by Danny Bar
“Death is better than the life I lead,” he told her, “it calls me.”
In the morning, the taxi driver was finally located, and he took Amos to Jabotinsky Street, where he pointed the exact spot where Adnan had disembarked.
“He crossed the road right over there,” he pointed at the other side of the street. This narrows the possibilities, thought Amos and looked about. On the radio, he asked the police to blockade the area and seal off the street to prevent Adnan from escaping.
“Are you insane?!” the police officer shouted at him, “no one has imposed a curfew in Jerusalem since the days of the British Mandate.”
“No one leaves the street, even if he is eighty-years-old. Everyone is a suspect,” Amos insisted.
The police officer yielded and alerted additional patrol cars to come and block the street.
Not far from there, in her home, Ellen pictured in her mind’s eye the forming story. She would begin by telling viewers about her random encounter with Adnan at the American Colony hotel and raise the hypothesis that he had known about her occupation and set a trap for her, deliberately involving her in the affair.
“Something about him spoke of a terrible distress from the moment we first met,” she will report to the viewers and describe Adnan’s introverted body language and his apparent distress during the interview. The camera will depict him sitting hunched and cowered, his eyes downcast and his fingers nervously tapping the chair’s armrest. The viewers expect me to depict a suicide bomber’s profile for them. Ellen began to imagine the way she would describe Adnan’s character. “If I ask one of our viewers to depict a portrait of a suicide bomber,” she would say as the camera closed on her face, “he would probably imagine a young man in his twenties, bearded and uneducated. A religious fanatic, a green scarf wrapped around his forehead, imprinted with the words ‘Allahu akbar’ in Arabic.” The camera will then zoom away from her face and begin to focus on Adnan’s face. Ellen’s voice will be heard in the background. “Here is the suicide bomber. At first, he introduced himself to me as Ortado, a twenty-seven-year-old young man of Spanish descent dealing in tourism. But Ortado is actually Adnan, a young, educated, intelligent Palestinian. A moderately religious man who is concerned about the Palestinian problem and the need to better the situation of his people.”
The camera will return to focus on her face and she will dramatically ask what the one thing is that he has in common with all other suicide bombers. “Revenge,” she will emphatically say, then elaborate, “Adnan is setting out to avenge the death of his brother, who was killed during a clash with Israeli soldiers, and to redeem the honor of his family, crushed under the yoke of the Israeli occupation. Come, let us now hear Adnan’s story together.” And again the camera will return to focus on him.
When she noticed the time was already 8:00 am, she hurried to the shower to freshen herself up after the long night and before the difficult day ahead of her, perhaps the most difficult of her life. The feeling of hot water on her body improved her mood and she was filled with a new vitality. Ellen went out of the shower and examined her naked body in the mirror. Suddenly, she realized she had forgotten an important thing that would surely occupy her viewers’ minds and interests: had she slept with Adnan during the night of the interview. She deliberated again, then decided to leave that question open.
Let the viewers decide for themselves.
Amos finished combing the last floor of building number two on Jabotinsky Street and found no trace of Pablo Ramirez Mendoza.
Ellen wrapped herself with the large towel and moved to the bedroom.
“Good morning,” Adnan was already sitting in the armchair, smiling at her.
“You were talking in your sleep,” she told him softly from the bedroom.
“Yes… I saw my mother in a dream, weeping and dressed in black,” he tried to overcome the sound of the television rising from the bedroom.
“Israeli security forces are in a state of high alert after receiving intelligence information about a possible suicide attack,” the CNN news anchor declared.
“I have to get going,” she emerged from the bedroom wearing a cream-colored tailored suit and picked up her folder and cell phone.
“Me too,” he replied and looked for the attaché briefcase he had received from the messenger on the previous day.
Amos stood at the entrance of building number six and quickly darted his eyes across the mailboxes. None of the names were familiar and he climbed the stairs to the first floor.
“Good morning, I’m from Shin Bet and I’m looking for a man who is about twenty-seven years old,” he said after knocking on each door.
“No, sir, sorry,” the tenants answered politely.
On his way to the sixth floor Amos heard the creaking sound of the elevator going down toward the entrance and pressed the button to stop it.
Too late. The elevator continued on its way down. He rushed downstairs, two steps at a time, until reaching the building lobby.
It was empty.
Ellen and Adnan went in Ellen’s car, turned on Jabotinsky Street and drove past the patrol cars hurtling down the road to set up checkpoints. On King David Street, Ellen turned toward her office. At the intersection of King Solomon and Agron, Adnan exited the car and parted from Ellen with a long kiss, “Eight thirty tonight,” he reminded her.
“Goodbye,” she told him, already regretting everything. She wanted to stop him, but the traffic light turned to green, and his image drifted away until finally disappearing from her eyes.
The sign on the door read: “Ellen Cross, PRN.”
“It’s here,” Amos decided and knocked on the door.
No one was home.
At the same time, Ellen had already arrived at the television network offices, staring into space and unable to order her thoughts. She left her things on the table, switched off her cellphone and left her room.
“I’m heading down for some coffee,” she told the secretary, who held a folder in her hand.
“But we’ve scheduled to talk about the Golan Heights tour this morning,” she reminded her.
“Claire!” she scolded her, “I know, but I just need to clear my head and order my thoughts this morning,” she said and hurried out of the office. On her way to the pedestrian zone of Ben Yehuda Street, she walked past waiters bringing out tables and chairs to the sidewalks, anticipating breakfast patrons. Ellen sat at the Rimon Café and ordered a latte.
This is a once in a lifetime career opportunity, she thought to herself while sitting in the café, we could conduct a series of news features, send camera crews to the village where Adnan grew up, the wadi where he had played, the symbols of his stolen childhood. “My life ended there,” he told her. She could send a camera crew to Caracas to film inside the Israel Embassy building, recreating the process of obtaining the visa, she continued to elaborate the idea. Yet, something hindered her enthusiasm. This will be my Pyrrhic victory..
Amos went inside his vehicle and drove toward Jaffa Street. On the way, he asked his secretary to locate the address of the television network for him.
Yasmina opened her eyes and was astonished to discover it was already 10:00 am. She was already ridiculously late for work.
Jamil lay by her side. Only a wool blanket covered his naked body. Her nightgown was on the floor beside Jamil’s pants. She pulled it to her and tried to rise, but was suddenly overcome by a dizzy spell and was forced to grab onto the jug. A dull pain in her stomach warned her of an impending disaster.
She panicked, this was how she had felt on the day that Issam had died. She wanted to cry out, but there was no one to hear her. She had not seen Khalil for over a week, and she needed him now more than ever. Wanted him by her side, because in such moments, he was the only one who offered her a sense of security and made her feel hopeful.
“We’ll get married,” he
had promised her during their last meeting, “once this operation is over, we will both retire from this whole business. It’s time. I’m sure Abu Ghazall will give us his blessing.”
Perhaps I should call Abu Ghazall and share my feelings with him? She thought, but changed her mind, he must be busy.
Jamil folded the new clothes he had bought and placed them in the blue travel bag Yasmina had given him, adorned with a large symbol of the Olympic Games.
“They gave it to us at work,” she told him, “the Olympic Committee’s gift to the Palestinian people, so they told us.”
“And the shoes?”
“Here, take them,” she shoved them into his hands and with her fingers, pulled the metal strip from the sole.
Jamil’s mood was grim and he hardly exchanged words with her. A little after 2:00 pm, he spread the mat on the floor, kneeled to pray and lingered with each raka’t movement. He ate nothing, merely drank more and more water from the jug. Before leaving, he kissed the Quran and placed it in the front pocket of his bag.
“Allahu akbar,” he emitted a prolonged and pain-filled sigh.
On the doorstep, he kissed Yasmina, gave her a brief hug and went out into the open arms of the reinforced surveillance team that alertly waited close by. This was not how Yasmina had imagined their final farewell. She imagined the moment would be dramatic, but Jamil acted as usual. Only his eyes betrayed a deep melancholy.
She turned on the radio and hurried to transmit the signal informing of Jamil’s departure.
“This is the last time,” she muttered, and her eyes misted with tears.
“We see him,” the surveillance reported, “he’s carrying a bag on his shoulder.”
“Remember that the Olympic symbol on the bag has three glowing rings, make sure this is the right bag, because it gives us an indication of his location.”
“This is the bag,” the surveillance team confirmed.
Amos arrived at the PRN Network offices, parked his car on the sidewalk and quickly ran up the stairs.
“Ellen?” he asked the woman standing in front of him while gasping for breath.
“No, I’m Claire, how can I help you?” she asked politely.
“I have to talk to Ellen.”
“Who are you?”
“Amos, Shin Bet,” he said and showed her his ID.
“She’s out, and didn’t say where she was going.”
“Call her!”
“Her phone is switched off,” she told him a brief moment later.
“Is that typical?”
“No. She never turns it off,” she answered, “and now you’re here, perhaps the two things are related?”
“Where can I find her?”
“I’d try to look for her at the pedestrian mall, she loves to sit in Café Rimon.” She picked up her bag and closed the office after her.
Ellen was sitting in the corner and, as Claire and Amos walked up to her, she seemed like an animal trapped by a vehicle’s headlights.
“Someone is looking for you,” Claire told her and introduced Amos. If Ellen was surprised, her expression did not reflect that.
“I’d rather talk outside,” she said.
“We don’t have time for this, let’s sit here.”
“Just don’t lecture me…” she asked feebly.
“We don’t have time for this,” he repeated firmly and demanded to hear the details.
“Where do I begin?” she asked him.
“From the bottom line. Where is he?”
“I dropped him off not far from here.”
“When are you supposed to meet him again?”
“Eight thirty. Actually, there will be no more direct contact between us. Next time I’ll see him will be when he detonates himself in front of the camera.”
“What is he planning on doing?”
“He told me many things, I have everything on tape. If you start watching now, you will be finished after the suicide attack.”
“Where is it?”
“My apartment.”
“Come,” he told her and placed a bill on the table.
They drove to her apartment, and Amos sat and watched the video footage with fascination. Occasionally, he glanced at his watch and fast-forwarded the interview. Time is running out, he thought, this could serve as fascinating study material for the Arabic course.
“All right,” he determined, and took the material without asking her permission. “You’ll get a copy,” he promised.
Ellen saw no point in confronting him, but when he told her he would have one of his officers accompany her during the rally, so she could identify Adnan, she became furious with him, “Just a minute, mister. I won’t have you pinning me down with any of your fucking hirelings.”
“I imagine you’d prefer him to a police officer taking you to the rally in handcuffs.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed.
“Try me! You may consider this the high point of your career, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s an all-time low.” Amos stopped the flow of his speech and lowered his voice. “And we still haven’t talked about moral values, or any of the legal aspects involved, but we’ll get to that, don’t worry.”
“I asked you not to preach me!” she shouted after him as he rushed down the stairs.
In Hebron, Jamil was still closely followed by the surveillance team. The entire Operations unit was now involved.
“Jamil has entered a mosque at the blacksmith alley.”
“Don’t follow him inside, we’ll seal the exits,” the surveillance officer instructed.
“Rami, this is Tamir, pay attention to the kid, he is looking at you suspiciously.”
40
Large police forces began to fill the Rabin Square area from the early morning hours. Checkpoints were erected at all the entrances to Tel Aviv, causing huge traffic jams. Numerous police officers accompanied by detection dogs combed the square in search of explosive devices. The entire area was closed to traffic.
The Shin Bet’s Personal Security Unit sent a team of its own to accompany the police patrols. The Prime Minister firmly rejected the recommendation not to speak at the rally and insisted on giving a speech.
“The good news is,” the head of the Shin Bet cynically said, “that he’s agreed to wear a bullet proof vest during the event and even to speak behind a bulletproof podium.”
The entire unit was involved with the security operation. All vacations and courses were canceled, and the regular forces were reinforced by reservists to form a tight security ring around the Prime Minister.
“The Shin Bet will be responsible for Prime Minister’s safety, while the police will be in charge of the entire event,” the two organizations agreed.
The surveillance team had taken pictures of Jamil. His pictures were given to every police officer and security guard. The head of the Shin Bet had ruled out showing his picture on television just yet, to prevent Jamil from changing his outward appearance at the very last moment. “You can broadcast them starting from seven pm on all networks, although you could already send them to the various television stations.”
Snipers took positions on the roofs and inside the apartments overlooking the square and its immediate surroundings. The Tel Aviv City Hall was evacuated and all the building’s windows were lit to expose any possible assassin wishing to fire from inside. Police officers guarded the doorways of the building, preventing any access to it.
The media reported that hundreds of thousands of rally participants were expected to arrive and demonstrate their support of the government’s peace negotiations. “The Biggest Peace Movement Rally of All Time,” displayed the newspaper headlines. Quick-minded merchants were already selling t-shirts bearing the rally slogan: “We want Peace,” with a white dove serving as a background to the words, bearing an oli
ve branch in its beak.
“Jamil is waiting next to the vegetable shop, looking agitated and nervously glancing at his watch.”
“Be alert, ten before five, there may be a meeting soon.”
Magic Flute called Amos and asked if there was anything he could do to help.
“I know the man well, I can smell the scent of the bonfires clinging to his body from miles away. Let me take care of him.” Amos rejected his offer.
“Can I at least participate in the rally? As a demonstrator?” he asked half-jokingly.
“I’ll have you sit on the dignitaries stage, where you belong,” Amos laughed.
“Ma’asalame,” Magic Flute parted from him.
Suddenly, he was assailed with a deep yearning for Yasmina. He wanted to hold her tightly in his arms and tell her that he loves her and will take her for his wife. If Yasmina would ask him when, he would answer: “When the disgrace Jamil has brought upon you is wiped off the face of this earth.” Khalil decided to postpone the visit until Jamil disappears from her life.
Jamil suspiciously looked around. He tensely walked with an assured step to a man who appeared in front of him.
“There is a meeting, there is a meeting. Male, about twenty, very dark, looks like a Bedouin, curly haired, black shirt and jeans.”
“Copy that,” the commanding officer affirmed.
“They seem to know each other,” the team continued to report.