The Shahid's Widow

by Danny Bar

  “What do you consider to be a good story?”

  “Brief, non-verbal and thirty seconds long,” she smiled at him and made herself more comfortable in her armchair. “Shall we drink?”

  35

  The sand in the hourglass was running out and all signs indicated an impending attack. Yet, there was still no thread that would lead to the identity of the foreign suicide bomber. Amos’s agents reported that the organization had given up on its intention to have a third suicide bomber replace Amar. It did not wish to increase the number of those privy to the attack. Amos treated such reports with skepticism, as some of those had come from double agents. Those were not aware that Amos had exposed them, while Amos himself chose to continue and play the game, without revealing the cards he had up his sleeve.

  The risk of their continued employment was significant, and often put Amos’ life in real danger. Still, those double agents had proven so useful, that Amos chose to continue and meet with them and had even taken great pains to shower them with affection.

  It was only rarely that a double agent had left him no choice and Amos decided to arrest him, albeit with a heavy heart. Some had loyally served him for long years, and a change had come over their religious faith, or other personal circumstances that caused them to cross the line again and expose their cooperation with Israel to the organization.

  Amos was not deterred and continued to meet with all his agents. He asked them to report any news regarding men who had gone from their houses for several days and discover the reason for their disappearance. Amos drew their attention to additional suspicious signs indicating an impending suicide attack.

  “I ask that you work like a flour sieve and shake down all the people who might carry out such an attack. You need to improve your relationships with people in order to obtain information from them. People like to talk, just give them the opportunity. Go and pray in the mosques, sit in the cafés. These are the places in which people loosen their tongues. They will often provide you with information that is seemingly simple, like who recently embraced religion, who speaks of suicide, which women recently divorced – as they will become easy targets for the recruiters of suicide bombers. They will offer them to die with honor rather than live in shame and bring disgrace upon their families.”

  Amos’s agents dispersed between the various villages and began their work. Soon enough, they started flooding him with dozens of bits of news that seemed far-fetched, but that he still seriously investigated. Ronit carefully checked each such report. She recruited her parents to the task of babysitting her children and remained in the office until the wee hours of the night. It was of no use. No one had vanished from his house for no apparent good reason. She easily located most of the reported people, and it turned out they had been visiting their relatives, or visited Jordan.

  In the evening, Amos held a meeting with Magic Flute, who had been sent to the organization headquarters in Jordan in an attempt to unearth additional details regarding the foreign suicide bomber’s identity. Amos trusted Magic Flute’s instincts and his ability to quickly make friends and coax the organization members into revealing their secrets. He had even given him an unlimited budget to host them in restaurants or spoil them with anything else that might cause them to lose their inhibitions and talk.

  Amos spent the time left before the meeting with Ronit. He sat beside her next to the computer and together, they went through the hundreds of names of the organization members and helpers to try and expose the identity of that “bomber from abroad,” as she had called him.

  Numerous reports from foreign consulates appeared on the screen, dealing with stolen passports: England, The Netherlands, Venezuela and Spain.

  “Keep going on your own,” he told her several hours later and left for his meeting with Magic Flute.

  “The foreigner speaks Spanish,” Magic Flute told him as soon as the meeting began.

  Amos knew who he was referring to.

  “Good, but I want to hear everything about your trip to Jordan, from the knocking at the door to the farewell greetings.”

  “All right. I met Abu Alian at the taxi station in the seventh square, and he took me to the headquarters in Jabel Amman. The Sheikh welcomed me like a hero. ‘Someone has preceded your bravery with his own,’ he told me, referring to the attempt made on your life, ‘and you have received from Allah’s hands that which Allah had intended for you.’”

  “I’m glad I could make the Sheikh happy,” Amos laughed.

  “Yes, perhaps that was why he allowed himself to tell me that the attack would take place a few days from now during a peace rally at the Rabin Square in Tel Aviv. ‘We will use the rally to deliver a message regarding our objection to the peace process,’ the Sheikh told me. ‘We will drown the peace movement with blood. After our attack, the peace movement will no longer exist – both sides will be in a state of constant war.’ After my meeting with the Sheikh, I took Abu Alian to the Al A’wda restaurant. I’m sure you know it, the one behind the Shmeisani commercial center. We sat there and spoke for two hours. I tried to loosen his tongue. He was afraid to talk at first, told me no one in the organization other than the Sheikh was familiar with the man. I told him. ‘If I know you as well as I think I do, you know more than the Sheikh himself does.’ He immediately became as boastful as Abu A’ntar and told me that he had indeed overheard a conversation between the Sheikh and the head of the political bureau. The Sheikh had told him that the Jews would never discover the identity of the second suicide bomber because they were looking for an Arab while that man had entered Israel with a forged passport and speaks Spanish.”

  “Did he mention a country?”

  “No.”

  “Did he say when that man had entered Israel, more or less?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “I tried to ask him, but he said he didn’t know, and I didn’t’ want to pressure him.”

  “You were right to be cautious.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about the weapon I was supposed to pass on to Jamil?”

  “You just asked for me,” Amos smiled.

  “He asked me to bury it in the ground by the abandoned monastery of Beit Jala, until they give me the instruction to pass it on to whomever they decide it should be handed. An emissary from Jordan will come to see me, but I don’t think he will be arriving anytime soon, because they had asked me to grease the weapon and wrap it with a plastic cover. Of course, I haven’t buried it yet. I wanted to tell you about it first.”

  “By Allah, you have done all my work for me,” Amos laughed out loud.

  At the first crack of dawn, Jamil left Yasmina’s house and climbed toward the Hebron main road.

  “He’s headed for Bethlehem,” the surveillance team reported.

  Jamil boarded the bus coming from Hebron and Saul joined him only after the bus had passed the Al A’rroub refugee camp. A keffiyeh was wrapped around his neck, its tassels falling on the faded jacket he wore, and he sat in the back seat of the bus to observe Jamil’s every move.

  Jamil disembarked the bus close to the Al Khader village.

  “He’s in the wadi.”

  “That route bypasses the checkpoints and leads to Jerusalem,” the team leader reported.

  Jamil walked close to an hour until finally climbing toward the Biblical Zoo. From there, he continued to the main road and boarded a bus going to the central bus station.

  “I’m on it,” Tamar reported on the radio. “Boarding a bus to Tel Aviv,” she continued and added the bus’s license plate number.

  “He’s sitting in the back. The bus has turned toward Tel Aviv. Who’s picking me up?”

  “I am. Wait for me next to the gas station.”

  “Roger.”

  While surveillance continued, Ronit sat in the office and despairingly looked at the
computer as it blurted hundreds of names of recently arrived tourists from Spanish-speaking countries. Next, she checked which of them ‘hadn’t left the country. The list on the screen shortened, but still contained numerous names.

  “Give me people who entered a month ago and haven’t left the country yet,” she pleaded aloud.

  “Narrow down the arrival dates,” suggested her coworker, who oversaw the Bethlehem areas.

  The computer suggested three names. Ronit printed that abbreviated report and examined the names. One had caught her eye, seeing as the tourist had arrived with a group of pilgrims and did not leave with it to Jordan.

  Pablo Ramirez Mendoza. Venezuela. After looking further into his details, Ronit decided to check with his hotel. She called Amos to report the findings to him.

  “Check with the hotel,” Amos said.

  “I already have.”

  “I feel completely unnecessary here today,” he muttered.

  36

  Just as they had determined at the end of their previous meeting, Ellen arrived at the King David Hotel in her rented vehicle to pick up Adnan. A whiff of expensive perfume welcomed him as he entered the car and Ellen hurried to toss her folder and notebook to the backseat.

  Adnan was impressed by how familiar she was with the Jerusalem streets, and they quickly found themselves outside the capital and on the main highway, speeding toward Tel Aviv. Ellen drove so fast that Adnan had to grip the door handle during some of the sharp turns and bends. In Tel Aviv, she exited the highway and turned onto Arlozorov Street, heading toward Ibn Gabirol Street.

  “We’re here,” she resolutely said, gathered her belongings and exited the vehicle. She led him up the low stairs to the Rabin Square terrace. The city hall building towered behind them.

  “From this point,” she pointed at the Rabin Square, “I will report live from the peace rally. Let’s take a walk and see where I should position the cameras.”

  Jamil was there too, at that very same moment, scrutinizing the square beneath him. He looked at the balconies of the houses surrounding it, attempting to estimate their influence over the blast’s shockwaves. Then he descended the stairs leading to the square, sat beside the fountain and began to scribble sketches on a wrinkled paper he had unearthed from his pocket.

  “Here,” said Ellen to Adnan and descended the stairs leading to the square, “placing one camera here will give us a good angle during the rally,” she pointed at the balcony and sat beside the fountain to write the information in her notebook. “This is where we’ll position the second camera,” she pointed at the roof of one of the surrounding buildings overlooking the square. “I will stand here, with the crowd in front of me and the stage behind me, so that viewers will be able to see the speakers and the large banners.”

  The professional terms Ellen kept blurting meant close to nothing to Adnan. She walked about the square for several more minutes, to examine various possible camera angles, while Adnan sat by the fountain and looked at the passersby, one of whom was Jamil.

  “This one looks like a Palestinian,” he told Ellen as he followed Jamil with his eyes.

  “Yes, a construction worker perhaps.”

  “He’s been walking about the square all this time.”

  “And why does it concern you?” she wondered aloud.

  “No particular reason…”

  “All right, I’m done, we can go get some coffee now.”

  “With pleasure,” he smiled and trudged along after her, still looking at that man who had caught his eye.

  Jamil ignored Adnan’s looks and continued to roam the square for fifteen minutes more. Finally, he decided to go on foot to the Azrieli Towers. The security guard at the entrance searched Jamil’s body with a hand held magnetometer. Inside the building, Jamil continued to stand next to the entrance and examined the security checkup. Finally, impressed with the meticulousness of the process, he decided to ascend to the upper levels. Then he descended to the parking lots and from there, he exited to the main road to watch the soldiers flocking to the Kirya military headquarters base, scribbling more notes on the paper in his hand.

  During that same time, Ellen drove down Kaplan street and stopped at a traffic light beside the Azrieli Mall. Numerous pedestrians crossed the road and walked past her vehicle.

  “That man… there he is again,” Adnan muttered and pointed at Jamil.

  Their eyes met. Jamil quickly averted his.

  The traffic light had meanwhile changed to green. Ellen turned to the southern exit of the Ayalon highway, heading to Jerusalem.

  “Are you in a hurry?” she asked Adnan as the vehicle climbed up the Sha’ar HaGai, a deep valley flanked by steep rocky slopes.

  “I have time. My next appointment is only at four thirty,” he lied to her.

  “Let’s stop and grab a bite to eat in Abu Gosh, a nice Arab village. You’ll like it.” She signaled and turned toward the village. They went to the Lebanese restaurant at the village’s eastern entrance and spent a good long while there.

  Adnan had hardly touched his food. He just sat by the table, lost in thought. Then he suddenly started talking. With his voice verging on a whisper, he told Ellen that he was a citizen of the Basque country in Spain, whose people fought for its independence. He elaborated on the plight of his family and the humiliations it had suffered. He coolly spoke of his desire to punish those who had made them suffer, even if he had to pay with his own life.

  “My life is not my own anymore,” he told her, “it was only deposited in my hands. Now it is time to return them to him who had given it to me.”

  “What do you mean?” Ellen gave him a concerned look.

  “I mean that what you see in front of you is just flesh and bones, the soul has already departed. In many ways, I am clinically dead and all that remains is to turn off the respirator, something that I intend to do soon enough.” His words made strong emotions rise in her. She placed her hand on his and saw tears welling in his eyes.

  “Must you go to that business appointment?” she asked him softly.

  “It isn’t up to me,” he apologized.

  “Come with me,” she offered and meanwhile flagged the waiter for the check, “let’s go to my place. We’ll sit down and talk some more, I have time.”

  “I’m sorry…” he whispered to her.

  The waiter placed the check on their table, beside two glasses of Turkish coffee and sweet baklava pastries. Adnan picked up the check and examined it.

  “Allow me!” said Ellen, and despite his loud protests paid in cash, “Courtesy of the network,” she laughed and folded the check.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, no longer able to hold back his tears.

  “Ortado,” she gently stroked his cheek, “I’ll be home. Don’t call, just come.”

  “I don’t know, Ellen… I don’t know,” he was suddenly frightened by the emotional outburst that had claimed him. His body trembled.

  Ellen leaned and kissed him on the cheek, “Let’s get going, we don’t want you to be late.”

  While Adnan was making his way to Jerusalem in Ellen’s car, a police team searched a hotel in the eastern part of the city, based on intel that Ramirez Mendoza was staying there. The police officer examined the computer screen as the receptionist attempted to locate the requested guest name.

  “He checked out a week ago,” he told the officer, “I don’t know where. All I remember is that his suitcase wasn’t loaded onto the bus with the rest of the pilgrim group’s cargo.”

  “How did he pay?” asked the officer.

  “The tourist agent paid for the entire group.”

  “We missed him,” Amos told Ronit, “we need to keep looking for someone who has checked into one of the city hotels a week ago and assume that he switched his identity. Let’s continue to focus on Jerusalem at this stage, and tourists from Spani
sh-speaking countries. Then we’ll broaden the search to Tel Aviv and so on.”

  “He’s one step ahead of us,” said Ronit.

  Adnan knew nothing about the hotel search. After parting from Ellen, he took a taxi to get to the café on time. Next to Damascus Gate, he purchased a copy of the Al Quds newspaper.

  The main headline spoke of the current summit held in America. The café owner recognized him and greeted him in English. His usual table was taken by two villagers sitting and drinking strong tea. Adnan chose a table overlooking the street.

  No need to hurry, he thought, surprised by how much his feelings had changed. Only yesterday he was lonely and without a soul to speak to, now Ellen had come into his life and brought him moments of comfort, now there was someone who listened to him. Even if he had invented the names and places, his confessed distress was genuine and personal. The truth did not matter at all. The soul traveled and settled in all the various false identities. Both Pablo and Ortado are still Adnan. They share my troubles, and the unbearable pain pierces their hearts as well, he thought.

  The café was washed with cigarette smoke. He felt suffocated, wanted to get some fresh air and decided to go outside and sit by one of the tables in the square. He forgot the newspaper and cigarette pack on the table. A moment later, the waiter came and cleared them off.

  Adnan waited for a long hour. This time as well, no one had addressed him. True, there was this man who walked about and stole glances at him, he even seemed nervous as he examined the café’s patrons. But the man had simply cleared off about ten minutes after.

  37

  Yasmina got off the bus at the village’s main square and turned into the narrow alley ending with Abu Hamdan’s bakery. A long line of village women already snaked from the door. The women had brought the dough they had prepared in their own homes for Abu Hamdan to bake.