina stood beside him with her hands crossed on her chest, “Where have you been, ya Jamil?”

  “In the mountains. Tell me, did you throw away the garbage?” he asked casually and gave her a strange look.

  “No, why?” she feigned naivety.

  “I left here an important letter I received from the butcher.”

  “Look for it, then.” She smiled inwardly while her eyes followed Jamil as he rummaged through the pile of trash. Finally, he fished out the letter she had earlier placed there.

  “I found it. Alhamdulillah,” he said with relief and raised the letter with his hand. Later on, he got out and tossed it to the toilet pit in the yard. He lingered there to wash his torso with water from the jug and when he got inside, he found a hot cup of tea waiting for him on the table.

  “Come, Yasmina, sit beside me,” he told her with a smile.

  “No.”

  “Wahashtini…” I’ve missed you, he laughed coarsely and pulled her to him.

  “Don’t start again,” she warned him.

  “The day will come when you will want me,” he mocked and took the glass of tea with him to the yard.

  Yasmina waited, all tensed up, burdened by Jamil’s proximity.

  I must draw him closer with my words and push him away with my actions, she thought, but for how long? After all, he is a man, and things might get out of hand.

  A cough was heard from the yard.

  She cringed, remembering Khalil.

  It has been a week since she last saw him and she yearned for him. Strange that he is avoiding me, she thought, something must have happened. But before she could find the answer her tiredness got the better of her and her eyes began to close.

  With the first light of dawn, the Muezzin’s hoarse voice filled the air from atop the mosque minaret and called the believers to rise early and come for the morning prayers.

  Yasmina barely noticed such background noises, she was used to them and over time, they stopped disturbing her rest. Though the mists of sleep, she felt warm hands invading their way under her nightgown. Her hand rose in an attempt to remove them from her. The hands intensified their grip on her legs and spread them by force.

  She tried to resist, but to no avail.

  He grunted a curse and subdued her.

  Jamil’s perspiration-washed stomach slid on her exposed belly in groping movements until he found what he wanted. She felt a sharp pain as he penetrated her wildly. Her cry pierced the silence of the night, much like the one sounded by an animal whose cub is devoured in front of its eyes.

  After his body had relaxed, Yasmina pushed him off her by force, leaving deep scratches in his face.

  “I told you never to touch me,” she hissed in a cold voice.

  “I love you, you’re driving me crazy.”

  “Next time you touch me I’ll kill you, now pick up your clothes and leave my house.”

  “Yahrab betek,” he cursed her house furiously and slipped outside without noticing the man leaning on the trunk of a nearby olive tree and accompanying him with his eyes until he disappeared down the wadi.”

  Yasmina locked the door with the heavy metal bolt. A short moment later, she heard a soft voice calling her name. For a brief moment, she feared that Jamil had changed his mind and returned. Strange, she thought.

  “Yasmina,” the voice rose in an attempt to overcome the barking of the dog.

  “Khalil?” she called in panic and quickly slid the bolt open.

  “He was here,” she whispered and broke into bitter tears.

  “I’ll kill him, I swear I will,” he said angrily.

  “Be careful, he has a gun.”

  “When is he coming back?”

  “He didn’t say. He just shows up unannounced in the middle of the night.”

  “Kul kalb biji yomo,” each dog shall have his day, he promised her.

  “Where have you been all this time, ya Khalil? I needed you.”

  “Men’s business, Yasmina.”

  “And what brings you here at such a late hour?” she suddenly remembered and removed his face her hers.

  “My yearning to see you,” he answered and pressed her to him warmly.

  20

  Amos genuinely liked those quiet hours when he was sitting in his office and reading intelligence reports. A cup of Turkish coffee rested on his desk. Occasionally, the head of one of his colleagues popped from the door, congratulating him warmly.

  Such encounters were rare, as each of them spent most of his time patrolling his area or conducting meetings with his agents, and once their workdays were over, at a late night hour, they hurried home to their families.

  Occasionally, they held social gatherings with their spouses, mostly in the district coordinator’s house. Eating, drinking, and mainly talking. The wives seemed to also be very involved, and an onlooker would be surprised to see just how knowledgeable they all were with their husbands’ activities, an involvement that was natural to those involved. Their entire lives revolved around the job, the operations and the agents. The husbands’ mood depended on them, even their lives!

  The temporary peace and quiet was disturbed by a loud cry coming from the end of the corridor. It was Ronit, the desk officer. Amos sprang up and hurried to her room, something in her voice sounded urgent.

  “Look!” she sent a finger to the computer screen, “Pictures of the anonymous man who vanished yesterday. We got them this morning from the Operations unit.”

  “Yes, and…?” he asked and tried to focus his eyes of the blurry image on the screen.

  “Can’t you recognize him?” she asked hesitantly.

  “No…”

  “Magic Flute.”

  “Are you crazy? It can’t be him,” he roared and already turned to leave the room.

  “Amos, take a deep breath and look again.”

  “How can you even recognize a face there?” he grunted.

  “Look,” she said and enlarged the image, “do you recognize the shirt?”

  “No.”

  “It’s the shirt you gave him for his birthday.”

  “How should I know that, you gave it to me wrapped up.”

  “So I’m telling you, that’s the shirt,” she said calmly, “besides, a woman doesn’t quickly forget the face of such a handsome man,” she tried to make him smile, but failed miserably. He slowly delved into the picture.

  “It’s not him,” he continued to mutter.

  “Amos, for God’s sake, take another look.”

  “I’ll ask the Operations unit to process the image in their lab,” said Amos, his mood darkened and he could hardly eat before receiving a phone call from the Operations unit:
“It’s him!” Erez told him.

  “Are you sure?” Amos’ voice trembled.

  “Yes, we were able to sharpen the image in the laboratory, then I remembered, he actually sat with me in the car when we were in Nablus. Remember? I knew he looked familiar.”

  “All right,” said Amos humbly.

  “Sorry,” said Erez, “we’ll need to place all operations involving him on hold until we get the whole picture.”

  “Yes, I understand. Oh, well, I have to inform the district coordinator,” said Amos with an ashen voice.

  “I’ll come with you,” Ronit told him and lunged from her chair.

  “Ronit, it’s fine, I promise to tell him the whole truth, no matter how uncomfortable it is,” he told her with a tired voice.

  “I still want to come,” she said, accompanied him anyway and waited patiently until Amos finally squirmed, took courage and said what needed to be said. “Are you sure?” the district coordinator called out.

  “Yes,” muttered Amos with embarrassment, “even if it took me some time to believe it,” he admitted and looked at Ronit with embarrassment.

  “What the hell happened to him?” he wondered aloud.

  “Maybe he didn’t like the way we are working with Yasmina,” Ronit told him.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because he had a kind of an accident,” she smiled, “he went to recruit her, but fell in love with her, now he considers her his private property. That’s just the way you men are, possessive,” she smiled again, but this time the smile froze on her lips when faced with both men’s cold gazes.

  “All right, settle down, will you?” she half-apologized.

  “Well, what are you suggesting?” asked the district coordinator.

  “I’ll check with him what happened.”

  “Absolutely not,” the district coordinator objected, “he betrayed your trust and will never be honest about that. It’s better to let a professional interrogator do the dirty work, that’ll keep you clean. You will be the one who will come and save him, should we decide to do so.”

  “I think an interrogation might burn Canard. ‘The Magic Flute’ might decide we’ve gotten to him following the meeting in Ramallah,” said Ronit.

  “Got any better ideas?”

  “Polygraph,” she answered and looked at Amos, expecting his reaction, knowing it would soon come. She wasn’t disappointed.

  “No way!” Amos cried out.

  “Relax, ya habibi,” the district coordinator told him, “I understand you, but your agent has betrayed us. Get it into your system, even if it tears you up on the inside. That’s the way the agent world goes, you’re not the first, and sadly, not the last. I warned you this day would come.”

  “Right, I apologize.”

  “Please continue, Ronit.”

  “We’ll hold the routine questioning session. It gives us an indication whether he is hiding anything from us. Right?”

  The district coordinator nodded, trying to understand what she was getting at.

  “We’ll use it to open everything up and it will not reflect on Canard.”

  “What do you think, Amos?”

  “Good idea,” he determined, “I’ll get him to come first thing tomorrow!”

  That evening, Amos left for home earlier than expected. His mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Magic Flute and his possible motives. At night, he tossed and turned in bed, finding it difficult to fall asleep.

  “At least he ‘hasn’t killed you yet,” his wife jokingly cheered him up.

  “Look, I know any operator would say that, but I find it hard to believe he really betrayed me.”

  “Even a cigar is just a cigar, sometimes,” she said.

  “That’s true, but…”

  “Amos, there are pictures. There’s proof.”

  “All right, all right,” he agreed reluctantly and turned his back to her.

  With bleary eyes following a sleepless night, Amos drove in the morning to the agent’s village. A few miles away he opened the engine cover, took a red spray can out of the trunk and sprayed an X on a sand barrel standing at a bend in the road.

  Two hours later, Magic Flute drove past the place, saw the mark and called Amos. They scheduled a meeting at the King David Hotel in Jerusalem. This time a security team was present at the hotel lobby, as well as the room next to the one in which Amos was waiting. An armed guard stood behind the door connecting the two rooms, his hand on the door handle, ready to break inside.

  Amos tied to conceal his emotions and treated Khalil fondly. After exchanging greetings and drinking coffee, he told Khalil about the test.

  Magic Flute asked to hear more details about that “wondrous machine that knows how to analyze a man’s reactions” and Amos explained it to him in detail.

  “I myself went through a similar test, exactly two weeks ago, when I was late for the meeting with you.”

  “Walla?” Khalil marveled, and after Amos nodded, he gave his consent and a date for the test was scheduled.

  ~

  In a flowered green dress, her hair tied in a ribbon, Yasmina looked like a young schoolgirl.

  “Well?” she asked Amos when he opened the door at the hotel.

  “Well what, Yasmina?”

  “My new dress, do you like it?” she asked enthusiastically.

  “It’s nice,” mumbled Amos and turned his face aside in embarrassment. He closed the door behind them and offered her some coffee.

  “Later, first of all tell me how Khalil is.”

  Amos squirmed. “He’s fine, just undergoing some routine test.”

  “Insha’allah we get good tidings,” she said softly.

  “Insha’allah, Yasmina, insha’allah. It will take a few days. Meanwhile, I’d like, with your permission, of course, to have another guy join us and talk to you about Jamil’s gun.”

  “Ahlan wasahlan, when will he be coming?”

  “He is waiting for your approval so he can join us.”

  “Your guests are my guests,” she smiled.

  Until he arrived, the two sat and spoke about life in the village and her childhood there; “a life without worries,” she laughed and told him about all the mischief she had done with her friends. Amos’ face lit up, and if wasn’t for the knock on the door, the conversation could have lasted forever.

  Eran, from the Operations unit stood at the door, and after greetings and a handshake with Yasmina, he bombarded her with questions about Jamil’s habits.

  “When does he normally come?” he asked her, “from where? What path does he usually take up the wadi? Does he regularly clean his pistol?” He even asked about her dog, and Yasmina answered patiently, tried to follow the link connecting all the inquiries. When she should she spread a wide smile across her face.

  After getting a comprehensive idea about Jamil’s habits, he took a picture from his bag depicting the fence of her house, as photographed from the path rising up the wadi. Then he showed her a picture of the dog. Yasmina suddenly chuckled with embarrassment and looked at Abu Ghazall as if asking his permission to speak further.

  “It’s a silly thing, his sneakers stink, and I always ask him to keep them outside at night,” she laughed and covered her mouth with her hand, “the dog doesn’t like him because Jamil always threatens him. One night, the dog stole one of his shoes and hid it in the garden. It took me half an hour to find it, and it has bite marks to this day.”

  Eran turned serious, gave her a colorful blueprint of her house prepared for him by the intelligence department and asked her for further details.

  The more she spoke, the more Eran’s enthusiasm grew, until Yasmina became infected by it.

  “Good,” he determined, we have an excellent opportunity of putting a trace on him.”

  “How?” she wond
ered, “what do his dirty shoes have to do with tracking him?

  “We will get him other shoes,” he explained to her and continued, “the soles of the shoes we’ll give you are composed of two materials separated by a metal strip. Once you pull out the strip, the two materials come into contact, creating a halo of heat. Our satellite has a heat sensitive camera installed, it traces the halo and transmits the information to the Tel Aviv headquarters. This way we can know where Jamil is located at any given moment.”

  “A’jib, this is simply amazing,” she muttered.

  21

  In a small, whitewashed room, Magic Flute sat in a simple chair, his back straight, his eyes focused on the bare wall in front of him. Electrodes were attached to his body and a thick cord coiled across his chest.

  The interrogator asked Magic Flute to deliberately lie when answering the following question.

  “Is your name Khalil?”

  “No,” Magic Flute answered.

  The interrogator followed the motions of the device and calibrated it based on the false replies. He smiled to himself, the reaction was typical for the desert people who taught themselves to survive against all odds.

  “Since your release from prison, have you been involved with any terrorist attacks against Israelis?”

  “No,” he answered.

  “Do you have any weapons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you referring to the weapons you received from us?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I ask you whether you have another weapons, what would be the answer, yes or no?”

  “No.”

  The interrogator looked at the leaping needle and repeated the same question.

  “No,” “”Magic Flute repeated, almost whispering.

  “Is something bothering you about this question?” the interrogator asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you hiding something?”

  “No,” “”Magic Flute answered with a tired voice.

  “Perhaps there’s something you’d like to tell me before we repeat the test?”

  “No, I’m not hiding anything that concerns you.”

  “All right, I’ll ask again.”