“Of course,” he replied quickly. “With a dark background, sirens, and stretchers. I’ll be there in a minute. Someone heard it was a female terrorist. Have you heard anything about that?”
“Nothing so far.” I lowered the toilet seat, sat down, and tried to inhale deeply. Only then the tears came streaming. Was it a female terrorist? The pressure of the past hours was looking to burst out before I exploded. I was helpless, holding my forehead in both hands and trying to stop sobbing.
* * *
Chapter 2
When I exited into the courtyard, hiding behind dark sunglasses, I was certain that nobody would notice that I had taken it hard. Martin saw me and hugged me tight. “Hey, kiddo,” he said. He was manly and fatherly like a movie star and smelled of expensive aftershave. “Glad you’re holding on.”
“It’s terrible, just terrible,” I whispered. I wanted to put my head on his shoulder, on anybody’s shoulder, but Martin, who had already seen everything, was already in position for his live stand-up.
Haroush walked around giving instructions.
“Is all well?” I tried my best to sound cool.
“No probs,” he replied. Had he felt that I wasn’t convinced, he would have probably added, “Tip top!”
I didn’t even think about being offended by the fact that he was doing what I was supposed to do. It was all working correctly. The Haifa crew arrived and replaced the crew that had been working since morning and were going to the VIP Lounge. Very soon, we would start sending out footage. I continued to examine the area with a professional eye: the police superintendent, surrounded by his top officers, was approaching the scene. He was fat, had a mustache, and seemed self-satisfied. Not far from him, I could see two army generals, the general chief of staff, and the head of central command. The correspondents for Israeli Television, the radio reporters, and the Army Radio soldiers surrounded them and were all asking questions at the same time.
The air was still filled with the heavy smell of explosives and scorched bodies. It reminded me of a fire I had witnessed once, in Rome. Tami, a friend of my mother’s, had dragged me to Via Condotti to buy some boots. The fire was in a building populated by Yugoslavians. It was over a dozen years ago, but I would never forget the screams of the Yugoslavs or the smell of burned flesh. People said it was the work of the new xenophobic fascist movement.
Ambulances kept arriving at the departures terminal of the airport. According to my math, almost twenty ambulances had already left the scene, and at least fifteen more would be arriving. Scenes of evacuation would continue for a long time. The late October heat wave was behind us and a lightning storm was brewing over the Jerusalem hills.
Martin finished reading his text flawlessly, looked at the camera, and pointed around him at the scene. He gestured “cut” to the camera and walked over to interview the commanders and get some more details. I took the first tape from the cameraman and handed it over to Haroush who had returned with food for the crews. He would send the tape to the studio in Neve Ilan. Within twenty-five minutes at most, the story would make its way via satellite to viewers all around the world. This was almost twenty years before the internet and the next generations of cellular broadcasting. An initial tape of five minutes of background footage had already gone out half an hour ago, fifty minutes after the explosion, and was probably on air by now. Now that the real footage was finally leaving and making its way to the airwaves, I could pause for a minute and do some thinking. I told Martin that he could find me in the VIP Lounge, then stuck my hands deep in my pockets and started making my way towards the Shalom Gate, through which the VIP cars of the peace delegation to Cairo would be making their way onto the tarmac.
Would they go to Cairo or wouldn’t they? They should have known that while they were negotiating for peace, there would always be a terror attack in the planning. Everyone should have been on alert, but you never know where it will strike you. I was walking on the road. Cars were coming and going, their horns blaring, and pushing through. I was walking away from the terminal where the terrible mayhem was still going on uninterrupted. Hysterical relatives were screaming and crying now, demanding explanations. I continued weaving my way between the cars towards the Shalom Gate without looking back at the scene, like Lot’s wife, afraid to turn into a pillar of salt, thinking for a minute but without much hope, that maybe the explosion had never actually taken place.
All at once, the skies burst open and torrential rain began to pour down. A Border Patrol soldier was standing by the gate in a drenched uniform, ignoring the rain.
“Press,” I waved my credentials at him. The gatehouse was packed. There were five people inside, three of them civilians. I started categorizing them. The older one, in a formal and cheap suit, was the airport representative; the other, young, nervous, and impatient-looking one was from the general security service. The third, the only one that was properly dressed with a matching tie, looking attentive and kind was from the foreign ministry and in charge of the foreign entrance. He was there for the flight to Cairo. A Border Patrol jeep carrying a tactical force was parked out of the booth, ready to move immediately. The jeep’s radio was beeping constantly. A nearby FM radio was playing light and cheerful late-noon music. The news hadn’t hit the radio yet. What a disgrace. Fifty-five minutes and the story wasn’t out yet. Maybe there was a gag order on the bombing. It was hard to believe. At the same time, we, the foreign media outlets, were transmitting to the whole world and the censor had no hope of blacking us out. The censor’s people had already learned that this silliness tended to blow up in their faces very quickly, causing huge humiliation.
The soldier gave me a wistful look. He had a nice curly mustache and the discipline of standing guard in the pouring rain. He must have been a Druze. He handed me my documents after examining them and seemed satisfied.
A yellow Airport Authority minibus came to a screeching halt in front of the gate; its engine was humming and coughing intermittently while waiting for the gate to open. Two stern-faced luggage porters sitting in the bus, grudgingly agreed to give me a ride to the tarmac, after the security personnel had all authorized my and their entrance.
As soon as the gate slid open, the minibus faltered in, past the emergency vehicle shed and past an airport fire and rescue vehicle that was maneuvering inside the hangar. It then turned to the tarmac. After three hundred feet, the minibus braked again with the same angry screech.
“Through here, lady,” said one of the porters, pointing at the stairs leading up to the terminal. “The press entrance is through the VIP Lounge.” I started climbing from the tarmac up to the terminal, glancing backward quickly. It looked like a picture from another world. An air force Boeing was standing on the tarmac with a red carpet leading up to it. There was a podium with microphones on, flagpoles with the national flag behind it, and a cordoned press pen. The show must go on and everything was ready for just that.
The VIP lounge had everything you would expect to make your stay in the airport more enjoyable; effective air-conditioning, soft couches, beautiful carpets, pictures, and background music. The snacks and drinks were pretty good and people had the tendency to try and make the most of it in the limited time that they spent there, the foreign minister was already seated in the corner and it looked like he was trying to explain some complex issue to someone I didn’t recognize. He was speaking in a hushed monotone, occasionally glancing at his interlocutor and the assistants surrounding him in a sort of exasperated look as if he didn’t believe that they actually understood him. His media advisor, Yakira Azoulay, a heavy smoker, was humming around him like a busy bee.
“Hi, Shira,” she said and jumped up, ready to embrace me with a feigned friendliness. The main show was still out in front and obviously, she was eager to get something done. There were too few journalists in the VIP Lounge, so I was the winner of her over attentiveness. I preferred the detachment of the government press office’s liaison.
“Will the minister
say anything? Any statement?” I tried to sound friendly.
She looked at me with a long penetrating look, trying to gain some time. “Have you dyed your hair recently?”
“Never in my life. Will he give us a quote or not?”
“Wait, wait just a moment and I will get you something.” She was trying hard.
The VIP Lounge exuded an air of comfort, calmness, and luxury. It seemed totally inappropriate right now. “Besame…Besame mucho…Kiss me, kiss me a lot.” Soppy violins were howling in the background.
In attendance were two elderly hostesses; former cabin attendants beyond their prime who were left on the ground to assist the guests; it was professional work, routine, and standard. One of them approached me and said with a kind smile, “Some soda? Maybe some grapefruit juice?”
“Coffee,” I replied, with a sweet smile. “With a lot of milk.” I sank into a comfortable armchair.
“People…” A sad harmonica was wailing over the expensive PA system. “People who need people… are the luckiest people in the world.”
The minister was sitting down and grumbling. “We must continue,” he said repeatedly. “We must continue.” He was referring to the peace talks and to the scheduled flight to Cairo. I’d bet on it.
I shot a look of despair at Yakira who was pretending to be engrossed in a phone call. I wouldn’t let her go.
“Will I get a reaction from him or am I wasting my time?”
“Sit next to him and write down what he says.” She batted her eyelids.
“That’s not worth much,” I told her, which she already knew.
“So start asking him questions. He’s not in a mood to release a prepared statement.” Yakira managed to exhale softly, blink twice and go back to smoking her thin cigarette while talking on her phone. “So where was I? Ah, yes. So she blow-dried her hair and it was awesome.” I turned back towards the foreign minister without much hope.
“Minister,” I tried gently. “Does the bombing put the peace talks at risk?”
He looked at me with surprise. “Oh, hello,” he said as if reading from a prepared statement. “The bombing will not halt the talks. The talks will halt the bombings. People of good will on both sides must stand together against the reactionary forces whose only aim is to turn the wheel backward. We will answer every retreat with an advance and every destruction with construction.”
I already knew all this bullshit by heart. He gave me a depressed look and asked, “Have you seen your Dad?” and added, half apologizing, “I am looking for him too.”
I said I hadn’t.
“Where’s Danny?” he grunted at his assistants. One of them grabbed their cell phone with a twitch and started pounding the keys. “Where is Danny? Why isn’t he here?”
“The cabinet secretary?” Yakira responded quickly from the middle of her hair salon conversation. “He is stuck at Tel Ha-Shomer Junction. It’s because of all the ambulances that are blocking the highway. There are serious traffic jams, all the emergency vehicles—” She froze for a second, stuck a finger in her hair and twisted a curl in a gesture of panic.
“I don’t care,” the minister proclaimed. “I need him here, and I want him here now. Get him on the phone.”
“Danny is not yours anymore,” I was thinking, “He is now the confidant of the PM. He doesn’t belong to anyone as a matter of fact.”
I tried to imagine Danny stuck in the traffic jam. The world would wait for him another twenty or forty minutes, and then everything would start to work. Everything will find its place. Explanations will be given. The press will receive good stories for the sake of balanced reporting. The delegation to Cairo will leave exactly on time and they will know what the next objective is, what the lessons are, and what the desired outcome will be.
It was good to think that no harm had come to Danny, my mother’s third husband. But when he gets here I will start to sweat. It was hard for me to stand his routine, playing the role of my father.
A dark-haired, blank-faced security agent with a narrow forehead whispered in the minister’s ear. That must be the head of his security detail. The others on the detail are not supposed to talk to the minister unless it is a matter of life and death. The head of the detail is not supposed to talk to the minister either unless it is a very unusual matter that hadn’t been concluded earlier. The minister seemed to be listening attentively, and then he looked up and scoured the room with his gaze.
“I understand,” he declared decisively. “In these matters, you guys call the shots and I have no intention of making your work more difficult. Try not to disrupt the press. There is no need for panic.”
The guard stood by the seated minister, folded his arms across his chest, and then turned his back to the minister and gazed at the corners of the hall. After a moment, he brought his cuff to his mouth and mumbled something into the microphone that was hidden inside.
“Trouble, minister?” I tried again.
“There is a warning of another bombing, but please don’t spread it. I am sure you understand.”
“Here at the airport?”
“Could be. But don’t broadcast it.”
“Couldn’t we prevent deaths if we tell the story?”
“No. it would cause panic and burn a sensitive source. There is no certainty that it will happen, and if it does, we are not talking about a mass casualty event but rather about a pinpoint bombing. An assassination.”
“No shit!” I couldn’t contain myself and he looked offended for a second but mainly surprised. “You can’t tell me that and then tell me not to air it!”
“Of course, I can.” He gave another weary smile. “Let me tend to a number of other problems now. I am counting on you.”
He was right. I couldn’t publish this kind of information, especially when the target could be the minister himself. I looked at him, worried.
* * *
Chapter 3
The dedicated hostess showed up with a cup of coffee and some crescent-shaped cookies as if to comfort me.
“I need an interview with someone fresh, on record, live,” I whispered to Yakira in the corner.
I was plainly nervous. Being rude now was obviously the only way to deal with a world where her minister’s minutes on the air were the top priority. She would obviously try to appease me, even if at that precise moment I felt like wiping my nose on the sleeve of her silk blouse.
I signaled to the crew in the corner of the lounge. Martin was still at the front of the terminal. There was no point in calling him over. I explained to the minister that I needed a two or three-minute statement in English, which, as he knew, we would edit down to twenty seconds. The message would be broadcast coast-to-coast in the US, and then would make its way to the network affiliates internationally.
“Minister,” Yakira addressed him cautiously.
“It’s OK,” he replied in his nasal voice. “We can start.” He had a desperate look as he eyed the TV crew.
The cameraman signaled me with his finger without taking his eye out of the viewfinder.
“You can start anytime, the camera is rolling,” I said.
The minister viewed the camera with a melancholy look and started reciting, as if in a trance, “We will not allow evil and despicable acts such as this to stop the race for peace. Once the process has started, it cannot be halted. The Middle East is on the verge of a brave new era. Great days are ahead.
“What about the bombing, minister?” I asked, still trying to get something real.
“This terrible and horrific event,” he started again and went on and on and on. I watched his meaty lips moving as if they had a life of their own, hoping and praying that he would actually tell me what was going on here, and what would happen when terror strikes again. There was no way to get an answer from him. Nothing he said would ever make it to the airwaves.
“How was I?” the minister asked the room quietly as soon as the camera was off. He was wearing an expensive suit and a stylish tie. O
bviously, someone with taste had picked his clothes. He pulled his socks up and then looked up.
“Superb,” Yakira replied quickly. “Right to the point”. Another assistant nodded vigorously.
I sank deep into an armchair and stared at the world through the huge window panes streaked with raindrops making their way down through a thick layer of dust amassed over the summer. A heavy hand landed on my shoulders. I turned around and saw Uzi, the chief of staff to the foreign minister and deputy director general for special assignments. He had a surprisingly large head, frizzy, unruly curls, and thick glasses. He always reminded me of a young Kissinger.
“Some peanuts?” he asked.
“You still take me for a monkey” I replied automatically. He gave me a wide grin. “Not a monkey. A birdie at most. No worms for birds here and the nuts aren’t bad.”
He’s known me since I was eight. The years have added weight to his frame but despite his rise through the ranks, the conspiracies, and the scheming, he remained human; more so than others. Uzi, for some reason, lacked the military quality that most senior directors I met, used to project. Nor would he gently patronize you, constantly sneaking indirect answers, the way many diplomats liked to perform. It was easy to like him and convenient to trust him.
“What’s gonna happen, Uzi?” I had a moment of panic. I thought for a second that he was trying to ignore me. “Do you think your guys will take off?” I wasn’t ready to let him dodge me. “What happened to Danny? I mean, how come he is stuck somewhere?” I was eight years old again.
“And here I was,” said Uzi, “thinking that you don’t really care what happens to him anymore.”
“I am asking because things look really messed up here. Maybe I am asking from a national perspective. He is, after all, the engine behind the wagon, the fuel in the locomotive that is pulling the peace process forward.” Both of us smiled. I tried quoting this gang’s clichés without much success. “No, I don’t care about him, and you know that.”
Peace, Love and Lies Page 2
