Mind Virus

by Charles Kowalski

  “Or, alternatively,” Fox concluded, “Leila Halabi could mysteriously reappear the same way she mysteriously disappeared, and we could take her to America as though nothing had ever happened. Whichever sounds like less trouble for you.”

  Harel glared fiercely from one to the other, but it looked suspiciously like the glare of a cornered man. Fox returned his gaze, keeping his face neutral with a tremendous effort. Here was the head of Shin Bet, at whose name all Israel quaked, and yet it looked as though he and Emily together had succeeded in intimidating him.

  “Our agents will decide,” he said at last, “whether she knows anything of any value.”

  She most certainly does, Fox thought, but you and she would probably define “value” quite differently. Aloud he said, “And if she doesn’t?”

  “She will be allowed to return home.”

  “Home? Home is Bethlehem. On the opposite side of the separation barrier. Through which all points of access are locked down during Passover, correct?”

  “Your point being?”

  “If she has to make the trek from Bethlehem to Amman from square one, without her American escort this time, what’s to prevent some overzealous kid in a uniform from apprehending her and starting this whole ordeal all over again?”

  Harel made an impatient gesture. “What would you have me do?”

  “Release her to us. Let us help her get her visa from the American embassy in Tel Aviv, and fly her out of Ben-Gurion.”

  Harel shook his head. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Very well, then.” Fox stood up. “Good luck with your suspect. Oh, and just so you know, it took a top FBI-CIA interrogation team ten days to break her accomplice. Considering that Passover and the Easter Triduum both begin tomorrow, I hope your agents can work faster than that.”

  He headed for the door. Emily rose to follow him.

  Three, two, one.

  “Wait,” said Harel’s voice behind him.

  ...

  The driver dropped Emily off at the hotel before taking Fox on to parts unknown. When the car finally stopped, he emerged into the Mediterranean sunlight, squinting and blinking after so long in the darkened car. It was a few moments before he could open his eyes wide enough to see a tall, sprawling building made of pink stone. The roar of a jet flying low overhead informed him that he was near the airport again.

  He passed through security at the visitors’ entrance. When he presented his letter of introduction from Harel, a guard showed him the subject’s Israeli passport. Name: Shira Yavin. Place of birth: Ariel. The entry and exit stamps showed that she had spent three weeks in Spain, then another three on a whirlwind tour of Europe and North America, and returned to Israel before leaving for Great Britain on a student visa a year later.

  He took a seat facing a plate-glass window, and waited until a guard brought the woman from the airport. When she saw Fox, she tried to turn back, but the guard pushed her into the chair. Fox picked up the telephone receiver on his side of the window. The woman made no move to pick up hers, until the guard picked it up for her and put it into her hand. She held it to her ear and looked at Fox with a contemptuous gaze. Conducting an interrogation under these conditions was far from ideal, but he would have to take whatever he could get.

  “Miss Yavin,” Fox began. “May I call you Shira?”

  She made no reply.

  “You look exactly as TJ said you would. His description was very accurate. He even hinted that he might find you attractive, if he was inclined that way.”

  He was improvising. If he could lead her to believe that TJ had given up more than he really had, she might decide it was pointless to keep resisting. She looked surprised at his words, but kept her silence.

  “I see you’re going to give me the silent treatment,” he said. “And you’ll do a really good job of it, if you’re as well trained as TJ was. He held out for ten days before we finally broke him. But break him we did. Now, my government is interested in you, because the first of your group’s little stunts was on American soil. If you cooperate with me, then I might, just might, be able to get my superiors to persuade Shin Bet that you should be turned over to us.”

  She remained silent.

  “You know, I used to be in American military intelligence,” he continued. “Our Rules of Engagement listed twenty-four approved interrogation techniques. Now, this may be just a rumor, but I heard that the Israeli field manual has over a hundred. I’m curious how many of them they’ll try on one of their own who turned against them.”

  She kept silent, but the expression on her face was not the stony defiance that TJ had always shown. It was the look of sad resignation that Fox had seen on the faces of too many detainees in Iraq as they were marched aboard the helicopter bound for Abu Ghraib. It was the look of someone who had already given up on life.

  The horrible thought struck him that rather than face interrogation by Shin Bet, she might be planning to commit suicide.

  He leaned forward. “Shira,” he said in as gentle a voice as he could, “there could be a way out of this for you. I’ll do all I can to help you, but I can’t give you anything if you don’t give me anything.”

  She kept her silence.

  “Well, I tried,” he said. “Here’s a tip. If you ask them where they’ve taken you, and they give you some smartass answer like ‘a submarine’ or ‘the moon,’ you’ll know you’re in Unit 1391.”

  That number had the same significance for Israelis as the name “Guantanamo” had for Americans. It referred to a top-secret detention and interrogation facility, where prisoners were kept in deep isolation until they could scarcely remember that there was a world outside the prison, or any other human beings alive besides the guards.

  He slowly pulled the receiver away from his ear and moved it toward its cradle, to give her plenty of time to make a last-minute statement.

  She hung up.

  ...

  When he left the facility, the car that had brought him there was long gone. He had to ask one of the guards to call him a taxi.

  “Hotel Vista del Mar. HaYarkon Street, Tel Aviv.”

  As they set off, he called Emily, hoping she was in a place where she would have reception. When she answered, Fox heard such a cacophony of shouting in the background that he could barely make out her “Hello?”

  “Emily? Can you hear me?”

  There was a pause. “Robin?”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the prison. There’s a demonstration going on. Where are you?”

  “On my way to Tel Aviv. I just finished up at the detention center. How’s the situation?”

  “Getting tense.”

  “Where’s the prison?”

  “It’s right by Hadarim Interchange. But…”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Robin…”

  “Just tell me how I can find you.”

  A pause. “We’re near the front of the crowd. We’re in uniform.”

  Fox slapped his forehead. “Damn it! I didn’t think to bring mine.”

  “That’s okay. We could use someone on arrest support.”

  When USPRI staff were present at demonstrations or other times of tension, they wore a light blue T-shirt and matching cap, each prominently bearing the USPRI insignia: a fusion of an American flag and a dove carrying an olive branch. This identified them clearly as international observers, and usually protected them from being swept up in mass arrests. Just in case, though, one member of the team would be assigned to “arrest support,” with the duty of standing apart from the others, blending in to the crowd, and being ready to contact the embassy and USPRI headquarters in case all the other members were arrested.

  “No way! Do you think I came all this way just so that I could hang back and let you and Miriam risk arrest? If they take only one of us, it should be me.”

  “Well, I don’t think my T-shirt would fit you. And the shirt I last saw on you would look strange on m
e, and smell even stranger.”

  “Emily…”

  “We can work out the details when you arrive.”

  Fox hung up and addressed the driver. “Change of plans. HaSharon Prison, Hadarim Interchange.”

  The driver gave him a bewildered look in his mirror. “Are you on some kind of prison tour of Israel, or what?”

  “Just drive.”

  When the driver turned off Route 4 at the Hadarim Interchange, the first signpost Fox saw pointed the way to the prison, as though that were the most likely destination for any visitor to Hof HaSharon. Out of the pastoral landscape of olive and orange groves rose cell blocks surrounded by watchtowers, and high fences topped with concertina wire. In front of the gate, he saw a crowd of demonstrators waving Palestinian flags, larger-than-life pictures of Leila’s smiling face, and placards with slogans in Arabic and English: Free Leila Halabi! Administrative Detention is a Crime! Teach Peace, Go to Prison?

  He shouldered his way through the crowd, scanning the signs of the various groups present—International Solidarity Movement, B’Tselem, Physicians for Human Rights—until he reached the line of barricades separating the demonstrators from a row of soldiers. There, he saw two figures in USPRI kit, and a man in a yarmulke with a graying brown beard, whom he recognized from photographs.

  “Emily! Miriam!” Fox ran to join them, and held out his hand to the man standing with them. “You must be Rabbi Sternberg. Good to meet you at last.”

  “Thanks for coming,” said Miriam.

  “Hey, did you think I’d come this far and miss out on the action?”

  “You may be getting more of it than you bargained for,” said the rabbi, directing a wary glance at the barricades.

  A young Palestinian was leaning over a barricade, shouting in Arabic. The soldier on the other side held a weapon with an exceptionally wide barrel, presumably for baton rounds, tear gas canisters, or whatever type of “less-than-lethal” ammunition he was carrying in the bandolier around his midriff that made him look like a suicide bomber in uniform.

  Fox was able to catch some of what the demonstrator was saying: “This is your democracy? You’re sending schoolteachers to prison now?”

  The soldier’s disdainful expression showed no change in response to the words. Fox doubted that he understood Arabic well enough to follow them. But as soon as the Palestinian paused for breath, the soldier took the opportunity to use the few words of Arabic he did know: “Emshi! Ibn sharmuta!”—roughly, “Get lost, you son of a whore!”

  The Palestinian’s shocked look soon gave way to rage. He took a step back, and his eyes shot fire at the soldier as he reached down to pick up a rock.

  The soldier raised his weapon and aimed it at the young man’s face. At this range, “less-than-lethal” was meaningless. Anything fired from it at the Palestinian’s head could very easily kill him.

  Miriam, Emily, and Rabbi Sternberg sprang into action like well-drilled soldiers. Miriam and the rabbi stepped into the line of fire and stood back to back, Miriam facing the demonstrator, and the rabbi facing the soldier. Emily stood off and raised her hand-held video camera. One of the other soldiers stretched his hand across the barricade, trying to cover the lens, but she stepped out of his reach.

  Another Palestinian grabbed the arm holding the rock. “Walla hajar!” he shouted. “Not one stone!”

  The soldier, meanwhile, unleashed a torrent of vitriolic Hebrew on the rabbi. He listened in silence, looking like a long-suffering parent enduring yet another tirade from his wayward son.

  Emily kept her video camera trained on them, and Fox snapped pictures with his cell phone. Finally, an older man in uniform approached the soldier from behind, laid a hand on his shoulder, and spoke a few words in a quiet but authoritative voice. He had three bars on his epaulet, which Fox surmised made him an officer of fairly high rank.

  The soldier slowly lowered his weapon, his eyes still live coals. As the officer went on his way, the soldier unleashed one more verbal volley.

  The rabbi said a few words in reply. The soldier’s face contorted, and he spat on the ground between them, but he did not raise his weapon again. Miriam and the rabbi cautiously stood down.

  “What was that about?” Fox asked Miriam.

  “The soldier was saying, ‘How could you take the side of Palestinians against fellow Israelis? You call yourself a rabbi?’ And the rabbi said, ‘Do not neglect to show kindness to the aliens among you. Love them as you love yourselves, because you were once aliens in Egypt.’ It seems the soldier didn’t take too kindly to the Torah lesson.”

  The Palestinian demonstrator had backed off, but his eyes still shot poison darts at the soldier. He raised his hands, with the five fingertips of his right hand holding the tip of his left index finger, a gesture that meant “You have five fathers.”

  The soldier evidently understood. He raised his weapon and aimed it at the Palestinian’s head.

  The sudden motion caught the rabbi’s eye. He jumped back into position between the two, at the very instant the soldier pulled the trigger.

  A black canister flew out of the barrel, trailing a white cloud behind it, and struck the rabbi in the head. He fell to the ground.

  “Rabbi!” cried Miriam and Emily in unison.

  For a moment, everything froze. Then, with an eruption of shouting, the crowd surged forward. With a noise like a fireworks display, more of the soldiers discharged their weapons. More canisters flew through the air, low enough that the demonstrators had to duck to avoid meeting the same fate as the rabbi. Clouds of white billowed from the places where they landed.

  Fox’s eyes stung, his throat constricted, and he felt a wave of nausea. For the first time that day, he was glad to have had so little to eat, since it meant there was nothing in his stomach to lose.

  Emily handed him a bandanna and a can of body spray. Tear gas was designed to send the respiratory system into drowning mode, and any pungent, familiar smell—perfume, vinegar, onions—helped remind it that it could still breathe. Fox applied some spray to the bandanna and held it gently to the rabbi’s nose and mouth, thinking in passing what a lucky man he was to be protected by a concentrated dose of the most agreeable smell in the world: the scent of Emily.

  Behind the barriers, the officer turned back to the soldier who had discharged his weapon, and let loose another verbal barrage on him. The words were incomprehensible to Fox, but the language of military officers berating their subordinates had a certain universality.

  An Arab doctor from the Physicians for Human Rights contingent rushed over to the rabbi, shone a penlight into his eyes, and called to his companions in Arabic. He turned to the Americans and switched to English: “He may have a fractured skull. We need to get him to a hospital.”

  Two others came running with a stretcher, hoisted the rabbi onto it, and carried him to a waiting ambulance. Robin, Emily, and Miriam squeezed in around the technicians.

  There was silence as they sped down the road. Miriam broke it by saying, “Emily, tell me you got that on video.”

  Emily shook her head sadly. “It caught me by surprise. My camera was already off.”

  “Gevalt! Well, at least we have the story, and the photographs. And before the day is over, we’ll make sure that they get to the BBC, CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC—the whole damn alphabet!”

  ...

  The ambulance took them to the Meir Medical Center in Kfar Saba. As the doctor helped the hospital staff move the rabbi into the emergency room, Fox, Emily and Miriam took their seats in a white-walled corridor with a green-tiled floor. The name “The Green Mile” floated into Fox’s mind, and he quickly pushed it away.

  In his heart, he prayed silently to the Great Unknowable. Emily chanted Psalm 103: “Bless the Lord, O my soul, who heals all your infirmities and redeems your life from the grave.” Miriam recited the Jewish prayer for the sick: “Mi shebeirach avoteinu v’imoteinu, Avraham, Yitzchak v’Yaakov, Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel v’Leiah, hu y’vareich et Avshalom ben�
��ben…”

  Finally, the attending physician appeared. His white coat was thrown, unbuttoned, over a T-shirt and jeans, as if it were a troublesome formality. He took a look at the waiting visitors, and addressed them in English.

  “He’ll be all right. He suffered a concussion, but no fracturing of the skull. We’ll want to keep him under observation for a day or two, but if there are no complications, we can send him home and expect a full recovery.”

  “Can we see him?”

  The doctor escorted them to the recovery room, where the rabbi was waiting with the Arab doctor who had brought them. His eyes could focus on them this time, and he even managed a smile.

  Miriam knelt by his bed and took his hand. “Rabbi! How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve had worse,” he said. “But here’s the awkward part: I was going to invite you all to come and celebrate Passover with us tomorrow evening, but it’s looking as though they won’t let me go by then. So, I know it’s not exactly ideal for your first Passover seder in Israel, but I would be honored if you would join me in a celebration here.”

  Miriam glanced at Robin and Emily. Receiving approving nods from them, she turned back to the rabbi and replied: “The honor would be ours.”

  The rabbi shifted his gaze to the Arab doctor who had brought him. “Thank you.”

  The doctor replied with a smile. “Think nothing of it, Rabbi. We were only following your teaching.”

  “My teaching?”

  “ ‘Do not neglect to show kindness to the aliens among you.’ ”

  11

  TEL AVIV—KFAR SABA

  FRIDAY, APRIL 3

  GOOD FRIDAY / PASSOVER EVE

  The name of the Hotel Vista del Mar was not exactly a lie, but “Vista del Muddy Hole in the Ground Surrounded by Corrugated Iron” would have been equidistant from the truth. Not only this hotel, but nearly every other building in the neighborhood of the embassy seemed to be either falling into ruin or under construction. The pounding of jackhammers drowned out the sound of the sea, and the sandy, uneven streets were strewn with litter and ads for services of the kind that gave Tel Aviv its name of “Israel’s Sin City.” Putting as charitable a gloss on his first impression as he could, Fox supposed that the neighborhood was in transition from being an old, run-down beach resort to a newly renovated beach resort, and they had simply caught it at an awkward moment.