by Danny Bar
“They are walking toward Al Shuhada Street.”
The first of the rally participants began to arrive at the square on foot, some bearing signs and banners supporting the peace process. Hundreds more disembarked from buses in the nearby stations.
It was 6:30 pm.
Yamam counter terrorist police unit assembled to receive their final instructions. At the end of the briefing, they took positions at key points around the city, so they could quickly act the moment Jamil is joined with the foreign suicide bomber. This would serve as the sign to “take off the gloves.”
“Uncompromised fighting,” the Yamam commander instructed his warriors in the final briefing. “No one moves a single foot, even if it means bringing him down with your bullets.”
Most of the burden fell on the snipers’ shoulders. They put on their rifle telescopic sights and conducted some last checkups just to make sure nothing had changed since their previous calibration.
A great sense of nervousness was apparent at the command post. Everyone was concerned about Jamil, and the head of the Shin Bet demanded he be informed of Jamil’s whereabouts at any given moment. Jamil was the only one who could lead them to the foreign terrorist.
“Jamil is getting into a blue Toyota pickup, Israeli license plates, heading to the southern part of Hebron Mountain.”
“He’s just crossed Zahiriya. Driving on a dirt road. Recognized only by the clouds of dust left in the vehicle’s trail.”
“Climbing up Sansana Mountain, we can’t get close to him.”
The pickup truck stopped in a small grove. Jamil emerged from it, changed his clothes, then got back inside and hid between the vegetable boxes loaded on the vehicle’s cargo compartment. The driver continued to drive down the dirt roads, moved along the wadis and climbed up hills scattered with Bedouin tents.
“This guy knows the area like the back of his hand.”
At the Dvira Junction, the pickup truck turned north until it reached the Tel Aviv area and stood among the swarm of vehicles waiting to pass through the police checkpoint.
Adnan disembarked the taxi next to gate 3 and entered the airport passenger terminal. His small travel bag and luxurious attaché briefcase gave him the appearance of an important businessman. The security guard standing at the front of the terminal sent him a brief look before moving on to check the passengers disembarking from a taxi stopping by the doors.
The editorial boards of the major Israeli television channels became busy with hectic activity and the newscasters took their places for the 7:00 edition. The veteran Channel 11 anchor was assigned to head the special broadcast. He sat in the leading news anchor’s chair, scribbled some final remarks, took a look at the paperwork he was holding and straightened his eyes at camera No. 1.
“Ready,” he told the director.
Adnan looked at the arriving flights board, then at his watch. He exited to the arriving passengers hall and stood in line to wait for a taxi.
“Where to?” the usher asked him in English, accompanying his question with a round movement of his hand.
“Tel Aviv,” Adnan answered.
A massive traffic jam trudged from the airport all the way to Tel Aviv. The taxi driver turned on the radio to make the waiting more bearable.
“Is it always so busy here?” Adnan asked the driver.
“No,” the driver smiled, “they are afraid of terrorists explosions in Tel Aviv,” he said in broken English and looked at Adnan through the rear view mirror.
“Is it dangerous to get to Tel Aviv?” Adnan took an interest.
“No, they are afraid of an attack in Rabin Square, but you don’t have to go there, only if you have to, if you know what I mean,” he laughed and hurried to turn up the volume to hear the latest emergency news bulletin.
“An unprecedented state of emergency following alerts of a possible suicide attack during the peace rally. The picture of one of the suicide bombers is currently being shown on all major television stations, as photographed in the past by the Shin Bet.” The driver translated the news bulletin to Adnan, and the latter asked to hear the terrorist’s description, “I want to know who I should stay clear of,” he laughed, and when he heard the description from the driver, sighed with relief.
Until that day, Yasmina had never called Amos unless she had a special reason for doing so, even though she often wanted to share her troubles with him and hear his confident, reassuring voice. It had last happened after Jamil had followed her on her way to meet with Abu Ghazall. Since then, she felt inwardly scarred, a reminder of the constant danger she was in. She had never imagined the life of an agent would involve so many difficulties and anxieties. Often, she wondered whether she would want to continue after this current operation was over. The temptation was great. She was flattered by the fact that a woman of her background actually had an influence over such important affairs. She also loved the atmosphere during their meetings and being in the presence of Abu Ghazall. She felt an inexplicable sense of intimacy with him. In her mind’s eye, she imagined an invisible thread connecting them.
This is ridiculous, she laughed, our paths have never crossed… Or perhaps they have? She wondered. But when? After all, an abyss separates us.
She pushed back such thoughts for the time being. A great anxiety gnawed at her insides and refused to let go. The feeling of an impending disaster. Abu Ghazall remained her last refuge.
Despite knowing how busy he was with attempting to capture Jamil, she called him.
“Abu Ghazall, I know I shouldn’t be interrupting you right now, but I have to talk to you,” she told him.
“What happened, Yasmina?” he asked her with genuine concern.
“Where is Khalil? Perhaps you know?”
“I spoke with him a few hours ago and he was fine. He told me he might drive back home. Why? Did something happen?”
“No, ya Abu Ghazall. No…” she muttered, and her voice died out.
“Yasmina, are you all right?”
“Are you going to see Khalil?”
Amos said nothing.
“Abu Ghazall?” she asked after another moment of silence.
“Yes, Yasmina.”
“Tell him I’m pregnant.”
“Mabrouk,” congratulations, said Amos, sounding as overjoyed as if it were his own daughter telling him of her pregnancy.
“Allah bless you,” she answered.
“I will tell that to Khalil the moment I see him.”
“And Abu Ghazall…” Yasmina hesitated.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Keep him safe for me, I’m worried about him.”
The taxi with Adnan in it trudged along the traffic jam created by the police checkpoint erected on the highway.
“Yes?” the police officer pushed his head inside the car and looked at the passenger sitting in the backseat.
“Tourist. I picked him up at the airport,” the driver said.
“Passport!”
Adnan chose to present him with the press card that was in his pocket.
“Franco Samarelli, PRN Network,” he said to the officer.
“Just a minute,” the officer took the press card and presented it to the checkpoint’s commanding officer, “Journalist,” he said and handed the card to him.
“Let him wait, we’ll check if the Government Press Office is familiar with him.”
The officer returned to the taxi and asked the driver to park by the side of the road.
“Is everything all right?” Adnan asked with concern, trying to stay calm.
“They’re checking,” the driver answered indifferently, “the idiots think the terrorist would take a taxi?”
The Rabin Square began to fill with people. The crowd gradually began to overflow to the surrounding streets. Large speakers played the Peace Song, and giant spotlig
hts illuminated the square. The snipers used their telescopic sights to comb apartment after apartment, roof after room. The rally was about to begin at any moment, and everyone waited for the Prime Minister’s arrival. The head of the Shin Bet nervously drummed the table with his fingers. The command post was flooded with reports of suspicious people seen in the Rabin Square’s area. Patrol cars alerted to the area discovered that they were no more than pickpockets or crackpots. Right-wing protesters against the rally were also present, and these grouped together at the far end of the square.
At the same time, the blue pickup stopped at the Ayalon Highway checkpoint.
“ID,” the officer demanded firmly and the driver hurried to present a blue, Israeli identity card.
“Suleiman al Ramil,” he pronounced the name.
“Where to?”
“The wholesale market,” the officer took a flashlight and examined the vegetable crates at the back.
“Go!” he instructed the driver.
Jamil peeked from between the crates, glanced at the glittering lights of Tel Aviv and returned to hide.
“We now go live to our Middle East correspondent at the Tel Aviv peace rally,” the PRN Network newscaster announced, “we understand that local security forces are on the alert for a possible terrorist attack. What can you tell us about that, Ellen?”
“Well, Michael, it is only a few years ago that a Prime Minister was assassinated at a similar peace rally. Today, there are heavy concerns over a possible suicide attack. We don’t have too many details and we’re currently relying on the alerts broadcast by our local television networks associates. The general feeling is that such an attack is definitely possible, and there are those who claim that the suicide bombers are already making their way to the designated attack location. We, however, cannot confirm this news. Michael?”
The taxi driver began to lose his patience and urged the police officer to let him go, “I have another passenger to pick up,” he pleaded.
“Hold on,” the policeman said and went to his commanding officer. A moment later, he returned and handed the press card back to Adnan, “Go!” he instructed the driver.
The cameras focused on the crowd filling the square and a single camera focused on the fountain. Ellen stared at the television screen in front of her.
“What are you looking for?” the cameraman asked her.
“An image that will symbolize the event.”
Ellen was sorry that her usual cameraman could not come to the rally, and it was because of her! She was convinced he had forgotten his press card with her. She even remembered showing it to Adnan yesterday, but no matter how much she had searched, it was nowhere to be found. The press card seemed to have simply vanished.
“I’m putting a senior police officer on the air,” she told the anchor at the studio.
“All right, right after the commercial break.”
“Fine,” she said and prepared her interviewee.
“All right, Ellen, now,” the studio instructed her.
“Thank you. Welcome back to our live broadcast from Rabin Square in Tel Aviv. While we’re waiting for the rally to begin, I have with me the senior police officer in charge of security Operations, Commander Gilboa. What can you tell our viewers?”
“We have intelligence reports about an attempt to carry out a possible suicide attack during the rally, made by Islamist extremists opposing the peace process,” the police officer said and straightened her eyes at the camera, “we are prepared for any occurrence and hope the rally will continue as planned and without incident.”
“Thank you. Now back to you at the studio. Michael?”
“Tamar will be with you in ten,” the officer in charge of the Prime Minister’s security unit announced as the convoy of vehicles quickly drove through the Tel Aviv streets. A patrol car led the convoy, followed by the Prime Minister’s armored vehicles and the backup vehicle.
Uzi submachine guns poked through the window of the accompanying vehicle. The convoy hurtled along, ignoring any traffic lights on the way. The nervousness was apparent on the faces of the Prime Minister’s personal security guards.
“Good God, I know what happened,” Ellen suddenly said and urged her cameraman to give her the cellphone.
“Hello Amos, it’s Ellen.”
“Yes, Ellen,” Amos answered, sitting at the command post, not far from her.
“I’ve lost my cameraman’s press card…” she sought the right words.
“This isn’t the time, Ellen, I really can’t help you,” he said and asked to finish the call.
“Wait, this is important. Yesterday, I showed it to Adnan, then it simply vanished. I think he might try to use it to go through the checkpoints.”
“Thanks, Ellen, that makes sense,” Amos told her and hurried to inform Commander Gilboa who was sitting next to him.
The message was communicated on all radio channels and all checkpoint personnel were asked to try and locate the owner of the stolen press card.
Suddenly Amos felt an urgent need to call home and make sure they were safe. This was how he always acted when conducting a complicated, important operation, he wanted to hear the children to draw some encouragement for the difficult moments ahead.
“Where’s Amit?” he asked his wife after she wished him good luck.
“Out,” she told him.
“Where?” he said with alarm.
“I don’t know, are you worried?”
“Eagle, this is checkpoint 425,” called the man at the checkpoint by the airport.
“Roger,” answered the control room dispatcher.
“The man in question passed this checkpoint half an hour ago in an airport taxi.”
All those present in the command post glanced at their watches. “Too late,” the district commander determined and instructed all patrol cars and checkpoints in Tel Aviv to stop every taxi driving by them.
The waiting was nerve-wracking.
Everyone closely followed Jamil’s movements as the latter continued toward Yarkon Street.
Yamam counter terrorist units were alerted to the area, filling the air with the wail of sirens and metallic cries asking everyone to “clear the way.”
Surrounded by dozens of security guards, the Prime Minister crossed the “sterile zone,” went up on the stage and sat at the dignitaries’ row. A festive table was placed in front of him, covered with a white tablecloth concealing the armored plates installed at its front.
The tension had reached peak levels and the PRN Network returned live to Ellen Cross at the Rabin Square.
Most of the crowd arrived wearing white t-shirts, some even bore snowy doves in their hands. The announcer’s voice emerged from the speakers scattered across the square, announcing the opening of the rally.
First to speak was chairman of the Peace Now organization. He spoke of the need for an open dialogue with Israel’s neighbors and the peace that could prevail between the two peoples.
“Jamil is at Yarkon Street, corner of Arlozorov,” the surveillance team reported.
“He’s exited the vehicle. He’s exited the vehicle.”
“Keep your distance from him,” the commanding officer reminded them.
“He is walking toward the Hilton hotel.”
“I remind you to steer clear of him, we don’t know if the explosives he is carrying are the fake ones we transferred to him or the real deal.”
One of the Yamam teams reached the shoreline, close to the Hilton hotel waterfront and started climbing toward the grass lawns under the cover of darkness. The second team took positions next to the United Kingdom Embassy to control the intersection, just in case Jamil would try to escape.
Jamil nervously looked all about, measuring each passerby. His gaze was pointed and nervous, his eyes bulged from their sockets, his hands trembled, and he loo
ked like a man who had lost his sanity.
“Jamil is on the bridge,” Tamar reported.
The second speaker of the rally began to speak. Many of the youths in the crowd were holding lit candles in their hands, some cried out peace slogans.
Ellen was standing on the terrace of the opposite building giving her viewers a live report of the rally. She dared not get any closer to the square.
“Should it happen, God forbid, a major terrorist attack will place a big question mark over the entire process, and the rally will sway public opinion in Israel against the peace process. Michael?” A commercial break followed.
Tamar froze. A handsome man wearing a suit and a tie stepped out of the Hilton hotel, holding an attaché briefcase and looking about nervously.
“There’s a suspicious looking man here,” she reported excitedly.
“A meeting, there is a meeting!” Tamar continued excitedly to report, “The two men are shaking hands and embracing.”
“Prepare to fire!”
“We have a visual,” the sniper reported as his rifle sight settled on Adnan.
The PRN broadcast returned to Ellen after the commercial break and the director urged her to find some colorful descriptions that would fill the time remaining before the Prime Minister’s speech.
Ellen turned to the youth standing beside her, carrying a sign calling for the two nations to support peace. The director began to wonder what caused Ellen to insist on a continuous broadcast.
“We may have some surprises in store,” she told him with a secretive smile.
Amos sat in the command post and glanced at the television situated in the corner of the room.
“Amit!” he shouted when he saw Ellen interviewing his son. What is he doing here? He had to come here today, of all days? For a moment, Amos thought of leaving the command post, running out to his son and removing him from the area, telling him everything he kept hidden from his family, as he had done throughout his long years on duty. Suddenly he was appalled by the fact that the secrecy he was forced to keep prevented his son from seeing the danger hovering over the rally participants. A sense of restlessness overcame him.