The Jerusalem Gambit

by Jack Leman

  “That’s very interesting. I didn’t know that at all. What about the man she had an affair with? Who was he?”

  Nomi sipped her tea and tucked back a rebel forelock. She would tell the story at her own pace.

  “Farid was killed in an attack he had organized on a kibbutz. Before her mourning was over, Aisha’s father died, and she became the first female Mukhtar of Abu Ghosh. She did her best to have good relations with Anavim, increase the partnership in the wine business with them, and did her best to protect the Jews from Palestinian terrorists, putting her own life in danger on many occasions. She established unusually good relations with Mika, the director of the kibbutz.”

  “My great-grandmother seems to be quite a woman.”

  “Yes, she really was. When I first came to Anavim, I used to be friends with Mika Cohen’s twin boys, Tamir and Avi. They both courted me. And when I first met your grandfather, it surprised me to see that he had some uncanny resemblance to Mika’s twins.”

  “What are you telling me…?”

  “Yes, Aisha’s twins and Mika’s twins were half-brothers.”

  “After the independence of Israel, when I started dating your grandfather, Tawfiq, his twin brother, disappeared, and he never came back to Abu Ghosh. Your father told me once that he had probably followed in his father’s footsteps and died in a terrorist group fighting against Israel. He didn’t come to our wedding, he didn’t come when his mother Aisha died, and he didn’t give a sign when his brother, your grandfather Rami, died.”

  Nomi shrugged and made a helpless sign with her hands.

  Naama was speechless. That meant her grandfather’s father was Jewish. That could be the reason he married a Jewish woman, lived in a Jewish village and raised his children as Jews. That answered many questions she had been grappling with all her life. That meant her parents had cousins in Anavim. She had probably grown up playing with their children without knowing they were, in fact, family.

  “There are suddenly so many questions I want to ask you, but I don’t know where to start. But what happened to the twins?”

  “I told you about Aisha’s twins, Rami and Tawfiq. I heard one of Mika’s twins, Tamir, was high placed in the Mossad and the other twin, Avi, was the commander of an elite group of the Israeli Air Force. I think he died not long ago.”

  “Oh, the last time I saw Tamir, it was many years ago; it was at the prayers for his father’s death in Anavim. He told me Tawfiq had a son, Latif, and that he was at the top of the list of Israel’s most wanted terrorists. Another of the Abu-something crazy PIJ people doing his best to destroy Israel. Can you imagine, three generations of terrorists coming from our sister village! I am sure if Aisha was alive she would have died of shame.”

  42-Saturday 3:30 pm

  PIJ

  Gaza

  They arrived one by one, silently, on their guard like cats ready to attack prey. They hid their faces behind their black-and-white checkered keffiyehs. Although they lived every day with the fear of getting caught, or worse, getting killed, they knew that having so many PIJ officers in one room was an enormous risk they were taking. Shin Bet and its spies were on their necks, and if just one of them was followed, or if one of them had given information that such a meeting was being held, in one swift movement Shin Bet could decapitate the whole PIJ.

  It hurt the militants deeply that fellow Arabs from Gaza would finger them to the Zionists, but that was part of the realities of their underground lives. They enjoyed the support of only a small minority in Gaza. Groups faithful to Hamas, to the PLO, to Fatah, or to other small splinter factions were on each other’s throats, and any of them were ready to sell them out to the Israelis to become more powerful.. The PIJ took revenge on them, but the spiral of violence continued. The PIJ militants prided themselves as the only group taking the war on to Israeli soil and the only group that fought against the Zionists from Gaza, from Syria and from Lebanon. They regarded the other Palestinian groups as weak and corrupted by the amount of money pouring in from the Gulf Emirates and from Muslim communities around the world.

  The room was silent, and the tension rose as three bodyguards entered the room and looked at each of the participants as if they were guilty of something. Two of them towered over the audience, and one of them went out. In a moment, Abu Dawan, the fierce commander of the military arm of the PIJ, entered the room. He hugged each of his lieutenants with a friendly word. He was like a father to them. They sat on the floor in a semicircle, facing him.

  Abu Dawan opened the meeting with the usual prayer “Bismillahrahmanrahim”, the prayer that invoked the name of God. It was customary to say it before starting any activity, implying whatever was being done was done in the name of God and by His will. The lieutenants brought their right hands to their hearts and repeated the prayer.

  “We will keep this meeting short for obvious reasons.” They were all aware of the Israeli danger. “Tomorrow we will have a daylight launch of rockets. I want you to be ready for the attack tonight. We will use all the launch pads we have in Gaza and the ones hidden in the tunnels Hamdi, Alaf and Rana.” Each tunnel arriving on Israeli soil carried a name. “I don’t want any misfiring or accidents. Call your men and make sure your material is functioning properly.”

  “The tunnel teams will sleep by the rockets. The launching orders for the tunnel boys will be given by the landline phones.” Because cell phones were out of coverage underground, they had equipped each tunnel with its own telephone line; a switchboard covering all the tunnels operated on the Gazan side of the tunnels.

  “This will be the biggest coordinated attack ever made against the Zionists. It will be the first one where we will launch rockets from Gaza, from Israeli soil, and from a friendly Arab country. The Jews are in for a good surprise.”

  The junior lieutenants in the room looked at each other with big smiles and visible pride in taking part in an operation of this scale.

  “Once you receive your orders on your burner phones, don’t forget to destroy them. Make sure you destroy the SIM cards as well before leaving the launching sites; you don’t want to get caught because you forgot it in your pocket. Please take all the precautions as we have taught you to do, and make sure not to get caught by the Zionists, this is a very important operation. If you get caught, you know the drill: you don’t talk to the Zionists for at least 72 hours to give us time to disappear, and the PIJ will take care of your families. They will receive a monthly salary of four thousand shekels for as long as you are in prison and benefit from free medical care and free schooling for those of you who have children. If by God’s will you become a martyr, on top of what I just said, the family will receive the sum of fifteen thousand American dollars. We, the PIJ, take pride to look after our members and their families. Tomorrow morning, I will contact each of you personally and I will give you your launching orders. Questions?”

  “Once we have launched the rockets, do we reload and launch again?” asked a lieutenant who looked like an adolescent boy.

  “No,” said Abu Dawan, “After having launched your rockets, you will put back the camouflage covers and disappear as quickly as possible from the launch sites. I hope there will be some wind to dissipate the smoke and vapors from the launch. Run to your families and stay with them. Don’t forget to change your clothes because you don’t want to carry the smell of the rocket fumes. Tunnel boys, you will carry back the launch pads in the tunnels and make sure you erase all the marks you left on the ground. Before you come back to our side, don’t forget to booby trap the entrances and the tunnels themselves. Then run to your families and stay with them.”

  “Any more questions?”

  “No. All right then, let’s pray together…”

  They formed two lines and prayed together while the bodyguards were watching their backs.

  After the prayers, the lieutenants bid farewell to their commander and, one by one, disappeared onto the busy streets of Gaza.

  “Daoud, stay for a momen
t,” said Abu Dawan. When they were all gone, the two of them stared at each other and smiled.

  “The glory day has arrived, Abu Dawan! May God grant us victory over the Zionists?”

  “Yes… inshallah… Daoud, are your missile batteries ready?”

  “Yes, Abu Dawan, we are ready, and we have followed your instructions rigorously. The computer program worked perfectly. We entered the data, and it gave us the aiming solution. I hope some of them will pass through their defenses.”

  “And the Iranian guy?”

  “He will not be a risk after the operation, Abu Dawan. Don’t worry.”

  “May God be with us.” said Abu Dawan.

  Then he hugged his son with emotion and, looking into his eyes, he asked his forgiveness for any mistakes he had made or shortcomings he had as an inadequate father. When he got his forgiveness, Abu Dawan nodded in good conscience to his bodyguards, but just before leaving the room, he changed his mind.

  “Let’s talk for a minute.” He said as he pulled down Daoud to the bare floor. Once they were seated face to face, he observed his son, his bushy beard, and crazy hair. He realized he looked much like his own father.

  “You know Daoud, I am already past the age of playing these games and I hope after this attack I will finally retire in a secret place, but with my name inscribed in gold in the hearts of the Palestinian people and die peacefully in my bed. I think I deserve that much. But before I disappear, there are two things I want you to know.”

  Daoud had never heard his father address him in so many words.

  “The first is that I recommended you to the Committee for the post of Commander-in-Chief of Gaza, and they have accepted it. Soon you will receive an official confirmation from them.”

  He was surprised and deeply moved. He didn’t expect so much from his father. He couldn’t utter a word.

  “The second thing I have to tell you is more delicate. You carry in your veins the blood of my grandfather Farid Muallimi and my father Tawfiq, God bless their souls, who both gave their lives for the Palestinian cause. But from your grandmother’s side you also carry Abu Ghosh blood, which is an honor on its own. But the same glorious family betrayed us all when Grandmother Aisha gave her benediction for my father’s twin brother Rami, may he rot in hell, to move to a Jewish village and marry a Jewish immigrant. Your grandfather Tawfiq refused to see him or talk to him after his betrayal. My grandmother and uncle put a great shame on our family, and I hope my dedication to our cause and the victories I have achieved cleared our name and honor.”

  Abu Dawan stopped and regained his breath.

  “Daoud, my son, you will be the fourth generation of fighters to carry our name with honor. I expect from you that you will be worthy of this honor; may you run from victory to victory and always make the name of our family shine in the eyes of the Palestinian people. May God be with you. Inshallah.”

  He hugged his son to hide the tears on his cheeks, brusquely got up, and left the room.

  43- Saturday 4:30 pm

  Ras al-Ayn

  30km West of Damascus

  Rashida was still shaken from yesterday’s face-to-face with Said, and full of respect for her father-in-law. The altercation had been the major subject of the inhabitants of Ras al-Zayn, and embellished versions circulated wildly.

  She was busy preparing tonight’s dinner in the kitchen with her mother-in-law. The children played with a ball in the courtyard and were rising dust over the drying laundry. Her father-in-law was praying in his room, deaf to the noise the children made.

  “Rashida, these cucumbers will soften soon; we better put them in brine before it’s too late.” Said Janan, her mother-in-law.

  “Ok, let’s do that. Here is what is left of the brine.”

  “I am afraid it’s not enough. Why don’t you go and get a bucketful, we could also use it for the cabbage and the carrots?”

  Rashida took her apron off, and with the bucket in her hand, walked to the warehouse. She was happy when she saw her children play with such enthusiasm and innocence. She pushed open the door.

  ————

  While washing the cucumbers, Janan thought she was lucky to have such a daughter-in-law as Rashida. She was even more loyal than a daughter could be. Ghassan is very lucky too, she thought; may God give him the opportunity to enjoy his family, she prayed. She heard Rashida come back from the warehouse and turned to face her.

  She had the bucket in her hand, but it was empty. She had a haggard look on her face, and there were large dark stains on her dress that looked like dried blood. She left what she was doing and rushed to take her in her arms.

  “Rashida, what happened to you? What are these stains? Come sit.”

  She called her husband who arrived immediately when he heard the alarm in her wife’s voice. He was shocked by the white face of Rashida.

  “What happened Rashida?” He had already in mind that yesterday’s young idiot did something to Rashida that would end in a bloodbath.

  Janan cleaned Rashida’s face with a wet cloth, and she seemed to gather some color.

  “He was waiting for me,” she said in a low voice, “at the warehouse. He pushed me inside and closed the door. He wanted revenge for his loss of face. When I tried to resist, he hit me, and shoved me in a corner. He tried to rape me.”

  Janan was horrified; Sahab was already thinking of cutting the young idiot’s throat to save the honor of his family. The PIJ fighters would not remain indifferent; there would be more bloodshed.

  Rashida seemed to wake up.

  “Come, we have to go to the warehouse, we have to get rid of the body.”

  “Get rid of the body? Then he didn’t rape you?”

  “No, he didn’t. When I fell, I found a wrench on the floor and I hit him until he didn’t move anymore. Let’s go.”

  Rashida seemed to move with a newly found energy. She and Sahab got to the warehouse. The young fighter, or what remained of him, lay in a pool of his own blood, his head a mash of red and white.

  “I have an idea,” said Rashida. “Get the winch.”

  She attached the hook to the harness of the soldier and lifted him slowly and moved the body over a plastic olive container which was empty. She lowered him on the rim of the container and unhooked the harness. The body slid with a loud thump in the container. Sahab gave her the gun which was still standing against the wall, and she threw it in the container. Everything had to disappear.

  “Now turn on the valve for the brine and let’s fill the container.” said Rashida in a composed voice.

  “My God,” thought Sahab, “this girl is made of steel!”

  After washing the blood from the floor with a pressure hose, they went back home, cleaned up, and waited to see if there was going to be any reaction from the PIJ thugs.

  44- Saturday 6:00 pm

  Mossad HQ

  Tel Aviv

  PM Segeli weighed the options presented to him by the members of the National Security Council. He knew each of them well, some of them he could even call friends. But he knew that each of them had his own agenda; they were true politicians. He never doubted their patriotism, but he knew that whatever they did was first calculated in the number of votes they could extract from the situation. The soldiers around the table were different. The Chief of Staff was always for harsher military operations and was convinced it was the only way to save the country; the air defense people thought their aircrafts were the most important part of the military; the army thought they were the pillars of the war effort; the secret service people thought their intelligence was more important than the military. The representatives of the religious parties thought it was their prayers that saved the country from any trouble and that it was the only way to prevent another conflict. And he, as Prime Minister, he had to make a synthesis of all these contradicting motivations, and then calculate his own interest in how it would influence his re-election. It was a job of a juggler.

  But today they had a common pre
occupation, and he hoped they would put all politics aside. The report of the IAIG and the Mossad had been alarming. In Gaza something was in preparation; in the north there was a missile threat; Jerusalem was expecting the visit of many bigshots for the following day’s ceremony. For a government that would quit in two days, it was a lot of responsibilities to manage.

  IAIG’s General Amit was on the screen. He had enumerated the options to take out the missile. If they took it out where it was hiding at the moment they would face a worldwide reprimand for massacring civilians. If they tried to get the missile when it was high in its trajectory, high altitude defense systems became inaccurate, and the chances of missing were high. If they tried to take the missile when it was falling down, again the percentage of a hit was low because of the supersonic speed of the falling missile. If we missed high in the trajectory, missed on middle altitude, all we had left was the Iron Dome. For the Iron Dome to work against a ballistic missile they had to fire a thick salvo of many rockets, but again the velocity of the missile increased the risks of failure.

  The idea came from the most unexpected person, the civilian member of the NSC. Yosi Shapira whispered.

  “Why don’t we then take out the missile right after they launch it, before it reaches a high altitude?”

  After a silence, General Amit spoke:

  “Theoretically, we could do that. But it has to be executed within a very narrow window of opportunity. We have to coordinate the launching of our interceptor so it can take out the ballistic missile within the first 20 seconds after its launching. After that, it’s too late. We could try to shoot an airborne missile, but we have to get an airplane in the launching pad’s vicinity. I am against launching a missile on Syria from within the Israeli territory because, even if we hit the missile, the Syrians will consider it as an unprovoked attack on their country and complain to the U.N. Security Council. Not that we care much about that, but if we want to get it done, we have to be present there when the missile is launched.”