Peace, Love and Lies

by Oren Sanderson

  “Abu Shahid, do you have a wife?” Danny tried. He was made of tough stuff.

  “I have many wives,” Abu Shahid laughed. “Many wives.”

  “What about children?”

  “I have a daughter in Lebanon.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “No,” said Abu Shahid after a moment of thought. “I also have a son in Khan Younes and I am about to join him. Six months ago, your people shot him dead.”

  Some noise disrupted the recording and it stopped for a moment. Then it resumed, and Danny asked, “Your daughter, how old is she?”

  “She is eight years old today.”

  “Today. Some birthday. What’s her name?”

  “Rahma, it means pity. I give her today the best birthday she’ll ever have.”

  “And where is her mother?” Danny croaked.

  “Her mother is over there, raising her. Everybody helps out. Her mother got a royal treatment over there. You, Taylor, do you have children of your own?”

  “I have a daughter, she is twenty-two years old,” Danny whispered, and I got a chill. “She matters to me more than anything in the world.”

  A new lump stuck in my throat. He was lying in order to buy time, attempting to save his own life.

  “What about her mother?” asked Abu Shahid.

  “Her mother is the most wonderful woman I have ever met. This woman forgave me more than any other woman ever did.”

  “Don’t worry, Taylor. You will meet her up there.”

  “Before you go, don’t you want to say anything to your daughter?” Danny wasn’t about to give up.

  “No,” Abu Shahid sounded resolute. “She will read about me, she will hear about me, and she will be very proud of me. Her mother will be sure to tell her.”

  “Think hard. Think about what she looks like, right now. She still needs you and you know that. Think of all the times in future years when she will want to ask you one more question, and she will hate you, and curse you for abandoning her. You think she will wait for the day in which she joins you up there. Where is she now? What is she doing? What is she thinking about?”

  The third man in the conversation started talking with great hatred in rapid Arabic, and I shrank in my seat. Hezi, the intelligence officer who joined the listeners, contributed his part. “Number three is saying to stop the nonsense and to be careful of the Zionist snake because there is only an hour and fifteen minutes left to the big explosion.”

  “The big explosion?” I asked.

  “There are explosive charges spread around the plane and there are booby traps. As soon as anyone enters the plane, it blows up. Or they may be talking about another big explosive charge. They are not looking for any kind of dialogue. They are aiming at a large explosion during prime time. That’s the drill.”

  “Is this the end of the conversation? Is this how it ends?” I asked.

  “No, there are a few more sentences, but I am not sure you want to hear that right now,” the communications officer said.

  “Of course, I want to.” I was angry.

  The sergeant pressed the button on the recorder and Danny could be heard, once again, telling Abu Shahid in a soft, almost fatherly tone: “I would very much like to say one final word to my daughter. Think about it again and I think you will be able to understand me. You can kill me. I won’t beg you. I won’t ask you, but I think I deserve to say goodbye to my daughter.”

  My heart beat wildly. Against my will, my tears were pouring. I had to do something. I couldn’t accept a message like that from someone who was about to die. At the edge of my consciousness lingered the thought that maybe Danny knew that he was being broadcast, and I had the feeling that he did know.

  Abu Shahid said, “There are no sentiments in a revolution, Mister Taylor. Just forget it.”

  “Think again whether you wouldn’t want to say goodbye to your daughter in Lebanon,” Danny insisted. “Where exactly is she located?” There was a long silence and then Abu Shahid was almost whispering, “She is in Rachaya al Foukhar. Your people probably know that.”

  “A wonderful place,” said Danny. It was clear that he would continue to look for a way into Abu Shahid’s heart. This was clearly not the time for a stroll down memory lane. Once, in Tel Aviv, Danny had told me that in every conversation he tried to get into the mind of the person sitting opposite him.

  “It reminded me a little bit of Switzerland,” Danny continued. “The pine and cypress forests and the cherry trees. Such a high place in the mountains. How did you end up there anyway?”

  The recording reel continued to revolve in hypnotizing slowness.

  “Mister Taylor, we will have hours, many hours to talk about it when we are both up in heaven. You will tell me how you have come to know Rachaya al Foukhar. I don’t want to know now. Maybe you will come with me to paradise. Maybe you also did a good deed.”

  “Rachaya al Foukhar. I remember the church. It’s a Christian village. But you are not Christian.”

  “I am not, but Rahma’s mother is. In my heart, I am saying goodbye to my wife and I am saying goodbye to Rahma, and kiss her eyes, and kiss her forehead, and she will know, and she will understand.”

  Hezi pressed a button and disconnected the sound. We looked around us, stunned. I was the first one to come around.

  “What have you done about this Rahma?”

  The communications officer stared at Micko who said, “I guess we did nothing. Why?”

  “This wasn’t reported further up the chain?” I was shocked. “Didn’t you go looking for the terrorist’s daughter? Don’t you see what Danny was driving at? Are you people asleep, or what?”

  “I sent the recording over to operations. Maybe they did something with it,” said the communications officer looking at Micko again.

  “Find Harel immediately,” Micko said.

  I managed to add, “You have fifty-five minutes to find this girl in Lebanon, and get her on the radio to talk to her father before he bumps off my father and blows this plane up to kingdom come.”

  Amir, the operations sergeant, approached us, his eyes scanning all the people in the room rapidly as if trying to ascertain whether he should speak.

  “I have something urgent here,” he turned to the communications officer. “You should come and see.” We all stood around him. “We have a hijacker exiting the plane onto the wing.” Amir pointed to an orange spot outside the ellipse in which the other spots appeared in the infra-red image. We all stared at the spot, trying to divine what would happen next.

  “Where’s Harel?” the communications officer said quietly.

  “He will a-a-a-arrive momentarily. I called him while he was on his w-w-w-w-way to Tel Aviv.” Amir stammered but didn’t lose his train of thought despite the pitiful look on the face of the communications officer.

  “These are my instructions,” he added. “I have to report to him directly about anything out of the ordinary and not only to the duty officer.”

  “Do we have CCTV imaging?” The communications officer had regained his composure.

  “Look at the middle row; two monitors on the left-hand side.”

  “Sons of bitches… assholes… motherfuckers!” Harel’s low tone sounded behind us. He stared at the monitors with a mixture awe and astonishment.

  Like a circus gymnast, a human form advanced from the tail of the plane towards the cockpit.

  “He climbed up from the wing,” Amir gave his explanation.

  “What exactly is he doing up there?” Harel’s low tone was stressed.

  “He tried twice to attach the end of a cable to the rudder.”

  “At a height of almost thirty feet. Two-thirds of the height of the tail,” Harel stated matter-of-factly. He must have understood what this was about.

  “Yes, he threw an anchor of sorts and managed to slip it on.” They followed the image on the monitor without moving.

  The form approached the cockpit as if struggling to pull something.

&n
bsp; “Focus on the tail,” Harel commanded. On the left-side monitor on the second row, we saw the plane growing in size, and after a few spurts, the camera focused on the tail. At two-thirds of its height, we could see the cable. The form halted above the cockpit. After trying for a few minutes, he managed to attach the end of the cable to the base of an antenna located on the canopy. He lay on his stomach, and like a well-trained monkey slipped slowly through the broken cockpit window into the plane.

  “Sons of bitches; bastards,” Harel said and grabbed his chin, deep in thought.

  “They attached the cable so we wouldn’t use the Viper,” Amir mumbled.

  “There’s no way we can coil the explosive belt around the plane’s fuselage with this cable in place,” Harel said. “The Viper must be in full contact with the plane’s outer shell, otherwise it won’t cut the plane.” Harel looked at us with a blank face. “We need to think of something else. I can’t believe they could learn of our plans that fast.”

  “Was there a leak from our side?” The communications officer blinked hesitantly.

  “There sure was!” Harel bit off a chunk of the unlit cigar in his mouth and spat it to the floor. “Somewhere around here, among us or outside this room, there is a son of a bitch who gave the hijackers all the details about the Viper plan. This plan was classified top secret. There was no way they could have known about it before we practiced it.”

  “Have you done anything about Abu Shahid’s family?” I asked.

  “Two days ago the mother and daughter were stopped at a South Lebanon army checkpoint when they were attempting to flee Rachaya al Foukhar. A few hours ago we released them from Tibnin where they were held, and they are on their way here.”

  Obviously, the army’s right hand didn’t know exactly what the left hand was doing, but at least one of those hands was efficient. The idea of bringing mother and daughter for a conversation with Abu Shahid had been put in motion before I had even thought of it. I felt relieved.

  “Are they coming of their own free will?” I asked.

  “Not likely,” Harel replied.

  It was ten minutes to seven in the morning. The prime minister arrived at the tactical headquarters with the usual huge flurry and large entourage and started to quietly get updated on the evolving situation.

  “What’s happening in the West Bank?” he asked his military secretary.

  “There have been disruptions in Nablus and in Ramallah since six o’clock. The defense minister awaits your authorization for a lock-down. The settlers are asking for an urgent meeting with you. The head of the Red Cross wants to see you. He has a letter from the president of his organization in Geneva.”

  “What’s in the letter?”

  “We still don’t know. He won’t say.”

  “For the time being I am only authorizing a lock-down in Nablus and Ramallah.” The prime minister’s baritone was quiet and clear. He was on his way to the briefing room from which he would talk live to the morning shows and would tell the world about his decision. I was looking at the packed room. Someone in this room full of top brass and senior officials was tied to the plane and to Abu Shahid.

  I called Haroush. Within a few minutes, the whole thing could get out of control.

  “Don’t you worry, honey pie. We are prepared and ready for the live transmission,” he said trying to calm me down.

  “You know that the last thing that Danny said was that I am the most important thing that ever happened to him?” I had to share this impossible train of events with someone. Haroush didn’t say a thing and I knew it couldn’t be real. He had hardly spoken to me since New York.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  That year’s autumn was one of the prettiest I had ever seen in Jerusalem; maybe the prettiest in my life. One day in November, Danny went to New York. In the period leading up to the elections, he worked day and night with the foreign minister. He wasn’t home and we grew used to not having him around. Sometimes on some Saturday mornings when he woke up late he would see me and say, “Hey, sweetie, how you’ve grown.” I was almost seventeen. He didn’t recall exactly what grade I was in and was ashamed to ask. I didn’t help him. He tried a few times to ask about my history studies and whether they interested me. He was hoping I would find interest in his affairs, just as I had followed soccer in Rome so that I would have something to talk to him about.

  On election day, when Labor lost to the Likud Party, he got up abruptly, packed a suitcase and went to New York. The foreign minister promised him he would be appointed ambassador to the United Nations, and Danny made sure that the personnel department passed such a decision. The post had been vacant for three months, after the previous ambassador had left to return home and run in the elections.

  “I know the ministry,” Danny said to Mom. “As soon as I take up my position as ambassador to the UN and put my suitcase there, I don’t think there is anyone who will be able to call me back. Think of the public consequences. Even animals like these new guys wouldn’t dare kick me out of there at least for a year.” He got up and left and disappeared from our lives. Or almost disappeared.

  Just like he would try to notice me on Saturday mornings, he now called every Friday evening and talked to me for a few minutes. I knew, just like Mom, that he was living it up and enjoying every minute of it. But it was more convenient for him to tell us he was lonely and missing us.

  At school, the situation improved somehow. I still didn’t like my studies and my teachers but started going to Scouts with my new friend Michal—another diplomat’s daughter, who hated her dad much more than I disapproved of Danny. Some boys occasionally offered to walk me home from school and would blush asking if they could take me to a movie. They were very childish, but the whole thing amused me. I tried my best to listen to them and play the game, but my mind was elsewhere.

  One weekend, Mom and Rosette went to Tiberias to visit Rosette’s and Tami’s parents. There was a big engagement party there and I was hoping that Tami would come from Rome, but since she didn’t come, I had no interest in going along. Rosette came down to our apartment with false lashes and highlights in her hair, willing to make peace with me in honor of the celebration. I was ready to make it up with her but still refused to travel with them. Mom felt committed and wanted desperately to have some fun, and so I stayed at home alone.

  On Friday, after Scouts, I told Ilan, the eldest of my four suitors and the most handsome among them, that he could come upstairs with me. The others didn’t say a word. If they were shocked, they hid it well. I didn’t care, because I had a plan. We sat down and listened to some records, and he tried to get close to me and to explain some of his life philosophy. I had made up my mind to taste the fruit of love before we went to New York. The idea of arriving in New York without having done it at least once didn’t appeal to me. The thought of remaining a bitter, disturbed, and lonely virgin scared me. Like Robert De Niro, who could fall in love with Jodie Foster from afar, and go quietly nuts all alone.

  Among the girls in my class, there were rumors and whispers and righteousness, which didn’t interest me, but I knew at least three girls from the Katamon neighborhood who had done it already. Even though they were stupid as hell and did poorly at school, I could see in the way they walked and in the way they behaved and dressed that they knew something I didn’t. I had to find the answer. In Rome, Tami had told me once, “With whatever man, use him and throw him away. Just don’t fall in love with him.” She took a pink piece of paper with an ad for a pasta restaurant, crumpled it into a ball and threw it on the floor. “Like this!” she said. “Like this, you see, this is what he will do to your heart if you fall in love.”

  That night, Ilan’s hands trembled and he was sweating. I helped him when he got stuck with my bra and I unclasped it.

  “It’s alright,” I tried to say, but he was speechless. I pulled him closer slowly and firmly, and the whole situation was terribly embarrassing. He panted and lay on top of me like a hu
ge dog.

  The whole thing was over in a few seconds. I hugged him tight nevertheless. I enjoyed feeling his strong body, and even the strange smell of his sweat didn’t bother me.

  Ashamed of himself, he somehow got up, got dressed, and said a quick goodbye. Then he was gone. The next morning he called and apologized and said he didn’t know what had come over him.

  “I for one had a great time,” I said. There was an eerie silence on the other end of the line. “Even if it wasn’t perfect, I don’t care at all. My mother isn’t coming back until tomorrow, so tonight you will come over again and we will sit down calmly and if you want to, you’ll tell me about your philosophy, and anyway, it will be wonderful. And if you don’t, that’s ok too.”

  He arrived on Saturday evening at six. We both skipped Scouts that day and I left the phone off the hook so that it wouldn’t ring. I turned off most of the lights and even poured some wine for him. Ilan really did improve. And I finally got free of my virginity. Even though it hurt a little bit, I lay in bed smiling. I thought that I understood why the girls who had done it now walked slightly differently and behaved differently and felt a little bit better about themselves. I relaxed in the way I thought about myself, realizing that there was nothing in me that scared boys away or kept them from loving me. I was even a little proud.

  I returned the phone to its place and it immediately rang. At least eight kids called me after the Scouts activity, to ask how come we hadn’t shown up.

  We arrived in New York in March, only four months after Danny was formally reappointed Israel’s ambassador to the UN, the second youngest Israeli ambassador ever. He wanted to be the youngest ambassador, “But,” he explained to me, “when the country was established they had no choice so every second person was made an ambassador or a general in the army. The chief of staff was all of thirty-two years old and the commander of the navy was twenty-six.”

  Danny, at thirty-eight, was considered very young, but he could never again be the youngest.