by Hagai Dagan
Okay, and?
What are you so antsy about? Don’t you appreciate a good whorehouse story?
No, I just… Tamir fell awkwardly silent.
I’m just messing with you, take it easy. Anyway, they’re sitting there with all the girls, drinking cognac, when the guy from preventive-security tells him that they followed the girl for a while, but that he got orders from above to drop it, sort of.
Sort of?
Someone came in from the organization’s headquarters in Damascus— came in physically, because he didn’t want to talk about it over the phone or the radio…
Interesting.
He said that officially, they had to drop the case, effective immediately.
And, unofficially?
Unofficially, if they do keep tabs on her, they absolutely couldn’t be discovered. So, they kept her on their watch and saw her entering a very high-class hotel in Beirut, going up to one of the suites. They waited for a while in the car outside the hotel. She came out first, and a shortly after she was followed by someone they know very well.
Amir Rajai, Tamir said.
How the hell did you know that?!
See? We don’t slack on our end… But it’s good that you can confirm it on your end, as well.
Yes… But that’s not the end of the story.
It isn’t?
Yaki chuckled. According to protocol, I’m not supposed to tell you what happened afterwards.
Since when do you follow protocol? Aren’t you from 504?
Hey, who taught you to talk like that?
Tamir silently smiled to himself.
Can we be certain that no one’s listening in on these encrypted phones? Yaki asked.
No, we can never be certain. But I say we risk it.
Fine, Yaki agreed, taking risks is my thing. Anyway, so they tailed her when she left the hotel in Beirut. She went into some café and they noticed the waiter handing her something that appeared to be a note. She got up and walked over to use the phone in the café. A couple of minutes later, she got out and took a cab to a different hotel, something cheaper. Half an hour later, she left the hotel and headed back to the Front’s base. Generally, if they had any brains between their ears, they’d stakeout the hotel and try to find out who’s staying there. But the guy told ‘Ali that they’re always worried when they’re operating in Beirut: there are a lot of eyes there, and anyone who’s watching someone is most likely himself being watched by someone else, and more or less everyone reports to the Syrians— and often to the Iranians, as well.
So, what do you make of this story?
Isn’t it obvious?
I’d rather hear it from you.
Don’t you think I’ve said enough? Don’t be greedy.
Tamir thanked him and told him he’d gladly spend his measly army salary buying him a meal at the Barometer, a pub he frequents. I’ll even order you a cognac, he added. Hell, I’ll even order you a glass Martell— even though I’ll need three salaries to afford that. Unfortunately, I don’t know any good whorehouses around here.
Yaki laughed. Too bad you don’t have the training for it, he said, I would’ve taken you for a ride in downtown Sidon, before Hezbollah shuts the city down.
Moti came in and asked Tamir how things were coming along. Tamir replied that he will finish his official training period tomorrow, and that he more or less runs the unit already.
Excellent, Moti said. Anything you think might be unusual or important, report to me immediately. Don’t think twice about it. And I want a weekly progress report.
Tamir nodded. It was getting darker outside, twilight descended upon the futuristic towers rising from the base. Tamir absentmindedly flipped through some week-old logs, and decided to head out. Nissenbaum was long gone. He shut off the lights, left the room, took the stairs two flights down, and turned to exit the building. The air was a bit chilly outside. Winter’s starting already, he thought to himself. Suddenly, he recalled the crisp winds cascading down the edges of the Western Galilee mountains like tumbling carpets, whipping up the remnants of the summer and autumn dust, preparing the air for the arrival of the first winter rain; the weeping boletes stirring underground, near the trunks of pine trees, eagerly anticipating the rain; the silent, almost secretive cleansing of the air above picked cotton fields; the delicate ripples over the still waters of fish ponds. Winter’s starting, a shiver ran down his back, not due to the cold— it wasn’t that cold yet— but because of a thought, a memory, a feeling of emptiness which suddenly sliced through him. He noticed he forgot his sweater in the department. He deliberated for a moment, considering just leaving it there and enjoying this illusory chill, before finally deciding to head back to the department.
Once there, he noticed that he had forgotten to shut down his computer. Exemplary conduct, he thought to himself self-deprecatingly. How could an intelligence man be so scatterbrained? As he rolled the cursor over to shut the computer off, he noticed an incoming dispatch. He clicked on it, more out of habit than out of curiosity. It was a decipherment of an encrypted message sent from the Saudi embassy in Paris to a factor at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Riyadh. Tamir’s eyes opened in surprise as he read the message:
From: 22A3D
To: Supervisor 22A
Regarding: Operational Cooperation Iran-Palestinian Organizations
Our sources (see reference 7564G/13) report that the Iranian economic attaché in Lebanon Mahmud Safadi met a representative of a Palestinian organization on the 24th of October. Which organization is unclear. The meeting was held in a Lebanese restaurant in the Latin Quarter. As you will remember (see reference 7643B/2), Safadi is a member of Department 10, Iranian Intelligence. Based on prior experience, it is plausible to assume that contact with him implies an advanced operational stage. That can be read alongside reports by the office in Vienna (reference 5339A/5) of Iranian designs to increase cooperation with operational Palestinian factors. The assumed objective is to apply increased pressure on Israel and perhaps even establish a new front, seeing that the pressure applied by Hezbollah on the South Lebanon Army is insufficient.
e. Mainstream, and Slightly to the Right
The dispatch about the Iranian-Palestinian cooperation raised a lot of interest, but there was not much that could be done besides waiting for further developments, with the hope that such developments won’t simply impose themselves on those waiting for them in the form of a surprise terrorist attack out of the blue. In the meantime, a couple of days had passed and nothing dramatic happened. Nissenbaum had all but dissipated. Tamir sat at his desk and read everything that needed reading. He felt quite comfortable in his new settings, and felt he had quite a decent grip on the ins and outs of the organization, although it’s hard to tell, he told himself in an attempt to quell a sense of hubris that was brewing in him prematurely.
One afternoon, Tamir let out a sigh of satisfaction after having finished going over the material he had assigned himself to read that day. He sat up and felt it was time for a coffee, and perhaps even a comforting slice of cheesecake in Kaze Café18 on Sheinkin Street. His phone rang. He picked it up.
Your friends are causing a stir.
Jonny?
How’re things in the outside world? Jonny chuckled.
You get used to it, Tamir said.
Yeah, you’re a real hapless son of a bitch, aren’t you? Anyway, listen, the Syrianists picked up on something. The Syrian IAO just showed it to me, and I wanted to consult you before we send it out.
I’m all ears.
It’s an e/c back from decipherment. It was sent by a factor from Border Patrol stationed by the border, on the Beirut-Damascus road, to a Syrian intelligence factor in Lebanon situated in Beirut. Here’s what is says:
In accordance with your instructions, we have allowed passage for three Zavod speedboat engines. The engine
s are of the advanced type agreed upon, in coordination with navy headquarters. The engines are intended for the allies up there.
That’s it, Jonny said. What do you make of it?
It could be the Front’s seaborne unit, if the vessels in question are very small, Tamir pondered aloud, because that’s pretty much all they’ve got.
Are their vessels Zavod?
I need to double-check, but I’m fairly certain that it’s something like five Zavod boats and three Zodiac boats they managed to get their hands on. But our information is dated. That unit hasn’t been active in years.
Maybe it’s the Lebanese army? Jonny suggested.
Do they have a navy commando unit?
Something insubstantial, mainly for show. But I checked with the Syrian IAO. Zavod also make larger attack vessels.
Does the Lebanese army have any?
No, actually. They mainly have coast-guard vessels.
By Zavod?
No, French.
So it’s not them.
Probably not, Jonny said.
Well, listen, make a note in your annotation about the Front’s seaborne unit, but mention that other organizations also have seaborne units, like Sa‘iqa, for example. You know what, could it be Sa‘iqa…? But they haven’t had any unusual activity in the seaborne unit station. Anyway, don’t commit to anything. Just write an informative annotation.
You mean a cover-my-own- ass annotation.
Yes.
Yes, sir.
C’mon…
Okay, okay, I’m just messing with you. Have a ball. And see if nothing’s going on in the seaborne unit, after all. Maybe it slipped under our noses.
Yeah, okay. Even if it is the seaborne unit, maybe they simply have a problem with their engines and need spare equipment?
Three engines at once?
Yeah, you’re right.
He said goodbye to Jonny and stared at the phone a bit after hanging up. He picked up a pile of summaries he had already gone over. He sat it back down. Maybe it would be better to issue a notice of priority for intelligence concerned with the seaborne unit’s activity. The seaborne unit… What’s going on here? He was expecting to hear about the airborne unit, not the seaborne unit.
The door opened. A meticulously kempt second lieutenant stood at the entrance. I’m looking for Sergeant Tamir Binder, he said in a formal voice.
Present, Tamir said with a slight wry smile.
The second lieutenant did not smile. I’m the deputy security officer here. He walked into the room and placed a printed document on Tamir’s desk. You are summoned to appear before F.S.D.2 tomorrow at zero nine-hundred hours.
F.S.D.2… Where is that? Tamir asked, and immediately thought to himself that that’s not the most pressing question at hand.
In GHQ. Come in full uniform with your military identification. And bring the summons with you.
And… What is this about?
I don’t know, and I wouldn’t have told you if I did. They’ll explain everything tomorrow. Keep in mind, it could take a while. Is your department head here?
No.
He’ll be updated. That’s all. Don’t be late. He paused to give to Tamir a harsh measured look, before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.
Very dramatic, said Ilay, the Fatah unit head who Tamir shared the office with. But don’t worry, these guys usually bark but don’t bite. They’re here mainly to get in the way of our work. They don’t know the first thing about intelligence. So, what did you do?
I haven’t the faintest.
Do you know what F.S.D.2 is?
Yeah, field-security department, right?
Supposedly. But that’s actually the Shin-Beit’s representative in the army. Supposedly, it’s reserve soldier serving there— but it’s really Shin-Beit agents.
How do you know?
Common knowledge. Besides, they summoned me once.
For what?
That’s the thing, they don’t tell you at first. They ask you about your political opinions, and stuff. Try to make a good impression. Mainstream, and slightly to the right. That’s what they like to hear. Don’t forget, they serve the authorities.
So, you don’t know what you were summoned for?
I figured it out in the end. Before the army, I published a couple of poems in a journal, and still occasionally received mail from the journal during my service.
What’s the problem with that?
It was a journal associated with the Israeli Communist Party. They saw I was on their mailing list. They weren’t pleased to have someone in such a sensitive position associated with communists. I promised them I was only receiving the occasional letter, that I’m not a member of the communist party and that I don’t support their stances. They told me they’ll settle for that for now, but that they’ll keep tabs on me for a while. It’s hard to say whether that was an idle threat, or whether they actually meant it. Anyway, that was nearly a year ago, and I haven’t heard from them since.
f. Blackening Matter
That night, Tamir barely got any sleep. He took the bus out to GHQ in the morning, presented his identification card at the gate, and was directed to a shack in a remote part of the camp. He arrived early, so he sat outside waiting on a wooden bench in the middle of a patch of dry grass. Ten minutes later, a man dressed in civilian clothes emerged from the shack.
Are you Tamir?
Yes.
Nice to meet you, I’m Gabi. Please, come in.
Tamir followed the man into a small room with no windows, other than one small slit in the farmost wall which he couldn’t see through. Gabi asked him if he’d like a coffee, and Tamir nodded hesitantly. Gabi left the room and came back a couple of minutes later with a coffee from the machine down the hallway.
It’s shitty coffee, but I haven’t quite settled in here yet, he said affably. He pulled out a writing block and pen from his bag and placed them on the table before him. Tamir thought to himself that if this was really his office, he would have pulled the writing block and pen out of a drawer, not from his bag. He must be a guest here, like I am, he thought. He didn’t notice anyone else there when they came in. Could they be there by themselves?
Gabi, if that was his real name, started off with some personal details— Tamir’s name, his address, and date of birth. He then asked some questions about the kibbutz, about his childhood and adolescence. Intertwined with these mundane questions were questions Tamir recalled from the security clearance investigations he underwent prior to enlisting: he was asked about any relations he might have with foreigners or with Arabs; he was asked about drug use, probably just for the record; he was asked a question about relations with foreign volunteers in the kibbutz; and he was asked about family members who immigrated from foreign countries or who currently live abroad. It was evident by his questions that Gabi had familiarized himself with Tamir’s biography, but didn’t dwell on it. Instead, he started probing at length about Tamir’s political stances. Tamir was prepared. He said he voted for the Israeli Labor Party, but that he supported its hardline right wing, the Tabenkin faction. That was untrue, however: in the previous elections, Tamir voted for the United Workers Party, but had recently started feeling that even their strand of kibbutz-oriented socialism was not progressive enough for his liking. But he told none of this to Gabi.
Gabi asked his opinion about the right of return.
For Palestinians? Tamir played dumb.
Yes, for Palestinians.
I think that not only is it impractical, but that it poses a genuine threat to Zionism and should be rejected out of hand, Tamir declared with slightly exaggerated pomp.
Your work revolves around Palestinian organizations.
Correct.
It’s a well-known phenomenon that, on occasions, while conducting intelli
gence work, a researcher might develop a certain bond or empathy towards the object of their research.
Yes… Tamir said.
Have you ever felt such a bond or empathy stirring in you?
That’s a pretty good question, he thought to himself. No, he said. I’ve never felt such emotions. And if I ever will, I know very well how to differentiate fleeting subjective feelings from my rational position.
It’s okay, Gabi insisted, if you’ve even felt something like that. You can tell me. It’s perfectly normal.
No, I don’t recall anything like that. These people, to the extent I can make out from the materials, are not very nice people. Besides, I never forget what their ideology is, what their intentions are. He hoped his words didn’t sound contrived. It’s difficult to move by the beat of someone else’s drum.
Gabi gave him a measured look, like he was weighing something up in his mind. Finally, he leaned over, got close to Tamir’s face, and asked sharply and loudly: What were you doing in 12 Gordon Street on the twenty-first of November?
Tamir was taken by surprise, and at the same time was surprised at himself that he had allowed himself to be taken by surprise. How did I not see that this is what all of this is about? But how do they know? Were they following me? Tapping my phone? Nonsense. So, what does that leave? Well, it’s obvious: the Al-Shajara Foundation is under surveillance. Who would’ve thought? Actually, that’s not so hard to believe. Anyway, if that’s really the case, then it’s hard to say how much they already know. They could just be monitoring the comings and goings into the office, but they could just as easily have bugged the office. If that’s the case, there’s no point in lying. The question is, which of the options to assume.
Well?! Gabbi demanded.
You’re not a child, Tamir told himself, you’re not defending the flag and he is not Ronen Schwartz. You’re not ‘Ali the Yellow, either. Stay in control. Keep cool. Think. He looked square into his interrogator’s eyes. I went over there looking for information that might help me in my work, he said.