Peace, Love and Lies

by Oren Sanderson

  Micko, the ULFF in his starched uniform, as opposed to the dungarees that all the other soldiers wore around us, was wearing his shiny paratrooper’s wings and gleaming gold colonel’s rank and he looked different from the rest. His dark hair was almost non-militarily long, combed backward, his temples gray. He looked to be forty, but the look in his eyes was very old and somewhat resigned. He was begging for help.

  “Meet Shira Tailor,” Harel introduced me without actually introducing me. They nodded politely without asking a thing. Micko was talking in a low voice, rolling his R’s. He must have immigrated to Israel from Central Europe at an early age. This was how he spoke foreign languages, which qualified him as the liaison to the Foreign Forces. As soon as he started speaking, I relaxed. He was talking convincingly and to the point. His English was good, too.

  “We understand the pressure and the urgency,” he explained to Raus. “The PM would love to see you, and it’s obvious we will let the Red Cross do its work. The only issue is our priorities.” He looked at Harel as if seeking his approval, more out of politeness than out of real necessity. He did not strike me as a man who needed approval.

  “What is he actually looking for?” Harel asked in Hebrew.

  “Mr. Raus is asking,” Micko replied in English. “To talk to the hijackers and offer them the Red Cross’s assistance in mediating.”

  “That’s all we need.”

  “You will need my help,” said Raus in English, not looking at anyone in particular. He spoke in a loud, high-pitched voice, and a heavy German accent. Like most of the organization’s staff, he too was Swiss. He was very excited, but spoke nevertheless slowly, and deliberately, like a teacher facing a classroom.

  “I received explicit instructions from the organization’s head office in Geneva to establish contact with the hijackers because their organization has been in contact with us in the past and they trust us.”

  “How come the hijackers haven’t asked to speak to you?” Harel asked, in English this time, and little belief in his eyes. “And I happen to have instructions from the PM. He would like to see you, but not now.”

  “Surely your prime minister would not like to refuse a request from the Red Cross. I am sure he understands the consequences of such a refusal.” Raus was polite to a point that almost drove Harel to explode.

  “What are those consequences?” he asked. The room was silent. Nobody volunteered to explain, so I took the liberty of replying. Harel wanted me there and it was my entrance ticket into the rest of the discussions.

  “First of all, we would get bad PR. States that stand up to the Red Cross are usually of a certain type of regime. Secondly, however this scenario plays out, we would rather have the Red Cross with us than against us. And thirdly, I am sure you would like to keep a viable option open for release through negotiation.”

  Raus began to nod. Micko peered at me with interest and politeness. Maybe even a sort of appreciation.

  “And anyway,” I continued in Hebrew, knowing that Raus understood Hebrew. “They could help us buy some time.”

  Ehrlich began to cough. Micko’s forehead furrowed.

  “And I am certain that nobody is planning on cheating anyone else,” I continued, “because the need to release the hostages unharmed is, after all, the ultimate goal. I certainly hope that is the case.”

  Harel chewed on the end of his cigar and spat something down on the floor. “Micko, get me a written request from these people. Have them spell out what they want and what they can do for us.”

  He then turned to Raus and said, “This woman works with me. As soon as we can, we will put you in touch with the cockpit. Stay in touch with Micko, and she will help you get what you need. Please do not bother us in the next three hours. Do not contact the tactical headquarters or the prime minister, or Geneva. Agreed?”

  Raus opened his mouth and closed it three times, looked at Micko and said, “Agreed, but if I do not talk to the airplane in three hours, things will turn ugly. You people will not look good and the whole thing will end up badly.”

  They parted ways with a handshake, as Harel whispered to himself, “What a pompous ass.”

  We walked Raus out. At the driveway in front of the terminal, he stepped into a Red Cross, white Subaru station wagon. He took his leave with the threat that he would be returning soon.

  “Do you also think he is a pompous ass?” I asked Micko and made him smile.

  “Harel wanted Raus to hear that. It’s part of the exchange between them. I’ve known too many pompous asses and I can no longer tell the difference between them. Raus is only trying to do his job.”

  “I think he can be very useful to us. It scares me to see all those soldiers on their way to release the hostages. My mother thinks it won’t end well.”

  “Because of the soldiers?”

  “She didn’t say that, but I think she is pretty scared of anything that has to do with the military. My father was killed in the Yom Kippur War.” We were sitting in a side room inside the police station, drinking black coffee, and eating cookies.

  “Do you live with her?” His face didn’t show much of a personal interest.

  “No, I live alone. Who do you live with?”

  “I live alone too; in a one-bedroom in Ramat Gan. My wife and daughters live close by. We separated a year ago.”

  “And does the one-bedroom smoke a lot?” I was an expert in failed marriages. Micko looked like a professional womanizer among the female soldiers.

  “Less so these days. In the first few months, I really went wild.”

  “It fits the profile of a career officer, doesn’t it?”

  Micko was quiet and sad in the dark room. His gray temples probably drove many soldier girls crazy at army HQ, but nothing would happen between him and me. His obvious weakness scared me. We shared the friendly and professional connection of two partners on a mission, or maybe two soldiers in a trench.

  “I would have left the service a long time ago if I didn’t have to provide for my ex and the girls.”

  “Well, the job at the LUFF is semi-civilian, isn’t it?”

  “Something like that, yes,” he sighed. “Now you have to help me help you take care of the Red Cross.”

  “They’re not thinking of actually taking him seriously, are they?”

  “I have no idea. It depends in part on what you and I manage to do.”

  I was silent.

  “You need to open the door to the PM for us,” he said what I had already understood. “I hope you can pull it off better than others.”

  Back at Tactical Headquarters, a soldier in disheveled uniform, at the door, let us in with no hesitation. Nine television screens were arrayed in a neat square formation. All were on, except for one. Ehrlich paced the room, walking to and fro, and occasionally picking up a telephone and slamming it in its cradle. Like a proud rooster, he kept volunteering explanations. On the screens, I could see the plane’s windows, its tail, and the cockpit whose windows had been shot out and which gave it the look of a lizard’s gaping mouth.

  Ehrlich pointed a black fingernail at one of the screens. “That’s the camera in the shack at Yahud. And this one is from the UAV we sent up ten minutes ago.” He went on, “Here you can see the picture from the tower, and here you can see four other screens with thermal signatures.” On the thermal screens, there were colored spots crawling very slowly like colorful ameba under a microscope. Ehrlich looked at us with the content smile of a strict teacher. “It’s like an ultrasound image. You have to identify the blots and count heads. All in all, we counted twenty-two people leaving a thermal signature. Let’s assume that four have been killed; see the blurry blots? Soon, when the corpses go cold, they will disappear. There are three people walking around here, they must be the active terrorists.”

  “Do we have a transmission from the plane yet?”

  “No. They are transmitting, but probably to someone else. They are talking in rapid Arabic and their conversation is fairly l
ively, but they don’t seem able to reach the control tower.”

  “So what are you guys doing?” I did my best not to scream. “Surely they won’t hesitate to blow up the plane and they will do it quickly.”

  “You must lower your voice if you want to stay here. And I’m not sure they’ll blow the plane sometime soon. Talk to Harel.”

  Harel was sitting in an armchair and talking on two phones simultaneously. He glanced at the screens and said, “Yes, it’s under control. Yes, we are trying.”

  “What are you trying?” I tried to slip a question in. Micko my temporary boss had disappeared.

  Harel signaled for me to be quiet and went on not even looking at me, “I’ll report in a while, and, please, pass it on to the PM.”

  He handed both mouthpieces to Amir, the operations sergeant. Amir mumbled, “Th— thanks” and tried to give me a friendly smile. It was strange to see a stuttering person do this job, but it seemed that other than me, nobody really cared. He was doing his job with impressive efficiency. Earlier today seemed like a year ago now; when we had talked for the first time this morning.

  “Look,” groaned Harel, placing his heavy palms on the table. His eyes were red from fatigue and pressure. “We are constantly transmitting to the plane, we have a frequency scanner sending a signal constantly, but for some reason or other, they aren’t receiving our transmission and we aren’t receiving theirs.”

  “Maybe you are bombarding them with too many electronics?”

  “Are we? Well, that’s a possibility.” He was quite for a while thinking. “What’s certain is that someone else is transmitting to them, as well. The big question is…who?”

  “Is there any talk in Hebrew?”

  “Nothing significant. Just whining and crying here and there. Don’t get me wrong,” he added when he saw my disapproval “I know many of the people on the plane. One or two are even close friends.”

  It was late evening. Through the windows, we could see the faraway plane lit by blue floodlights from somewhere. I watched it trying to break the barrier of darkness. What are they trying to achieve? Why is there no communication? Where was Danny sitting; if indeed he was still alive. Was he trying to look in my direction right now? It was hard to imagine that he would be there doing nothing.

  I continued staring at the plane’s profile. And then thought I saw the plane’s door opening slowly.

  “Look!” I screamed and all eyes in the room turned to me. “The door is opening!”

  They huddled around the screens.

  A man, in an air force uniform, with his hand tied, was rappelling down from the plane’s door. Maybe he was trying to escape, or maybe the hijackers had sent him with a message.

  “What the hell?” said Harel quietly. And right after that, he barked, “Give me communication from the plane!”

  On the television screen, it looked like an episode out of a thriller series, but it was actually happening in front of our astonished eyes. The man landed on the tarmac, released himself from the rope, and started walking away from the plane. The infra-red binoculars followed him. We heard bursts of machine gun fire through the transmitters. The man looked back, started running forward, sprinted ahead, then stumbled and slowed down, tried to run with a limp, and suddenly fell flat on the tarmac. He then lay still. We all watched paralyzed and disbelieving.

  Suddenly all the radios came to life. The operations officers reported to their headquarters through radio and to the briefing room through landlines. Maybe they were ruining the prime minister’s press conference right now.

  “Send a civilian jeep out to the man on the tarmac!” Harel shouted.

  “It’s risky. Think again.” Dagan had miraculously shown up, stood by Harel, and tried to calm him down.

  “It’s risky, so what?” Patience was not Harel’s strong suit. “They sent him with a message and then they executed him. Send a jeep immediately. I want this man and I want to know what he is carrying. He is carrying something for sure.”

  All radios were humming again at the same time.

  “And thanks for the thought.” Harel gave Dagan a friendly push with his shoulder.

  Quiet horror hung over the room. This was the first casualty of the night and one we could clearly see. This was obviously the intention behind the execution.

  A yellow jeep from the Airports Authority started making its way towards the man lying prone on the tarmac. The jeep went past him, turned around and came to a halt. Within seconds, someone had heaped the body into the jeep and they raced back towards the terminal. Before the jeep reached the control tower, we could hear two short barks that could well be bursts of fire. A few minutes later, the pile of papers that the man had been holding was at the tactical headquarters.

  In a clear and confident voice, Ehrlich informed the army spokesman’s HQ at Sokolov House, “It’s the flight engineer. Probably the last crew member who was still alive. He is severely injured but may survive.”

  “Intel!” Dagan who was holding the bunch of papers turned to the intelligence officers’ corner. “What is it? Can you translate?” Hezi, the tiny lieutenant, bespectacled and squinting, murmured, “Sure, I can”.

  He read the letter quietly. “It’s a mess. I don’t think they mean what they write. It’s a kind of game. They want to receive Temple Mount in Jerusalem and the Tomb of the Patriarchs in Hebron by tomorrow morning at seven, and they are demanding that the prime minister announce on the seven o’clock news tomorrow morning that because of the rise in terrorism, the peace talks are canceled and that the Israeli government is hereby recognizing the right of the Palestinians to return to their lands, recognizes their right of return, and surrenders to the armed struggle. They attached a list of sixty Izz ad-Din al-Qassam prisoners held in Israel. They are warning that if there is any attempt to approach the plane or damage it, they will immediately execute two people and throw them to the tarmac. And just to show that they are serious, they will give a demonstration at midnight sharp.”

  “This thing with Temple Mount and the Tomb of the Patriarchs, is this for real?” Harel said to nobody in particular.

  “Not really,” Hezi was quick to respond. “It’s more like a ritual mention, maybe as a sort of lip service. I believe they will focus on their more concrete demands, such as the prime minister’s message on the radio and, even more so, on the release of their prisoners. About the execution tonight, they mean it. It comes easily to them.” Since nobody in the room said a word, Hezi added, “We will need the Red Cross for the prisoners. It may be the key to the whole thing”.

  After a long pause, Harel said, “And all this assessment comes from your people in Tel Aviv?”

  “A big part of it. We received a profile of the cell commander from the security service. We received the file after they found a match for his voice signature. This is a highly calculated individual.”

  “Taysir Fathi, who now calls himself Abu Shahid,” Harel cut him off. “I know. I’ve seen the analysis already. It’s not the first time I’ve come across him.”

  “So you agree with our assessment?” Hezi tried.

  “We need to get more info and thinking on this thing.” Harel put a lid on the conversation.

  It was 11:10 pm. I called Haroush and he picked up instantly.

  “At exactly midnight, we need to focus the camera on the plane. There’s going to be something.” I hung up immediately without trying to imagine the execution. It was too much. Who the victim could be or whether it would really happen.

  I was exhausted. My eyes stung and my knees had started to buckle. I left the room and headed for the terminal cafeteria. More than anything, I longed to sleep, but I knew I couldn’t and I shouldn’t. I may never wake up again. I have never been in such a panic before. I sat in the corner staring at my cup of coffee but had no energy to drink it. The television above my head was blaring and broadcasting the live feed from the prime minister’s statement at the press conference.

  He wasn’t at his
best. He glanced repeatedly at a piece of paper that was on the podium before him and from time to time looked sideways at someone who was there. He read monotonously from the paper.

  “A bunch of lunatics has decided to halt the peace momentum,” he recited. “Their hostages are the best of our sons, friends who have been with us for a long time, and leaders of the peace process. Peace itself is a hostage at this hour, and I can solemnly promise you… ” He raised his voice, trying to sound dramatic. “That we will not cooperate with these scums of the earth, nor shall we yield to terrorist blackmail.” With these words, I suddenly thought I couldn’t breathe. Danny was doomed. I could see his funeral and me walking after the coffin with Mother and Theo. But the PM, who had come to life now, went on. “Now that our elected officials and top civil servants are in mortal danger, we will do everything in our power to release them from this terrible nightmare but we will never kneel before terrorism.”

  Chills were running down my spine. These are not tactics. He’s going to give up on the plane and let them blow it up. He’s willing to give up on Danny, on the foreign minister and on twenty members of the delegation. What kind of peace talks will he have then?

  I felt closer to Danny now; more than ever before.

  How does a lucky man like him get caught up in something like this? Where did they go wrong? Maybe he wasn’t so lucky after all, and a hidden hand had been planning his destiny, and we’d never even known?

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  Danny had returned to Israel in April and had begun working with the foreign minister. I stayed with Mom in Rome until July, so that she could complete her degree in English literature. There was a lull in the pressure. No receptions and no need to host events. Suddenly, our lives became very quiet and I loved it. We were listening to music and looked at old albums of artists that Theo had sent us but we’d not opened before. We could leave the house without bodyguards and even had conversations late at night like we used to.