The Shahid's Widow

by Danny Bar

  “Well done,” the head of the Shin Bet commended him.

  The head of Judea moved on to the next image, “We have forty-four pounds of RDX explosives hidden in a large piece of meat in the butcher shop.”

  “Is this the stuff I approved for delivery?” asked the head of the Shin Bet.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What about the other sixty-six pounds, then?

  “We don’t know.”

  “That’s not good,” he muttered with concern and looked at each of the participants, what do we do next?”

  A long and heated discussion ensued. Each participant tried to suggest his own methods for solving the problematic situation.

  The head of the Shin Bet heard them out patiently and asked his bureau chief to write down a summary of the discussion:

  “Top Secret

  Subject: Suicide Bombing

  The head of the Judea department provided details of the operation.

  The participants made suggestions for obtaining better intelligence coverage of Jamil.

  The head of Operations outlined a plan whose details had been separately approved by the head of the Shin Bet.

  Here are the instructions for continuing the operation:

  We will make no arrests, so we can continue and supervise Jamil’s contacts.

  An attempt will be made to recruit Yasmina as soon as possible.

  We will issue a general warning to the IDF and the police, informing them of the intention to carry out a suicide attack without actually mentioning Jamil’s name.

  Taken by: Bureau Chief.”

  Following a brief deliberation, Amos chose The Magic Flute for the operation of drafting Yasmina. It wasn’t just the nightly conversations he’d had with the agent that made him think he’d be suitable for the task, but mainly the profile created by the Shin Bet psychologist, based on reports from local agents. The psychological profile portrayed Yasmina as an unusual young woman who did not fit in with her environment, full of personal charm, a woman who liked to break new ground, sharply intelligent, a non-conformist, and mainly, an adventurer. The psychologist determined that the man who would have the best chances of conquering her heart would be independent, sharp-minded, rebellious and authoritative, a man who would break away from convention and live his life in constant opposition with the society in which he grew.

  When he first heard of the idea, “The Magic Flute,” burst out laughing. It was a late night hour and he thought it was Amos’ fatigue that had made him come up with such a suggestion.

  “You want me to contact her? Where? How? You are confused, this woman is a daughter of Arabia. She is not some Jewish girl going out on a date with her boyfriend.”

  “Ya habibi, there’s only one person in the world who could pull this off, and it’s you! Allah has blessed you with all the necessary qualities,” Amos smiled and clapped his agent’s shoulder.

  “You are meddling with destiny, with the naseeb itself, it is for the almighty Allah alone to determine such things.”

  “Who knows, perhaps Allah himself had matched her to you on the day she was born. Sometimes, we only have the task of fulfilling his commands,” Amos smiled to him.

  “This is the first time I’ve heard such an argument,” he laughed aloud. But the more Amos continued with his flattering descriptions, the more curious did The Magic Flute become. A fiery spark ignited in his eyes, “She sounds like a girl after my own heart, as though I have been waiting for her all those years. Where is she staying?”

  “She spends her evenings in the family mourning tent.”

  “I’ll go there, after all, her husband is Shahid, and all those who appreciate his act of bravery have an obligation to console his mourning father,” he said.

  Amos said nothing. Only while making his way home, driving down the dark roads leading from Hebron to Jerusalem, that he thought back about the words said by The Magic Flute, referring to Issam’s act as one of bravery.

  Did he really mean it? Did he consider the killing of innocent citizens an act of bravery? Where is the line drawn between an agent’s loyalty to me and his loyalty to his people?

  Amos was confused.

  I am a Palestinian, he finally reminded himself, not a Zionist, so why do I feel so disappointed?

  Close to Bethlehem he became nervous. His eyes searched deep into the darkened road with suspicion, weary of an ambush. He was relieved only upon reaching the outskirts of the city.

  The next day, he gave The Magic Flute the go ahead and at 4:00 pm the agent was already driving his jalopy to Issam’s father’s house for a mourning visit.

  The large mourning tens stood in the yard of the house. Issam’s father sat inside, his back hunched, his eyes ashen. He stared into space and did not seem to take any particular interest in the consoling words of the people flowing into the tent. The mourning period, which was nearing its end, had drained him of any feelings of pain and sadness. He was tired of hearing about his son the Shahid and his contribution to the Palestinian people. He felt an urge to cry out: “Give me back my son!” knowing that he never could. People expected him to act like the father of a Shahid, not like one who had lost his son, but he found no consolation in his son’s actions, he even felt angry at him, “Oh Lord!” he emitted a mournful cry from the bottom of his heart.

  Yasmina sat on the porch with the women, bored sick of their idle talk about the qualities of a new fabric that had reached the fabric store in the center of the village, or a sack of rice brought from the Far East.

  “It swells this much!” one of the women motioned with her thumb.

  Yasmina left the porch to serve the guests cups of bitter coffee, as was customary during the mourning period. She placed them on the small tables and quickly exited the tent, avoiding the eyes of all the guests.

  Suddenly, she felt her cheeks flush red. The man sitting beside Issam’s father was the one who drew her attention. He was different from all the others, she had clearly noticed that, perhaps it was his gaze which had stung her face, or maybe his blue eyes. There was something wild about him that made her heart skip a beat. His golden locks, his sunburned skin, the stubble of his beard, these all made her unable to remove her eyes from him.

  The cup of coffee she was about to serve him rested for in her hand, until he sent his hand to take it, unintentionally touching her fingers. She did not know if it was the warm coffee or the touch of his hand that had made a pleasant warmth spread through her body.

  “Tislam idek,” he blessed the hands that served the coffee, keeping his eyes on her.

  He’s a stranger, she thought, he neither looks like a falah, peasant, nor a student. It was hard for her to determine what made him so different from all the villagers who had flocked to the tent during the first days of the mourning. From her place on the porch, she continued to follow his movement; the talk of the other women around her had turned into an irksome buzzing sound, and she sought an excuse to get back to the tent.

  “Who is that man?” she cautiously asked Issam’s younger sister.

  “How should I know?” the latter answered rudely and placed both hands on her hips teasingly. Yasmina was startled by her reaction and returned to sit among the women, but the occasional looks Khalil gave her did not escape her eyes. She straightened her gaze at him. Will he think me to be ill-mannered? By all means, let him! She defiantly stared back at him and did not desist until Issam’s mother scolded her aloud and made her lower her head in panic.

  Khalil laughed aloud, but immediately fell silent in the face of the amazed expressions on the faces of the mourners surrounding him.

  Toward evening, Yasmina prepared to leave, but not before giving Khalil one last look.

  Back in her house, she stood by the window to look at the narrow path leading to Issam’s house. A short while later, she saw Khalil slowly walking towar
d the main road, but dared not go out to meet him, not even when he lingered for a while, in an attempt to start his car.

  All through that night, his gaze haunted her. In the morning, her friends on the bus wondered about the nature of the mysterious look on her face.

  “Good morning, Yasmina,” they greeted her in a chorus. “A morning of flowers and jasmine,” she greeted them back with a mischievous smile, her eyes aglow. They no longer had any doubts.

  “Yasmina is in love…” cried Fatma and clasped her hands.

  11

  Sniper was an agent any handler would be happy to have. He had all the qualities necessary for a good agent. He was brave and fearless, even in the most suspicious and dangerous of environments. His self-confidence had rescued him from numerous dangerous situations. Furthermore, he was quick to make friends and knew how to earn people’s trust.

  It was no wonder, then, that Sniper’s relationship with his handler were intimate and open. They spoke of everything under the sun. The handler shared all the considerations regarding decisions that were relevant to his agent, and even the possible related dangers resulting from them. True, this wasn’t always possible and often brought a crisis in the relationship between the two. Being highly experienced, the handler knew that such crises were a natural part of working with an agent and always solved them intelligently. The two emerged from each crisis stronger; the agent’s motivation to continue and work grew, and with it, his loyalty to his handler.

  The handler did not settle for that and often checked the agent’s loyalty, mostly without him even noticing. To his request, his desk officer cross-referenced information coming from other agents who reported about Sniper’s activities, without ever imagining that Sniper himself was an agent of the Shin Bet.

  Much to the handler’s delight, their reports fit like a glove with the reports given by Sniper himself during their meetings.

  The handler was proud of that operation. After all, he was the one who had located him and initiated the attempt to draft him as early as Sniper’s days as a junior clerk working for the terrorist organization’s archive in Beirut.

  Back then, he had been in charge of registering all new members joining the organization. He opened a personal file for each of them, which included a form with their names, address in Palestine, codename, and terrorist activities they participated in before joining the organization.

  This was not the future Sniper had imagined for himself while dreaming of joining the munazzamat, the terrorist organizations operating in Beirut. He had always imagined himself leading a terrorist squad moving at night through Wadi A’sal, which was bounded by steep banks, offering a perfect cover for those moving through it. If they would be lucky enough not to have been spotted by the Israeli Army, they’d break into an Israeli settlement in the northern part of the country and take hostages.

  Abu Raid, the man who drafted him to the organization, had a different idea in mind, and stationed him in a minor position until he could get to know him better. He definitely could not picture the new recruit conducting a firm hostage negotiation with the IDF forces for the release of terrorists imprisoned in Israel.

  He knew how tough the Israelis were and how they used a team of experts to break their spirits and bring about the release of the hostages without any compensation.

  Being locked up inside an office broke Sniper’s spirit, and so, the Israeli’s daring address to him had come at a perfect timing, just when he had considered leaving the organization.

  His cousin invited him to spend a vacation in nearby Cyprus, “On my expense,” his cousin promised and Sniper enthusiastically agreed. It was just what he needed.

  Following a few days of vacationing fully sponsored by the Israel Secret Service, his cousin offered him to work for the Israelis.

  “They think you are wasting your time and skills there. The organization does not realize your true worth. The Israelis think you deserve more than simply being a clerk, he said, and Sniper’s eyes suddenly brightened.

  “They are right, that is exactly how I’ve been feeling for a very long time. I’ve come here to liberate our homeland, not to file forms in some moldy archive,” answered Sniper enthusiastically, “but wait a minute, how do they even know about me?” he wondered.

  “They have been following you for quite some time, they even know your organization code name.”

  “They can’t possibly know that, it is a top secret codename, known to few.”

  “Is your codename Abu Tafesh?”

  Sniper drew silent and gave his cousin a long look, “’That’s right,” he admitted, “that is my codename. And you, what about you? Are you working with them too?”

  His cousin avoided giving him a straight answer, “They knew we are cousins, so they asked if I would be willing to initiate communication between you and them.”

  “And did they tell you what they want me to do for them? I am merely a junior clerk at an archive,” he said apologetically.

  “All they said was that they wouldn’t ask you to do anything that would endanger you.”

  “And money?”

  “I asked them. They said that money comes and goes, while they are offering you something much bigger than money, they are offering you the opportunity of playing a larger part in the scheme of things, doing things that not many people can do, only the few, exceptional individuals possessing the courage and intelligence to do them. They are offering you an opportunity of being one of those who can actually influence everything that is happening in our area. That is what they said, but I swear by Allah, I did not understand what they meant.”

  Sniper straightened in his chair and a smile spread on his face, “I think I do know what they mean, sometimes by chance I file letters written by the ‘Rais’ himself, and I knew about all the planned operations against Israel.”

  “Walla?” his cousin marveled, “I had no idea you were that important.”

  “Where are those people now?”

  “Waiting for a phone call from me.”

  “I’m willing to hear what they have to offer, but I don’t promise you anything.”

  “All right, go to the pool and I’ll go and meet them.”

  In the meeting with the man who recruited him, Sniper accepted the offer. After a quick training period, he returned to Beirut equipped with a tiny camera to photocopy the documents in the files.

  Over the course of long hours, he had photocopied all the files kept in the organization’s huge archive. He transferred the vast amount of information by placing it in a dead letter box located in Avenue Général de Gaulle, by the Beirut beach, not far from the small island of Pigeons’ Rock.

  More than once, he’d had to postpone hiding the material in the dead letter box because of the presence of lovers, looking for a hiding place for their lovemaking. Finally, he asked his Israeli handlers and the dead letter box traveled half a mile southward, to a junction in which de Gaulle Avenue connects with Corniche el-Mazraa.

  Before long, Sniper had managed to photocopy the entire archive, and a copy of it was kept in the Shin Bet’ basement.

  This was a highly kept secret, shared only by only a handful of employees, and even small number of those had the necessary security clearance to access it.

  At Tel Aviv headquarters, it was decided to reward the agent for his great accomplishment. One stormy winter night, he was secretly brought to Israel and in the presence of senior Israel security officials, was given the rank of major in the Israeli intelligence services. He was the happiest of men. He could not stop touching the metal bars and looked at them.

  After the ceremony, his handler took him to a luxurious Tel Aviv restaurant and on the next day, he took him on an Air Force helicopter to enjoy the views of the country.

  Before his return to Beirut, he parted from the bars with a heavy heart and handed them to his handlers so t
hey would keep them in a safe.

  “We will keep them here, for your own safety, of course,” his handler told him, “and I have another surprise for you,” he smiled and gave him a deposit slip for two hundred thousand dollars deposited in a bank account opened under Sniper’s own name in Europe. “Your contribution to peace in the area cannot be measured with money, it is larger than any imaginable sum, but this money will at least offer you some financial stability,” his handler explained to him.

  Several years later, the Palestinian organization’s headquarters relocated from Beirut to Tunis. Sniper found himself out of the organization.

  His Israeli handlers instructed him to relocate to Jordan. He was asked to grow a beard and visit a mosque in Jabal Amman every day. During his visits in the place, he mingled with operatives of the Muslim religious organization and drew their attention. Soon enough, these drafted him into their ranks and because of his intimate familiarity with the terrain in which he had grown up in Palestine, appointed him as an instructor responsible for the training of all terrorist squads in Judea and Samaria.

  ~

  Amos vigilantly waited for the call informing him that Sniper had crossed the Allenby Bridge. In order to save precious time, Amos waited for him on the outskirts of the road leading from Jericho to Jerusalem.

  Amos intercepted him on the part of the road going up to Jericho and led him to a desolate area close to the St. George’s Monastery in the Judea desert.

  Sniper was impatient; he skipped the mutual greetings and immediately said, “Amar, that’s the man I am to meet.”

  “Amar, who? Why don’t you start at the beginning; just tell me everything!” Amos scolded him affectionately.

  “There’s no time, ya Abu Ghazall, I need to meet him at three o’clock.”

  “And who is he? What do you know about him?”

  “He is the man I must train for a terrorist attack.”