by D S Kane
Jon hadn’t imagined the covert world could be this twisted. It seemed to him that if you were a spy, nothing was as it seemed to the rest of the world. And then, he heard Lisa’s voice proclaim his own thought: We learn to thrive in a world filled with enemies, ambiguities, and outright lies, Jon.
Ben-Levy claimed, “In many countries, the secret police organizations have clandestine relationships with those of other countries, including us. We buy and steal intelligence from everyone we can. For example, right now, we purchase intelligence from the Germans, the French, the Americans, the Chinese, and the British. We also sell to them. Almost twenty years ago we purchased intel convincing us the Saudi royal family, particularly Prince Hamid, funds terrorism to fend off regime change.”
“How does funding terrorism postpone regime change?” Jon found that one difficult to believe.
Ben-Levy stopped speaking. He shook his head. “Self-defense, refocusing the terrorist groups on objectives outside their home country. But the wealth of the royal family has lured it into non-Islamic practices such as drinking and sometimes ignoring the call to prayer. Some of the tribal leaders no longer consider them true Wahhabi. Prince Hamid’s treachery won’t keep the Saud family from a bad end. He’s just arming the Wahhabis with terrible weapons they’ll eventually use to kill the royal family, whatever their objectives outside of Saudi Arabia might be.”
One of the other students, a thick-necked man interrupted. “I’ve heard we’ve bought intel from the Egyptians.”
Ben-Levy chuckled. “Tomorrow, you’ll start our course in assassination. First, we’ll cover the rules for obtaining permission for an execution. And in the coming days, you’ll learn how to do it well, no matter what set of variables you must cope with.”
Permission before assassination. It was a concept he’d heard the United States had copied from Israel.
They spent a week of classes on teaching him how to lie. Ben-Levy stood at the front of the classroom, pacing as he spoke. “Our operatives would rather die than be captured. This isn’t because of their patriotism. No, it’s because our enemies love to torture their captives to death. No one who is captured returns alive, and we’ve seen their corpses. Disfigured, mutilated, and destroyed. Their deaths were entertainment for those who hate us. If you are captured, a swift death is best for you. But not for us. Best for us is if you lie to them first. Tell them half-truths that lead them away from us, and send them on a chase using their valuable resources while we adjust and regroup. Also, give up any ideas that torture will not break you. You must have a hidden tool that can kill you available while their torture destroys you, so you can choose the moment of your death.”
Jon sat frozen in his seat as Ben-Levy introduced Lester Dushov, and then left the room. An instructor from the Institute for Biological Research at Nez Ziona, Dushov was a medium-sized man in his late forties. He had a hooked nose but otherwise was so nondescript that from the back he seemed to disappear.
Dushov pulled several vials and syringes from his attaché case. “Right then. Let’s see who of you is ready to become a field agent. First rule: never look down, and never to the left or right when speaking. This must become natural. Practice it with a partner. Now!”
The class separated into pairs for ten minutes. Then Dushov filled a syringe with a clear liquid. “I need a volunteer.”
No one raised a hand. Jon knew he’d regret this. He swallowed, raising his.
Dushov motioned him to the front of the class. He pointed to a folding chair. When Jon sat, Dushov placed a clip on his index finger and another on his ear lobe. Then Dushov bound him into the chair with rope. “It’s for your own safety.” When Dushov smiled, Jon knew he was lying.
The injection was a mere pinch in the crook of his arm. The room swayed, or was it him? He felt his focus drift, and Dushov’s voice was distant now. “What’s your name?”
Jon spoke but it was as if he was watching from near the ceiling. “I’m Margaret Thatcher.” He felt a grin and forced it down.
“Class, did you see the color rise on his cheeks?”
He felt his pulse racing.
“You lie!” Dushov moved from behind him to Jon’s front. He slapped Jon’s face. “Tell the truth or I will be forced to hurt you. Now, again. What’s your name?”
The room began to glow in a liquid drip. Jon took a deep breath and focused on relaxing. The disconnect between his two objectives startled him. He counted to three to himself. “I’m David Bowie.”
Dushov touched Jon’s face between his eyes. “Did you notice how his eyes moved down and to the left just a bit? He’s still lying.” Dushov’s face was inches from Jon’s. “Stare at the spot between my eyes. Think of something beautiful and slow your response down. Say your answer with no inflection. Again. What’s your name?”
The voice of Lisa Gabriel whispered to him. I loved you, Jon. He looked at the space between Dushov’s eyebrows. “Winston Churchill.”
“Good. Class, look at the readings on the lie detector. He told us the truth, according to the machine.”
Dushov cycled through the students, working with each until they could pass.
But, the next time, he failed. So did most of the class. The questions became more personal and the threats more real. Several students were tortured during their practice sessions. It went on for a week, two hours every day.
His final exam in disinformation was to pass a lie-detector exam in front of the class. Many of the recruits failed. Jon was among them. Ben-Levy appeared in the class at its end. “This skill is vital to success in our business. Remember the Mossad motto: “through deception we wage war.” But if we kept those who fail in this course from working for the Mossad, we’d have few recruits graduate from the midrasa.” He shook his head. “All who failed must repeat this course until you pass it.” He let his eyes linger on Jon for a few seconds. “You must learn to lie.” Mother walked from the classroom.
Jon repeated his training in the art of lying four times before he could pass the lie-detector exam.
When he passed, Dushov clapped his hands. “Finally.” He entered a note into his cell phone and shouted, “Next.”
Jon left the examination room and removed the thumb tack he’d hidden in his palm. Telling lies left a bitter taste in him.
One morning, Lester Dushov visited the class. “Watch.” He held up his left arm. He opened the cuff of his old tweed sport jacket. “See the button?” Jon looked and saw an indentation in the inside of the jacket’s sleeve. “When I press it, see what happens.” Dushov lowered his arm, touched the button with a finger, and caught a Beretta .22-caliber handgun that dropped from the inside of the sleeve. “Our fashion sense may not be good enough for Paris, but it can keep you alive.” The students laughed. “We also have other special garments, including a new tee-shirt that is lightweight and cool, even in the desert. It is coated with an STF, or stress thickening fluid, that makes it bullet and blade resistant. The STF is called “Liquid Armor.” A point-blank shot or something heavier than a .50 caliber can penetrate this. But nothing else, including a bladed weapon.” He held up a black tee-shirt that read “Tel Aviv University” and thrust a knife against it. The fabric thickened and deflected the knife. And then it once more fell loose. “We have a second-generation model in testing now, made from a much lighter fabric. It’s totally bullet proof.”
Dushov smiled. “Today, an overview of poisons. I create new ones. I think they are the best weapons the Mossad has. In deciding which one to use, we need to know when and where the execution will take place. You must plan to succeed. Some lethal pathogens don’t work as well in daylight. Will the kill be in an enclosed space or out in the open? Nerve agents often respond differently in either situation. Some smell like new-mown grass or spring flowers, and wouldn’t work well in a place where neither of those are present to mask suspicion, such as in the desert. And how to deliver them is another issue. Aerosol or injection? Each one leaves behind a different telltale, depen
ding whether it’s delivered behind the ear, into the back of the hand, or the back or thigh.” He handed each trainee a manual on poisons. “Read this and learn it. Next week we will go on a field trip where I’ll show you what can go wrong.”
The next week the students went to the Institute of Forensic Medical Research, Their instructor was a medical examiner who demonstrated how a suspicious pathologist might conduct an autopsy to determine if death had been the result of an execution using poison. “Pin pricks, slight discoloration of the lips or inside of the mouth and nose, even a small blemish will divulge the death was no accident.” Jon watched the pathologist cut and dissect a corpse to determine how a murder had been committed. “Damage to the liver, kidneys, or brain. They tell me which poison was used.”
Jon watched the ME slice into the corpse’s liver. He suddenly ran to the sink, where he threw up his lunch. Several others chuckled, but he could see a few seemed to want to do the same. He wiped his mouth, took a deep breath, and returned to the group. As he watched, he realized much of a kidon’s work was making assassinations look like accidents.
Jon studied his notes, and learned how to make decisions on the fly as to what weapon to use: poison, gun, knife, or bare hands. He passed all his exams. He found the thinking work was easy for him. But the physical work was much harder.
Ben-Levy’s handguns and knives trainer judged Jon only “adequate” at throwing and handling knives in a fight, but he graded him high in firing a handgun. And Jon preferred guns.
When it came time to select a handgun, Jon entered the armory and tried several. He found the weight and balance of a 9mm Beretta felt best to him.
The armorer showed concern in his expression. “Most kidon choose .22-caliber semiautomatic Berettas.”
Jon asked the armorer, “Why?”
“You don’t know?”
“Haven’t a bloody clue. Why .22’s?”
The armorer’s eyes half closed. “When we close on a target, we try to get close enough before we shoot to be sure we have the correct person, not an innocent. Then, aim for the throat and keep shooting until the target falls. You end the target’s life with a shot into the eye. A .22 will kill only if you can place your shot into the eye, the ear, or the throat. That clumsy thing you carry is like a butcher’s mallet. The .22 is like a scalpel, much easier to hide.”
Jon scanned the weapons in the armory. The .22’s looked insubstantial to him. He finally settled on a Beretta Px4 subcompact Storm 9mm, slightly bigger than the .22 but still good for concealed carry, and capable of a fourteen-shell clip.
On the firing range, his instructor told them, “The word kidon means “bayonet.” While we prefer not to use guns, and never to use knives, we realize that in a pinch, any weapon you can find is better than dying, or worse, being caught and tortured for your information. Used properly, you can slit someone’s throat with a credit card.” The instructor removed a credit card from his pocket and used it to split open a grapefruit in one swift move of his index finger and thumb.
Jon walked alone from the canteen one evening after dinner, hearing only his own footsteps and the chirps of crickets. As he neared the barracks, he felt a presence behind him. He tried to turn his head, but before he could, he felt a prick on the side of his neck and in just a second, the world swirled away. The last thing he remembered was seeing stars. But it was dusk, too early for stars.
He woke in a tiny concrete room, bound by ropes onto a steel folding chair. Three men wearing ski masks surrounded him. They spoke Arabic to each other. The tallest of them drew a knife from a scabbard and asked, “What is your name?”
Jon took seconds to survey the room and try to get his bearings. “Charles Dickens.”
The man examined the knife as if it could determine truth and lie. “No. Let me assure you, Mr. Dickens, we will find out the truth. We will have your secrets. It’s your only chance to survive. Now, again, what’s your name?” This time he didn’t wait for an answer. He nodded to one of his accomplices who wore brass knuckles. The other smashed his fist into Jon’s belly. “Your name!”
Jon nodded. “Okay. It’s Buddy Guy.”
“And what are you doing in the country of Satan, Mr. Guy?”
“I’m a door-to-door salesman.” Jon steeled himself for the next blow to his body, but it came to his face instead.
“Another lie. At this rate you’ll be a bag of broken bones before we even begin slicing off your toes.” The big man’s face was inches from Jon’s and his breath was rancid. “Please, we can let you have a painless death if you tell us what we’ve been sent to find out. Otherwise…” He motioned to the third man who held a hammer. “Break his hand.”
Jon shivered. Was this real or a test? He’d thought it a test from the midrasa’s instructors, but if terrorists had managed to spirit him off the campus, and if this was real, what should he do? What would happen if he lied? What would happen if he told the truth? He closed his eyes and envisioned a stream of mathematical equations. It was noise and didn’t help. He’d have to decide based on his gut.
Two of them wrapped his hand around a wooden two-by-four and rewrapped his bindings there. They held his hand on the plank in front of him so he could see what they were about to do. The third man drew the hammer back and prepared to strike.
Lisa’s voice babbled so loud in the back of his head, he could no longer think. He felt his stomach drop like an elevator with a broken cable. “Wait. I’ll talk.”
The man holding the hammer stopped in mid-swing. They all removed their masks. The door to the room opened and Yigdal Ben-Levy entered.
As the terror subsided, Jon felt disappointment. He’d failed. As if he could read Jon’s thoughts, Mother shook his head. “Don’t be ashamed, Jon. Everyone breaks, sooner or later. No one can withstand the horrors of being caught. You haven’t failed us. But you have failed yourself. If you must die to serve us, so be it.”
The others left Jon alone with Mother. “We taught you to lie, and that’s where you failed tonight. Your lies must convince your captors to look no further for the truth. Nothing obvious like you tried tonight. Lead your captors to believe you know truths worth preserving you for. And then, deliver subtle lies and half-truths that lead them from us. Otherwise you’ll end up yielding your secrets, and still you’ll die in any case. Understand?”
Jon nodded.
Ben-Levy smiled. “Weapons, disguises, poisons, and assassinations are all forms of lying. Another part of lying is to make the lie fit with the environment. The hidden handgun and armored clothing are about making clothes lie to the observer. Choosing a poison that fits into the environment is a lie to make the death look accidental or at least innocent. Assassination is about lying to the victim: I am harmless. Only then can a well-placed shot kill your target. A gun can only be used as a scalpel by an accomplished liar.”
Jon thought about how Lisa had lied to him. He thought about his parents, how they’d lied to him. And tonight, when he felt comfortable in the lie of a safe night walk, he was taken.
He’d joined a group whose ability to lie was its greatest asset. It made him feel dirty. But now he knew this skill would be necessary if he was to achieve his goals.
He would seek justice for Lisa. Now, his greater objective became more important; keeping Israel alive. He felt surprise as he nodded. “Yeah.”
Jon worked harder as the training became more demanding.
He ran a mile in under eight minutes on the tar track of the building’s roof as the sun reached its afternoon zenith. Dragging his dripping body through the doors into the training center, he headed for the showers. As he emerged and before he could don a stitch of clothing, he found Shula Ries waiting for him, wearing an IDF uniform. She handed one to him. “Dress. There’s a truck waiting. Your final exam is a trip through the Tse’elim. It’s the Urban Warfare Training Center in the Negev”
He nodded and donned the uniform. The other recruits sat in the back of the truck. No one spoke as the tr
uck bumped along the desert. Two hours later he found himself part of a battalion crawling prone through a Bedouin village. The silence was overbearing. He crept into a tent and saw a young man wearing a bomb vest. Faster than he’d thought possible, he aimed and fired into the boy’s head. It was a blank but the counter attached to his gun triggered another success. He searched the tiny hovel and found no other threats.
The mission continued until nightfall. He heard a whistle signaling it was over. He found the truck and took his seat in the back.
When he returned to their base, Ben-Levy was waiting for him. “Ah, Jon. I’ve just reviewed the report on the recruits. I pronounce you ready. Your training took you just under three months. Not quite a record, but very good. Report to my office tomorrow morning for your first assignment.”
That night, he sat at his desk thinking of a time when he held Lisa in his arms, feeling her draped on him. When he remembered his forfeited desire to be a banker, his whole body tensed. How strange this journey. He’d become collateral damage from her death. Now his road had forever changed. Jon shook himself. He was committed to his path. He turned the chair to face the window and conjured her image once more. This time, he smiled. After all, she was why he’d come here.
Relaxed in meditation, he imagined the bomb maker with a tiny bullet hole in his right eyeball. His eyes sprang open.
Just before dawn the next morning, he was eating breakfast at the Mossad cafeteria when Shula, the kidon responsible for martial arts training sat down across from him. “Did you hear?”
“No. What?”
