by Hesh Kestin
“You’re no longer pretending,” Al-Masri says.
“I never did. It was all you.” Dahlia pulls a chair opposite. Even she is surprised at her own composure. She thinks: This must be what it is for an actor. After hours, perhaps days, of stage fright, insecurity, anxiety, he sets foot onstage, and then, poof, it is all gone. There is only the role. She lights a cigarette. “Do you want one?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t smoke. I never did.”
Dahlia blows a stream of blue smoke in his face. “Actually, I don’t remember you smoking. We all smoked in high school. You didn’t.”
“Please get that out of my face.”
She continues blowing smoke. “Tell me about your family, Edward.”
He tries to turn away but his torso is locked in place. He can move only his head. “I have nothing to tell you.”
“Tell me you wish to return to them.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” She pretends to smile. Even the most beautiful woman becomes ugly when that happens, mouth twisting in a grimace, eyes dead. She exhales smoke again. “And jury.” She gets up, goes to the door, and locks it.
Outside, hearing the tumblers fall into place, the two constables exchange a look.
“Let me just explain this to you in a way you can understand. Zero subtlety. Of course as you know there is no word in Hebrew for subtlety. It’s not a Jewish concept.” She blows a stream of smoke in his eyes. “In a moment I will prove that you do smoke.”
“I demand to see a lawyer. And the Canadian ambassador.”
“There is a quaint American expression that I learned from a dear friend: And people in hell want ice water. Edward, you are in hell. You just don’t know it. And you will smoke.”
He turns his head away.
She pulls a scarf from her purse, knots it, gags him. It is a curiously intimate act, like helping a child into his coat, or not driving through a crosswalk when a pedestrian is approaching the corner but is not yet there. “Edward . . . I don’t mind calling you Edward. You may call me chief superintendent. Many believe otherwise, but in life we do get to choose what we will be. Though some of us make better choices than others.”
He tries to say something. It comes out muffled, noise.
“Now, Edward, it may seem counterproductive that I must silence you to make you talk. But I’d rather not alarm the constables. They’re just simple cops. Me, I’m . . . not so simple.” Slowly, almost erotically, she unbuttons his shirt. “Did you say you didn’t smoke? Let us see.” She holds the lit end of her cigarette to his chest.
His scream is merely a soft noise. He shakes his head back and forth.
“Well, well. Edward, it turns out you do smoke after all. Where there is fire, there is smoke, no?” She pauses. “What, cat got your tongue? I love those American expressions. Do you have them in Canada? No? Yes? Would you like to say something, Professor Al-Masri?” She tousles his hair. “Shall we perform our little exercise again? Yes? No? Perhaps just once more?”
She grinds the cigarette out on his chest as he writhes, screaming silently, tossing his head uncontrollably. “All right, then. We’ve demonstrated that with the application of fire, Edward Al-Masri, who doesn’t smoke, does indeed. Now, Edward, I’m going to remove the gag. When I do, you will remain perfectly silent. Should you make one noise, even a cough, I will gag you again. I have a full pack of cigarettes in my purse. Do I make myself clear? Yes? No?”
He nods vigorously.
She removes the gag. “Remember, not a sound unless I ask you a direct question. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Edward, pay attention. I’m only an amateur at this, so you’ll have to be patient. Just answer the questions. They’re not difficult. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“What is your full name?”
“Edward Al-Masri. You know this.”
“Your full name.”
“Edward Mohammed Al-Masri.”
“Of which countries are you a citizen?”
“I am a citizen of Canada.”
“No other country?”
“I told you. I renounce my Israeli citizenship. As a Canadian citizen, I demand—”
She lights another cigarette. “This is not CNN, Edward. Nor am I one of your impressionable students at McGill University. How old are you?”
“Forty-four.”
“Indeed you are. Soon to be forty-five. Not the best age for a woman, but for a man still very nice. Now, tell me about your wife and child.”
He stares at the cigarette. “Genevieve.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Son?”
“Edward Jr. Twenty months.”
“Good. Now tell me, Edward, do you wish to see your wife and son again?”
“I do.”
“And is it truly your belief that by not cooperating you will make that happen?”
“Look, Dahlia, I know precisely what you can and cannot do. The law is clear. If you burn me, I will inform the court. Torture is not permitted. You know that.”
“Oh, Edward.” She stuffs the gag back in, takes the cigarette, and as she speaks burns him slowly in three places, ignoring his reaction as he twists in the wheelchair. “If only you knew how little I like not to be taken seriously. In the courtroom it galled me when a judge did not take me seriously. When I was a young officer in the Army it drove me crazy not to be taken seriously by the men around me. If I were honest with myself, I’d have to say my marriage began to collapse the moment my husband failed to take me seriously. In fact, I chose a lover who takes me very seriously. For you not to take me seriously, a man in your position—”
She is interrupted by a loud knocking at the door.
“Dahlia. It’s Kobi. Please unlock the door.”
“I need to know one thing, Edward. I need to know who precisely is behind this little operation, who it is that is holding my son. And I need to know how to find him. Now I’m going to remove your gag again. We really don’t have much time.” She goes to the desk and removes the service pistol from her purse.
“Dahlia! Open the fucking door!”
“All this romantic business of cigarettes and conversation, it’s a luxury now, isn’t it?” She cocks the pistol and holds it to his head, with the other hand removing the gag.
“Open the door or I’ll break it down!”
“On the count of three, you will give me what I require, or you will die. One . . .”
The door is being battered.
“Two . . .”
The door is about to give way.
“Good-bye, Edward.”
“Tawfeek Nur-al-Din! Somewhere in Beirut!”
The doorpost splinters as the door flies open.
“Dahlia, put down the gun.”
“Certainly,” she says.
55
Their usual place in Tel Aviv is an always crowded café overlooking the harbor in Jaffa, from which Arab port in 1909 a dozen families moved down the beach to found Israel’s first Jewish city. Eventually the tiny Jewish settlement grew to envelop and annex the Arab port: Tel Aviv–Jaffa is the city’s official name, though no one ever calls it that except before mayoral elections, when candidates show up in Jaffa to promise improved garbage collection and more traffic lights.
The television above the bar is showing Arab demonstrations in another Arab town, Israel’s largest: “Meanwhile, here in Umm al-Fahm, rioting continues as demonstrators clash with police.” On the screen several hundred Israeli Arabs hold signs in Hebrew and English that read FULL RIGHTS FOR ARAB CITIZENS! and ALL PALESTINIANS ARE BROTHERS! And WHERE IS PROF AL-MASRI? A phalanx of Border Police in riot gear holds them back.
“You know I don’t have any political opinions,” Floyd tells Dahlia as the newscast continues. Around them, waiters step deftly between tables full of couples watching the s
unset over the small harbor that was the gateway to the Holy Land before modern Jewish ports were built at Haifa to the north, Ashdod to the south, and at Eilat on the Red Sea.
“Not having political opinions is itself a political opinion,” Dahlia says with easy derision. “We’ve gone over this.”
“I’m neutral because I have to be.”
“Is that why you came to Tel Aviv this evening? To tell me you don’t have—what is it you like to say?—a dog in this fight?”
“I miss you.”
“I’m here.”
“You don’t have to make it harder than it already is.”
“There are some word plays that are no longer amusing. Floyd, what do you have for me?”
“A colleague of mine at CNN owes your lover a favor.”
“I’m listening.”
“Our guy in Beirut. He’s picked up something. Maybe nothing.”
Dahlia listens hard, but controls her face the way she would in court, where a good defense attorney must never show emotion. “Okay.”
“An address.”
For a moment she thinks the boys’ names have been announced. Or leaked. No, she thinks, I would have been told. It would be on the radio. It would be on the same television set in this very restaurant. It is settled government policy: No release of the names of hostages until absolutely necessary, lest the enemy find a way to use this information—either directly, in order to break the hostages with “information” about their parents’ suffering, or indirectly, in the form of heightened pressure on the government once the press begins to incite public opinion for a speedy resolution. There is as well the stated purpose: protecting the families. “An address for what?”
“It’s from someone in, let’s call it, a position to know. It could be nothing. I figure, now that you’re with the police, it might be useful.”
She thinks: Absolutely he doesn’t know. “Floyd, please don’t draw this out.”
“I thought you like it when I do.”
“Floyd, please. Be an adult.”
He passes a folded paper across the narrow table.
She reads it, puts it in her purse. “Is that it? An address?”
A waiter comes by, an Arab. “Another drink?” A glance at their faces, and he leaves.
“You won’t say where you got it, right?”
“I won’t say.”
“My colleague has a pal in the Lebanese security services. Not exactly a friend of Hezbollah. A Christian.”
“Yes?”
“It may be where the hostages are held.”
Dahlia rises. “I’ve got to go.”
“No guarantees. It’s something, that’s all.”
“I understand.” Softening, she bends to kiss his cheek. “And I’m grateful.”
“Just don’t mention . . .”
“No one will know.”
“It’s my career, that’s all.”
“Thanks.”
“If anything does go down, I’d appreciate . . .”
“I know. It’s your career.”
He watches her fly down the stone stairs to the waiting white Subaru. It takes off, siren screaming, lights ablaze. He signals the waiter. “I’ll have another.”
56
OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINISTER
Security Cabinet
Memorandum of Record
Present
The PRIME MINISTER, presiding
AL-SHEIKH, Yarden, Minister of Internal Security
BLUMENTHAL, Shai, Minister of Defense
ADMONI, David, Minister Without Portfolio
ARAD, Zalman, Security Adviser to the PM
ROSCH, Dror, Cabinet Secretary
Absent
BEN-DOV, Carmela, Foreign Minister
The Prime Minister
We’ll make this brief. The Foreign Minister is abroad. For the record, Carmela has delegated her vote to myself. Time is short. David, your report?
David Admoni, Minister Without Portfolio
Pursuant to instructions from the PM, I have been tasked with responsibility regarding the missing soldiers, Barr and Ibn-Aziz. Having consulted with the key officials, all present, I report the following: [a] The two boys are in dire circumstance, their captors using torture and circulating videos of same to the media and on the Internet in a clear attempt to influence public opinion within Israel; [b] From a variety of sources, we have identified the responsible official within Hezbollah and a possible location for the prisoners within Beirut; [c] Our analysts have put the likelihood of the location being accurate at sixty to seventy-five percent, with the caveat that the boys may be moved at any time; [d] A team has been readied for a rescue operation and is standing by; [e] Lastly, it has been confirmed that Hezbollah is willing to trade their prisoners for one Mohammed Al-Masri, who is being held in Police custody—it has been communicated that the cousins wish to make a propaganda statement to the effect that it is no longer true that one Israeli prisoner is worth thousands of Arab terror prisoners but that the tables are now turned: One Arab prisoner is worth multiple Israelis.
The Prime Minister
For this they are torturing our young men? To boast?
Yarden Al-Sheikh, Minister of Internal Security
Clearly, there is an internal aspect. It is certain any such trade would give encouragement to Israeli Arabs in their current series of demonstrations, whose timing is—we need not speculate—suspicious. It is my belief that the cousins are attempting to open up a second front within Israel proper. Once this genie is out of the bottle . . .
The Prime Minister
Unfortunately, I’m afraid Washington is, as usual, cautioning restraint. The Foreign Minister is there now. As I am certain you are aware, we are looking at an arms deal that could very well transform the IDF, particularly the Air Force, into an entity whose range is virtually limitless.
Shai Blumenthal, Minister of Defense
With all due respect, that is a consideration that should be left to another time. The national defense takes precedence, but no defense decision should be made with a gun held to our head. It is the policy of this nation to rescue any and all soldiers held behind enemy lines when we have adequate resources to effect such a rescue and sufficient certainty of their location. If we could go to Entebbe in the middle of Africa, we can go to Beirut. We have been there before.
Yarden Al-Sheikh, Minister of Internal Security
It can hardly hurt if we bring back a Muslim soldier of the IDF. Let them then demonstrate that in Israel Arabs are second-class citizens.
The Prime Minister
Negative implications? Zalman?
Zalman Arad, Security Adviser to the PM
The same as always. Heavy losses. Failure. The first is the price, the second merely a risk factor, which we have determined is reasonable. The Americans will be angry. This is not an issue. We are talking about two of our best young men, who are suffering torture and may lose their lives in the process. We must come to a speedy decision.
The Prime Minister
As usual, Zalman, we are grateful for your perspective. Those who would vote against an emergency rescue mission, please raise your hand. Otherwise let the record show unanimity, and let us pray for a positive outcome.
57
In the sixth-floor conference room adjacent to Zeltzer’s office, the chief commissioner has not bothered to unwrap his cigar. He simply fingers it, then sticks it back in his chest pocket. “We’ll not draw this out. You might as well tell her.”
Kobi turns to Dahlia. “I’m back in the Army. Temporarily.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Zeltzer says.
“It’s all I need.”
“Finally, I get an intelligence chief who doesn’t need to remove his boots to count to twenty, and the Army takes him back. In seventy-two hours you could be killed.”
“Intelligence officers don’t get killed. We’re too intelligent.”
“I don’t understand,” Dahlia says.
“We’re going in,” Kobi says. “Bit of a secret.”
“The address is good?”
“Maybe. There is activity in that spot. But they move hostages constantly. With so many informers all around, it’s their first line of defense. Still, a television studio is not so easy to move and set up again and again. We have some degree of confidence.” He pauses. “But little time.” He picks up the remote control. “Dahlia, it’s been decided you shouldn’t have to see this first on CNN.”
Dahlia stands in horror. Ari’s face is not shown on the screen. But a mother knows her own son.
Zeltzer rises quickly to hold her. “It’ll be all right. They’re professionals. They’ll get them out.”
She collapses into his arms, weeping silently. Suddenly she stops. “Uri, Dudik. I can’t be here.”
“Zaid,” Zeltzer says.
The Druze takes her arm. “Come, Dahlia. I’ll ride with you.”
When they leave, the two men face each other.
Zeltzer says, “They’ll beat the boy until there’s nothing left. They’ll stretch it out.”
“That’s why it’s called terrorism. It’s not aimed at Dahlia’s kid or the Bedouin. It’s aimed at us.”
“More beatings like that,” Zeltzer says, “the boys are finished.”
58
At a large military base in northern Israel, preparations are well under way for a mission whose code name is Heavy Smoker. Its existence is known only to about five hundred IDF personnel. However, in Israel military secrets are said to be relative: Not only the officers and soldiers directly involved know what is going on, but all their relatives. The specifics may be veiled, but that something is going on can hardly remain a secret to thousands of wives and husbands, parents and children. To call Heavy Smoker a secret is to refer only to the details, the how and when, not the what.
What does the crew know who are spraying matte-black paint on two Yasur-class helicopters—upgraded American Chinooks—other than that they will soon be put to use? Why soon? Forget that the crew was called up on emergency orders. Forget that the brass personally inspects every aspect of their work. Forget that the paint they are using has an intended life expectancy of just days before it peels off by itself in the sun and rain. The crew is told nothing, but one need not be privy to operations planning to know that two IDF soldiers are being held hostage in Lebanon and that they will die if left to the whims of their sadistic captors.