Game of silence, p.37
Game of Silence, page 37
We shared the excitement most of the day. It was obvious to both of us that a great deal of this excitement came from knowing we will be spending our time together – now, as well as far beyond enemy lines – and not only because of the challenging and risky operation. And despite our getting closer and totally opening up to one another, despite the intense attraction and flowing emotions, we understood the rules well. Our relationship needed to remain fitting, or at least not romantic, until everything blows over.
“First we go and then we’ll kiss,” she said in an alluring gaze during one of our close moments, when it seemed we were both a second away from breaking the rules and the song “When will we kiss?” was playing in the background.
“No, you’ve got it wrong, in our culture it’s first kiss then go,” I reacted, “In our unit we always kissed first, and then we went on the operation,” I said as I joined Evyatar Banai’s singing.
“No sweetheart,” she put me in my place yet again, “You combat soldiers – have only sex on your mind. It says: ‘weapon and go’.” (‘Weapon’ and ‘kiss’ are written the same way in Hebrew).
The meeting scheduled with Meir for six o’clock was delayed, and Ya’ara and I waited in the guest corner of his chambers. With a conservative delay of twenty minutes, he entered the floor in haste while talking on his mobile phone. He signaled us to follow him into the office and whispered to his secretary Sarah Chizik: “Hold my calls for the next thirty minutes.”
We each sat down, and Meir opened: “Hello you two, I see you are getting along just fine. It may very well be that I will decide to send you on a mission.”
“Mere threats of the head of the Mossad, don’t believe a word he says,” said Ya’ara in an all revealing defining look.
“That’s true,” Meir returned a smile, “one always needs to maintain a proper amount of doubt, that’s the first lesson learned in the organization.”
I remained silent, and kept looking at him with an inquisitive gaze.
“Okay,” Meir continued, and it was evident he sensed relief. “So, after we realized you did quite well on the test, I am happy to inform you we have a final green light from higher up. I just got back from meeting the Prime Minister. He was excited by our plan, and showered compliments on the idea of Miss. Ya’ara Ben Yehuda.
She gave a bashful smile and said: “Really? That is so nice to hear.”
“The operation is planned for next Thursday,” Meir turned serious. “Until then you must continue preparing yourself and practice case scenarios every day, all day. The truth is we still need to come up with a name for the operation so we could communicate it more easily going forward. Any ideas?”
Not a second had passed and she blurted out: “Kiss and Go, that’s easy.”
“Kiss and go?” Meir was finding it hard to conceal a smiling wink at her.
“What’s wrong with that title?” She asked as if she was offended.
“I don’t know, the intimacy between you two must have worked overtime,” Meir looked at her, then at me, and then he seemed quite nostalgic all of a sudden. “In my time we had no ‘kiss and go’ duties. The children walked to school by themselves. But, well, let it be named in Israel ‘Kiss and Go’. The truth is that the name actually suits messengers. In any case, let’s get back to our business.”
He held up a photo of a man which up until now was placed on the table, and caused Ya’ara’s beautiful eyes to open wide in astonishment. “The twin!” She exclaimed.
“Yes,” Meir clarified and turned to me. “This is Mohamed Abu Tura’an, one of the three messengers. The idea of the ‘Kiss and Go’ operation is to extract the password to be used by us at the exchange made between messengers. This is what you’ve been practicing for. Mohamed Abu Tura’an is also Hammed’s twin, the one whose daughter we saved. The password which we will extract from Mohamed, will later be passed on by us to his brother Hammed, our planted guy, who will replace him as a messenger on the message delivery route which is critical to us, without anyone noticing the switch. In fact, you will be there mainly as backup, in case our other attempts to extract the password from him don’t work. You will have with you auxiliary forces with special persuasive abilities. I hope it will suffice, since we do not have the time to get him to talk in pleasant ways.
“As I said – the operation will be executed next Thursday and it gives us nearly four days until the messengers’ meeting which is about to take place the following Monday. Continue with the preparations, and tomorrow at eight in the evening we will conduct a summary exercise, which will be the last hurdle before I finally approve going on the operation.”
“Didn’t you say it was approved?” I asked.
“The Prime Minister has approved, which doesn’t mean that I have,” Meir concluded the meeting between us.
The next day, the general rehearsal of operation “Kiss and Go” took place. Our theatre arena was the huge hangar on the outskirts of the Mossad headquarters’ complex, built by the props division of the Mossad as a perfect replica of the hangar located on the outskirts of the Saudi town.
The entire top brass of the Mossad showed up to examine the show we put on. We recruited our best skills and honed all that we had practiced up to then, and it seemed as if we were meeting our assignment quite well.
At the end of the show, we waited in the briefing room for the final, decisive decision. After half an hour of waiting, Meir, his deputy Amir Levi, head of the instruction division Alon Shitrit, and to my surprise Ophir too, whose role in the Mossad I knew nothing about, entered into the room. Meir’s gaze was closed off. I focused my eyes on him and my heart skipped a beat. And then came a strong thump on my shoulder accompanied by Meir’s soft words: “Operation ‘Kiss and Go’ is approved. Well done, Yanai.”
I nodded my head and smiled in response, looking at my partner. He placed a hand on her shoulder too and added: “Well done to you too. You have planned a wonderful operation.” He continued to look at us pleased, and by way of talking to me he winked at her. “Watch out for her, she’s most cunning. I won’t be surprised if she planned the whole operation just so she could steal the role of lead actress all to herself.”
The smiles from all around were liberating, but were accompanied by a dark cloud which hovered over everyone. We’re going on an operation.
“From this moment on you are on call within a range of half an hour tops,” Meir concluded. “You’re free to go home, but you must be available. On Sunday we will continue to practice up to the last moment until we reach perfection. Remember, we have one more week.”
Ever since I can remember, Friday was my favorite day of the week. Something inexplicable happens on this day, and I have never managed to recreate it outside the borders of little Israel. The air was filled with a sacred mist which gave me a feeling of calm. This is how I always felt, even during our most difficult times in the training course, when the instructors wreaked havoc on us, if only for the sadistic pleasure it gave them. Friday was the last barrier for us; our altar horns.
That Friday, after receiving the okay to go on the operation, I lay on the couch in my rented Tel Aviv apartment, wearing headphones and listening to Leon Bridges singing “River”. When the song ended, I picked up my mobile phone and stared at it for a while. I wanted so much to talk to her. The silence of being alone was screaming at the backdrop of our intensive togetherness of recent days. It didn’t feel normal to be without her anymore. I longed for our closeness, her laughter, her sharp thinking, for the gentle forbidden flirtation. I prayed that someone would decide for me whether to call her, or to abstain and maintain my cool. To remain polite until the “go”, and only then to kiss. Or perhaps I just need to find the appropriate excuse.
My hollow stare into the air of the room suddenly fell on Yaron’s trophy, which was from the last competition we participated in on the “Special Units’ Day”. It was still too soon for me to pack up the last remnants of the tangible existence of my partner on the road, the one who up until a moment ago lay in front of me in the living room of our home, singing the songs of ‘Nirvana’ out of tune. The gloomy thought of him being erased from this world gave me such distress, the kind of which I experienced only a few times in my life.
I lay like this for half an hour, zapping through the distracting applications on my phone, shrouded in a dark cloud, when only the thought of Ya’ara could divert me into realms of sweet desire. And just as I made up my mind to make the call, the phone rang, shattering my indecision.
But it wasn’t her.
“Yanai, it’s Sarah. Meir is requesting that you be in his office in half an hour. Can you make it?”
“Yes, of course. I’m leaving now.”
I was prepared for a quick departure. I grabbed the bag I organized in advance, hopped on my bike, and within eighteen minutes I arrived at Meir’s chambers. Ya’ara was already waiting there. Meir too. When I sat down next to them at the table, they said they were waiting for someone else — the handler of the twin brother who will replace the twin’s brother, the one we will need to extract the password from.
“He said he’s on his way and will be here five minutes late,” Ya’ara informed after reading a message on her phone.
Meir sought to begin with a review of the situation and said: “well, until he arrives, I will just update you that there has been a slight change of plans. We will not be able to wait until Thursday, the operation was pushed forward to Monday, and therefore you will be leaving tonight. The new situation will force us to obtain the password within three days only. From here – Avi, my driver will drive you to the chopper which will fly you to the naval base in Eilat. The submarine “Sea Bat” will take you to the Bab-al-Mandab Straits, and our team will pick you up from there on Sunday around midnight. On Monday the next delivery of the messenger’s letter will take place, and we will allow it to take place, and track the messenger. Immediately after the exchange of the last message – you two will spring into action.”
When he finished the sentence, the door opened and my eyes popped from their sockets. “Avner?!”
He came in naturally and placed his hand on my shoulder, smiling the big smile of the Malabi man. “How’s it going kiddo? I was happy to hear you were accepted for this thing,” he said to me, and to Meir he said: “Sorry I’m late, crazy traffic.” To Ya’ara he said: “How are you my dear daughter? Riyadh says hi. I managed to miss you.”
At this point, I still didn’t quite understand yet. I had a hard time comprehending what they were joking about. Five minutes later it was all clear. They laid out the gloriously presented cover story about the Riyadh-New York like, and clarified what was to be Avner Hevroni’s role further in the operation, and how will all the loose ends and everyone’s roles connect. Only then it became clear to me how great the little birdie who whispered about me to the Mossad was.
We arranged to talk further, just the two of us, after the meeting, and we gave Meir the pleasure of continuing with the instruction: “Avner, you will leave tonight to Riyadh to meet Hammed Abu Tura’an there. You will accompany him to the Al-Wadich village, where he will be living in place of his brother. We have already gathered that the little girl recovered well, better than expected, and he can’t wait for us to collect payment from him. This time you will fly alone. Ya’ara was already cast in a different movie on her way to the Oscars. She and your young acquaintance will make sure to provide you with the messenger network’s password, and you will compete for the best director Oscar award when you slide Hammed into the role of the messenger. Any questions?”
32.
Premier
Our theatre stage was set for our first and last premier.
The location selected – the outskirts of Abu Tura’an’s village, which was desolate, void of a living soul. Yes, armed guards were placed on the access road to the site and the main road to it was blocked, while more guards patrolled the perimeters and prevented the entry of uninvited guests through other side roads.
The arena looked exactly like the one we had practiced in at the headquarters in Glilot. At the center of the hangar stood three poles, and next to them a rectangular room was built with two entries. One entry from the inside of the hall, and the other – an external entrance. On a window which overlooked the hangar from the room, a one-way mirror was installed.
When the signal was given, Ya’ara and I were bound to two of the poles. The third pole next to us was intended for the messenger, Mohamed Abu Tura’an who was supposed to arrive led by our people.
At 21:55, Nimrod Peled, one of the Mossad’s agents, came before us, and escorted us all the way to the place where it will take place. “He will be arriving in two minutes.” he said, and went out the door.
Immediately after him a big fellow came in, dressed in black and his face covered, holding in his tattooed right arm an iron rod. He began shouting at us. The show started.
Accompanied by a shower of juicy swears, Mohamed Abu Tura’an was savagely slammed onto the floor, with his head covered by a coarse burlap as well. He was slammed into the bare concrete, and immediately bound to the available pole. There was no doubt that those who brought him and restrained him took an impressive part in the show, especially when they spoke the local Arab dialect fluently as well.
When the head cover was taken off, Mohamed Abu Tura’an saw a man and a woman tied up to a pole just like him, with bluish-reddish bruises covering their faces, their lips dry and their eyes withered. They looked tormented from the kind of suffering that only the make-up department of the Mossad could create. I deliberately avoided looking at him. Every once in a while, I looked at Ya’ara.
“Don’t speak!” The guard with the tattoo yelled at us in Arabic, intimidating us with the bat in his hands while striking the poles we were bound to. “If I hear a peep out of you, I’ll break your bones!”
The silence lasted for more than half an hour, and then was broken, just as planned, when I addressed Ya’ara in Farsi and she replied with a sentence she had memorized in a perfect accent.
In reaction, armed with a bat the guard approached me, viciously kicked my ribs, grabbed my hair and pulled it back. “You little piece of spy shit!” he yelled at me with a crazed look. “Next time you speak, I’ll cut out your tongue!”
The kick in my ribs left me breathless. For more than a minute I focused on trying to breathe some air into my lungs. This was also the moment I began to worry whether the guards were unaware of the actors’ identity, or whether they had forgotten the key phrase “the presenter is not Iranian”.
Through the corner of my eye I could notice Mohamed Abu Tura’ans gaze scanning the guard and me. Again the pain of the kick reverberated through my body. It was real. There was no doubt about it. I could see that Ya’ara was trembling. In my heart I believed that her over-the-top reaction came from a real concern for my well-being.
The hours went by without exchanging a single word between us. Each time it seemed that we were falling asleep, the guards came and violently woke us up by pouring buckets of water on us.
At some point, probably during the early morning hours, an unfamiliar man came into the hall. He grabbed my hair, lifted me from the floor and began pounding at me with an intense and painful beating. Despite the fatigue, I didn’t get confused, spewing the shouts and curses from my mouth in perfect Farsi. Again a thought went through my mind: what if he wasn’t updated about us? What if he truly thinks we are Iranian spies?
He led me to the next room, and then disappeared together with the rest of the guards. A different bloke came in his place, a new one, whom I could easily identify as an Israeli. His look gave away the smile he choked in his throat. What a relief!
The “new” guy signaled me with his head, and began shouting at me in Arabic. In reaction, I opened with blood-chilling yells, the function of which was to evoke the natural mortal fear of death existing in every person, and was meant for Mohamed Abu Tura’an’s ears. This is how the ping-pong continued between us inside the war room equipped with cameras and screens.
***
The “Interrogator” was asking me questions in Arabic, powerfully hitting objects that were placed there, and I in turn, cursed and screamed in Farsi. Then after a few minutes of madness, he pressed the on-switch of the sound system previously installed in the “control room”, and I could hear my cries coming out of the speaker.
I stood still and looked at her through the monitor. The tremble in her body increased from time to time. I could see that although she knew we were part of a show, doubt had begun to creep in, and she started to believe that something went wrong.
She quickly glanced at Mohamed Abu Tura’an’s sealed expression, and from the monitor it seemed to me that she too suspected that the threats on him were less effective. It looked as if it was important for him to demonstrate resilience. At the end of the show in the war control room, I was returned to the hall, dripping red blood of the finest the home make-up artists could muster. I was re-tied to the pole with the kind help of the “guard” on duty.
It was now Ya’ara’s turn to be taken for a round of mock torture. I was glad that in the war room she would find out that things did not get out of hand, and everything was continuing according to Meir’s well-planned program.
The ceremony in which we were both, Ya’ara and I, alternately taken to the “torture room” lasted for many hours. After several hours came the turn of the messenger, Abu Tura’an. This time the torture was real.
However it turns out he did not break easily. The fact that Ya’ara and I refused, allegedly, to divulge information, only strengthened the instinctive willpower in him and his motivation to keep the secret. What was perceived by him as our refusal, began creating the trust he needed to have in us.
