“Come on, Yaakov, we are not in the US where they send to Guantanamo everything that moves. Worst case, we get yet another complaint call from the US Embassy about our tight security procedures at Ben Gurion airport. And as usual our answer will be that, according to the latest survey we took, ninety-nine percent of US citizens approve of it,” he added with a laugh.
Chapter 6
George landed in Tel Aviv in the late evening of October 14th, 2011, this time coming from Zurich. He found himself lined up at the passport check with a much more diverse crowd than the one made of Orthodox Jews, Christian pilgrims, and Wall Street executives that used to pack the direct flights from New York.
George noticed that the young woman at the control station was taking more time than usual inspecting his passport and then she politely but firmly asked him to leave the line and go to a waiting room in the arrival hall.
With relief, George found he was not alone. There were four other passengers coming from Zurich and another five from previous flights. It was a bit like a dentist waiting room, except there were some vending machines.
He asked a few questions around, and it turned out that the wait was about an hour, then they were called in one by one for some questioning, and sent on their way after an hour or so. Some of the travelers that pretended to be more experienced, said this was the standard procedure for those who were entering Israel for the first time or that otherwise had visas from countries like Saudi Arabia or Pakistan.
George began to feel uneasy as he did not belong to either category. What did they want from him?
George began to mentally repeat the story of Sean, his childhood in Boston, the loss of his parents in a car accident fourteen years ago, his years in college in Harvard. At the same time he started studying the others in the room. There were three Italians, one of them actually looked like an Arab, all with their eyes fixed on their phones.
There were also two Frenchmen, who instead were talking on their phones to complain about the situation with their loved ones at home. All the others stayed silent, and from their looks they seemed to be from Eastern Europe.
From time to time, someone would be allowed to pass the border and someone else entered the waiting room. However, there was no clear pattern on how people were called into questioning. George’s turn came towards midnight, after about two hours of waiting.
The first questioning took place in a nearby office, which was large enough to fit a desk and a cabinet along the wall. The officer was again a young woman, not even twenty-five years old, but experienced enough to show off flashy badges on her otherwise sloppy uniform.
The questioning was relatively easy: lots of questions on the motive of his visit, where George told the simple truth, the request for the phone numbers of his contacts in Israel for a possible check – again, no problem - and a number of questions about him and his past. But George was ready, even though he was a bit surprised of being asked the name, place and date of birth of his grandparents. He could not remember much, since the last one to pass away, who was his grandmother, had died when he was four. Yes, he remembered playing with her in the courtyard of her house back in New England, he could not recall exact dates. He only knew he had Irish roots.
He was sent back to the waiting room. It had lasted forty minutes and George was not sure what to do next. He realized it was now too late to call his business contacts in Israel, it would only scare them. And in any case it would be better not to give the impression he was calling for help. He could have called Helena, but again, what could she do? It would just get her worried. His phone was without a doubt being tracked by now. He called his office in Stamford, Connecticut to tell his assistant about this small inconvenience.
She had to be ready to reschedule the calls and meetings of the following day in case this lasted much longer.
Just before two in the morning, a screaming man burst into the waiting room, where George and four other people were patiently sitting. He was shouting in French, but George clearly understood the “fascistes” that popped up here and there in his sentences. He looked up at the arrival screen. The man had most likely disembarked from the last flight from Rome.
After a few minutes, the man sat down next to a vending machine, and after another ten minutes of complaining he started asking around how long each one of them had been waiting. One of the Italians sitting nearby him, engaged in conversation and the newcomer introduced himself as Mustapha Dakka, a Belgian citizen with Moroccan ancestors who worked in the music industry. He was there for an interview with a woman with an unpronounceable name - at least for an American - who was the biggest trans-sexual singer in Israel and a rising star in the Mediterranean pop culture.
Of course the fascist policemen of this most fascist State had discriminated against him based off on his looks and origin. The guards at the Belgian embassy were all sleeping now, but it was just a few hours until he would make sure to create a big scene.
George was getting a good laugh from the whole situation, when he was called in for the second round of questioning - again a young female officer, again barely above twenty, again the shoddy uniform, except this time the style was much more assertive. Apparently, it was her job to play the bad cop. At two-thirty in the morning, George figured he would be allowed to take his time in answering and again stuck to the truth, like before. All the truth he knew about Sean.
When he came back to the room, it was around three fifteen in the morning and he found that the place had morphed from the dentist waiting room into something like an Alcoholic Anonymous meeting, with Mustapha playing the facilitator.
There were only six people left in the room, including Mustapha and himself, and he thought it would be a bit suspicious not to join the conversation. But he had to be careful with his words. He exaggerated a yawn, he took a coke from the vending machine, and he sat three seats away from Mustapha.
Mustapha was speaking with the only Italian left in the room, about two pop singers of the seventies, with Mustapha claiming that a song called ‘Gloria’ was the work of a certain singer - with yet another unpronounceable name - and the Italian arguing it was owned by another singer. No one seemed to give in. Then all of the sudden the Italian started singing the tune and Mustapha immediately shut up. He turned his attention over to George, who in the meantime was reviewing his two interviews for the third time, in search for any omissions. So far, he had not found any.
“Hello, we have not yet introduced ourselves. I am Mustapha, music critic, as you can see. Where are you from?”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Sean, from the US. I work in the technology sector.”
“Ah, I am sorry you are going through this, but I am also a bit happy you can see for yourself how your allies behave! They make the life of foreign guests miserable, and let’s not get into how they treat Palestinians. But you Americans always side with them blindly. What state are you from?”
“Stamford, Connecticut. Which is located roughly halfway between New York and Boston, but I grew up in Boston.”
“Boston! Oh what a great place! Really civilized. I have always wondered how they can get along with Texans. The music scene is great there, too! The Aerosmith! The Pixies! A city of rock! I would love to go there again.”
“Well, I guess so, but I am not into that stuff. I used to listen to the radio and that’s about it.”
“Of course, but so many great musicians are out there. Donna Summer, I am sure you know her. I was talking with our Italian friend here, about the sound of the seventies. Amazing productions come from that era! Boston had nothing to envy California over, their artists were on a par with the Eagles and Joan Baez. And then there was that one song..,” Mustapha started humming an old tune.…”I love it, but I do not remember the group..”
“Wow, you really are an expert” laughed George sarcastically. “I do happen to know that song, it is from the Buckinghams. They were from Chicago. I know, because my father always sang it.”
At six in the m
orning, he was the only one left, along with Mustapha. When he was called again, this time he was led through a longer corridor, to a larger office, where a man in casual clothes was waiting for him.
The desk was completely empty except for an iPod connected to a wireless speaker, playing in the background at very low volume.
George had decided to be aggressive this time, threatening to call the US embassy, but the change of environment led him to relax a little. The man was wearing a badge. George tried to read the name but it was in Hebrew. The man noticed and immediately introduced himself.
“Mr. Ewals, you can call me Eyal. First of all let me apologize for the huge inconvenience you have experienced tonight. You have visited Israel several times so you must understand that we take our country’s safety seriously. I have to tell you that today we have received some information which required verification on our side, including this nasty round of interviews.
I cannot disclose the source, nor the content, however I can tell you that you have come out of it with a clean record. We will let you go right away and you can continue to engage with your Israeli business partners without any restrictions. In case you are wondering, yes, we have verified with some of your partners the information you have provided for us tonight and it matched. Now, we can both relax ourselves,” he said, as he turned up the volume. It was “Blowing in the Wind” by Bob Dylan, except that it was played by a woman.
“Do you recognize her?”, asked the man.
“She sounds like Joan Baez, but I tell you I am no music expert.”
“Correct, Mr. Ewals! She grew up in Boston, just like you told our agents you are from.”
Chapter 7
The oppressive humid heat of the summer had given way to the warm winds of late October that Tarek was enjoying, on his brand new Riva motorboat, in front of the mangroves, not far from Abu Dhabi.
His business focus had now shifted to brokering deals between the government of the Emirates and a score of technology companies, which were selling advanced surveillance and control systems.
The Arab Emirates were a booming, open, and diverse country, yet the ruling families needed to make sure that the Emirati nationals, now a tiny minority of less than ten percent of the total population, had all the means to detect any threat from inside and keep control of the country.
Tarek had managed to delegate to his company’s management the daily chores of running the business and he had kept for himself the high-level relations that were nonetheless essential in getting deals. This gave him plenty of free time to enjoy the lavish lifestyle of the Gulf upper class with his family.
This day had to be devoted to fishing, while Jailane, his wife, was sunbathing on the deck.
He was patiently awaiting a Giant Trevally fish for more than two hours when he received a call from Jean-Pierre Bezas, the French secret service head agent in Abu Dhabi. He was furious and asked Tarek to immediately meet him at the Rotana Beach Hotel pool bar.
Tarek realized that the fishing day was over. He started the engine, muttered a few words of disappointment to his wife, and headed to Abu Dhabi.
Jean-Pierre was waiting on the pier of the marina and did not wait for him to reach the secure bungalow at the Rotana seaside, before starting his rants.
It was about those CIA identities handed over a few years ago. The bad news was that the one of Sean Ewals, was being used to cover up an illegal spy in Israel.
The Mossad had found out and asked Langley, the CIA headquarters, if they knew something or - God forbids - they were involved in any way. The allegations had been initially dismissed, but the CIA would certainly take a good look and get back to their allies with any news.
The CIA’s internal investigation had clarified that these identities had been handed over to the French Foreign Service, the DGSE, in exchange for other favors so the ball was now back in France’s court, and Jean-Pierre had to make sure this identity did not end up in the wrong hands.
“Tarek, please tell me you are not bothering the Iranians. Who did you give it to?”
“I can assure you, to none of the folks around here. You know I would have told you. I can only tell you he was a US gentleman who had good reasons to change his life, but I never met him again. I do not know why he is messing with Israel. How did the Israelis find out?”
Jean-Pierre stopped. The fact that Tarek had never betrayed him meant he could take his word that the identity was being used by a US citizen, but never meeting him again? This sounded like bullshit.
Jean-Pierre answered, “According to what my CIA contact told me, the Mossad is nervous because they have classified Sean as a US intelligence initiative, so they are proceeding very cautiously. Now, the CIA does not want them to know they have lost control, but they are taking care because it might be us, from France, and they do not want to put us in trouble either, at least not immediately. In any case, it's time to call game over, that's the point. We have exactly two weeks left. If you happen to get in touch with this gentleman, please tell him he has to stop interacting with the Israelis. It looks like he has been heading too close to one of their secret security programs. All he has to do is report to the Boston FBI section. He might be able to retain his secure identity if he has not done anything horribly wrong and maybe continue his new life undisturbed, as long as he agrees to never visit Israel again.”
Tarek weighed the information. It could have been an overreaction by the Israelis, but the identity of Sean was now unusable. What’s next? If Sean reported to the FBI, he would be under constant surveillance. Would he be able to resist all the pressure? Or would he give up? Tarek needed to re-evaluate the scenario with someone who had a more practical outlook on things and knew Sean better.
“Understood, Jean-Pierre. Now, if you excuse me, I have to place a few calls to start getting this fixed.”
When Helena saw the “Emirates” caller i.d. on her office phone she let it rang and started counting. It stopped after the third ring. This was the code she had agreed with Tarek to have a secure communication on short notice. She then reached into her bag and took out a pre-paid mobile phone, which had been purchased by the teenage son of a friend of her Indonesian housekeeper. She had asked him to buy two, and let him keep the second one as a reward, along with a one hundred dollar bill.
She then dialed the Emirates number.
“Hi Tarek, it looks like poor Sean is in trouble with Mossad and Homeland Security...”
“And I am bringing the CIA and champagne to the party,” added Tarek with a chuckle.
Helena briefed Tarek about the Israeli questioning at the airport. The good news was that George had not panicked and behaved as if nothing serious happened, allowing him to finish the business trip as planned. The only exception had been Helena but she was his girlfriend, after all, and he had purposely delayed the call to Helena, waiting to call her when he was back in the US. However there was an unexpected change in plans. As soon as he had landed in New York, he had been approached by two FBI agents led by an officer of the Homeland Security named Skip Ross, who had taken him in a windowless room just past the passport checks and had briefed him about a potential threat from the Mossad.
They explained how they had been watching over him for several months and had finally come to the conclusion that the Israelis wanted to steal the secrets of the new drug he was working on. The agency had asked some experts about the nature of the drug and everyone had agreed this could mean billions for his ventures and therefore, for the entire US pharmaceutical industry. The matter deserved US government protection.
They went on and assured George that Homeland Security would not disclose any information to third parties. Then they expressed their concerns for Sean’s tendency to work with foreigners, and why he was letting a Swiss company manufacture the drug prototypes. In the end they made it clear that it was time to act now, and with his cooperation they would have the Mossad framed in no time.There would be no headlines, all that Homeland Security wa
nted was to show the Obama administration that they were able to detect and block all the threats against US interests, even the most elusive ones coming from trusted allies.
George cooperated and did not mention his adventure with Shin Bet. His safest bet was playing fellow American patriot. In fact, just about six months ago, his business partners had become more cautious and some layoffs happened, with good researchers leaving the companies and worse ones joining. He got his PC searched many times, but he knew Israelis were obsessed with security and he had always used one with the minimal amount of information stored. He would not be going back to Israel, better not to risk the money of his venture partners. But how long would this last? He did not want to become a secret agent. When was Homeland security planning to end the operation?
As he listened to Helena, Tarek went from worry to amazement. George had been able to face two consecutive major threats without breaking down and had also managed to set up the Mossad against a good part of the US security. It could not last long though, that was clear. They needed to meet all together in a safe place and decide on a new way to move forward.
“Well, Helena, it seems like I will be hosting you for a tea in the middle of the desert. Do not forget your heavy sweaters at home, it gets extremely cold at night.”
Chapter 8
Louis, the inventor of Telomerax, had not yet gotten used to his new identity of biotech entrepreneur that he had to face the first serious emergency, occurred more than ten years after the group had been formed.
They landed in Abu Dhabi coming from different places of Europe between the 8th and 9th of November, 2011. They had booked different hotels and different desert tours with four separate agencies. In each group someone knew that there were special guests that would not join the main tour but rather leave on an armored Land Cruiser with tinted windows, and infrared wind shields.
The Last Enemy - A history of the present future - 1934-2084 Page 9
