He was cold, hungry, and unbearably thirsty but he didn’t call out, he didn’t move. Several hours must have passed before the two guards returned. Without a word, they went to work on him. The room was bare except for a long bench that jutted perpendicularly out from the wall. They carried him to the bench, and secured his body in place with two leather straps: one at the base gripped his ankles, leaving his feet hanging over the edge of the bare wood; and the second was pulled taut around his chest and arms. The soldiers left, but returned momentarily, each carrying a palm branch with the fronds removed.
One soldier lit a cigarette as the other slowly moved toward him, beating the air with his branch. Ari squeezed his eyes. Abruptly the first blow bit into his bare soles, the thorns slicing through his skin, bloodying the green stalk. Repeatedly the guard lashed at his feet. Ari screamed, writhing in place, trying to break away from his bonds. But there was no escape. Gasping for breath, he struck his head against the wooden bench again and again, until finally he knocked himself unconscious.
Ari dreamed deliriously. Thunder crashed above a mountain forest. Running among the trees he fell, striking his head. Torrents of rain dropped from the sky. The soil came away and muddied the waters. The whole forest quaked; trees fell uprooted and slid down the mountain, carried by a rushing river. He struggled to his feet and started running again. A bolt of lightning sliced through the trees ahead and struck his hand.
He screamed. The first guard held his hand in a vice-like grip while the second, using a specially designed pliers, ripped the fingernails from his flesh one by one. When he finished he circled the bench and grabbed Ari’s other hand as his partner lit a cigarette and stood off to the side, smoking leisurely. The anticipation of the pain was too great. Ari lost control of his sphincter and the excrement flowed out of him. Squashed between his buttocks and the bench, the warm feces pressed against his skin, dribbling down his thighs and between his legs. The odor penetrated his nostrils, filling him with self-disgust. The guards ceased their torture. His physical humiliation was complete.
They untied him and dragged his unresisting body through the gray-walled corridor, past an iron gate, and down to an underground high-security cell block, making sure to scrape his feet on the stone floor. They threw him in a three-by-four-foot chamber, then shut the door, enclosing him in semi-darkness.
The room was windowless. Air found its way in through a ventilating strip at the base of the door. A pit dug in one corner of the cell served as a toilet. The sour stench arising from that direction suggested it was rarely, if ever, cleaned. A gallon can stood in the opposite corner. There was no bed, no mattress, no blankets.
Ari lay face down in the cold dirt. After a while he hoisted himself up on his elbows and dragged his body toward the gallon can, the dirt sticking to the wet excrement on his legs. To his grateful surprise he found the can was half full. He thrust his still undamaged right hand into the icy water and drank voraciously. When he’d had enough he used the rest of the water to clean himself as best he could. Not long afterward a tin was silently passed through the food trap in the door. It was filled with soupy porridge made from the roasted grains of bulgur, cracked wheat. Unable to sit up, Ari lay on his stomach and lapped the food with his tongue, like a cat. Then he waited, his mind awash with pain. There was nothing else to think about. Nothing else in his life. Nothing that mattered. Just the pain.
Hours later the door swung open and the two guards reappeared. Ari bit his torn lower lip. It was going to start over again! The lashing at his feet. The ripping of the nails from his fingers. He thrust his undamaged hand under his stomach.
To his surprise the guards lifted him gently, slipped a brown robe around his shoulders, and carried him up a dark flight of stairs, this time making sure that his feet did not scrape against the ground. The room they took him to was small yet comfortable. It was adequately furnished with a desk and an upholstered armchair. The guards deposited him in the chair, then stood at the door. When Ari opened his eyes, the light from the window sent a fresh spasm of pain jerking through his body. He blinked rapidly, momentarily blinded. The man behind the desk said something to the guard, who moved across the room and drew the drapes.
“Is that better?” the man asked.
Ari looked up, focusing for a moment before he recognized the face across from him. It belonged to Suleiman Sarraj. Ari had seen his picture only once before but that was enough—he remembered the eyes. Sarraj’s entire character was stamped in his eyes: they were small, cold, and broodingly contemplative, like Sarraj himself.
“Your welcome left a little something to be desired,” Ari said, looking at the two guards.
“I’m afraid that was only the most meager of beginnings,” Sarraj shrugged. “Unless you cooperate I’m not going to be able to restrain my men. They will be allowed to torture you around the clock, or until you are persuaded that any attempt at resistance is futile.”
“You’re a bastard.”
“I suppose so,” Sarraj said matter-of-factly. “Actually if it’s any consolation, Yussaf Fuad wanted to pick you up some time ago and obtain the information about al-Alazar by the most brutal methods, but I opposed him. I didn’t want to have to resort to hurting you.”
Ari liked the fact that, unlike the Colonel, Sarraj shunned superfluous pleasantries. He began right away, trying to psychologically win him over, to exploit the natural dependency the prisoner has on his interrogator.
“But now that al-Alazar escaped and one of your top agents was killed, you had no choice but to order your men to work me over.”
“Precisely.”
Ari had baited the Second Bureau chief, hoping to find out if al-Alazar had successfully fled the country. Sarraj had provided him with an answer without realizing he’d done so.
“Let me come directly to the point,” Sarraj said. “You came to Syria and contacted Sabri al-Alazar, your Operative 66. Why?”
Ari stared at the floor, silent—sensing from the uneasy edge in Sarraj’s voice that he was rushing things, that there was someone leaning on him, demanding he produce immediate results.
“I’m not known for my patience, Ben-Sion. For your own sake I suggest you answer my question.”
“If my hotel room was bugged you already know why I’m in Damascus.”
“Oh yes,” Sarraj said, leaning back in his chair. “The Scud missile locations. An attempt at deceiving us, but I’m afraid an inadequate one. The communication of such information to Israel would not require the presence of an additional agent in Damascus. We searched al-Alazar’s apartment thoroughly. We now know he was quite capable of transmitting the most complex military intelligence directly to Jerusalem.”
Ari cringed, causing an intense wave of pain to roll through his head. Assuming his escape with al-Alazar was assured, he’d created a simplistic reason for being in Damascus merely to satisfy Kim—oblivious to the possibility that he might be arrested and challenged to protect Operation Goshen behind that reason.
“Let me caution you,” Sarraj continued like an admonishing parent. “Further attempts at deceit will be dealt with most severely. You will make a full confession. And you will make it today.” There was no menace in his voice; just cold, detached determination.
Ari closed his eyes. He felt each pulsation of his blood singly, at regular intervals. He had to produce a good excuse, one that would satisfy Sarraj until the children were smuggled out of Syria. But he couldn’t think; no ideas would coalesce.
“I’m waiting,” Sarraj said. “As soon as you answer there will be a doctor.”
“I can’t.”
Sarraj motioned to one of the guards, who approached clutching a bull’s tail kurbash in his hand.
“No!”
As the guard raised his arm, the wild pulsating in his head increased. Sweat rolled down his body.
Sarraj raised his hand to stop the guard and spoke to Ari. “I’ll give you one last chance. What was your mission? Why did you contact al-Ala
zar?”
“Don’t beat me anymore. Please, Sarraj, I beg you.” He cowered in the chair.
Quickly Sarraj said something to the guard at the door. There was a shuffling of feet and someone was pushed into the room. Instinctively Ari turned and looked. What little strength he had left melted into despair. A pallid and emaciated figure of a man staggered into the room, his face a mass of bruises, his left arm gone, a bloodied bandage covering the stump. Shock sucked the breath out of Ari. It was Dov Elon.
Before he could call out to him the guard grabbed Dov by the shoulder and propelled him out of the room. Tears crawled down Ari’s face.
“You fucking pig,” he shouted at Sarraj. He knew what was coming.
“Within a matter of minutes my men will shoot off his other arm,” Sarraj said, choosing to ignore the invective Ari had hurled at him. “That is, unless I intervene. Ben-Sion, I’m offering you a simple trade: Dov’s life for the information I want. I understand you are responsible for his capture; please don’t be responsible for his death too. If you cooperate I’ll have him returned to Tel Aviv immediately, if you don’t…” He let the rest of his sentence drift into suggestion.
Ari lunged at Sarraj, but the instant his feet touched the ground he screamed and fell to the floor. The room spun. He heard shouting and the sound of footsteps running toward him—then he lost consciousness.
◆◆◆
The touch of a damp cloth triggered the pain again, eddies of agony that swirled through his bones. He opened his eyes and found himself propped back in the same armchair.
“That was very stupid,” Sarraj said, looking down at him. “I really don’t enjoy seeing you suffer. It causes me great discomfort, especially when the unpleasantness is so unnecessary. Just tell me why you contacted al-Alazar, afterward I promise you a quick execution. And I am a man of my word, Dov will be set free. He no longer is of use to us. Once we have the information we want the Red Cross will be contacted and his transfer to Israel arranged. It’s in your hands. Help him. Make up for the unfortunate mishap on Cyprus.”
Ari pictured himself on the beach in Kyrenia with Michelle. Dov’s suffering was his fault. The beatings, the bruises, the lost arm; he was responsible for it all. He had caused Dov’s capture. He was to blame. Though he’d known this before, seeing the boy’s bloody stump had been too much for him…
His will to resist shattered. Dov’s suffering had to end, nothing else mattered. The boy was so young, he deserved a chance at the future. He could not let him die because of his bungling. He would tell Sarraj what he wanted to know, no matter what the price.
“No!” he screamed at himself. He had to hold out for one day, until the children were safe. Sarraj was manipulating him. He had to fight—find the strength to defy him.
Without his noticing it the room was darkened and a movie projector wheeled in by the guards.
“I think you’ll enjoy this,” Sarraj said, suppressing a smile.
As the whine of the projector filled the room a blurred image appeared on the wall opposite Ari. The guard focused, then turned on the sound.
“No,” Ari whispered, shutting his eyes. But he couldn’t block out the sound of their voices, of his telling Kim that he couldn’t live without her.
Sarraj snapped his fingers and the projector was shut off. “We have some excellent footage of you two. Who killed her?”
“Al-Alazar,” Ari said, whimpering.
“I thought so. I didn’t think you could do it. You loved her right up to the end, even after you knew she was an agent, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he shouted, his will to resist a distant memory.
“I also have a lengthy reel of you and Michelle Giroux. Would you like me to bring it in?”
Silence.
“In that case maybe Dov would like to see it. I’m sure he would find such documentation of what his liaison officer was doing while he was signaling for help quite fascinating. We could even delay the removal of his arm long enough for a full screening, in the hope that you might change your mind, provide us with the information we want, and save not only his arm, but his life.”
“I can’t,” Ari said, holding his head with his hands. “I can’t talk now. In the name of God, Sarraj, my head’s…just let me rest. Let me have a bed.”
“Tell me why you contacted al-Alazar. Then you shall have a doctor, food, and a bed. Otherwise I will show Dov the films, then I’ll have his arm shot off. Do you understand? You will be beaten again, mercilessly. All that unnecessary suffering. You can put a stop to it. Dov’s young, don’t let him die. Give him a chance at life. Just whisper the answer to me, then you will be able to sleep.”
Ari’s breathing was labored. He covered his eyes with his arm, unsuccessfully trying to fight back the tears.
“Just tell me what I want to know, then it will be all over,” Sarraj said gently.
Ari shook his head, crying uncontrollably, every ounce of what strength he had left focused on defying his interrogator.
Sarraj sensed he was on the verge of success. He would now break Ben-Sion finally, irrevocably. He spoke rapidly to the guards. Seconds later Dov was pushed into the room.
Ari looked at him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”
“Shut up!” Sarraj said, the menace in his voice terrifying.
The guard sat Dov on the edge of the desk. He responded with detached indifference. There was a glassiness in his eyes and he didn’t seem to recognize Ben-Sion. Sarraj stood, removed his FN Browning .45 caliber pistol from a drawer, and placed it point-blank against the boy’s elbow.
“Tell me what I want to know or Elon loses his other arm.”
Ari sobbed in agonized self-pity.
“I can’t. Don’t make me.”
“You contacted al-Alazar. Why?”
He couldn’t talk—the children.
“The first shot will shatter his arm. The second will be aimed at his knee. The third at his other knee.”
Silence followed, parted after a long moment by the sound of Sarraj snapping a magazine of cartridges into the butt of the pistol.
“The bullets have grooves sliced into their tips. They expand on contact. The effect is most…”
“All right! All right. I’ll tell you.” He spoke softly now, his voice trembling. “The code name for my assignment was Operation Goshen. The Colonel thought we would be able to smuggle…”
For some reason he stopped and looked up at Dov. A thin line of tears rolled down the boy’s cheeks.
“No,” Ari screamed, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t. I won’t.” He opened his eyes and glared at his interrogator. “Go to hell, Sarraj.”
In angry frustration the Second Bureau chief pulled the trigger. The sound exploding so close to Ari’s ears was deafening. Pieces of wet flesh flew into his face. Dov’s arm hung from the elbow by a patch of membrane, blood gushing from the open wound.
Ari fainted.
◆◆◆
He woke hours later aware that he was back in his cell. Suddenly he remembered Dov’s arm hanging by that small piece of skin. In anguish he clawed at the dirt with his good hand—then lay still. His mind ravaged by pain, he watched the door, waiting for them to come. Sarraj’s interrogation cycle was clear. He alternated between physical and mental torture. They would attack his body next, most likely with the harka, electric shock treatment. Ari was well acquainted with the device: metal clips protruding from a power joint would be attached to his tongue and sexual organs, then Sarraj would switch on the 110-volt current. He shuddered and tried to sleep; but the throbbing in his head kept him awake. Escape eluded him.
He woke a second time, surprised that he’d lost consciousness. He had no way of telling how long it had been since Dov was shot, or for that matter how much time had elapsed since he’d been brought to al-Mazza prison. But some inner sense told him it was morning, Sunday morning, the morning after Operation Goshen was to have been executed. He had succeeded. Sarraj had not dragged the information o
ut of him! Then with brutal swiftness despair dissolved his momentary elation. If the children had indeed escaped, Sarraj would assume he contacted al-Alazar to arrange for their safe passage. There would be no need to question him further. They would beat him now without restraint, not to elicit information, but to inflict punishment. Syrian methods were well known. The torture would be protracted and excruciating. It might last months. In the end they would hang him publicly in Marjeh Square.
And he still really didn’t understand why he’d been sent to Syria. Al-Alazar said the Colonel wanted Sarraj discredited. If that was reason for his venture into Damascus, the Mossad had failed. Sarraj was very much in power. Ari would die, not understanding why, or for what.
Then he heard the door opening. He pressed closer to the dirt. His muscles tensed.
The lone man who entered closed the door silently behind him and bent to the ground. Ari looked up. After a moment he recognized the ace. It was Yussaf Fuad, head of the Mukhabarat. The Colonel had shown Ari his photograph.
“Ibrahim Sassoon’s and Nissim Kimche’s children escaped from Damascus last night,” Fuad said. “Sarraj is being blamed for failing to induce you to talk in time, that’s why I’m here.”
Ari said nothing. The certain knowledge that the children had arrived safely in Israel filled him with joy, but his happiness was tempered. He knew what the success of Operation Goshen meant to his own life.
He bit his swollen lower lip, readying himself for a fresh onslaught of pain. Fuad’s reputation preceded him. He was known to be cold, merciless, and savagely sadistic—viewing the torture of human beings as a form of recreation, a respite from the tedium of his administrative position. Unlike most secret service chiefs, Fuad administered physical torment personally, rather than relegating the task to his subordinates. It was well known that he did not care for public hangings, much preferring to perform executions in the privacy of a prison cell where he could beat his victims to death with his bare hands.
The Damascus Cover Page 22