by Danny Bar
Hours had passed and it became very difficult for the team to remain in the neighborhood. The people began to be very suspicious and addressed them with various questions.
The commander made a quick decision and ordered the surveillance team to leave the kasbah and position themselves in the Clock Square.
“He would have to get here in order to take a taxi to Jerusalem,” he explained to them.
“I’m starving,” David said apologetically after a while.
“It’s Ramadan,” the team leader reminded him, “if you eat, you sit!”
David laughed, “Sit where?”
“In a Palestinian prison. Where else?”
“That doesn’t sound like fun.”
“Not at all, so make sure nobody sees you,” the team leader said,
David hurried to the sweets store to buy himself some knafeh, an orange pastry of noodle flakes with goat cheese, dipped in rosewater.
“A pound of knafeh, for the ‘Iftar, of course” he added quickly, referring to the meal eaten by Muslims to break their fast during the month of Ramadan.
The paunchy, grim-faced shopkeeper packaged the pastry in a cardboard box and tied it with a string, just to make sure he ‘wouldn’t eat it on the street.
He went up to the roof of an office building situated in the square. After making sure no one was about, he hid himself between the water heater tanks, tore up the cardboard box and devoured its contents. He wiped his sugar dripping fingers on his clothes.
At four in the afternoon, the anonymous man showed up at the square and went to the taxi station nearest to the city hall building.
“Al Quds! Kalkiliya! Tul Karem!” the taxi drivers cried out the names of their destinations in an attempt to draw customers and shorten their waiting time. The anonymous man went inside a taxi with two women and two men already sitting inside.
“The man has boarded a taxi, he’s sitting in the backseat, on the right hand side,” David said on the radio.
“Join the taxi,” the team leader instructed him.
“I’m boarding.”
“Where to?” the heavyset driver asked him.
“Al Quds,” Jerusalem, David answered.
“Yalla!” the driver rushed him, “let’s move.”
Davis handed a twenty-shekel note to the driver and squeezed his way between the passengers and their grocery bags.
The taxi departed, slaloming its way between the multitude of buyers and shopping carts and headed towards Jerusalem.
The winding road passed between the local Arab villages, then wound its way up the mountain leading to Jerusalem.
“I swear by Allah, in the days King Hussein, I used to buy a sack of flour for only five dinars,” the driver complained, “today, I paid twenty-two dinars.” The others clucked their tongues in agreement, united in protest against the high cost-of-living.
David preferred not to join the conversation so as not to challenge his accent with the ability Arabs had of recognizing their interlocutor’s origin according to his accent. The man sitting next to him had a different idea in mind.
“I guess you are too young to be bothered by the rising prices,” he smiled at him and looked at his ring-less fingers.
“Soon, very soon, insha’allah,” David smiled at him and turned his eyes toward the next bend in the road. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the surveillance vehicle and was relieved.
An hour later the taxi stopped by Jerusalem’s Damascus Gate, where two of his colleagues waited between the loudly shouting taxi drivers and peddlers announcing their merchandise.
Smell of spices, and loud voices of bagel sellers welcomed the passengers disembarking from the taxi.
David got out and hurried to the team leader’s vehicle, his part of the day’s surveillance task was done. Gali, a young female agent, wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, took his place. With the hat on her head she looked like a young tourist, one of many roaming the streets of Jerusalem’s old city. She instantly joined the surveillance and began to follow the anonymous person, who had meanwhile mingled with the multitudes making their way into the old city.
“He has entered Damascus Gate,” she reported and was swallowed between the walls of the old city.
A police checkpoint in the middle of the crowded El-Wad street leading to the Muslim quarter stopped the passersby and asked for their papers. Gali stood in line behind the anonymous person and managed to steal a glance at his identity card.
“Your name?” the police officer asked the man.
“Rafik Hashem a-Rahman.”
“Where are you from?” he examined Rafik’s identity card closely.
“Beit Fajar,” the man answered.
“All right, here!” said the police officer and handed him his card back, “Next!” He announced loudly and turned to the next person in line.
The first opportunity Gali had, she called Ronit, the desk officer and gave her the details of the man.
“Hold on,” Ronit mumbled, “I’m feeding the information to the computer, “there! Rafik Hashem Abd a-Rahman, Beit Fajar, thirty years old, with ties to the Islamic organization. Intelligence provided by Chimney Sweeper ties him to the explosives used in the terrorist attack in Netanya a year ago. According to Geronimo he was seen suspiciously walking about with two people from the village at a late night hour. One of them is Jamil Rizek al Khalili, and the other one is Issam Raufa alKhalili, cousins with ties to the organization, although there is no clear indication of their involvement in any military or terrorist activities.”
Meanwhile, Rafik, no longer anonymous, had reached the market and walked about between the shops. Josh, now wearing Bermuda shorts and a traveler’s backpack slung on his back, trudged his way after him in the Via Dolorosa street.
Rafik stopped at Abu Shukri’s famous restaurant to buy some hummus and warm pita bread. On his way back he bought the Al Quds newspaper and headed to the East Jerusalem central bus station.
He boarded the first bus going to Hebron.
Josh quickly mingled with the bus passengers, most of them falahin, peasants from the villages of Bethlehem and Hebron.
The ancient bus began to drive down Sultan Suleiman Street toward the Jaffa Gate. From there, it continued up the Hebron, passed the Solomon Pools and began to climb up toward Gush Etsion with its engine straining.
The bus driver signaled and began to pull over.
“He is about to get off,” Josh whispered carefully from inside the bus.
Rafik slid into the nearby wadi, crossed long terraces and began to climb toward a stone hut situated on the top of the hill.
The sound of clattering stones startled Jamil and he picked up his assault rifle.
“Ahlan wasahlan,” he welcomed Rafik, “how was the meeting?”
“Just fine. The man sounded very tense and serious. “We will get the explosives next week in the dead letter box we’ve agreed on.”
“Excellent,” Jamil said with satisfaction, “did anyone follow you?”
“No, no, I would have noticed,” he answered decisively.
“Are you sure?” Jamil insisted.
“Of course, I was just delayed for a few seconds at a checkpoint near Bab Al Amud, but it was merely a routine inspection. Many other people were detained with me,” said Rafik, using the Arabic name for Damascus Gate.
An observation squad, equipped with sophisticated surveillance equipment got off the vehicle and moved down a hidden route until making eye contact with the stone hut, then stopped and carefully placed a long range camera on the roof of a deserted stone structure and began to photograph the hut. While doing that, they studied the hut’s structure and all access routes leading to it.
Shin Bet headquarters informed the army commanding officer of Judea and Samaria with the intelligence, and he decided that the D
uvdevan special unit would be in charge of the operation. No one was surprised by his decision.
Since the first Intifada, the Palestinian uprising of 1987, the commando unit carried out numerous operation against senior terrorists and became one of the best counter terrorist unit operating in Judea and Samaria.
At 4 pm, the unit commanders already met with the Shin Bet Operations team leader and took a helicopter to the Hebron area to study the area.
Right after takeoff, they passed over the roofs of Tel Aviv; the last attack had left a dark spot in the center of the city, and a deep scar in the hearts of its inhabitants. The urban views quickly changed, the inhabited terrain gradually transformed into green vineyards.
As they arrived at the area, they made radio contact with the observation squad, “What’s up?” the Operations team leader asked.
“The two are inside. They prayed on the roof together an hour ago.”
“Be alert, we are getting closer,” he said and pointed his finger at the stone. The pilot began to draw closer to the hut.
“Turn back! Turn back!” a voice cried out on radio upon noticing Jamil was going up to the roof when hearing the sound of the helicopter. He held a rifle in his hand.
The pilot tilted the helicopter, took a sharp dive and disappeared from their eyes into the deep Wadi Guvrin.
“Land us here,” asked the team leader, “we can’t take any chances, he’s very alert now. Wanted terrorists behave like hunted animals and trust no one, not even their own families.”
The pilot raised his thumb and landed the helicopter in an open field; he kept its engines running, ready to take off.
The team crawled carefully until they could see the hut.
“We will get you to this point,” the team leader said,”and from here on, it’s all yours. Our observation squad will secure your route all the way to the hut and alert you if the two seem to suspect anything or appear to have discovered you. Any questions?”
“No,” answered Colonel R, the commander of the Duvdevan unit, who had begun to plan the hidden access route they would take to the hut and the positioning of the various forces. When he was finished, they returned to the helicopter.
The skies had already reddened with dusk by the time the helicopter took off. Beneath it, the lights of the Jewish settlements lit up, then the unfolding scene beneath sharply transformed into the brilliant nocturnal views of Tel Aviv.
Darkness descended on the area.
The observation squad activated their night-vision instruments.
The flickering light of a cigarette on the hut roof appeared like a brilliant light through the binocular’s sensitive lenses and helped them trace the location of the two. From that moment on, they kept an eye on them at all times and followed their every move.
The Duvdevan commando soldiers gathered in the club for a final briefing before the operation. It began with the Shin Bet Operations team leader, who told them about the possible connection between Jamil and the recent suicide bombing in Tel Aviv.
The soldiers nodded with their heads and looked at each other with excitement. Next to speak was Colonel “R,” who provided a detailed briefing, he emphasized the various ways in which the involved forces would be identified at night and finished with opening fire instructions.
He wished everyone good luck and dismissed the soldiers. They got into camouflaged vehicles and drove to the regrouping point.
The command post settled in the old Tegart British Police fort next to the junction.
Before departing, Colonel R performed one last radio check with the observation squad and then began moving, slowly and cautiously, toward his target.
Once in a while he stopped and examined the route with his night-vision binoculars.
“We have a visual,” the observation squad reported upon seeing the shadows of the commando soldiers.
“Give me an updated picture,” asked Colonel R.
“They are both on the roof, smoking, hold on… one has disappeared.” The squad moved the binoculars in an attempt to locate the man who got down, but to no avail.
The force became alert and its men crouched down to wait for further reports.
“He’s back. Now we clearly see both of them sitting on the roof,” the observation squad continued to report.
The soldiers rose and began to advance toward the splitting point.
“Wait! One of them stood up on the roof, he must have heard a noise coming from the valley.”
Colonel R kneeled down again and waited patiently. Surprise was crucial for the success of the mission.
“Now they are both standing on the roof.”
“They must have settled down and sat back,” they calmed Colonel R.
The force continued to advance slowly, careful not have stones slip from under the feet of the soldiers while moving in the wadi.
“Two hundred meters from target,” R updated the force and stopped to survey the hut, then he instructed his second in command to split the force according to the operation plan to surround the structure and position the snipers.
“In position,” the blocking team reported after a while.
“On target,” the snipers reported as well.
Colonel R began to approach the hut in a crawl.
“They’re on the roof, looking at the valley,” the observation squad warned and maintained real time updates, “they look nervous. They are suspecting something.”
“We stop,” the Colonel said.
“The two are holding rifles,” they reported.
“OK, we will be coming from their rear side,” the Colonel whispered and crawled slowly.
A stone rolled down the valley by one of the soldiers rolled like echo down the valley.
“You’ve been spotted”!” the observation squad screamed and simultaneously a long volley was fired from a Kalashnikov assault rifle.
“Someone is jumping from the roof!”
“Fire!”
The snipers opened fire.
A long rattle of submachine gun fire sounded, tracer bullets traced the path of the flying bullets, which smashed against the stone walls of the hut and ricocheted in every direction.
The cries of a wounded man sounded from the roof. First, these were deep groans of pain, but they gradually subsided until they died out completely.
A soldier fired an anti-tank rocket at the building, followed by another, until the structure collapsed and turned into a mound of shattered stones.
“Cease fire!” Colonel R called to all forces, “Status report.”
“No casualties,” they announced on the radio, one after the other.
R emitted a sigh of relief, “Put flares into the air,” he asked his second in command.
The whistle of a rolling shell followed, then the sound of an opening parachute and the flare swung back and forth in the air like a pendulum and illuminated the area with a faint light.
The soldiers ducked while R inspected the remains of the hut with his binoculars and ordered more flares.
“We had contact, no casualties. Asking permission to search the structure,” Colonel R reported to the command post.
“Negative. It is very dangerous. We’ll wait until daylight,” the command post replied.
The first light of dawn rose over the vineyard.
Gradually, the remains of the hut became visible to the eyes of the soldiers. From afar, they noticed the body of a terrorist sprawled on a mound of stones of the ruined hut. They carefully passed it, leaving it for the bomb disposal expert to handle.
The force continued and searched the rest of the structure. The soldiers left no stone unturned in their search for the second terrorist, to no avail.
Large blood spots traced his escape route.
“His walk is regular, but slow, it means that he didn�
�t suffer an injury to his leg,” said the scout and continued to move along the escape trail all the way to the Hebron road, where the tracks abruptly disappeared. “He boarded a vehicle here,” the scout determined.
Meanwhile, the bomb disposal expert finished checking the body and retrieved the identity card of the dead terrorist, “Rafik Hashem Abd a-Rahman,” he said.
“This is the man who participated in the secret meeting in Nablus,” Amos remembered.
With his arm bleeding from a sniper bullet wound, Jamil jumped from the roof and slipped into the wadi. From there, he barely managed to crawl his way to the road and lost consciousness. Drowsy, he woke up because of the scorching sunlight. With great difficulty, he stood up, climbed up to the road, stopped a passing Palestinian taxi and lay on the back seat.
The terrified driver tried to look in the mirror, but a curse hissed by Jamil made him return his eyes to the road with fright. At the outskirts of Tarqumiyah, Jamil left the taxi, not before warning the driver he will be a dead man if he ever opens his mouth. The terrified driver swore by Allah and his eldest son that he would never dream of doing so.
Jamil reached the waking town and headed to the stone house of Issam, his cousin who had committed suicide. The house was situated in the outskirts of the town and only a small pathway led to it. Sabra bushes and tall terraces surrounded it in every direction and it was apparent that its owner was yet to complete its construction. The barking of a dog welcomed him when he opened the heavy iron gate and Yasmina, who had just woken up to go to work.
“It’s Issam!” she rejoiced and hurried to open the door but she was disappointed to find Jamil, “Where is Issam?” she asked and looked beyond his shoulder, expecting to see her husband.
“Pray woman!” he told her shortly.
“Why should I?” she cried, “What happened to him?”
“Esteshhad,” he became a martyr, Jamil said indifferently.
“Shahid?!” A cry escaped her mouth, her shoulders shuddered.
Jamil dragged her quickly into the house, closed the iron gate and sat on a mattress spread on the floor. It was only then that he turned to look at his arm and saw that the bullets had not damaged any bones or muscles, but left open, bleeding exit wounds.
