by Danny Bar
More than once, he avoided arresting certain terrorists, because The Magic Flute was the only source who knew about their activities.
“You are playing a dangerous game,” told him his superiors, but Amos insisted that their arrest might bring about his agent’s exposure.
“What do you suggest then?” they asked him angrily, “they are ticking bombs.”
“Follow them!”
“Oh, come on. Twenty-four hours a day?” they asked in despair, but Amos put his foot down, “He puts his confidence on me, and I will never let him down.”
“And you, Amos, do you put your confidence in him?” The Head of Judea and Samaria asked, “has it ever crossed your mind that he might betray you?”
Amos remain silent. So far, he repressed a single thought that stubbornly tried to raise its head: will The Magic Flute betray him? And should he decide to do that, will he, Amos, be able to read the writing on the wall in time?
“You will change dramatically after your agent will betray you. Once you experience betrayal, you will suspect everyone, all the time. Remember, Amos, and be always on guard to see any changes in his behavior. A slight change is sometimes the distance separating your life your death.”
“Death?” Amos lengthened the word in disbelief.
“What else?” he gazed at him, “there were more than enough agents who killed their operator. Unfortunately, it happened to me too, back when I was in Lebanon. A Lebanese agent called his operator late at night and asked to arrange an urgent meeting. I sent the operator to meet with him at their meeting point, an olive grove near the Shiite village of Nabatiya. He was a double agent, Amos, I didn’t know it! When the operator came to meet him, the agent and his friends opened fire and killed him. It was an ambush!
“I took it personally, Amos and I pursued him five years until I put my hands on him in Beirut.
“And? What happened to him?” Amos was curious to know but he was ignored.
“Since then, I never take any chances. No matter how good the agent is, I always check how close he is to the point of betrayal. You never know when you touch a sore spot with them. The army might kill his cousin and he will seek revenge, or he might be exposed and his organization will be willing to pardon him on condition that he kills you. Do you understand, Amos?”
A long silence settled in the room before Amos began to speak.
“I’ve nurtured The Magic Flute in my own image. There is something about our relationship that goes far beyond the regular agent-operator relationship,” he said with great certainty.
The head of Judea and Samaria laughed bitterly, “Look at me, Amos, I am an old war horse, I have seen it all. Don’t allow that feeling of intimacy to fool you, it’s a mistake every rookie operator makes. Don’t forget that they are betraying their own people, sometimes their own brothers, so why shouldn’t he betray you?”
“He does not see it as a betrayal, in his eyes, he helps his people,” Amos defended his agent.
“You are damn right, and do you know why?” he asked Amos but didn’t wait for him to answer, “it’s because you nicely wrapped up his betrayal as if it was a Christmas present, every operator does so when he recruits his agent, according to his control of the agent’s mindset and the riches of his Arabic language. Yet, an agent will never stop torturing himself with the question of whether or not he is doing the right thing. Should he ever conclude that he had made a mistake, you would pay for it with your life. Got it, Amos?” he asked fondly.
Nonetheless, his words of reproach had done nothing to hinder the enjoyment Amos had taken in his meetings with The Magic Flute. More than often, their conversations lasted into the wee hours of the night and revolved around the most personal subjects, even their relationships with women. During one such talk, Amos teased him for being a bachelor in a society that encourages early marriage.
The Magic Flute laughed with enjoyment, “Hasab Rai, in my opinion,” he said in Arabic, “the woman I am seeking is not yet born.”
“Everything is naseeb, destiny. When it comes knocking on your door, you won’t be able to resist it,” said Amos and looked at his watch, “it’s late.”
“Yes, it’s late,” repeated The Magic Flute and stood up, “when do we meet again?”
“When will be a good time for you?” asked Amos and opened his diary.
“Friday evening at seven,” answered The Magic Flute, everyone will be at the mosque so it will be easy for me to slip away.”
“Mashi,” no problem, answered Amos but his heart sank. It was Sabbath! Once again, he will need to miss Friday dinner, the only time he could spend with the entire family. His children understood the importance of the Friday family dinner as well and often postponed the time in which they went to their class parties. Their friends were used to it. They didn’t ask questions, but they knew that Amos’s work was classified and could not be spoken about.
His children were also used to the fact their father peppered his speech with Arabic sayings and often cursed in Arabic under his breath when angry. Furthermore, when their father spoke in Arabic on the phone a complete and utter silence must settle in the house and no one must call his name.
Lately, these calls grew more frequent.
Deep inside, Amos knew he owed The Magic Flute most of the compliments he often received from his superiors, as well as the fact that he was a frequent guest in meetings taking place at the head of the Shin Bet’s office. “A good agent builds his operator and makes his superiors take notice of him,” they had used to tell them in the operators course.
That evening, the Prime Minister called an urgent meeting to discuss the latest terrorist attack.
All the cabinet ministers participated in the meeting and the Prime Minister opened it by saying, “The peace process is a strategic choice made both by myself and the people of Israel, and the terrorist attacks hinder my ability to lead the process forward. Until today, we viewed terrorism as a local threat, but from now on we must consider it as a strategic threat.”
The head of the Shin Bet told the participants that the identity of the two suicide bombers had thus far remained unknown.
“The identity cards they were carrying were forged and we are yet to receive any reports from our sources about mourner’s tents erected.”
At the end of the meeting, the head of the Shin Bet slipped away from the herd of photographers waiting outside and hurried to his office to meet with the heads of the departments operating Arab agents, as well as the head of the Operations unit acting inside the occupied territories.
In the ensuing discussion, the participants mentioned that no thread leading to the suicide bombers was yet found, and no organization was yet to claim responsibility for the attack.
“We would like to send an agent who would travel to the organization’s headquarters in Jordan in an attempt to unearth additional details.”
“Who?” asked the head of the Shin Bet.
“Canard.”
Canard has been an agent of the Shin Bet for the past two years. His real name was Jalal, a truck driver transporting citrus fruit from Israel to Jordan.
Sabri, the man who had recruited him to the organization, was born in Jalal’s village in Palestine, but fled with his family to Jordan and resided in the northern city of Irbid. During one of his summer visits to his uncle’s house, he met Jalal in a café in the center of the village. A conversation about the Israeli occupation quickly developed between the two.
“All you ever do is talk, talk, talk, it’s just idle chatter. You never actually do anything,” Sabri accused him angrily.
“What could we possibly do?” Jalal was deeply offended, “I would be willing to do anything against the occupation,” he said excitedly and his eyes shined.
“Well then, come visit me in Jordan and we’ll talk.”
That was exactly what Jalal ha
d done. During one of his trips, he met with Sabri in a café in downtown Amman. During the meeting, Sabri suggested that Jalal would assist in the smuggling of weapons from Jordan to the terrorist squads in the West Bank.
Jalal instantly agreed and remained few more days in Jordan to be trained for the smuggling mission. “Dead letter box,” that’s what we call it, or a dead drop. It is a method to smuggle anything, money, weapons, or written instructions,” the organization guide explained to him. “The person receiving the material does not know who has placed it there for him. You just need to bury the material in a specific location according to our instructions and get out of there. Understand?”
“But how will he know where to find it?” asked Jalal with curiosity.
“We will provide him a detailed description of the hiding spot and he will go there and collect the items. “
In the morning, Jalal drove his truck down the winding road leading to the Allenby Bridge, the border crossing between Israel and Jordan. The wheels of the truck rattled as Jalal crossed the wooden speed bumps placed on the bridge. An Israeli soldier asked him for his papers and returned five minutes later accompanied by a man wearing civilian clothes.
“Come with me,” he said to Jalal and took him to a side room.
“What were you doing in Jordan?” he asked him.
“Transporting citrus fruit,” Jalal answered and lowered his eyes.
“That’s all?” The man asked slowly while browsing the thick file he held in his hands.
“Yes.” Answered Jalal quietly and begun to lose his confidence.
“Three days?” The man raised his voice.
“Oh, yes. The truck broke down so I put it in the garage and I had to stay a few days more.”
“Where did you stay?”
“At the Abu Dhabi Hotel.”
The man snorted in contempt, “that hotel was closed ages ago,” he chuckled, “the ghost of the founder is the only guest there, Ya Jalal.”
“How do you know that?”
“We know everything,” the man told him in a harsh tone and angrily threw the closed file on the table.
“I don’t understand what you want from me…” Jalal stuttered.
“Pity…” the man said, betraying nothing of the information in his possession, or the lack of it, because there was nothing in the thick file but empty pages that his secretary had put inside.
“We know enough to put you in jail for many years and by the time you get out, sick and old, you will barely remember Diav, your little son.”
Jalal said nothing, merely shifted in his chair and nervously clenched his fingers.
He raised his face, his eyes full of tears, “Well, what are you suggesting?”
The first traces of dawn had already appeared in the sky by the time the discussion had finished. The head of the district hurried and left in his vehicle to summon Canard by leaving a sign on the road the latter regularly took in the mornings. He went out of the vehicle and marked a large red X on the sand barrel standing by the side of the road. Then he got back into his vehicle and drove off.
The telephone call wasn’t long in coming.
“Sabah al khair,” good morning, Canard began the conversation and identified himself with the codename he had received for communication purposes.
The head of the district eagerly began to talk. “Ahlan ya habibi, kif el hal?” Hello, dear, how are you? he asked him kindly. After exchanging more niceties, they scheduled to meet at nine close to the water well, not far from Canard’s village.
Jamil had spent the night in fitful sleep on the stone hut’s roof, the Kalashnikov assault rifle by his side with its safely catch open. He was tense and frightened and his tiredness was beginning to show its marks. All through the night, he heard noises in his immediate surroundings. One time, he had almost opened fire upon hearing the sound of snapping branch, only to discover it was merely a wild sow and her piglets. He began to think it might have been a mistake to allow his helper to leave at night, fearing he might be exposed and lead the Mukhabarat, the Shin Bet to him. On the other hand, the helper had to maintain the normal routine of his life so as not to arouse suspicion. It was the only way he could take care of Jamil’s needs and bring him all the information he needed, including Israeli newspapers, so he would be able to see the pictures from the scene of the terrorist attack.
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of stones clattering and falling in the wadi.
He lay on the roof, took his rifle and pointed it at the source of the noise. A bright shirt could be seen moving between the rows of vines. His finger slowly caressed the trigger.
The figure disappeared behind the terrace. Jamil’s eyes darted nervously from side to side.
“Sabah al khair,” good morning, he heard a voice from behind him.
He turned around in fright.
“Don’t do this to me,” he got upset, “I’m nervous enough as it is, brother.”
“All right, sorry,” the helper muttered in confusion and placed a basket on the floor. Jamil snatched the newspapers and looked at the photographs with open enjoyment. He did not know how to read Hebrew, but the numbers in red spoke for themselves: “Sixteen dead, sixty-seven injured.”
“What about the suicide bombers?” he asked.
“They took two men from the village for DNA testing. They want to compare the results to the DNA of our two suicide bombers. You can rest easy, they are still not on to you.”
“And Issam’s father, my uncle, does he know already?” he asked the helper.
“No. I visited and asked him about Issam, as a matter of fact, pretending I just wanted to hear how he was doing. Your uncle was in a good mood, he told me his son is studying at the A-Najah National University in Nablus and that next year, Allah willing, he will finish his engineering degree.”
“Ya maskin,” poor man, Jamil bewailed the poor father, “if he only knew his son is now a Shahid. Issam was the apple of his eye and came into the world after five daughters.”
The helper sighed with pain and took out two pita breads and a jar of labneh cheese, “this is the fate awaiting us all, Allah alone determines the day and the time for each of us.”
“I am not afraid of death, but when it comes, and it will come soon, insha’allah, I be taking a few more Jews with me.”
“No, ya Sheikh,” the helper clucked his tongue, “you mustn’t do that, you are far more useful alive. There are plenty of volunteers for suicide missions. Just ask, and ten volunteers will stand in line and ask to embark on a suicide mission as soon as possible. Most of them are young. All they know is how to press the switch. Their number is already higher than the number of suicide vests we can provide.”
“The Israelis won’t let me live.”
“We need good commanding officers, ya Jamil. Don’t forget that the Zionists have killed many of our senior members.
“Binshuf, “we’ll see, Jamil dismissed him. “Now for another matter, I am looking for a messenger who would travel to our headquarters in Jordan. Do you know anyone suitable?”
“Of course, Oum Khaled,” the helper answered briefly and returned to chew on his pita bread.
“Isn’t she seventy?” Jamil wondered.
“So what? Her children live in Jordan and she goes to visit them all the time. We pay her traveling expenses and no one suspects her.”
“Yalla, all right,” Jamil reconciled, “I will write the letter now.”
In the name of Allah the great and merciful,
As you have probably heard, yesterday, we sent the two to Allah and their souls now safely rest in heaven, as we had promised them. I expect you to support their families and send them enough money for their livelihood.
I would like to perform a triple suicide operation in order to stop the nefarious peace agreement.
I need two good men for an operation and 110 pounds of standard RDX explosive. Let me know as soon as you get it and transfer it to me at a dead letter box in the Hebron area.
Brother Shafiq
Jamil signed the letter with his organization codename, then wrapped it with a thin nylon sheet and carefully rolled it until it turned into a small, slippery capsule.
The helper extended his hand to the labneh bowl, dipped the capsule with olive oil and placed it in a small nylon bag. Then he parted from Jamil and made his way to Oum Khaled’s house.
“We want you to travel to Jordan tomorrow,” the helper told her.
“All right, same place as last time?”
“Yes,” he approved and handed her the letter. “Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, swallow this capsule before going down to the bridge. Don’t eat anything before you get to Jordan,” he smiled at her, “we don’t want any ‘accidents’ to happen. Once the letter is ‘out’ take it to the headquarters in Jabal Amman and wait for the Sheikh to write a reply.”
“Whatever you command,” she said and set out.
In the organization headquarters, the Sheikh greeted her warmly and accompanied her to the restroom. A few minutes later, she came out and handed him the capsule. The Sheikh wore latex gloves on his hands and twisted his face with distaste when opening the letter because of the stench rising from it. Oum Khaled waited for a long time until the Sheikh finally returned with another capsule.
“Swallow it before going back,” he asked her.
When she returned from her visit in Jordan, she stood in the long line for the security check on the Allenby Bridge until the female security officer motioned for her to approach.
“Your name?”
“Rassmiya al Hindawi,” she answered her.
“Open your luggage,” the security officer said indifferently.
She meticulously rummaged through the pile of clothes. When she found nothing, she let her go and Oum Khaled made her way to the convoy of taxis parked outside the passenger hall.
