The Jerusalem Gambit

by Jack Leman

  16- Thursday 08:00 am

  Near Gaza

  Ridwan felt happy driving the Mercedes on the Yitzhak Rabin Highway. The music was loud, with the volume turned up to on full blast. He had changed the original music set and replaced it with a system of 16 loudspeakers and woofers. He had been told that the new owner was a classical music lover. With this new setup, he should be able to hear a fly in the concert hall. Now the voice of the famous Turkish singer Ibrahim Tatlises flooded the car. Ridwan was also singing loudly, without restraint. He enjoyed it. He was going to Beit Hanoun in Gaza, to deliver the car to its new owner. It had been a good transaction. He was making nearly twenty thousand American dollars on this deal. It was the first time he was selling a car to the Sheikh of the powerful Samhadana clan. He had dealt with many patrician families in the past. He had sold a luxurious van to the Masri family who owned the only chain of supermarkets in Beit Hanoun, a Mercedes 500 to the Abu Amash family who traded in petrochemicals and owned gas stations in Gaza. The Samhadana clan specialized in the smuggling business. They owned and managed many underground tunnels from Rafah to Egypt in the south of Gaza, and as rumors had it, from Beith Hanoun to Israel. Besides doing their own smuggling business, they taxed the ones who wanted to use their tunnels. Ridwan was introduced to Mohammed Tubeel Al-Samhadana by Jamal, the young patriarch of the Abu Amash family, who had inherited his position when his father died of cancer. When Jamal refused to use his father’s car, Ridwan had sold him an overhauled Mercedes van, with a Bose music system and a B&O television system with a satellite dish on the roof. He had learned from Jamal that Mohammed Tubeel was very close to the Hamas organization, and that meant for Ridwan fresh business opportunities. Mohammed Tubeel had been less exigent and even detached when ordering the car. Ridwan had found a full option Mercedes S450 on sale from a French construction magnate in Tel-Aviv that didn’t need too much refurbishing. Mohammed had accepted the car as it was, at the price Ridwan had offered. It surprised Ridwan that there had been none of the usual bargaining. It was a good deal for him.

  He was near Sderot, the last city before Gaza. He took the exit to Markaz Erez and drove carefully. He didn’t want to get caught by the Israeli police for speeding. He turned off the music and stopped his Mercedes at the end of a lengthy queue of cars and trucks waiting to get clearance by the Israeli customs. It could take hours to get through, and only if the border was not suddenly closed because of some trouble in Gaza.

  His cell phone rang. It was his customer, Mohammed Tubeel. After asking where the car was at this moment, he told Ridwan to get out of the waiting line, park the car somewhere close, and wait for new instructions. Before Ridwan could answer, the line went dead.

  All the joy he had driving the car gave way to anger and then to anxiety. He did as he was told and parked the car close to the waiting line and waited for the phone call that would give him the new delivery instructions.

  It didn’t last long. This time it was a WhatsApp call. He impatiently answered the phone. It was again Mohammed.

  “Hey it’s me.”

  Ridwan felt a tremor of fear in Mohammed’s voice.

  “Yes, hello. What’s happening?” asked Ridwan, avoiding mentioning the name of his customer.

  “Change of plans. Unfortunately, I will have to change the whole transaction but let me assure you, I will pay you as agreed. I will give you new instructions and you must follow them to get the payment.”

  “Now, you drive as if you were going to Sderot, but at the first crossroad you turn right and take the road that runs parallel to the border, toward kibbutz Nahal Oz. You drive for four kilometers and you will see a dirt road on your right that goes uphill. Drive until you get to the quarry and wait there. Someone will come.”

  “What is this now?” said Ridwan, smelling some shady business.

  “I have been asked for a favor that I cannot refuse. It comes from the top. I can’t say more.” said Mohammed.

  Now Ridwan could hear distinctly the fear in the voice of his customer.

  ————

  Ridwan drove the Mercedes as he was told, and after four kilometers he saw an opening through the bushes and the dirt road.

  “Really shame for this car… I just hope I get paid…” Ridwan thought.

  He turned right and started driving on the dirt road which went up a hill. Almost at the top of the hill, cement blocks and barbed wire blocked the road. The Israeli army had blocked the entrance of the gravel quarry.

  He stopped and got out of the car and looked around. On the east side of the quarry he could see the Nir Am kibbutz and the water reservoir that carried the same name. Behind him, a hill was obstructing the view of Gaza, but he could guess he was very close to the border and the Nur-ad-Din Zinki highway, which crossed Gaza from north to south.

  He lit a cigarette and waited anxiously. An Israeli patrol could come anytime or, worse, a helicopter. He looked again at the blocked entry of the quarry and wondered why he had accepted to come to this spot.

  The sound of a broken branch snapped him to attention. Someone was coming.

  He put down his cigarette and turned towards the source of the noise. Two soldiers in fatigues emerged from the side of the road. They were armed. Ridwan thought it was a setup to kidnap him, or worse, to kill him. He started sweating. They were wearing the red badge of the Palestinian Islamic Jihad.

  “You must be Ridwan?” asked the youngest of the soldiers.

  He nodded.

  “Abu Dawan sent us. He asked us to pass his greetings to you.”

  “Thanks,” muttered Ridwan, too tense to talk. Abu Dawan was none other than the commander of the military arm of the PIJ.

  The soldiers had come from the other side of the border, through a tunnel that linked up with the quarry on the Israeli side.

  “He said you would understand, and that you should be honored to know that the time has come to prove your commitment to the Palestinian cause, as did your grandfather before the Zionists took our land.”

  Ridwan shivered and felt the goose bumps up to his scalp. He knew he would have to do what they tell him. Otherwise, even though he lived in Israel, they had their ways to make you pay.

  He met Abu Dawan on two occasions. The first time was about two years ago in Gaza, when he delivered a Mercedes van to a garage that would customize it and make it bulletproof. Abu Dawan arrived in an old Volkswagen van with six armed bodyguards to check his new acquisition and to check on the garage owner. He had then walked over to Ridwan and looked him up and down.

  “So, you must be Ridwan from the north!”

  Ridwan nodded.

  No handshake, nothing. After a moment of silence, he turned and left with his group of armed man.

  The second time was about a year ago. They had met at the house of his friend Jamal. He appeared by surprise. His armed bodyguards were already all over the house, checking even the women’s bedrooms. Jamal was standing in his living room, unable to protest.

  “Sit! Sit!” said Abu Dawan, as if owning the house and showing the sofas with his extended hands. They had amiably talked for a few minutes before he asked Jamal.

  “Do you mind if I talk in private to Ridwan for a few minutes?”

  Jamal had left, understanding when a polite request was in fact an order.

  That’s when Abu Dawan had disclosed his plan. It took almost an hour to explain his diabolical scheme.

  Half an hour later, he got up and signaled to his bodyguards they were leaving. This time, he took his hand and looked straight into his eyes.

  “Don’t forget that you are a Palestinian, Ridwan Maaloof.”

  Ridwan sourly remembered this meeting. A customer had involved him in a dangerous scheme, despite his survival instinct that kept him away from such people. So far, the plan had been on, and was going according to Abu Dawan predictions. They had been generous with their financing.

  The appearance of three more soldiers from the bushes startled him, and snapped him b
ack to the present. One of them was carrying a sports bag with something heavy inside, the second a tool satchel, the third, a wiry, tall man with a pockmarked face seemed to be the person in charge of the group.

  They opened the back door of the car and started working on dismantling the back seat. Meanwhile, the person in charge pulled Ridwan aside and gave him the message from Abu Dawan. It was about the second part of the plan.

  When the work on the car was finished, he inspected it, sat on the back seat, and nodded his approval. When they were all ready to leave, he handed Ridwan a large and thick envelope.

  An hour and a half later, Ridwan was on his way back home, to Tira, in the north. He was still shaking from the implications of the meeting at the quarry.

  17- Thursday 9:00 am

  Iranian Al Quds Intelligence HQ

  Damascus International Airport

  The ringing of the phone woke up Mirza Dogairi. He got up from the narrow military cot and reached for the phone on his desk, almost overturning a whisky glass remaining from last night. He covered his eyes from the light that came through the windows of the office. The curtains were not drawn. From the 11th floor of the Glass Tower he normally enjoyed the plunging view into the Damascus International Airport and the high-rise buildings of the city center, but at this moment he wished it was dark outside.

  “Yes,” he answered in a sleepy voice. He looked at his watch. Only 9 am. He had worked all night and only two hours had passed since he had finally taken a rest.

  The call was from the office of Colonel Latif Almasy-Sarraf of the Syrian Air Defense Intelligence. He lit a cigarette, hoping that it would clear his mind. While waiting for the secretary to put the colonel on line, Mirza realized that even the thought of talking to Latif irritated him. He didn’t appreciate the man with his airs of superiority and pompousness. More than once he had rebuked him in front of people, and even in front of his boss, and he had felt unable to divert his jabs and it hurt him. Once he had answered back and put the colonel in his place. Unfortunately, he forgot Latif had excellent relations with his superior, General Kassem Soleimani, of the Iranian Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps (IRGC). The news of his remarks had gone to the ear of Soleimani, and his boss had admonished him in very explicit terms to keep his feelings to himself and get on well with Latif. Business was business, and he had to make the effort.

  “Good morning, Colonel. I didn’t expect your call so early. What can I do for you?” he said, trying to clear his mind from last night’s clouds.

  Although he had lived in Lebanon and Damascus for many years, his Persian accent still betrayed him.

  “Good morning, Mirza,” said the colonel in a falsely jovial voice, “did I catch you in bed with one of your mistresses again, or what?”

  The colonel was not a man to joke with but he couldn’t hold himself and said, “At least I have many mistresses, Colonel.” The sarcasm didn’t go unnoticed. Latif cut short the small talk and went businesslike at once.

  “We have a truck with a ballistic missile unaccounted for since last night. I have sealed Damascus, but in case they got through I don’t want your Hezbollah friends in Lebanon, or even those in Syria, to get such a lovely toy. If such a thing happens, you’ll be the first to go to Lebanon to find it.”

  Mirza’s eyebrows shot up. Had he just been threatened by expulsion from Syria by this pompous puppet? He must be in a really difficult situation to talk like this, he thought before answering:

  “I’ll do the necessary, don’t worry, Colonel. I’ll get you the information by nightfall and we will all sleep well tonight.” As he pronounced these words, he realized he wasn’t sure if they would catch any sleep at all tonight.

  After the call, he helped himself to a cup of sugarless coffee, slumped in his oversized leather chair and played absentmindedly with the papers on his desk. If the Syrian, or the Lebanese Hezbollah were behind such a stunt and got themselves a missile, it would bring Iran face to face with President Assad. He would surely ask the Iranians to recover the missile, and that would require some arm bending and a lot of explanations and excuses. If it was some militia other than Hezbollah who got the missile, Assad might ask them to lead and organize an operation to get back the missile. The recapture would require very sophisticated planning. He doubted his staff had the capacity at the moment for such an operation when his best troops had their hands full with the battles in the north of Syria. He didn’t trust the Syrian secret services and specifically Colonel Latif for helping the Iranians. Latif would relish putting the blame of a failure on the Iranians to protect his own position and that of his organization. In the larger scope of power distribution in the Middle East, if the hijackers cornered Israelis into an offensive position, Assad and the Iranians would dread opening another front with Israel. They had enough problems with the Kurds and the Turks who had made a surprise invasion in the northern part of Syria. If the missile was in the hands of a rogue militia, and he hoped not, all the players in Syria would end up paying a steep price.

  He got up and served himself another cup of American coffee, which was brewing on a side table. He was a fan of Turkish coffee, but the preparation was complicated, or he had to ask someone from the office to make the coffee. So, he got his daily dose of caffeine from the Americanos, and drank it without restraint. He drank Turkish coffee after his meals, when they served it to him. His body needed the caffeine to function.

  He dialed the number of the commander of the Hezbollah forces in Syria, who was his childhood friend. It took him a few calls to reach him.

  “Hey Darib! Are you still in the same bordello as last time?” he said in a joking tone. He knew his friend was a devout Muslim, but that he cleverly bent the religious rules. When he went hunting for easy women, he always brought with him the Imam of the Brigade. The Imam’s mission was to make a Mutah marriage between the whore and Darib. All it took was a few sentences to pronounce and, for the good part of it, the marriage was considered temporary as long as the parties agreed to its duration beforehand. When he ended his business with the whore, he just had to repeat three times to her face the words “I divorce you,” and the trick was done. Mutah marriages were commonly used in Iran.

  “Darib listen. I cannot talk openly on this unsecured line, but I want you to secure the border with Lebanon as quickly as possible. I want every roadblock manned, and I want to be the first to know if a red Seles Fruit Juice truck with a white van goes through a roadblock. As long as they remain on Syrian soil, I don’t want your men to stop the truck but to discover where they are headed and where they are hiding. I hope they don’t attempt to cross the border, but if they do, stop them, preferably without damaging the truck and its cargo.”

  The line went silent.

  “A fruit juice truck? What are you after, my friend?”

  Mirza didn’t take the bait and continued.

  “Syrian troops will be looking for the truck as well, but I want to find the truck before them. It’s important.”

  “Yes, Mirza, I understand.” he answered. From the strain in the voice of his friend, he understood he was dead serious.

  “Send me the details by WhatsApp, but in the meantime, I will do the necessary.”

  Mirza ended the call with Darib and thought he was lucky; his efforts to have him promoted to commander had succeeded. He had played with the greed and the egos of the authorities and secured his promotion to this post. Now he knew he could rely on him. After all, he still had the power to take him down anytime, and he knew Darib was aware of that. He knew Darib would take his request seriously, put aside whatever he is doing, and take all the measures needed. He had already proved in the past he was an obedient soldier.

  18-Thursday 9:30 am

  Mossad HQ

  Tel Aviv

  Arie knocked on the door and entered without waiting to be invited. “Oded!” He called to get the attention of his superior. Mossad was a civilian organization, but most of the staff had extended military experienc
e, and Oded Haim as a reserve Major in the IDF was no exception. Oded ran the Collections Division, the largest division of Mossad, which collected information from all over the world with efficacy. The protocol was very easygoing, and it was not uncommon that minor clerks addressed their superiors by their first name. In the past, dark pants with white or blue shirts had been the dress code. At some point they admitted jeans on Thursdays, but now it became the most common outfit of the division. They were the envy of the whole Mossad. But this relaxed mood didn’t change the fact that they dealt with very serious, even deadly stuff on a daily basis.

  Oded took his eyes off the document he had in his hand and took off his glasses, “What?!”

  “We are getting increasing communications traffic from the Syrian Air Force Defense Intelligence. Something important is happening. We are waiting for the translated text. You better come!”

  They rushed to a desk in the operations room, which was filled with computer screens. One monitor showed a graphical view of the communications volume. The line pointed upwards, illustrating an unusual increase of chatter from the Syrian Mukhabarat.

  Oded and Arie looked intently over the shoulder of a young operator. He looked as if he had been fresh out of college, but he had great qualifications for his job. Besides having a computer engineering degree from the Technion University in Haifa, as most of the people hired by Mossad, he was also fluent in Arabic. He was busy typing on his keyboard.

  “So?” Oded looked impatiently at Arie, “I can see the increased traffic but it’s no use if we don’t know what it’s about…”

  “A minute, please…” mumbled the operator, making a sign with his fingers joined upwards. It meant wait-a-moment in the Israeli street language.

  As soon as the print-out of the report was ready, Oded picked it up and read: “Level 2 alert is declared for all troops in southern and western sectors of Damascus. All roadblocks must be reinforced with extra troops. A Seles Fruit Juice truck carrying dangerous materials and a white van are to be apprehended without shooting or damaging the truck. Advise immediately of any progress.”