Authors: Hesh Kestin
Carmela Ben-Dov, Foreign Minister
The Foreign Ministry envisions no problem with purchase of the radar devices. However, with regard to military action I’m afraid that political considerations indicate any but the most discreet—
Zalman Arad, Security Adviser to the PM
Two of our boys have been kidnapped. You are saying that politics—
Carmela Ben-Dov, Foreign Minister
Zalman, don’t fill my mouth with your words. I am saying only that the cabinet must in every case be aware of implications outside the immediate neighborhood. Next week the U.S. president will be in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and Bahrain. An invasion of Leb—
Zalman Arad, Security Adviser to the PM
Now who is putting words in mouths? I said something about an invasion? But at the least a surgical operation to remove our boys. Also, it would not hurt to show these beasts we can reach out for them anywhere
.
The Prime Minister
Zalman, Zalman. Why is it you portray us as a bunch of pacifists meeting to celebrate the birthday of Mahatma Gandhi? Rafi, when will we have a postal address for such a package?
Rafael Levavi, Director-General, Mossad
Mr. Prime Minister, this is a question I have been pressing since we received the original information.
Our best guess at this point is that the hostages will remain in Lebanon. The regime in Damascus is unlikely to risk being found to have them in Syria. Alas, frankly and to our sorrow, to hide two individuals in Lebanon is not a great challenge. We have faced this problem many times before. All I am able to say at this point is that we are working on all fronts: electronic surveillance, eyes on the ground, and informants. So far . .
.
The Prime Minister
So far?
Rafael Levavi, Director-General, Mossad
So far, nothing
.
The Prime Minister
On this subject only, anything else? All right, then. David, you can add this to your portfolio without portfolios. Let me be clear: Per standing policy, names of the hostages will not be released without my direct authorization. All press contacts on the subject via Minister Admoni, who will immediately establish the appropriate provisional infrastructure. Duvvid?
David Admoni, Minister Without Portfolio
Done
.
The Prime Minister
Two minutes left. Dror?
Dror Rosch, Cabinet Secretary
Certainly, sir. It seems early this morning a well-known anti-Israel propagandist, Mohammed Al-Masri, a citizen of Israel resident in Canada, was apprehended entering the country with the equivalent in euros of about one million dollars. In cash
.
The Prime Minister
A million Israelis are resident abroad. God willing each should return with such a treasure. Chief commissioner, why is this a problem for the security cabinet?
Chaim Zeltzer, Chief Commissioner,
Israel Police
First let me say it is an honor to—
The Prime Minister
Chaim, we have ninety seconds
.
Chaim Zeltzer, Chief Commissioner,
Israel Police
Certainly. Dep. Comm. Kobi Shem-Tov will brief your honors on the relevant details. Kobi
.
Kobi Shem-Tov, Deputy Chief Commissioner, Israel Police
Thank you, chief. In sum, though we have only begun to interview Mr. Al-Masri, it is unlikely this hoard of cash is for the stated purpose of building a house for his mother. Given its poor hiding place, we believe the cash was meant to be discovered. Thus we have a well-known person—I would say even a celebrity—under detention for a crime that was
intended
in some way to embarrass the state. A put-up job. There is some suspicion, given the timing, that today’s kidnapping on the border is not unrelated. But the specific nature of the connection, if any, is unknown
.
The Prime Minister
Thank you, deputy commissioner. And let me say all of us are pleased that you have brought your expertise from the Army to the Police. We expect to hear more on this subject, and look forward to seeing your face in these premises. Dror?
Dror Rosch, Cabinet Secretary
Today’s meeting of the security cabinet is adjourned. Those who are not cabinet members are now asked to leave while the cabinet further discusses these and other matters in informal session. Thank you for attending
.
In her new office, on the top floor with a view of Arab East Jerusalem, Dahlia answers the phone. “Five minutes?” she says. “No need, I’ll find it.” The office is done in Israel government modern: a large desk with a figured wood top, two intentionally uncomfortable visitors’ chairs, on one wall a framed photo of the current president, an inoffensive hack whose lack of initiative over a long political career discouraged one party or another from exercising its veto on his selection. The man is known to be so indecisive that a popular joke has him dithering between ordering coffee or tea, finally telling the waiter: “Half and half.”
The bookcase beneath this portrait stands empty but for a copy of
The Geneva Conventions of 1949, All Protocols
, next to it a four-drawer filing cabinet with no apparent rust, and on the other side a two-seat sofa covered in green leatherette. The walls are painted a rudimentary beige. An ashtray full of butts marked with Dahlia’s pale coral lipstick sits on the desk, along with a laptop for which she has been supplied the code, which is
Dahlia Barr
spelled backward, an indication of the sophistication of the Israel Police: At least three reporters have already hacked into the system. The ensuing news articles were thought to be the result of leaks from personnel within the department. In fact, the articles simply revealed a consistent lack of investment in the national police force of the country that leads the world in software development.
Though the building is centrally air-conditioned, a small supplemental unit hums in one window. Whoever specified the building’s engineering had not considered that in central Israel, where summer temperatures can reach 115 degrees Fahrenheit, a top-floor office beneath an inadequately insulated roof requires a good deal more cooling than a similar office on the ground floor.
Dahlia assumes the office itself is bugged, taking it for granted and not bothering to look for the device. Usually a decoy bug can be found in the telephone handset, meant to be discovered so as to put off the target from searching further. The phone itself is pink. Until Dahlia had a look at other offices, she assumed this was in honor of her status as one of the few persons of authority whose genitalia are internal. But no, all the phones in the building are pink. Doubtless someone’s brother-in-law had a supply of pink phones he needed to unload. The blackout blinds that end a foot above the windowsill might have had a similar provenance, or it could be the same person who specified their length was the one who designed the air-conditioning.
Dahlia checks her makeup, picks up her purse, and goes to find Interview Room 32b, thinking as she walks down the long narrow corridor to the stairs,
This is not my job. My job is to monitor interrogations, not carry them out
. By the time she reaches Interview Room 32b—between rooms 31b and 33b; the building’s anonymous architect, doubtless also someone’s brother-in-law, cleverly placed 31a and 31c on other floors—Dahlia has reached a somewhat more positive conclusion: As much as she does not wish to interview Mohammed Al-Masri, she at least can be sure the object of the interview will not be subjected to torture.
Except perhaps
, she muses,
by nostalgia
.
In the interview room, Dahlia finds two constables standing like statues behind a wheelchair in which is secured a shackled figure with a black bag over his head. “Officers, remove the headgear,” she says.
One looks to the other. The bag is removed. Mohammed Al-Masri’s eyes squeeze closed at the light. Before they adjust, Dahlia has an opportunity to examine his face. It could use a shave but is otherwise in fair shape, all things considered.
“Dahlia Barr.”
“Long time.”
“I’ve been demanding a lawyer since the airport. I expected either none or some hack.”
“I regret this treatment, Mohammed.”
“Edward.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Edward Al-Masri. That is the name on my Canadian passport. That is the name by which I am known in the West. Can I get some water?”
“Officers?”
One of them opens a plastic bottle of water on the small table.
“Untie him.”
“No can do,” the constable says. “Protocol.”
She takes the bottle and holds it to Al-Masri’s lips. More goes
down his shirtfront than in his mouth. Patiently she holds the bottle until he shakes his head,
no more
. She turns to the constables. “Now be so kind as to leave us, or is that against protocol as well?”
“Not so long as he’s tied.”
They shut the door behind them with an eerie finality, as though she and Al-Masri are doomed to be together for eternity, or at least—Dahlia thinks—until the pressure on his bladder determines otherwise.
“Mohammed, I’d like to help you.”
“Edward.”
“I’m not used to it.”
“I am. I didn’t call you Dahlia Fine, did I?”
“Admittedly we’ve both undergone a few changes since high school,” she says. “Will you let me help you?”
“Will I let the best-known human rights attorney in Israel represent me? Did you ever take me for a fool?”
“I expected you to say
in Palestine
.”
Al-Masri smiles. “A matter of time.”
“Really?”
“Injustice cannot last forever. This thing, this entity you people have created, it’s a Potemkin village.”
“It looks like this Potemkin village can sentence you to five years for currency smuggling, a good deal more if it turns out the money was intended to promote terror.”
“That’s what lawyers are for. How long will it take to get me out?”
“Mohammed,” she says. “That’s a matter of time as well.”
“Edward.”
“Edward.”
“Yes?”
“I think I should tell you: You’re making an assumption. I’m not what you think I am.”
“A virgin?”
“None of us is. How is your wife? You’ve a son, no?”
“Let me make this easy for both of us,” he says. “We’ve known each other a long time. Your mother and mine are friends. You were regularly a guest at my mother’s table. But at the moment chitchat is not on my agenda. Act like my attorney and get me the fuck out of here.”
“Tell me about the money.”
“Planted.”
“I see.”
“Stinking Jews.” A smile. “No offense.”
“Of course not. Planted?”
“This way I can be silenced. I’m surprised they didn’t plant a bomb.”
“If you’re right, why not a bomb?”
“You’re asking me what the fucking Jews are thinking?”
“I’m asking you for the truth, Mohammed. I’m told you said the money is for . . . my auntie. To build a house.”
“Ed-ward. I’m a citizen of Canada. And I want to see my ambassador. Can you arrange that?”
“You’re a citizen of Israel.”
“I renounce it.”
“You may do so, but as an attorney I must tell you that your crime was committed as an Israeli, and as an Israeli you will be brought before an Israeli court. If found guilty you will have a good deal of time in which to renounce your citizenship. But not now.”
“Plant-ed ev-i-dence.”
“You have a family. Help yourself: Don’t lie to me.”
“Dahlia, I have just spent a day, maybe two days, how can I know, shackled to a concrete floor. I would like to shower, brush my teeth, feel like a human being, not some animal. Can you arrange that?”
“I can try.” She allows herself a sigh. “Edward.”
She finds Kobi in a long room with a dozen desks, large monitors where windows should be, electronic maps on a wall the size of the garage doors in her home in Caesarea, each map subtly pulsing with colored lights. About twenty officers move about purposefully or sit attentively at desks with more monitors, large headsets causing them to look like an otherworldly species wearing the uniform of the Israel Police.
“How can you work in this cold?” she asks.
“Computers prefer the Arctic to the Middle East.” He holds up one of the white ritual fringes dangling at his sides. “That’s why I wear extra underwear.” His smile fades. “How did it go?”
“He thinks I’m his attorney.”
“I thought he might. You didn’t . . . ?”
“Disillusion him? No.”
“I thought you wouldn’t.”
“It’s not terribly ethical.”
“Neither is he. I think it’s called war.”
“We become like them, eh?”
“Only when necessary, Dahlia. It beats torture, no?”
“Unpleasant as it is to admit,” she hears herself say, “there is a
certain honesty about using . . . extraordinary methods. At least it’s direct. It doesn’t proclaim to be what it’s not.”
“Does that mean you’d prefer I turn him over to Jumblatt?”
“Of course not,” she says. “I was just . . . musing.”
High in the mountains of southern Lebanon, the convoy of UN vehicles comes to a halt in the brick courtyard of a Maronite church. Any farther inland, where the United Nations has no mandate, UN markings would cause problems: The Zionist enemy has drones whose precise lenses broadcast live video to intelligence analysts who know exactly where UN vehicles are not supposed to be. The white vehicles have served their purpose.
Purple wisteria climbs the walls of the courtyard. Beyond the walls, thick-trunked olive trees stand like mute witnesses on carved terraces that were ancient in the time of Jesus. Behind the church, shaded by three-hundred-year-old cedars, stands a tall funerary van whose shining black lacquer bears on each side the tri-barred gold cross of the Maronites. The two prisoners are dragged from the ambulance and dumped into the van. It pulls slowly out of the shadows.