by Nir Hezroni
Why I was charged with planning and carrying out the aforementioned missions remains a mystery to me to this day, but I’m aware of the terrible damage caused in each of the countries. Today, I wouldn’t carry out even one of these missions. I can only assume that my state of mind at the time and the brainwashing I underwent at the hands of the Organization caused me to act as I did. There is no way for me to atone for what I did, but I would like to make things right by exposing those who were behind these criminal acts, because I didn’t act alone and certainly not on my own initiative.
I was instructed in January 2006 to bring down a building on Rue de Delices in Geneva, Switzerland, with all its occupants inside. I did so by sealing off the upper floor, flooding it with water, and generating enough pressure to bring the building to the ground. The apartment I sealed belonged to Adriana Karson. She’s still alive because I got her to leave her apartment so that I could work there undisturbed by gifting her a trip to Brazil and passing it off as a prize she won. I booked the tour package through the Geneva Holiday travel agency on St. George’s Boulevard. Enclosed with this letter is a photograph of me from 10 years ago. You can locate the travel agent who handled the reservation and she will recognize me from the picture. I told her at the time that I wanted to send my friend, who had cancer, on holiday, but because she wouldn’t accept such an expensive gift, I was going to disguise it as a prize. You can verify this with the travel agent.
In February 2006, I was sent to carry out a mass-casualty terror attack in Bariloche, Argentina, that involved setting fire to a park filled with people. I carried out my mission by using a fuel tanker that I hooked up to the park’s sprinkler system. When I took possession of the fuel tanker, I was forced to murder its driver on Route 273, some 10 kilometers north of Bariloche. Before throwing his cell phone into the bushes on the side of the road I removed the battery. You can verify this with the Argentinian Police.
In Canada (also in February 2006), my mission involved mass hypnosis that caused a very large number of fatalities in the Montreal area. You can show my photograph to Dr. Victor Sadovsky in Montreal and he will confirm that I was the man who recorded him performing the hypnosis before it aired on CBC Radio One.
A year ago, on December 12, 2016, I was asked to blow up the CIA’s headquarters in McLean, USA, with Washington, D.C., as a secondary target, by using a Soviet-made nuclear warhead that was made available to me in Bolivia and that I smuggled through the Tijuana border crossing. West of Tijuana, on the shores of Presa El Carrizo—coordinates 32°28'39.39" N and 116°41'19.10" W—you will find three Russian-language instruction manuals that contain information on how to maintain the warhead. In addition, you will find the lead apron I wore when handling and transporting the warhead in the waters of the lake near the instruction manuals. First search for the lead apron in the lake with a metal detector, then draw a beeline to the shore and you will find the instruction manuals buried some 20 meters inland alongside a dry tree.
Furthermore, you will find the remains of the Geiger counter I used to locate the warhead where the Organization kept it for me—in the train cemetery in the town of Uyuni in Bolivia. Look around there, too, for a train car marked with a white X. The warhead was being stored there for me under the salt in the freight car. Some of the pieces of equipment that I used to lift the warhead out of the freight car are still buried under the salt. You’ll find them.
I’d be happy for you to share this information with the intelligence agencies in Switzerland, Argentina, and Canada. However, I will not be sending this information directly to them because I’m leaving you, the principal victims, to decide if you want to share it with others or keep it to yourselves.
Sincerely,
A former Organization agent.
04/24/2016–19 weeks and 2 days since waking
I print out 3 copies of the letter, fold the pages, and slip each copy into a white envelope. I apply the appropriate postage stamps for delivery to the United States to each envelope. On each envelope there are 2 stamps. One shows a sailboat with a lighthouse in the background, and the other boasts a picture of a green apple. I’m amused. I received 3 envelopes from the Organization and now I’m preparing 3 envelopes of my own.
On the 1st envelope I write:
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Washington, D.C. 20500
USA
On the 2nd envelope I write:
Central Intelligence Agency
Office of Public Affairs
Washington, D.C. 20505
USA
On the 3rd envelope I write:
FBI Headquarters
935 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Washington, D.C. 20535-0001
USA
I’ll send the letters toward the end of 2017, a year after I detonate the warhead. Endless questions will be raised during the course of the year, and my letter will put an end to them and point a finger at the Organization’s headquarters. The secret details I’ve recorded in them, together with the enclosed image of me, will make it clear to everyone that the Organization was behind everything that occurred. I stain the end of my finger with the purple marker and leave a fingerprint on each of the 3 images that I place in the envelopes. I wonder what they’ll decide to do when they find out. I don’t expect the Americans to share the information with the other intelligence agencies and assume they will act independently, and the Organization will cease to exist. During the course of 2016, I’ll plot my revenge against them here in Israel, too; and in 2017, I’ll vanish without a trace. For now, I place the 3 envelopes in one of the kitchen drawers along with a note that reads: “Check before sending if the postage stamps are still good for delivery to the United States or if the postage tariff has changed. Check, too, if the addresses of the FBI and CIA have changed a year after the blast.” They may decide to rebuild elsewhere with D.C. off limits due to the radiation.
I install 4 of the 50 trashcans I’ve prepared around my house—1 at the beginning of the grass walkway leading to the front door, 1 on the corner of the street, 1 at the far end of the backyard of the house, and 1 in the alley bordering my house to the rear. All are close enough and within range of my remote controller such that they will detonate all at once if I activate them from here at home.
I install the remaining trashcans, apart from another 4 that I put aside, in various locations around Tel Aviv. Each time I load several trashcans into the van and head out very early in the morning to avoid traffic jams and parking problems. It takes me a month to install them all. I dismantle an existing trashcan and fix one of mine to the sidewalk in its place, and then insert an empty garbage bag. I wear a shirt with the logo of the Tel Aviv Municipality and not one of the pedestrians and joggers on the street take any interest in what I’m doing, apart from one old lady who asks me why I’m replacing the trashcan. “There’s a corrosion problem with these trashcans,” I tell her. “They rust quickly. The manufacturer has now sent us new trashcans and we’re replacing all of them. He’s even covering the municipality’s labor costs for the project. Look at the color of this trashcan, too—much nicer. Really good quality metal.”
I make sure to exercise and take ice baths in the evenings. I eat eggs and meat, legumes and vegetables, and my hemoglobin levels are good. The doctor I see at my medical clinic is surprised by the results of my blood tests. “Well done, Roman,” she says. “It’s amazing how you’ve lowered your cholesterol.” I tell her I’ve started exercising and am on a special diet that I read about on the Internet. I ask her for a prescription for sleeping tablets. I tell her that I’ve been waking up a few times during the night recently and that I’m very tired at work. She prints out a prescription for me and I take it and thank her. I purchase 2 boxes of 20 tablets each from the pharmacy.
December 17, 2016
- Look at that train car. Someone’s marked it with a white X.
They’d been wandering around the train cemetery for close to
an hour and a half, examining the corroded engines and cars and trying to find any sign that would lead them to the bomb. Ricardo stopped and crouched beside the car.
- Look, there are screws here on the ground.
- Let’s climb up. Maybe there’s something in the freight car.
With their feet planted in the salt, they began to dig inside the freight car. The sun was about to rise and travelers would soon start showing up at the site. They didn’t have much time. After digging for a few minutes, they started to pull out various items—metal rods, lengths of lumber, pieces of rope, nails, and screws.
- Fuck.
- Someone else got here first.
- Yes. They must have used all this equipment to remove the bomb from the freight car. We now know three things—that the bomb was here in the car, that a small team of people took it out, and that it all went down not too long ago. Look, the lumber looks almost new, and the iron bars and nails haven’t rusted.
- Why a small team?
- Someone put together a mechanism to lower the bomb out of the freight car. A big team would have been able to lower it carefully to the ground with just a few ropes. They wouldn’t have needed all this equipment. I’d say there were two of them here, or three people at most.
- Herr Schmidt isn’t going to be happy.
- No, he won’t be happy at all.
- Do you know what he reminds me of?
- Who?
- Herr Schmidt.
- What?
- Permafrost.
- What’s that?
- Permafrost is a permanently frozen layer of subsoil. Like the layer of earth below the surface at the poles, for example. It’s permanently frozen. It has never thawed. He’s the same. Whenever I’m around him, I can feel the cold emanating from him. That’s why I need to thaw out with a beer every time I leave his offices.
- Beer is a cold thing, too.
- Compared to permafrost, beer is something very hot.
- Okay, let’s head back to the hotel and we’ll call him.
- Let’s get the hell out of this place. Of all countries in the world, I hate Bolivia the most. They don’t even have normal alcohol here.
- There’s chicha.
- Do you know how they make chicha?
- At a winery?
- This is Bolivia, not the south of France. Here they get a whole bunch of old ladies to sit around, chew on corn and spit the mashed corn into a large bowl, and then it ferments for a few weeks and becomes chicha.
- Fuck, I drank some yesterday evening. And to top it all, we flew here for nothing. The bomb isn’t here.
- Someone beat us to it.
- If only we had come here a few months earlier.
- It reminds me of a story about fate.
- What?
- There were once two babies who were born on the same day of the same year. One was named Chin Tang and the other Adrienne Matri. Chin was born in a small village near Gansu Sheng in China, and Adrienne was born in Kilchberg, near Zurich, Switzerland. Chin’s parents were peasants who worked a small plot of land, and Adrienne’s parents were a physics professor and a biology professor who taught at the University of Zurich. Chin was a smart and independent child and he knew that one day he would leave the country life and move to the big city, and Adrienne completed her doctorate at the age of fourteen.
- Is there a point to your story?
- Patience, Lorenzo. At the age of twenty-two, Chin secured a job with Shanghai Construction and started working as an apprentice on the construction of the giant towers that were being erected in Beijing. Adrienne, at the time, was working on the theory of developing an immunosuppressant drug that would be able to eradicate all forms of cancer by altering a component of DNA that would cause white blood cells to identify the malignant cells as invasive bacteria. At the age of twenty-six, Chin was sent by Shanghai Construction to London to work on the construction of one of the new high-rises in the area of the Thames Promenade, and Adrienne was renting an apartment in a nearby building while working on her project, jointly funded by the Imperial College London and Harvard University.
- I think I’m going to go to the pub across the road from the hotel for a round of chicha. It’s not as bad as listening to your story.
- Wait, I’m getting to the moral. One Sunday morning, Adrienne was standing in the kitchen of her rented apartment, drinking orange juice and looking out the window at the construction site just across the way; and just then, the missing piece in the puzzle flashed through her mind—the piece that would complete the development of the drug. She knew for certain that it would work. And the next thing that went through her head was a piece of stone cladding that fell from the thirty-eighth floor of the building under construction, hit the scaffolding on the fourteenth floor, and flew straight into her face through the window pane.
- Now it’s getting interesting.
- Do you get it? It was a stone tile that the tired Chin had fixed there the day before with insufficient cement, after working an eighteen-hour shift without any sleep. It was her destiny, you could say.
- And it’s our destiny to chase after ghosts. Are you calling Herr Schmidt to update him?
- Yes.
Ricardo called Herr Schmidt.
“Yes, we visited the train cemetery and wandered around until we came across a freight car marked with a white X. We found screws and nails that looked fairly new lying on the ground next to it. We climbed into the car and dug into its sand cargo and found a bunch of wood and steel rods and tools buried there. No, there was no bomb. Someone got there before us and took it. Probably the same person that the man at the hotel told us about. His team must have loaded it into his pickup and driven away.”
“Go back to Israel,” Herr Schmidt said. “The woman in the photograph you have is one of the assassins of the three scientists and she landed in Tel Aviv four days ago. Find her and get her to divulge the location of the bomb.”
Ricardo asked if they were allowed to resort to excessive physical pressure. “After you get her to reveal the location of the bomb, you can turn her into a scarecrow for all I care,” Herr Schmidt responded before hanging up.
- Shit.
- What’s shit? What did he say?
- Israel again. That woman in the photograph landed there yesterday. We need to find her and interview her.
- Shit.
05/08/2016–21 weeks and 2 days since waking
I drive around Bikat Ono early in the morning and look for a gas tanker on the road. After finding one with an orange and blue tank, I follow it in my carpet van while it makes its deliveries and then as it makes its way back to the gas depot in the old industrial zone of Rishon LeZion. The tanker stops there to refuel and then heads out for a 2nd round of deliveries. I remain outside the gas depot to study their security procedures. It’ll be tough to break into the facility itself. It won’t be as easy as it was in Argentina. Here I’ll have to find another way to commandeer the tanker when it leaves the facility filled with gas.
It’s strange to have a gas depot like that in Rishon’s backyard, so close to residential areas. The facility consists of 2 large gas storage tanks, a parking area for the gas tankers, and 4 different fuel stations for dessert.
December 20, 2016
- You’re doing it again.
- Doing what?
- Not listening to me.
- We’ve been talking now for an hour. How can we be talking for an hour if I’m not listening to you?
- While I’m talking, you’re thinking about your response. You’re more concerned with your response than with what I’m saying.
- But that’s how people think, isn’t it? If I’m speaking to you, I’m also thinking about what I’m going to say.
- And that’s the problem we all have. No one really listens.
- So really listen to me then. What we are busy doing now is like looking for a single louse on a head covered with dreadlocks. We have a picture of the woman and
that’s it. How can we be expected to find her? We aren’t in Uyuni now. This is a country with nine million inhabitants. Going from one hotel to the next will take us a year, and the Israelis aren’t very cooperative. A suspicious bunch. They won’t hesitate to start asking questions. And maybe she’s even rented an apartment or is living with her parents?
- This pasta is pretty good. Didn’t I tell you they have some decent restaurants here at the port?
- After Bolivia, everything tastes good.
- I was in Amsterdam last winter.
- What does that have to do with anything?
- I went to a restaurant there that was out of this world. The steaks were excellent and the potatoes melted in your mouth; but it was the dessert that blew me away.
- What was it?
- This salty stick of sorts that was coated in chocolate; and the saltiness of the stick combined with the sweetness of the chocolate was unreal.
- What was the name of the restaurant?
- I don’t recall.
- I’d remember the name of a restaurant if I’d left it feeling very satisfied.
- That’s the name. The restaurant is called: “I Don’t Recall.”
- Odd name for a restaurant.
- An excellent name. It’s unforgettable.