Peace, Love and Lies

by Oren Sanderson

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  I was almost two hours late when I finally got back home. Mom was talking on the phone and hung up after a long time.

  “Where have you been?” she asked in French, a sign that she had been anxious. “It was Nahum Shemer on the phone. If he hadn’t kept me on the phone for the past half hour, I would have called the police.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have,” I said. “You know me well enough to know that I can manage by myself and nothing bad will ever happen to me.” She started to cry and I sat down beside her, caressing her.

  “Nahum came back from Rome, and he can’t get through to Danny to get a meeting with the minister. How humiliating.” She turned to French once again. “Even he can’t get through to him. Incroyable.” Nahum, Danny’s idol of almost five years. Now he was last year’s flavor. A charming and impressive man, and yet sly and cunning, who’d fallen into Danny’s trap. When will it be my turn? When will it be Mom’s turn? I didn’t say a word. There was no need.

  On the following day, we were still busy with King David, but during the first recess I called the foreign ministry and asked to speak to Danny. “I’m his daughter,” I added, but they, obviously unimpressed, put me on hold and I heard some Israeli songs. “He’s in a meeting. Please try in an hour,” his secretary recited automatically. I always had a hundred-Shekel bill in my pocket, just in case. I left the school through the gap in the fence and took the bus to the foreign ministry.

  “I need to see Danny Taylor for an urgent matter,” I told the reciting secretary, after having gone through two guards. She disappeared into the office next door. The door was lined with padded leather studded with brass nails, like the interrogation rooms in The Three Musketeers.

  “Can you tell me what this is about?” she returned after a moment, blinking her lashes.

  “No, I can’t tell you what this is about,” I replied immediately. “I just need to see Danny Taylor.” She tried to get the measure me, but gave up after a short while and disappeared again. When she returned, she took me to a side waiting room. There were pictures from the history of the state, candies, and a hot water boiler. Twenty minutes later Danny came in, as charming as ever, and said, “I understand that you have some urgent matter. I’m really sorry that I couldn’t talk before and give you the time that you rightly deserve and that I deserve as well.”

  “I don’t know what you deserve.” I stopped his sucking up. “Tell me one thing about King David and Bathsheba: is David guilty or not guilty?” he looked at me for a moment in disbelief. I was surprised again at how fat he had gotten. Even his gentle charming smile now looked like that of a Halloween pumpkin to me. He looked at a keychain that he held in his hand.

  “The problem isn’t with David,” he said without missing a beat. “The problem is with the author. If you count how many assassinations and fornications and incest and terrible corruption occurred during that era, you will understand that the Prophet Nathan unjustly picked on David, and the book’s author picked on him even more. It was a small, meaningless episode, and after a short while, even David grew tired of Bathsheba. And by the way, Urijah the Hittite was killed in battle simply because he wasn’t a good soldier. What really matters is who writes the story.”

  The telephone by his side rang and he was quick to find refuge in the mouthpiece.

  “Yes,” he said half-smiling into the telephone. “Of course,” he continued, looked at me inquiringly and made an attempt at a wink.

  “There’s no way,” he smiled at the mouthpiece again. “You can always tell him that next year, new opportunities will open up and then we will revisit the whole issue.” He listened to the person on the other side of the line and then concluded, “Yes, Yes, it will be my pleasure. Always glad to be of help.” He disconnected and his smile widened.

  “Why won’t you talk to Nahum Shemer?”

  “Who told you this nonsense? Of course, I talk to him.”

  “He returned to the European desk and hardly has any work.”

  “So what?”

  “Don’t pretend!” I felt that I was about to lose control. “Nahum deserves more than this and you are the first to know that. You owe him your career. He is not invited to consultations anymore,” I went on. “You don’t return his phone calls!”

  Danny went back to his keychain which he was rolling between his fingers, but maintained complete composure, “You must be fourteen now, no?” he said, trying to patronize me.

  “I thought you knew that. It doesn’t mean that I don’t see things. And you in particular.” He looked at me wondering if he should end the meeting. I wouldn’t mind but was sure he wouldn’t. He chose to lecture me, with the bare truth for a change.

  “I thought you knew.” He was almost whispering. “Nahum was a great media advisor once, but this was ages ago when the government ran the press. He was a fantastic ambassador in Rome, but every fantastic ambassador turns into a nag after a while, and then there’s no way of getting rid of him. And if we must cut off the dog’s tail, it’s better to cut it off once and for all, with one sharp cut. Much better than cutting it off inch by inch out of pity.”

  “So Nahum is the tail of a dog?” I roared and was glad to see that he was looking at the door with concern. “Nahum was like a father to you. Nahum was your God.”

  “He’s still a father and he’s still a God,” Danny lied, still whispering, in hopes that I would lower my voice as well. “I can’t help him, and unless I cut it off quickly and decisively, his suffering will only be extended. Maybe we can continue this conversation on Friday evening; we are hosting dinner this time. There are a few guests here that I have to feed. The minister will be there as well, along with Theo and Gert. It will be fun. Try to behave. I am sure that now at the age of fourteen, four months, and two weeks you will.”

  It was nice but didn’t work. He misinterpreted my silence and even tried to kiss me.

  “Get your hands off me!” I shouted, and the blinking secretary finally came into the room. “Go to your important guests,” I said. “Just remember to warn them that you will be throwing them away out of pity once you’re done using them.” Through my tears, I could see him signaling to his secretary.

  “You are gravely mistaken,” he tried telling me, but I was on a roll and stopping mid-way did not seem like an option.

  “Don’t imagine that you will always screw everyone and they will thank you for it,” I yelled and his secretary quickly disappeared. “For once, you will hear the truth without hiding behind some woman’s apron or inside her panties. Don’t imagine that nobody knows and nobody sees.” I could see his astounded look as I left the room, slammed the door behind me and disappeared.

  Mom decided that I would stay at home for two days, and on top of that I had to go to a long and unnecessary meeting with a psychologist recommended by the foreign ministry’s doctor, who understood that I was mature enough, and mainly discussed the identity crisis of second generation diplomats with me, for a paper he was writing. I was especially happy that I could finally see Danny stunned and humiliated. On the surface, life had returned to its normal course, and Danny had started coming home almost every night, sometimes even earlier.

  On Friday morning, Mom asked Rosette to come and help her. Rosette hovered about in the kitchen and in the living room like a butterfly at a party, giving lots of advice but at the same time, seemed to be working hard.

  “Why did you invite that whore?” I whispered to Mom in the kitchen.

  “She is a good friend and she is very helpful. Talk quietly.”

  I was talking quietly.

  “That whore hates Dad, and she is the one who got me all worked up with the stories that she invents about him.” After all, the psychologist did advise me not to keep my distress to myself.

  “I need help. I can’t keep this place classy all by myself,” Mom apologized, took out the expensive china that was reserved for special occasions and stood with Rosette to prepa
re couscous. In the evening, Rosette came back, this time dressed up like a waitress in the old movies.

  The guests who arrived were very polite and spoke English in British accents and Arabic intonation. The Israeli security guards tried not to bother us too much and ignored a couple of good looking and well-dressed Palestinians who were obviously their counterparts. Another Israeli security guard peered out of all the windows and then spent the evening seated on a balcony and refusing to eat. The guests brought Mom a jewelry box inlaid with seashells, and I received a box of Turkish Delights, sweet and sticky. The foreign minister was in a good mood, drinking Scotch before the soup, during the entire meal and after it, and yet remained lucid, and exchanged views with Theo about all books that he had read. Theo seemed bored.

  “The important thing is not how many words you read, but rather how many will read your words.” He fired off one of his witticisms at Theo, who immediately replied, “It doesn’t matter whether you flip your sentences around; it’s important that your sentences do not flip you around.” The foreign minister gave him a sad smile and went back to talking to the other guests, He was asking them about the king, who he said he knew even before he’d been crowned. The minister wanted a follow-up meeting and said that London must be a convenient place, knowing the king’s preferences.

  The eldest of the Palestinian guests, wearing a three-piece striped suit, listened attentively and turned his ear toward the minister to hear well. Then he replied in a lengthy whisper, turning a worried look towards the balcony.

  “All sides have a very strong interest in succeeding.” Danny was talking too in a low voice, forcing everyone to get closer and listen hard. He glanced around briefly to make sure everyone was listening. “Even if the whole thing fails, we have to remember it is only a temporary failure.”

  The foreign minister said, “The issue will not fail because failing is not an issue.” Everyone, except for Theo and I, understood, burst out laughing, and nodded. Theo ignored the plight in Danny’s eyes and said, “Speaking on a proven record of success, Nahum Shemer called me today. He thinks that he still has a lot to offer.” Theo had been friends with Nahum for years. They went swimming together at the King David Hotel swimming pool. The minister shot a quick glance at Danny who shook his head almost imperceptibly from left to right.

  “Well, luckily we have with us someone like Danny who is taking care of things. I am sure he will know how to get the best out of people like Nahum,” the minister gave his good-natured smile.

  “But who is taking care of our Danny?” Gertrude gave Mom a wicked look and the minister a groveling smile. Nobody cared to answer.

  “We must have your prime minister on board,” said one of the guests.

  “Leave the prime minister to me,” said the foreign minister. “Once our deal is clinched, he won’t be able to say a word. He certainly won’t be able to oppose it.”

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  Ten minutes before midnight, an eerie silence spread around the tactical headquarters. The tension hung up in the air like a dust storm; pinching eyes, making it hard to breathe, and accelerating heart rates. I am sure it wasn’t just me and the war heroes in the room were feeling it too. Everyone’s eyes were turned to the monitors. The top ones were speckled with red-green figures captured by the infra-red cameras. The figures were hardly moving. The passengers on the plane were helpless, exhausted, and terrified. The lower monitors showed the broadcasts from CNN, and Israel’s public Channel 1 and Channel 2. All three occasionally cut to the same picture of the plane, seen from the camera placed at the control tower, and pointing at the plane’s door with a powerful zoom. There was no better camera location for the upcoming main event of the execution. I’d saved the camera location we had in the cargo area for future dramatic and critical activities.

  We would be kicked out of the cargo terminal a few minutes after we started transmitting from there. In any case, our cameraman was on the spot, ready to go live through a relay point at Neveh Ilan Studios and from there to the satellite ground station at Ellah Valley. The cost was close to twenty thousand dollars for thirty minutes of transmission, mostly because of the short notice, but if we needed to use it, it would be worth it.

  Occasionally, CNN would go to commercials; usually promos for a number of upcoming specials. Channel Two was concentrating on chocolate pudding and mineral water. Someone there was building up an appetite before the big show. Channel One turned, for the third time since that morning, to a renowned white-haired terrorism expert. “Every terrorist has a hidden death wish,” he kept saying. Some expert. Abu Shahid had been declaring that time and again.

  “And that is why they need to be eliminated as early as possible,” he added. “A low cost, early in the day, will become a high cost by the end of the day. For them, the result would be the same: the fulfillment of a dream of collective suicide.”

  “And no political agenda? No political horizon?” asked the interviewer for the hundredth time since the interview had started.

  “None whatsoever,” said the expert. “Getting airtime, spreading fear, maximizing blackmailing options, and by the end of the day, the annihilation of the State of Israel. Nothing less. I don’t think you can call it a political horizon.”

  If Danny could have been at the broadcast, he would have torn the expert apart.

  Channel 2 showed a representative of the residents of the Jordan Valley region. “For every person they kill, we need to execute one terrorist held in an Israeli jail,” she declared in a stern yet patient tone.

  “Even without due process and the death penalty?” The interviewer asked against the background of the Valley’s agricultural landscape.

  “If we want to,” said the teacher, “we can sentence a person to die and carry out the execution, all within one or two minutes. It’s all a question of determination.”

  I stood near Harel. He was moving from one microphone to the next, checking all of them. He paused and looked at the monitor showing the platoon that was practicing at the air force base.

  “We have to talk to the hijackers about the Red Cross request,” I said, continuing an argument from an hour earlier. Harel tried to explain that this was a political decision. He turned to me with a look of wonder, as if asking ‘why now all of a sudden?’

  “You can’t wait for an execution as if you’ve bought a ticket to a show. You have to try something. Maybe you can buy some more time!”

  “This is really not the time. Who do you think you are dealing with? What is Micko saying?” Harel grabbed one of the radio’s microphones and gave some reply to the platoon over at the air force base. I looked for Micko and found him buried deep in a pile of documents and operational orders. He was talking on his cell phone.

  “Why aren’t you helping me get the hijackers in touch with the Red Cross? What are you doing here anyway?”

  “Don’t get carried away, Shira,” said Micko. “The prime minister was adamant that it’s important to keep them away. I am trying to look through the operating procedures for a way for us, along with the army spokesman and the department of history, to push for a talk with the Red Cross. I was just talking to them now. Maybe you can use your connections at the foreign ministry to find someone who will talk to the PM?”

  “Why aren’t you asking Harel?”

  “Because he is not the one who’s calling the shots. He has to manage the situation. There’s going to be an execution soon, and he, for one, doesn’t believe that we can stop it just by talking to these creatures.”

  “These creatures?”

  “You may be the only one here who is able to understand that only through dialogue with them do we stand a chance to save anyone. Look at Harel…”

  Harel had left the radio and got up from his armchair. He was staring in a daze at the plane door on the television monitors.

  The radio technicians raised the volume on the cell phone communication from inside the plane. As if by magic, we were st
artled to hear a voice say in Arabic, “Dahil Rabbak5,” and then the voice went on in Hebrew, trembling hesitantly, “it’s impossible, I can’t do it.” And then the plane’s door opened wide. A tall, fair-haired young man tried to stand up straight.

  “Yair,” three of the people in the room cried all at once.

  “From the Dignitary Protection Unit?” Harel asked.

  “Yes, one of the veteran ones in the unit,” somebody said with his voice all choked up.

  I recognized the tall blond man who had whispered a warning in the foreign minister’s ear a few hours earlier. He was hunched forward, had his hands tied behind his back, and seemed to be having a hard time stabilizing himself. A chilling, small black pipe appeared behind his skull in a sudden move. The cell phone emitted what sounded like dry coughs. Yair’s legs buckled under as if they were melting. When he was almost seated on the floor of the plane, he made one last effort at standing up and then tumbled through the gaping door onto the tarmac where he remained lying like a small discarded package. I grabbed a plastic bag from somewhere, threw up my entire belly, and then started wiping away my tears.

  A horrified female soldier holding a telephone called out to Harel, “The PM wants you.”

  The radio technician lifted a finger and said, “Something inside the plane.”

  “Tell the PM to wait,” Harel barked. He took the headphones but it was unnecessary. Through the loudspeakers, we could hear the plane transmitting, “Lod Control,” in the same mocking English voice with an Arabic accent. “Lod Control, this is Deir Yassin. Now you will realize that we are serious. The next round is at eight am. We will be listening to the morning news on Israel Radio at seven. We want to hear your prime minister and we want to see him on CNN saying: ‘Israel is ready to do justice by the Palestinian people. Israel recognizes the right of return. Israel will pay the Palestinians reparations for all the damage caused to them by Zionism since 1936.’ Three points, dear brothers. Only three points and one proof: sixty people on the list you received will board the plane by 10:00 am. Then you will receive your good folks alive. Without those three points, without sixty heroes of the resistance boarding the plane, you will receive your people one by one, on the tarmac. The next in line is the foreign minister.” The loudspeakers were humming again as he ended his transmission. Deir Yassin did not wait for a reply.