To Be An Israeli: The Fourth Book in the All My Love, Detrick series

by Roberta Kagan

  “Holy shit. I’ll be right there,” Elan said. When Elan served in the IDF, he was taught to respond to any situation in seconds. He didn’t wash his face or brush his teeth or comb his hair. He dressed quickly and got right into the car.

  Elan arrived at the office, and only a select few of the Mossad agents, including Nina, were there. Zui Zami slammed his fist on the desk, to quiet the others. “Dayan will be here any minute,” he said.

  Elan looked around at his fellow Mossad agents, who looked pale and disheveled but alert. This was Israel, and they all knew that they must be prepared for anything, to happen at any time.

  Moshe Dayan, the Minister of Defense, entered at nine o’clock, and everyone grew silent. All eyes were on him, waiting to hear what he had to say.

  “Shalom, my brothers and sisters. I have just finished meeting with Prime Minister Golda Meir. As you already know, Israel has another challenge to meet.” He stopped for a moment, to look around the room. “I am assuming that you have all been briefed on the main facts of the situation at hand. The terrorist group who has broken into the Munich Olympics call themselves Black September. Right now, we are not sure how many of them there are. But what we do know is that they have taken eleven of our athletes hostage.

  “We believe that the West German police were purposely lax in the protection of our people. That comes as no surprise to any of you, I am sure. However, we have no proof of this accusation, so we must act accordingly.

  “The terrorists are demanding that we release more than two hundred political prisoners. If we meet their demands, they say that they will release our athletes alive.” Dayan took a deep breath, and then he sighed. “As all of you know, Israel does not negotiate with terrorists, so we need to work as quickly as possible to devise a plan for the rescue of our athletes.”

  Everyone was silent, alert, ready.

  “Director, I suggest that we parachute our teams into the Olympic grounds, and then take the terrorists by surprise.”

  “Very well.”

  Mossad did not have enough time to carry out this plan. A few hours later, Black September took the hostages to the airport. The West German police tried to stop them, but their efforts were small, and it seemed to Israel that they were more gestures than actual efforts.

  “Where do you think they are taking them?” Director Zami asked Defense Minister Dayan.

  “I don’t know. Could be Syria, Lebanon, who knows?”

  “How can we plan a rescue if we don’t know where they are going?” The Director ran his fingers through his hair.

  As they worked on devising a new strategy, the Mossad agents sat in the office and watched the events in Munich unfold in real time on the television. They sat helplessly and riveted as they saw the plane with the athletes on board blow up and turn into a ball of fire in midair. No one said a word. They just looked around the room at each other. Then Harari spoke, “Do you think they are all dead?”

  Minister Dayan shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  It was less than five minutes before a newscaster came on the screen. “It is a sad day for all of us,” he said. “All of the hostages are dead. Two were killed in their rooms this morning. Their bodies have been found. The rest were on board the aircraft that exploded. They are all gone…all gone.”

  When they heard the news, several of the Mossad agents cried.

  The phone rang. Minister Dayan answered it. “Yes, Prime Minister, they are all dead. He listened for a few minutes then placed the receiver back on the hook.”

  Minister Dayan cleared his throat and looked around at the faces of the agents. Then he got up to speak again.

  “As you all know, the group who call themselves Black September murdered Israeli athletes who were competing in the Olympics in Munich.

  Right at this very moment, the rest of the countries participating in the Olympics are having a meeting to decide if the games should be stopped out of respect for those who died or if they should continue. I don’t see how the games could possibly go on. But the truth is that their decision will make very little difference to us.

  Right now it is our job to stand strong. We need to show them that Israel cannot be terrorized. We must be sure that terrorists are made aware that Israel is a force to be reckoned with. Our vengeance must be shocking and powerful. However, it is important that, although the world will know the truth, there be no actual proof that Israel is responsible for any retaliation.

  Those of you who are here today were hand-selected by the Prime Minister and me. You are probably asking yourself why you were chosen. I will tell you. It is because you are not the most well-known of our agents. If we were to send our most well-known agents, the Palestine Liberation Organization would recognize them immediately. It is important that you can move around undetected, in order to locate and then eliminate anyone who was responsible for the atrocities that occurred against our people in Munich today.

  Two days from now, we will bomb ten PLO bases in Syria and Lebanon. This is to be only the beginning.” Dayan looked across the room at Harari and said, “Harari, I am putting you in charge of organizing a team of agents. Your agents will do whatever is necessary to learn the names and locations of everyone involved with Black September. Then once we have a list of names and places, we will see to it that terrorists know that Israel is a powerful country. They will know that the Jews of today are not the same as the ones who walked into the concentration camps. Israel will not back down. Do you understand what I want you to do, Agent Harari?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Amongst ourselves, we name this mission of revenge Operation Wrath of God. And by God, we will unleash a wrath that has never been seen before,” Dayan said. His body was shaking with anger.

  Michael Harari stood up. “This will be a very dangerous mission as I am sure you all realize. Give it some thought before you sign on. Be sure you are willing to commit to all that will be asked of you. If you are at all unsure, then speak now. If you need more time to think, then speak now. Once you agree to take on this mission, there will be no turning back. You will be required to carry out the tasks assigned to you regardless of the dangers or difficulties involved.” Harari stood silent for a few moments. “Since no one has left the room, I am to assume that you are all in.” The agents nodded.

  Then, slowly and clearly, Michael Harari called out each of the names of the eight agents gathered in the room. He called them one at a time, hesitating before he continued. Amongst the chosen to be in Harari’s group were Nina and Elan. The room was silent except for the voice of Harari, “Elan Amsel, are you with us?”

  “Yes,” Elan said without hesitation.

  “Boaz Ben Shalom, are you with us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nina Sofer, are you with us?”

  “Yes.”

  He continued until he had confirmed that all eight agents had pledged their willingness to participate. Before they were chosen, the lives of each of these agents had been thoroughly examined, and all of them were deemed trustworthy. Minister Dayan and Prime Minister Meir knew everything about them: their lives, their pasts, their mistakes, their secrets, what they had for breakfast in the morning, and how they took their coffee. Everything about them was carefully scrutinized before they were selected.

  “First, we will form two squads of four people each. Then you will pay a visit to the PLO snitches that we have working for us. Negotiate with them, but pay them whatever you have to pay them to find out as much as you can, and do this as quickly as possible.”

  CHAPTER 62

  A little over a month following the attacks at the Olympics that had occurred on October 10th, 1972; the Operation Wrath of God squad met again.

  “From what I have been told, there were approximately twelve to fifteen people involved. I have a rough list. Not all of the names or locations are on this list,” one of the agents reported.

  “Good work. Now we have a starting point. We can begin working with
what we have and then continue to gather more information,” Harari said. “Meanwhile, I want the rest of you to continue to infiltrate Palestinian organizations and find out whatever else you can about the members of Black September. As we add names to our list, each of you will be given additional assassination assignments,” Harari said. “And get ready, because we are about to unleash the wrath of God.”

  CHAPTER 63

  On the evening of October 16th, Nina sat at the bar in a posh restaurant in Rome. She looked more than fetching in her tight black dress and her high black pumps. Her wild curls were tamed into a sleek French twist.

  Nina wasn’t a drinker. In fact, she didn’t really care for the taste of alcohol, but she took small sips from a glass of white wine as she quietly watched the table of men who were eating just a few feet away from her. With thick black eyeliner framing her large almond eyes and light pink lipstick applied perfectly to her full lips, she looked like an Italian model. The bartender made flirtatious comments to her, and she laughed so sweetly that the men at the table began to flirt with her as well.

  Nina was in control. She knew what they wanted, and that was okay. It kept them intrigued with her as she charmingly teased and toyed with all of them. She’d studied languages and was able to speak fluent Italian without an accent. The men at the table finally asked her to join them for a drink, but she refused, saying that it was late, and she had to be up early in the morning to meet with a photographer for a shoot. She took a bill from her purse and placed it on the bar next to her drink, but she didn’t leave.

  One of the men at the table shrugged. “It’s a shame…maybe another time,” he said then he turned to the others at the table with him and said in Arabic, “Let’s call it a night. I’m tired.”

  Nina understood as she spoke Arabic as well.

  When the men’s check arrived, the one who had spoken to her picked it up and took out his wallet. Nina stood and straightened her dress then excused herself to go to the ladies room. When the bathroom door closed, she quickly checked under the stalls to be sure that she was alone. Then she took out her radio and called Elan.

  “They’re leaving now,” she spoke softly into the mouthpiece.

  “For God’s sake, be careful,” he said.

  “I will. But you should be ready. I am calculating that he will be there in less than ten minutes.” The man who she was referring to was Wael Zwaiter. Mossad knew that Zwaiter was directly involved in the assassinations in Munich.

  “Everything is ready,” Elan said.

  ***

  At a small house in Palestine, a young woman was feeding a baby when the doorbell rang. She wiped her hands and secured the child in his high chair before getting up to answer the door.

  “I have a flower delivery for the niece of Wael Zwaiter,” the delivery boy said. “Is that you?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, I am the niece of Wael Zwaiter.”

  “Can you please sign here?”

  She couldn’t write, but she scribbled an “X” and took the package inside. She had never received flowers before. She opened the paper to find a beautiful bouquet of red, pink, and white roses, surrounded by baby’s breath and white orchids cascading down the sides of a tall glass vase. The only person who could have sent the flowers was her husband, but the boy who delivered them had specifically mentioned her uncle, who was out of town. What a surprise. They must be from my uncle, but why? she thought.

  Then she shook her head. Something was very strange. It was a magnificent bouquet. It had to be expensive. She would place a call to her husband because she had no idea where to begin to reach her uncle.

  The phone rang, and her husband picked it up. “Thank you for the flowers,” she said.

  Her husband hated to receive calls at work. He was far too busy to be bothered with women’s nonsense. “I didn’t send flowers. You are not supposed to call me here,” he said and hung up the phone. She swallowed her pain. That was just the way he was. Men were cold. She’d learned that years ago, but sometimes it still hurt.

  The delivery boy had mentioned her uncle. Although he was not her blood, he was in fact her husband’s uncle. They had always had a good relationship. She thought the flowers must be a belated gift for her birthday which had passed a few weeks ago, although no one ever acknowledged it before. She took the card that came with the flowers, but she couldn’t read. However, she knew that her neighbor’s husband could.

  So she picked the baby up and went next door to her neighbor’s house. The husband should be home from work by now. She hoped he would take a minute to tell her what the card said. With the baby on her hip and the card in her pocket, she knocked on the door.

  “Can your husband please read this for me?” she asked her neighbor. The two women were friendly but not close.

  “You can ask him. He’s right in the living room. Come in.”

  The man agreed to read it and took the card and the envelope. “It says on the envelope that this is a condolence card.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Has someone recently died in your family?” the neighbor asked.

  “No.” The young woman shook her head. “Not recently.”

  He took the small folded paper out of the envelope. It was made of fine linen paper and in beautiful cursive handwriting, it said: “This is just a reminder that we do not forgive, and we never forget,” he read it aloud.

  What did this mean? She asked herself. A cold chill ran over her. Perhaps she should call her aunt and get his number, then call her uncle in Rome.

  “Thank you so much for reading this for me,” she said. The baby had begun to squirm in her arms. He probably needed to be changed. She would change his diaper then call her uncle. Again she thought how strange all of this was. But the delivery boy had mentioned her uncle. This must have something to do with him. She would call and tell him what had just happened.

  ***

  Wael Zwaiter closed the door to his hotel room. He was staying in a suite in a plush establishment. It was a cool night, with just enough of a breeze to refresh the soul. He opened the window and took a deep breath of the sweet air. Then he sat down on the bed to remove his shoes, but before he had a chance to untie the laces, three Mossad agents came out of the bathroom.

  Between the lazy night air and the alcohol he consumed, Zwaiter was disorientated and caught off guard. It only took a few seconds for him to realize what was happening. He jumped up and tried to run, but it was too late. He never heard the gunshots because he died almost instantly.

  After pumping bullets into Zwaiter’s body, the Mossad agents checked to be sure that Zwaiter was dead. Then they quietly left the room, locking the door behind them. Once they were out, the gloves they’d worn were removed and tossed into a trash incinerator just a few feet down the hall so as not to leave any fingerprints. Elan and the other Mossad agents heard the phone in Zwaiter’s room begin to ring.

  “I guess the flowers were delivered,” Elan said. “The niece is probably calling to see what’s going on.”

  “Yep… Well, she’ll understand soon enough,” one of the other two agents answered. “Let’s go pick Nina up and get something to eat. I’m starving.”

  CHAPTER 64

  December 7, 1972

  Mahmoud Hamshari was looking out the window at the beautiful city where he lived in France. It was a cold but picturesque December morning. A group of children was playing with a sled in the snow. They were laughing and calling out to each other. Just watching them, Hamshari had to smile. After all, he had children of his own.

  The phone rang on his desk, and he rushed to pick it up. He was expecting a call from a childhood friend who remained in contact with him through the years. The man, like Hamshari, was an activist for Palestine. He was traveling and promised to call him as soon as he returned safely home. Mahmoud assumed that this was the call he’d been waiting for. Once he’d spoken with his friend, he could get on with his day.

  Mahmoud Hamshari pic
ked up the telephone. “Hello?”

  “Good morning. Is this Mahmoud Hamshari?”

  “Who is this calling?”

  “My name is Giovanni Battistelli. I am an Italian journalist. I am looking for Mahmoud Hamshari. I would like to interview him for a magazine article.”

  Hamshari was flattered. A magazine article was to be written about him. Perhaps it would be helpful in educating the world to the evils of Israel—its terrible prime minister and her advisor on counterterrorism, Aharon Yariv.

  “Is this Mahmoud Hamshari?” the caller asked again.

  “Yes, it is he.”

  “May I come over today?”

  “Yes, how would three o’clock in the afternoon do?”

  “Ah, eccellente.”

  ***

  Mossad agent “Robert,” posing as an Italian journalist interviewed Hamshari for over an hour. Once during the interview, Hamshari’s French-born wife Marie-Claude added to the criticism of Israel. Once the interview was concluded, Robert had work to do.

  “May I use your phone to call my publisher?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Hamshari said pointing to the adjacent room where the phone was.

  Robert noted the style and color of the phone and took out a notepad to trace the shape and size of the phone while Hamshari’s daughter Amina played an upbeat tune on the piano in the next room.

  Later, when no one was at home, Robert, the bomb maker, disguised as a telephone repairman, broke into Hamshari’s beautiful home and replaced the phone with one loaded with plastic explosives and a wireless receiver and detonator.

  The next day, a Mossad team in a car on the street within transmitting distance of the Hamshari home, set up to detonate the bomb. The agents waited until Marie-Claude took her daughter to school, to set up the assassination. The Mossad team with the detonator did not have “eyes on” the phone. The phone itself was visible through a window from the street where a spotter was. Another agent would make the phone call, and once the identity was confirmed, the team would detonate the bomb.