The Danger Within

by E. L. Pini

  The sound of rolling thunder rose once again from his phone.

  “Motherfuckers,” rumbled the Colonel. “The kid… Yuval, he lost an eye.”

  My impression of Yuval was of a skilled, decisive young man—he was Eran’s age. They might have even known each other. I’d give anything for Eran to have just lost an eye. Fucking hell…

  “So now he can be a general,” I said. Ami shot me a sideways glance. The Colonel asked that we stop by the hospital to visit Yuval, “cheer him up a bit.”

  “On it,” said Ami and hung up.

  “There’s something wrong,” I said eventually. “Something deeply wrong with all of this.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t know… this… asymmetrical war. Helicopters, UAVs, armored bulldozers, this insane order of battle, all this power just to catch one terrorist. This can’t work. Like it or not, when it comes down to it, we have to live with these people. Those kids with the rocks… if you were a Palestinian child, wouldn’t you be out there, throwing rocks? Sure you would. You’d be good at it, too. So would I.”

  “Same old spiel. One man’s terrorists are another man’s freedom fighters.”

  “Yeah. Well, at least now I can get rid of your security.”

  “Officially, I can only call them off tomorrow, after the debriefing.”

  He took a long drag and tried unsuccessfully to pop out some smoke rings before calling Marciano and relieving my security detail. “Both of you keep securing the First Lady, though,” he added before hanging up.

  I gave him a questioning look and he shrugged. “What kind of Uncle Ami do you take me for?”

  I wanted to thank him but smacked him on the back instead. We enjoyed our cigars in silence.

  89.

  Imad moved slowly, just as he had taught his warriors in Shabwah. But the dunes of Shabwah were soft desert sand, and this one was a bed of small rocks, sharp as blades. He absorbed the pain and overcame the powerful urge to stop and shake the jagged rocks out of his boots. He instinctively wiped his lips of sand that wasn’t there, rose carefully from the ground, and then broke into a hunched sprint, his hand never leaving the ground. He reached the small cave and dove inside. A bat flew by, which meant everything was clear. He then waited, for an hour or so, his ears perked.

  The low, hushed howl of a jackal finally sounded, and Imad replied with a howl of his own. Three short howls were the response. Mahajna’s “all clear.” Under the cover of thick darkness, Imad crawled from the cave down to the family olive grove, at the outskirts of Nablus. The stumps of old olive trees looked like vanquished giants, left to die on some ancient battlefield. Whoever had felled them had left some unharmed, perhaps to bolster the sense of destruction.

  “This was the tree your father planted when you were born.” Mahajna pointed at one of the stumps and handed Imad a cup of coffee he’d poured from a large thermos. Imad gratefully drank.

  They got in the minivan and drove to the cousin’s house. Mahajna told Imad that although they had failed to bring down the mosque, heavy riots had broken out following the Jews’ decision to prohibit entrance to the Temple Mount. Thousands of teenagers from all around the Western Bank had already joined the fight. They were calling it “the Temple Mount Intifada.” Fourteen adolescents had already been shot and killed attempting to stab Israeli soldiers or police officers. Dozens had been injured. The actions of the enemy were constantly being broadcast over Arab television stations and social media. “This intifada of yours is going swimmingly. Good thing you didn’t blow up the mosque. The old haj would’ve slaughtered you.”

  Mahajna then told Imad that he was in dire need of a shower, a change of clothes and some rest, because he wouldn’t be getting into any hospitals looking like he did, or really into anywhere other than maybe a graveyard. The relative peace Mahajna enjoyed thanks to his position as a Shin Bet informant should provide Imad with a night of undisturbed sleep. Mahajna mentioned that he occasionally found some worthless worker he’d smuggled in illegally and handed him over “to the dogs,” to maintain that peace.

  After a shower and a dinner that Imad hungrily wolfed down, Mahajna briefed him on their findings: “Ehrlich and his woman, the doctor, spend most of their time in one of three primary locations—the Mossad compound at Ramat HaSharon, their house at Agur, and Hadasa Hospital in Jerusalem. His boss goes there often—cancer. We didn’t manage to find his son, Eran—there’s no sign of him. Probably smoking pot somewhere in India or Bolivia, like all Israelis do after the army. I suggest we let it go for now. Right now, we can either ambush them on the road with a large truck, run them over, or we can infiltrate the hospital. We have people in there, doctors, nurses, orderlies. We can capture the doctor and lure Ehrlich there. Sleep on it. Let me know tomorrow what you’ve decided, and I’ll make arrangements.”

  90.

  ZAKA teams worked alongside Kahanov’s cleaners throughout the night at the scene of the event, well-lit and secured. The series of explosions and the teddy bears left very little that could be recognized as human parts. Anything that could be collected was quickly passed to the genetics lab, who was ordered to work on nothing else until they had results. When the lab found that the parts came from only two people, Kahanov panicked. If one of them got away, there was a thirty-three percent chance that it was Imad—except of course that this was Imad, and therefore it was a much, much higher chance than that.

  “I need DNA, now!” Kahanov barked into the phone. “Now!”

  “DNA fingerprinting takes time,” replied Gottfried the lab tech in his musical Argentinian accent.

  “There is! No! Time!” Kahanov yelled hoarsely. “I need an immediate ID, right fucking now!” He slammed the phone. A second later he yelled, “Get me Avner! ASAP!”

  A short time later, Marciano arrived, his face ashen. He reported that they hadn’t been able to find either Avner or Verbin. Calls were going to voicemail. No one at the hospital or the Mossad knew where they were.

  “Unbelievable!” Kahanov shouted. “Is everyone here an impotent piece of shit? Blind? Deaf?! Have you seriously lost the Mossad’s deputy chief of operations, a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man? Gone, disappeared into thin air?! You bunch of useless, ass-fucking clowns!”

  Marciano, who’d been under Kahanov’s command for over a decade, had never seen him like this. He considered reminding Kahanov that he was the one who had withdrawn Avner’s security, just yesterday, but thought it better to wait for him to finish.

  The phone rang, with Froyke on the line.

  “Have you found him?”

  “Negative. No sign of him. His car’s parked at home and so is the Harley. Neither of them is answering the phone.”

  “Ran is on his way. Set up a special investigation team. I’ll be there at fourteen hundred. Inform me if anything comes up. Anything, you hear? Hang on.” Froyke brought Bella on the line. She’d just received the DNA results, which confirmed that Imad was not among the dead. Kahanov’s panic grew, multiplied.

  “Bella,” said Froyke, “any call that comes in about Avner, you let me know immediately.”

  “No problem,” said Bella, “but why are you looking for Avner?”

  “There’s been no sign of him all day.”

  “Well, of course not. It’s the twelfth.”

  “And?” Froyke urged, a slight hope flickering in his voice.

  “It’s Eran’s Day.”

  “And?” Froyke and Kahanov spoke in unison.

  “Oy, you two… never mind. On Eran’s anniversary, Avner always disconnects. From everyone. Understandable, I think.”

  “Bella, I love you!” said Froyke, scrolling through his calendar. “He did take the day off… you keep up the search, just in case,” he added. “I’ll try to see where he goes when he… disconnects. Bella, get me Snir from operations.”

  Kahanov remained
on the line to request emergency measures—roadblocks, patrols, reconnaissance teams. Everything was approved. He then ordered his men to apply heavy pressure on their main sources and the rest of the informants, and they did—but nothing relevant came up.

  “Any informants we haven’t brought in yet?” asked Kahanov.

  Hanan, one of Kahanov’s agents, raised his head from the lists, saying, “Nope, we’ve interrogated everyone. Except for Mahajana, the guy smuggling the illegals.”

  “And why was he left out?”

  “Mahajna? Nah, he’s one of ours. If he knew something, he would’ve said.”

  “Get him in here, now!” barked Kahanov.

  After the initial investigation, Maxim was convinced that Mahajana possessed no relevant information.

  “It’s unlikely that Imad would share his intentions with him,” he told Kahanov. “And if he’d left us anything, it would probably be misinformation,” he added, using his new favorite word.

  Kahanov still insisted that they keep leaning on Mahajana. Maxim argued that too much pressure would just result in him telling them whatever he thought they wanted to hear.

  “Enough time together, and I can get a signed confession for anything. Any murders you want pinned? JFK? Jesus?”

  “No need,” said Kahanov. “Just ask him what he’d do in Imad’s place.”

  Maxim shrugged, then went back inside the interrogation room and asked. Mahajna, who sat there wringing his hands, seemed surprised at the question. “In his place? I’d run. Get as far away from here as possible, as soon as I could.”

  “Run where?” Kahanov joined in.

  “Jordan. No, Syria.”

  “He’s probably working alone,” Maxim said quietly in Kahanov’s ear. “And if he is, it’ll be a while before we find something.”

  Kahanov asked that he cut the bullshit. “There’s no such thing as a terrorist working alone. It’s an urban legend—doesn’t exist. Lone-wolf terrorism was made up to protect Palestinian politicians from their responsibility for terrorism and protect our politicians from their responsibility for defense.” Louder, so that Mahajna could hear, he added, “Put him back in his cell! If anyone knows about Imad, it’s him. Let him stew, then question him again. I won’t mind if he happens to slip on the way and break his jaw.”

  Mahajna grinned and spat, “All I know is that Imad is going to fuck you up. All of you!”

  Maxim smacked him across the face, hard, and dragged him back to his cell.

  91.

  Before Verbin came into our lives, I used to spend Eran’s Day near the grave, with a bottle of Macallan. Just Eran, the bottle and me. Garibaldi and Adolf would occasionally come to check on me, and before returning to their patrol, Garibaldi would sit by me, lick my nose and the salt of my tears. I’d also spent some Eran Days with O’Dri—the two of us along with John Jr., his own kid, Eran and two bottles of Kentucky straight bourbon.

  Verbin suggested that we finish the western stretch of the Israel National Trail. Eran and I were supposed to finish it on his next R&R, the one he never got. It felt… right.

  We drove down to Route 90 and, after Tzofar, arrived at the Incense Route. It was the middle of the week and we had the glory of the desert all to ourselves. Occasionally we encountered a wandering camel, with its Bedouin never too far away.

  The ATV me and Eran bought, a CAN AM Maverick X3, was a ferocious machine with over two hundred horsepower. A monstrous suspension system and improved engine performance allowed us to fly over the rocks and pits at a terrifyingly high speed. We arrived in about twenty minutes, drove up the final ramp in a single lunge, and stopped there, the clouds of white power slowly settling on top of us. Verbin’s face looked like a Japanese mask—chalk white, all but the shadow left by the dust goggles. I used a wet wipe to reveal her true face, behind the white.

  “Just practicing for when I need to clean the dust from your wrinkles,” I said. “Onward?”

  Verbin stroked her belly, the bulge still barely noticeable, and addressed the question to it. “Onward?” She nodded. “Onward!”

  We climbed up Mount Kipa, to Rotem’s Lookout. I leaned my back against a large, smooth rock. Verbin folded inside of me. We breathed in the primordial landscape. Our Israel, mine and Eran’s, and now hers as well. I told her, like I’d told Eran back then, how Rotem had been killed in this wadi, just beneath the lookout. Such a waste.

  I took out the small gas stove and made coffee, letting it boil seven times before finally pouring. Verbin gently cleaned my face with a wet wipe. “I think… I’m sure Eran will love the baby. And so will Gil.”

  We’d recently been discussing our thought of their future relationship. We had no doubt that Eran would be overjoyed with his new sibling, though we still hadn’t settled on a name for our new Ehrlich.

  I jumped at the sudden, distant drone of an approaching helicopter. I looked around, seeking shelter. Nothing. The mountain was a large, smooth dome. I hurried to the ATV’s side bag and pulled out the Glock that Kahanov had ordered me to carry as long as the threat persisted—but Imad was supposed to be dead, and where would he get a helicopter? Still, I loaded and cocked it and put my arms around Verbin.

  An air force Black Hawk rose over the ridge and approached the center of the dome, preparing to land. I sheathed the Glock back in the bag. Verbin was staring at me. I smiled and said Froyke was probably missing us. The flight engineer came running, saluted lightly, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to, and handed me a sealed envelope from Froyke.

  Avner, my friend.

  Next year, on this day, if you’d agree, I’ll come to that mountain with you and we’ll drink to Eran and Luigi.

  Today, it turns out, Imad is still alive. He has access to logistics and support, and he’s looking for you and for Dr. Verbin. We have reason to believe he is also looking for Eran (he doesn’t know). Come back with the helicopter. It has straps for your ATV.

  After we landed at the compound’s helipad, I let Kahanov unload his frustration on me while Bella and Verbin giggled and gossiped like teenagers.

  Kahanov eventually calmed down. “Mahajna was probably the only one who knew something, but he slipped and broke his jaw, wouldn’t talk after that. I let him go.”

  “Good call,” I said. Tracking a released suspect in the hopes they’d lead you to the target, while being among the oldest tricks in the book, is rarely done. I suppose the weight of the responsibility scares people.

  “Not really,” said Kahanov. “The minute he got his phone back and got past the duty officer, he turned around, tapped his phone, yelled Allah hu akbar and blew up.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Negative. Just him.”

  How could I draw Imad out? I considered my options. I was afraid that if I wouldn’t be the bait, Verbin would. I mulled it over but couldn’t seem to think of a single good idea.

  “Marciano is securing her, along with Chayyim,” said Ami, reading my mind as usual.

  92.

  The bearded orderly who arrived at the oncology wing proceeded down the hall toward room 269—Dr. Verbin’s office. He passed by room 275 and 273, and then, near 271, the hallway curved to the right. The orderly stopped momentarily. About ten feet ahead, beside the door to room 269, near the reception chairs, a young, healthy man was comfortably slumped on a wheelchair, smiling amiably, his legs stretched forward across the hall. The seemingly casual blocking of the hallway, the tiny earbud barely visibly in his ear, the baggy shirt spilling over the waistline of his pants and the pair of Ray-Bans peeking from his pocket—all these, the orderly knew, meant trouble. Security personnel all around the world share these exact characteristics, but even more revealing is the vigilance in the eyes, the casual glances, the constricting pupils.

  The orderly knew he must either keep moving, now, or address this Shin Bet shithead with a question. He
walked by the room, and the man folded his legs to let him pass. When he shifted his pose, he placed his hand on his right hip to stop his shirt from hiking up and revealing his gun. The orderly noted that he was left-handed, and kept going, toward the restrooms.

  Verbin came out of her office, and Marciano stood up and stretched.

  “Mr. Marciano, I’m going on my rounds. You probably skipped breakfast—get to the cafeteria before the omelets go cold.”

  Marciano looked at his watch. “Okay. I’ll wait for Chayyim to get here, though. What should I get you?”

  “Thanks, I’m not hungry.”

  “You might not be, but the kid”—he patted his stomach—“kid need to eat. It’s Avner’s baby, probably waiting for its steak.”

  Verbin smiled. “The little Ehrlich can keep waiting. But some fruit might be a good idea. I’d like some orange juice and a banana, please, and for God’s sake, lighten up a bit—you don’t have to wait for Chayyim. Good things pass by those who wait,” she added, smiling inwardly at her Avneresque turn of phrase.

  “If you don’t eat, you’ll never get bigger,” Marciano mumbled sadly and left toward the cafeteria.

  The orderly glanced at his watch and entered the staff restrooms. The Arab doctor that had just exited the restrooms left quickly, his eyes lowered. The orderly waited for him to get out of sight and entered the second stall on the left, where a large stuffed doctor’s bag was waiting for him. He quickly changed into the green doctor’s scrubs, draped the stethoscope on his neck, cocked the loaded Mauser and shoved it into his waistband, under his shirt. He attached the scalpel to a strip of Velcro stuck to his leg and returned the electrical tape, the cable ties and the three IDF-issued frag grenades to the bag.

  Just as he left the stall, Chayyim walked inside the restroom. Born and raised in Gush Katif in the southern Gaza Strip, Chayyim despised Arabs, and not for nothing. Musa, the loyal foreman that his father had raised and nurtured, had also been the one to murder Chayyim’s father and set fire to their tomato greenhouses.