3.The Spy
As a white Ford drew up alongside me, smartly jumping into the car, I let the driver examine my ID and foot down, everyone drives like there’s no tomorrow in Tel Aviv. As he sped us to Herzliya, exiting the highway and facing a sheer slope, the Ford climbed it in bottom gear. I had another mountain to meet, once more at the Mossad Academy. Closed circuit cameras zoomed in as stern-looking armed security checked out the driver and my passport. When they had resolved to allow us in, we entered fine sculptured gardens flanked by lush trees. As the car approached a white silhouette, a modern two-storey complex, we pulled up before its restrained entrance. Feeling less than self-assured as I climbed out of the car, a sombre memorial stone standing in the front lawn stopped me dead. Dedicated to them who dared too many names, I had journeyed too far to withdraw now.
Once inside a cool marble atrium, it reminded me of my recent strange stopover and remained a theatre of menace. Tempering the backdrop and my nerve, an interior garden charmed me. Images of Tel Aviv lined each wall, on any other day, I might find them compelling. As three tall men approached me, a brace of suited heavies flanked a distinguished-looking Academy Director. A firm handshake and as we traded smiles, a little closer to my dream, who needs grammar school now, I had made it to the institute of life and death. Proud of it, the director announced.
“Welcome to the Mossad!”
Blond, aged say 50, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles; chinos and casual open-neck shirt made him seem almost cuddly. Inviting me to join him, he led us into a conference hall and feeling awkward, once seated, I tried hard to relax. As the minders took positions nearby, I murmured
“I feel very privileged to be here.”
The director told me that this was my big chance to join the most highly trained secret service on the globe. Informing me the teaching staff comprised of serving officers taking time out to share their experience, he promised me that they would look upon me as a future player. As if I didn’t know, I had just read the warning stone outside, teacher told me.
“Always be aware, this is a dirty dealing game, we must hang onto each other, or hang next to one another. I’m here at all times, my door is always open.”
After the pep talk, directed to remain seated, as everyone deserted the stage, amid peeping cameras, a chunky guy entered the arena and taking a pew, he told me that he was the security chief. Gnome-like and gruff, I dubbed him Grumpy. He warned me
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As a white Ford drew up alongside me, smartly jumping into the car, I let the driver examine my ID and foot down, everyone drives like there’s no tomorrow in Tel Aviv. As he sped us to Herzliya, exiting the highway and facing a sheer slope, the Ford climbed it in bottom gear. I had another mountain to meet, once more at the Mossad Academy. Closed circuit cameras zoomed in as stern-looking armed security checked out the driver and my passport. When they had resolved to allow us in, we entered fine sculptured gardens flanked by lush trees. As the car approached a white silhouette, a modern two-storey complex, we pulled up before its restrained entrance. Feeling less than self-assured as I climbed out of the car, a sombre memorial stone standing in the front lawn stopped me dead. Dedicated to them who dared too many names, I had journeyed too far to withdraw now.
Once inside a cool marble atrium, it reminded me of my recent strange stopover and remained a theatre of menace. Tempering the backdrop and my nerve, an interior garden charmed me. Images of Tel Aviv lined each wall, on any other day, I might find them compelling. As three tall men approached me, a brace of suited heavies flanked a distinguished-looking Academy Director. A firm handshake and as we traded smiles, a little closer to my dream, who needs grammar school now, I had made it to the institute of life and death. Proud of it, the director announced.
“Welcome to the Mossad!”
Blond, aged say 50, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles; chinos and casual open-neck shirt made him seem almost cuddly. Inviting me to join him, he led us into a conference hall and feeling awkward, once seated, I tried hard to relax. As the minders took positions nearby, I murmured
“I feel very privileged to be here.”
The director told me that this was my big chance to join the most highly trained secret service on the globe. Informing me the teaching staff comprised of serving officers taking time out to share their experience, he promised me that they would look upon me as a future player. As if I didn’t know, I had just read the warning stone outside, teacher told me.
“Always be aware, this is a dirty dealing game, we must hang onto each other, or hang next to one another. I’m here at all times, my door is always open.”
After the pep talk, directed to remain seated, as everyone deserted the stage, amid peeping cameras, a chunky guy entered the arena and taking a pew, he told me that he was the security chief. Gnome-like and gruff, I dubbed him Grumpy. He warned me
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never trust no one, don’t ever mention the Mossad. He urged me to call it ‘the office’. Every three months, he revealed that I must take a polygraph test. Demanding my papers, Grumpy added
“Security contraventions mean severe punishment. I tap your phone calls, bug your rooms, read your letters, have you followed – you need my okay to breathe!”
“Why do I need lie-detector tests?” I enquired.
“You’re a security risk, you only get full clearance if you make the grade. I’ll take your picture later, you need it to get past the gate.”
After Grumpy, a pleasant chap charmed me. Taking my hand, he led me into a lived-in office. As I took a seat by his desk, he went out to fetch coffee. I noticed his lunch sticking out from a half-shut drawer. A moment more, still smiling, he began.
“I’m in charge of your training and it’s my job to ensure your success.”
As we settled, I enjoyed ground coffee. Spilling some of his beans, he told me that he had served Golda Meir’s administration before joining the Mossad. An officer and a katsa, his exciting routines had once topped the bill in foreign parts. Nowadays, shunning the limelight, fame has its downside. In certain theatres, his critics wanted him dead. I felt thankful he was here to guide me now. Afterwards, when Grumpy got back to me, he had sorted my ID tag. A white plastic card, it displayed my image and a barcode. My coaching one-to-one and intensive, when school ended each day, fitness freaks attended the gym or played sport, while others simply relaxed. Time to make friends, off limits to me, segregated, it was the playground revisited. Restive and making enquiries, they informed me that it was designed to ‘measure my capacity’, whatever that meant.
Getting on with it, as I prepared for a lecture in an otherwise empty room, about to begin, the tutor struck an informal pose as he perched on the edge of his desk at the head of the chamber. All of a sudden, crash! Two gunmen kicked back the doors. One glance and I dived for cover. A deafening roar ended with the gunmen running. In shock as I scrambled to my feet, racing to the desk, red stain dribbling from his slack mouth, motionless, the tutor’s body lay sprawled about the floor.
Horrified, impulsively about to seek help, in this theatre, I should have known better. As he hauled himself up, coolly wiping ketchup from his chin, the tutor’s resurrection no miracle. Lazarus explained that I had witnessed a killing, pledging to rejoin me, while he was away, using my notepad, I jotted down everything that I could recall about his shooting. The gunmen had fired different weapons, one man unleashing an Uzi, his partner had discharged a small automatic, beyond that, like their ammo, my memory blank. When Lazarus returned, handing him a sketchy
“Security contraventions mean severe punishment. I tap your phone calls, bug your rooms, read your letters, have you followed – you need my okay to breathe!”
“Why do I need lie-detector tests?” I enquired.
“You’re a security risk, you only get full clearance if you make the grade. I’ll take your picture later, you need it to get past the gate.”
After Grumpy, a pleasant chap charmed me. Taking my hand, he led me into a lived-in office. As I took a seat by his desk, he went out to fetch coffee. I noticed his lunch sticking out from a half-shut drawer. A moment more, still smiling, he began.
“I’m in charge of your training and it’s my job to ensure your success.”
As we settled, I enjoyed ground coffee. Spilling some of his beans, he told me that he had served Golda Meir’s administration before joining the Mossad. An officer and a katsa, his exciting routines had once topped the bill in foreign parts. Nowadays, shunning the limelight, fame has its downside. In certain theatres, his critics wanted him dead. I felt thankful he was here to guide me now. Afterwards, when Grumpy got back to me, he had sorted my ID tag. A white plastic card, it displayed my image and a barcode. My coaching one-to-one and intensive, when school ended each day, fitness freaks attended the gym or played sport, while others simply relaxed. Time to make friends, off limits to me, segregated, it was the playground revisited. Restive and making enquiries, they informed me that it was designed to ‘measure my capacity’, whatever that meant.
Getting on with it, as I prepared for a lecture in an otherwise empty room, about to begin, the tutor struck an informal pose as he perched on the edge of his desk at the head of the chamber. All of a sudden, crash! Two gunmen kicked back the doors. One glance and I dived for cover. A deafening roar ended with the gunmen running. In shock as I scrambled to my feet, racing to the desk, red stain dribbling from his slack mouth, motionless, the tutor’s body lay sprawled about the floor.
Horrified, impulsively about to seek help, in this theatre, I should have known better. As he hauled himself up, coolly wiping ketchup from his chin, the tutor’s resurrection no miracle. Lazarus explained that I had witnessed a killing, pledging to rejoin me, while he was away, using my notepad, I jotted down everything that I could recall about his shooting. The gunmen had fired different weapons, one man unleashing an Uzi, his partner had discharged a small automatic, beyond that, like their ammo, my memory blank. When Lazarus returned, handing him a sketchy
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report, he quickly binned it. Promptly leaving me again, shortly, he returned with the gunmen. I realised that my description of them should stay in the bin.
The dramatic lesson demonstrated how imagination bends truth. Sticking with reality, the next guy really scared me. Gripped by his subject, he insisted that I must regard nothing and nobody as friendly. Imploring me to look upon foreign nations as the enemy, obsessed with his subject and issuing a warning, he urged me
”Be ready for the unexpected.”
Stressing that it attacked many spies as they approached the end of a mission and directing me to outsmart paranoia, he advised me to set time aside to help me feel refreshed and on the ball. No time for that now, as soon as one ended, the next lecture began. This one all about recruiting agents, the coach argued
“You can’t just promise someone money for any information they offer. You must convince them you can be trusted with their precious secrets.”
Assuring me that human nature is very fickle, taking my time to deceive them, he declared that all I need do was appear to bump into my unwary targets and tap their natural flow without them knowing it. Warning me that later on, when they reflected upon our date, the target must never start thinking that our encounter felt contrived, my mentor guaranteed that most folk are gullible. If all went well, unaware that I operated for the Mossad, they would put down our meeting to mere chance. As he passed on more of his expertise and no surprise, he maintained that the four most reliable hooks are money, passion, sex and drugs.
Before making a play, doing my homework, I must always consult the Mossad computer for dirt on my target. Like gulls chasing trawlers for scraps, its spy files lived on juicy gossip. Armed with lengthy printouts, all nasty vices and hang-ups uncovered, the Secrets War knew no scruples. Needing to be effective, as a tool to beat terrorists, lawbreaking went with the job. A powerful weapon favoured by governments, character assassination by malicious accusation and false rumour works too well for it ever to stop. Spurious newspaper articles and faked evidence happened all the time.
A classic example of an archetypal hoax was Britain’s cynical dodgy dossier in spring 2003, when they presented a student’s review to the public, claiming it as part of their proof that Iraq possessed weapons of mass destruction. Aware that few folk cared for Saddam Hussein, they reckoned that it would pass muster. Increasingly clued-up public and smart satirists soon poked holes in it. Suspicious satellite photographs submitted by America in their sleight of hand to legitimise an illegal war and thwart United Nations peace efforts failed to support it. Alas, it doesn’t matter if
The dramatic lesson demonstrated how imagination bends truth. Sticking with reality, the next guy really scared me. Gripped by his subject, he insisted that I must regard nothing and nobody as friendly. Imploring me to look upon foreign nations as the enemy, obsessed with his subject and issuing a warning, he urged me
”Be ready for the unexpected.”
Stressing that it attacked many spies as they approached the end of a mission and directing me to outsmart paranoia, he advised me to set time aside to help me feel refreshed and on the ball. No time for that now, as soon as one ended, the next lecture began. This one all about recruiting agents, the coach argued
“You can’t just promise someone money for any information they offer. You must convince them you can be trusted with their precious secrets.”
Assuring me that human nature is very fickle, taking my time to deceive them, he declared that all I need do was appear to bump into my unwary targets and tap their natural flow without them knowing it. Warning me that later on, when they reflected upon our date, the target must never start thinking that our encounter felt contrived, my mentor guaranteed that most folk are gullible. If all went well, unaware that I operated for the Mossad, they would put down our meeting to mere chance. As he passed on more of his expertise and no surprise, he maintained that the four most reliable hooks are money, passion, sex and drugs.
Before making a play, doing my homework, I must always consult the Mossad computer for dirt on my target. Like gulls chasing trawlers for scraps, its spy files lived on juicy gossip. Armed with lengthy printouts, all nasty vices and hang-ups uncovered, the Secrets War knew no scruples. Needing to be effective, as a tool to beat terrorists, lawbreaking went with the job. A powerful weapon favoured by governments, character assassination by malicious accusation and false rumour works too well for it ever to stop. Spurious newspaper articles and faked evidence happened all the time.
A classic example of an archetypal hoax was Britain’s cynical dodgy dossier in spring 2003, when they presented a student’s review to the public, claiming it as part of their proof that Iraq possessed weapons of mass destruction. Aware that few folk cared for Saddam Hussein, they reckoned that it would pass muster. Increasingly clued-up public and smart satirists soon poked holes in it. Suspicious satellite photographs submitted by America in their sleight of hand to legitimise an illegal war and thwart United Nations peace efforts failed to support it. Alas, it doesn’t matter if
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untrue, efficient and the right spicy scandal topples empires. The staged assassination of Asil Nadir by the British Secret Services is another classic. I’ll tell you all about it a little later.
Life undercover nothing new to me, but this worlds apart, about to learn how to contrive my own legend, my coach warned me never create any role that failed to overcome the unexpected. A false résumé must outlive hidden pitfalls. Something sensible did in a crisis, given time and care, I had to get a life hard to fault, if a bit obscure. A big help the Mossad computer held registers listing defunct schools, colleges, businesses and masses more to tailor curriculum vitae to impress new friends. Unlike anything rogue Tory, Jeffrey Archer plotted, it must be credible.
The Mossad had all the props I needed to be anyone I liked and having fun, I had moved on from my first change in the bedroom, no big deal now, before the camera, wigged and gowned, my cameos ranged from a scary French whore to a naughty Irish nun! Playtime ended during review, as they watched the screen tests the critics panned me. I had done it in real life and playing it again, this time no props, my creative characters won me an encore. For a bouquet, they lifted the lid on false passports, four flavours, top, second, field-ops, and pilfered. Top grade a perfect specimen, it possessed all necessary support and defeated close checks even by the country of its supposed origin. Second grade, also perfect although no backing and even if false, field-ops held its own where the holder crossed no frontiers. Perhaps easy to swap the photo and particulars in pilfered passports, but used only as a last resort and in a crisis, its not enough when faced by vigilant customs playing spot the difference. Leaving zero to chance, the Mossad had the fakes for all takes.
Surveillance next and gaining experience, I toiled on my own, sometimes with a team. The Yarid worked close together like a circus troupe, among many unusual jobs, their chief task was to build Secure-Routes. Operating in compact groups and joining up with them, I followed sundry targets. We played it fast in crowded city streets and slow in spaces or deserted roads. Challenging, as I got to grips with the concepts of time and space, gauging gaps between targets helped to pick up the trail if they popped into a building around a corner and fleetingly disappeared.
Several weeks more, wearily tramping streets night and day, initially suspecting everyone a spook, until relaxing, nonetheless at the end of each routine, upon reporting to the instructor, he always demanded an account of my day and a full description of any tail. Sometimes nobody chased me; everyday he would still ask the question. A hazardous game, mistakes now seriously dented my prospects. Rescued from the street, we took to the road. As I climbed into a Ford, taking a special driving test and practising evasive techniques, chasing, and losing tails, I had a
Life undercover nothing new to me, but this worlds apart, about to learn how to contrive my own legend, my coach warned me never create any role that failed to overcome the unexpected. A false résumé must outlive hidden pitfalls. Something sensible did in a crisis, given time and care, I had to get a life hard to fault, if a bit obscure. A big help the Mossad computer held registers listing defunct schools, colleges, businesses and masses more to tailor curriculum vitae to impress new friends. Unlike anything rogue Tory, Jeffrey Archer plotted, it must be credible.
The Mossad had all the props I needed to be anyone I liked and having fun, I had moved on from my first change in the bedroom, no big deal now, before the camera, wigged and gowned, my cameos ranged from a scary French whore to a naughty Irish nun! Playtime ended during review, as they watched the screen tests the critics panned me. I had done it in real life and playing it again, this time no props, my creative characters won me an encore. For a bouquet, they lifted the lid on false passports, four flavours, top, second, field-ops, and pilfered. Top grade a perfect specimen, it possessed all necessary support and defeated close checks even by the country of its supposed origin. Second grade, also perfect although no backing and even if false, field-ops held its own where the holder crossed no frontiers. Perhaps easy to swap the photo and particulars in pilfered passports, but used only as a last resort and in a crisis, its not enough when faced by vigilant customs playing spot the difference. Leaving zero to chance, the Mossad had the fakes for all takes.
Surveillance next and gaining experience, I toiled on my own, sometimes with a team. The Yarid worked close together like a circus troupe, among many unusual jobs, their chief task was to build Secure-Routes. Operating in compact groups and joining up with them, I followed sundry targets. We played it fast in crowded city streets and slow in spaces or deserted roads. Challenging, as I got to grips with the concepts of time and space, gauging gaps between targets helped to pick up the trail if they popped into a building around a corner and fleetingly disappeared.
Several weeks more, wearily tramping streets night and day, initially suspecting everyone a spook, until relaxing, nonetheless at the end of each routine, upon reporting to the instructor, he always demanded an account of my day and a full description of any tail. Sometimes nobody chased me; everyday he would still ask the question. A hazardous game, mistakes now seriously dented my prospects. Rescued from the street, we took to the road. As I climbed into a Ford, taking a special driving test and practising evasive techniques, chasing, and losing tails, I had a
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super time in a Rover, no ejector seat maybe, but believe me it could fly.
September and as I continued my apprenticeship in tradecraft, the Mossad showed me some diverse methods to handle messages, from hiding notes behind bricks, to setting up dishes and sending code via satellite. At all times and days, I had to switch on my combo radio cassette player. It only looked ordinary, not in the shops, it had silicon chips and full of tricks as I toggled this and pressed that, but easier to set than a video. My twiddling triggered a great little gadget that listened out for my call sign. Pencil to hand, as I waited beside the gizmo, it locked onto the selected signal converting it to small blocks of numbers, each one held four digits. As they all lined up on a liquid crystal display, noting them down, I took out my cryptic notepad. Starting a new page every day, printed on every one sat a table of random letters. Each grid held some 20 numbered squares across and down dividing into hundreds of boxes, an entire alphabet, each box held a single letter. Called one-time pads and one-off, no two tables the same. Using up my blocks of four digits, the first pair gave me the row down the second gave the column across. As I lined them up, pinpointing a letter, like an enigma machine, jotting them down in sequence gave me my message. No burning paper and risking smell and scorch marks, pages typically water-soluble, sometimes edible. Impossible to break the code, infinite possibilities, only the Mossad and me knew which page to turn on any given day. OTP afforded matchless encryption driving spy services crazy and still used today; it stops them ogling e-mails. Back to the gizmo, as I dropped a tape cassette into it, recording at ultra high speed and sending gibberish blocks of OTP numbers, too fast, my message escaped scanner detection.
In January 1984, as the second half of my course kicked off, it gave me more stuff on how the Mossad ticked. Keeping it small and neat, they hired fewer staff than equivalent spy firms due to lavish help from Sayanim, or Jewish assistants. They lived everywhere, working in all trades and professions. It cost only a phone call to gain all services. Paid just enough to cover their expenses, they did it for Israel. A smart pool shielded from risk and secrets, operational need formed their selection. The Mossad had its own in-house aides, not only regular boffins, well-paid born-again villains. A sin to waste their talents and an excellent argument, it reduced crime, not only taking advantage of skilled safecrackers and counterfeiters, a team of creative accountants formed custom companies enabling skilful stings. Giving me chance to enhance my skills, it could provide for a useful cover. While in the office, using computers, I tried the latest software. Usually, the Mossad employed clever hackers to produce some of their programs. In June, I had a visitor and as we embraced, Israel always felt less lonely with Moses around. As expected, he touched
September and as I continued my apprenticeship in tradecraft, the Mossad showed me some diverse methods to handle messages, from hiding notes behind bricks, to setting up dishes and sending code via satellite. At all times and days, I had to switch on my combo radio cassette player. It only looked ordinary, not in the shops, it had silicon chips and full of tricks as I toggled this and pressed that, but easier to set than a video. My twiddling triggered a great little gadget that listened out for my call sign. Pencil to hand, as I waited beside the gizmo, it locked onto the selected signal converting it to small blocks of numbers, each one held four digits. As they all lined up on a liquid crystal display, noting them down, I took out my cryptic notepad. Starting a new page every day, printed on every one sat a table of random letters. Each grid held some 20 numbered squares across and down dividing into hundreds of boxes, an entire alphabet, each box held a single letter. Called one-time pads and one-off, no two tables the same. Using up my blocks of four digits, the first pair gave me the row down the second gave the column across. As I lined them up, pinpointing a letter, like an enigma machine, jotting them down in sequence gave me my message. No burning paper and risking smell and scorch marks, pages typically water-soluble, sometimes edible. Impossible to break the code, infinite possibilities, only the Mossad and me knew which page to turn on any given day. OTP afforded matchless encryption driving spy services crazy and still used today; it stops them ogling e-mails. Back to the gizmo, as I dropped a tape cassette into it, recording at ultra high speed and sending gibberish blocks of OTP numbers, too fast, my message escaped scanner detection.
In January 1984, as the second half of my course kicked off, it gave me more stuff on how the Mossad ticked. Keeping it small and neat, they hired fewer staff than equivalent spy firms due to lavish help from Sayanim, or Jewish assistants. They lived everywhere, working in all trades and professions. It cost only a phone call to gain all services. Paid just enough to cover their expenses, they did it for Israel. A smart pool shielded from risk and secrets, operational need formed their selection. The Mossad had its own in-house aides, not only regular boffins, well-paid born-again villains. A sin to waste their talents and an excellent argument, it reduced crime, not only taking advantage of skilled safecrackers and counterfeiters, a team of creative accountants formed custom companies enabling skilful stings. Giving me chance to enhance my skills, it could provide for a useful cover. While in the office, using computers, I tried the latest software. Usually, the Mossad employed clever hackers to produce some of their programs. In June, I had a visitor and as we embraced, Israel always felt less lonely with Moses around. As expected, he touched
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upon Avrim. I had since regained a portion of inner-peace and confessed
“When we heard what Sharon did, we’d had enough, we wanted no part of that. It appalled us.”
“Blame the zealots,” responded Moses and talking down to his boots, bitter, he added, “I thought I’d survived Hitler and the Holocaust. I’m certain now that I was wrong.”
Scathing and Moses blamed ultra-orthodox Jews for the rolling bloodlust. He described them unholy fanatics and even terrorists. Derisive, he told me that they set themselves up holier than thou, claiming to be real Jews dismissing liberals like him and me as not proper Jews at all. I had never seen him angry before. Moses proclaimed that the zealots’ extremism made them Israel’s Nazis. He believed that their pursuit of ritualistic obligation robbed them of compassion. Pacing the floor, Moses didn’t dare repeat his views on the street. He argued politics and ritual had long crossed swords in the Holy Land and had mutated into one diabolical beast. Summing up, he cried
“Real Jews want peace, ultra-right fanatics symbolise apartheid-like repression. It has no place in a real democracy, racists are strangling Israel.”
Moses knew what went on in the Knesset. He believed that the fanatics threat to kill politicians, accounted for the dreadful state of Israeli politics. Opposed to human rights, denying Palestinians a homeland, one day, the zealots would even murder their own Prime Minister. Moses knew his stuff and informed me that he worked with Al. Meaning ‘above’ they directed the top missions. Cheeky, I asked him for his name
“But I like you calling me Moses!” he protested, smiling.
As I got back to work, the Mossad inexorably finicky about personal security and dates with strangers loaded with danger, viewing them with deep suspicion, it was a struggle not to get paranoid in this job, lonely too that was okay as long as I clung to the big picture. As I toured the Mossad’s secret vaults, visiting ever more covert units, real spy stuff I loved the gadgets and many would visit Hollywood. Aging documents and creating realistic forged papers. Safer than any safe, hiding secrets in common cavities such as towel rails, I played with sneaky specs, pens, radios, cameras and bugs. They popped into some funny places, shoes, clothes, cases and even the human anatomy.
Later on, I received an invite to visit a clandestine sector named Komemiute, incidentally, the label for Israel’s 1948 War of Independence. Classic infiltration artists, the stuff they did set the pulse racing and I really liked this, in translation, their title meant independent and upright.
“When we heard what Sharon did, we’d had enough, we wanted no part of that. It appalled us.”
“Blame the zealots,” responded Moses and talking down to his boots, bitter, he added, “I thought I’d survived Hitler and the Holocaust. I’m certain now that I was wrong.”
Scathing and Moses blamed ultra-orthodox Jews for the rolling bloodlust. He described them unholy fanatics and even terrorists. Derisive, he told me that they set themselves up holier than thou, claiming to be real Jews dismissing liberals like him and me as not proper Jews at all. I had never seen him angry before. Moses proclaimed that the zealots’ extremism made them Israel’s Nazis. He believed that their pursuit of ritualistic obligation robbed them of compassion. Pacing the floor, Moses didn’t dare repeat his views on the street. He argued politics and ritual had long crossed swords in the Holy Land and had mutated into one diabolical beast. Summing up, he cried
“Real Jews want peace, ultra-right fanatics symbolise apartheid-like repression. It has no place in a real democracy, racists are strangling Israel.”
Moses knew what went on in the Knesset. He believed that the fanatics threat to kill politicians, accounted for the dreadful state of Israeli politics. Opposed to human rights, denying Palestinians a homeland, one day, the zealots would even murder their own Prime Minister. Moses knew his stuff and informed me that he worked with Al. Meaning ‘above’ they directed the top missions. Cheeky, I asked him for his name
“But I like you calling me Moses!” he protested, smiling.
As I got back to work, the Mossad inexorably finicky about personal security and dates with strangers loaded with danger, viewing them with deep suspicion, it was a struggle not to get paranoid in this job, lonely too that was okay as long as I clung to the big picture. As I toured the Mossad’s secret vaults, visiting ever more covert units, real spy stuff I loved the gadgets and many would visit Hollywood. Aging documents and creating realistic forged papers. Safer than any safe, hiding secrets in common cavities such as towel rails, I played with sneaky specs, pens, radios, cameras and bugs. They popped into some funny places, shoes, clothes, cases and even the human anatomy.
Later on, I received an invite to visit a clandestine sector named Komemiute, incidentally, the label for Israel’s 1948 War of Independence. Classic infiltration artists, the stuff they did set the pulse racing and I really liked this, in translation, their title meant independent and upright.
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In October, the new director let me into his office. He had just left Paris where he had been head of station. Unlike his predecessor, this guy lacked presence and inhibited, he left me feeling bored until he tapped my number into his computer and located my file. His monitor facing away from me, his face giving nothing away, as he studied the screen a minute, perfunctory and offering me a contract, I might have known, he told me
“Your training is complete. I’m giving you to the Komemiute.”
Now 1985, only 28, tainted, but finally living the dream. Excited by the notion of release, Israel had filled my teenage head with magic. I saw myself then as a do-gooder, even if Sharon had left me feeling very guilt-ridden. He had shamed the uniform I had once been proud to wear and torn between them, I believed in an Israel and a Palestine, but never the rabid virus of terrorism.
As Sabri al Banna, known as Abu Nidal, pursued his long reign of terror and anarchy, he had fallen out with the PLO. Arafat wanted him dead. In 1982, Nidal was behind the bloody attempt to kill Israel’s ambassador to London. While most Syrians and Christian Lebanese hated Nidal and his factions, great cover, I had met a few who idolised him. Divided up into small cells spread all over Europe, some had even joined up with a wealthy group of neo-Nazis. Strange bedfellows made a credible cover. A merry band, they had hatched a plot to kill Jews.
I had infiltrated the same faction five years earlier. It began with my tête-à-tête with the rich Lebanese in faraway Kós. In turn, his Syrian buddy Rashid duped the PLO to fix for me a place in their camp. My task in Beirut was to feed the faction with particulars on proposed Force 17 raids. All part of an evil exercise to bolster Nidal’s already vile image and raze Arafat’s regime, as I grassed them up it vetoed their depraved plans. Presently, functioning out of Munich, it had taken them ages to put their act together, first night not far away. My brief to tap into an earlier performance and join Nidal’s faction again, my objective to expose their bomb-maker, his factory and my wits my only weapon, its what I really wanted to do and Moses had said that I must do it to help me move on.
A covert partner played my rich Daddy, posing as a millionaire, his thriving cash and carry in Manchester traded office goods and children’s toys. In truth, a sayanim owned it. Alleging that Daddy had lost all patience with my anarchist leanings, I was to play his wayward daughter. My tale must stand up to scrutiny. My legend went that Daddy still held out hope that one day, I might pursue the family business. Posing as the sole heir, I had to make the faction believe that in return for permitting me to rejoin them, I would let them have a fat share of the family fortune. Money must help me renew my contact with them in Germany.
Before then, returning to England and visiting Daddy’s enormous
“Your training is complete. I’m giving you to the Komemiute.”
Now 1985, only 28, tainted, but finally living the dream. Excited by the notion of release, Israel had filled my teenage head with magic. I saw myself then as a do-gooder, even if Sharon had left me feeling very guilt-ridden. He had shamed the uniform I had once been proud to wear and torn between them, I believed in an Israel and a Palestine, but never the rabid virus of terrorism.
As Sabri al Banna, known as Abu Nidal, pursued his long reign of terror and anarchy, he had fallen out with the PLO. Arafat wanted him dead. In 1982, Nidal was behind the bloody attempt to kill Israel’s ambassador to London. While most Syrians and Christian Lebanese hated Nidal and his factions, great cover, I had met a few who idolised him. Divided up into small cells spread all over Europe, some had even joined up with a wealthy group of neo-Nazis. Strange bedfellows made a credible cover. A merry band, they had hatched a plot to kill Jews.
I had infiltrated the same faction five years earlier. It began with my tête-à-tête with the rich Lebanese in faraway Kós. In turn, his Syrian buddy Rashid duped the PLO to fix for me a place in their camp. My task in Beirut was to feed the faction with particulars on proposed Force 17 raids. All part of an evil exercise to bolster Nidal’s already vile image and raze Arafat’s regime, as I grassed them up it vetoed their depraved plans. Presently, functioning out of Munich, it had taken them ages to put their act together, first night not far away. My brief to tap into an earlier performance and join Nidal’s faction again, my objective to expose their bomb-maker, his factory and my wits my only weapon, its what I really wanted to do and Moses had said that I must do it to help me move on.
A covert partner played my rich Daddy, posing as a millionaire, his thriving cash and carry in Manchester traded office goods and children’s toys. In truth, a sayanim owned it. Alleging that Daddy had lost all patience with my anarchist leanings, I was to play his wayward daughter. My tale must stand up to scrutiny. My legend went that Daddy still held out hope that one day, I might pursue the family business. Posing as the sole heir, I had to make the faction believe that in return for permitting me to rejoin them, I would let them have a fat share of the family fortune. Money must help me renew my contact with them in Germany.
Before then, returning to England and visiting Daddy’s enormous
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warehouse, sited in a rundown area, a fortress, steel shutters, razor wire, and security watched over the goods. Squeezing past unloading lorries as I entered the store to check out the stock, hundreds of shelves, stacked floor to high ceiling, holding all manner of paper, pens, envelopes, pencils, but only toy guns, I had a job to take it all in.
A penchant for designer suits, rôlex on his wrist and Daddy lived his affluent image. As I studied his habits, he used a stylish gold lighter for French cigarettes, lighting his cheroots with a match. All part of his act to feign cancer, too much tar and nicotine and not long for this world, portraying the widower sure to leave all his booty in his will to me. I played his only child. Intent on enjoying the end of his days and driving a swish silver Jaguar, he listened to classics on his way home to well-heeled Hale Barns, located close to Manchester.
Daddy parked his Jaguar in a triple garage by his swift red Porsche. Haughty conifers concealed an elegant mansion. A last look at the swimming pool, lovely gardens and as I explored the plush interior, Daddy had taste, every room housing gorgeous antiques and to the manor made, I got the picture.
The Mossad issued me with another top grade British passport and a few days later, I took a flight to Munich. Relaxed in my new part, doubling as a freedom fighter in my designer denims, chic black leather jacket and cool Italian shades. Leaving the terminal and on schedule, as my taxi drew up before me, the clued-up driver knew where I wanted to be.
Reaching the suburbs and about to drop me outside a sad café, after giving me an update during the ride, my chauffeur whispered shalom. A copy of The Times under one arm and lugging my heavy case I pushed open the door and entered the haunt of a known Nidal activist. All peeling paint and gaudy plastic tablecloths, in one niche an elderly Prussian pair tucked into leafy salad at a table by a murky window. Otherwise empty, I took a pew by the exit where a flaxen girl brought me a welcome coffee.
Forsaking my shades, the vigil began, leaving the crossword no mind for that, settling instead for a read and wishing that I hadn’t, as ever, the news awful. As time dragged, an hour later, the old folk gone, fed up as I put down my paper my man entered the café. Palestinian, aged 30 and a thick mop of black curly hair. Styling himself Ali, as he stole the table next to me, appearing to have abandoned Islam. Clean-shaven a boyish face and unlike our last meeting, shy to expose his extreme beliefs, faded denims and a shabby anorak completed his guise.
Furtive, as he kept glancing at me over the rim of his teacup, keen to get out of this place and turning to him, I began
“I can’t help, but notice you’re trying to recall where we last met.”
A penchant for designer suits, rôlex on his wrist and Daddy lived his affluent image. As I studied his habits, he used a stylish gold lighter for French cigarettes, lighting his cheroots with a match. All part of his act to feign cancer, too much tar and nicotine and not long for this world, portraying the widower sure to leave all his booty in his will to me. I played his only child. Intent on enjoying the end of his days and driving a swish silver Jaguar, he listened to classics on his way home to well-heeled Hale Barns, located close to Manchester.
Daddy parked his Jaguar in a triple garage by his swift red Porsche. Haughty conifers concealed an elegant mansion. A last look at the swimming pool, lovely gardens and as I explored the plush interior, Daddy had taste, every room housing gorgeous antiques and to the manor made, I got the picture.
The Mossad issued me with another top grade British passport and a few days later, I took a flight to Munich. Relaxed in my new part, doubling as a freedom fighter in my designer denims, chic black leather jacket and cool Italian shades. Leaving the terminal and on schedule, as my taxi drew up before me, the clued-up driver knew where I wanted to be.
Reaching the suburbs and about to drop me outside a sad café, after giving me an update during the ride, my chauffeur whispered shalom. A copy of The Times under one arm and lugging my heavy case I pushed open the door and entered the haunt of a known Nidal activist. All peeling paint and gaudy plastic tablecloths, in one niche an elderly Prussian pair tucked into leafy salad at a table by a murky window. Otherwise empty, I took a pew by the exit where a flaxen girl brought me a welcome coffee.
Forsaking my shades, the vigil began, leaving the crossword no mind for that, settling instead for a read and wishing that I hadn’t, as ever, the news awful. As time dragged, an hour later, the old folk gone, fed up as I put down my paper my man entered the café. Palestinian, aged 30 and a thick mop of black curly hair. Styling himself Ali, as he stole the table next to me, appearing to have abandoned Islam. Clean-shaven a boyish face and unlike our last meeting, shy to expose his extreme beliefs, faded denims and a shabby anorak completed his guise.
Furtive, as he kept glancing at me over the rim of his teacup, keen to get out of this place and turning to him, I began
“I can’t help, but notice you’re trying to recall where we last met.”
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To speed things, as he gawped at me, using the same moniker that I had used to get me into Beirut, jotting it down on a paper napkin somehow made it look more convincing. Upon handing it to him, I suggested that he must remember me now. A cursory glance and still guarded, he responded
“What do you want?”
“I was at the camp” I retorted “It was bombed. I want to rejoin you.”
“How did you know I was here?” he quizzed.
“What do you mean, everyone at the camp knew you and where you hang out.”
Ali didn’t know that he had a history. As I reeled off the handles of a few of his mates and more of his haunts, even the Mossad didn’t know some of them until I told them. Several recruits at the camp knew of him and as we gossiped, they all unveiled that Ali was an odd jobber doing this and that as told. Right now
“Are you alone?” he quizzed.
“Completely” I fibbed, “Can we go somewhere we can talk?”
Leaving the café a couple of minutes before me, Ali promised me that he would wait outside in the street. Joining him, as we fell into step together, appearing very troubled, he declared
“I have no means of knowing if I can trust you.”
“That’s not true!” I rejoined, “Rashid cleared me – remember?”
I felt certain that Ali must recall driving me to his lair. Pondering what to do next and abruptly halting us in our tracks, as he apparently studied chewing gum embedded in the pavement. Jogging his memory, I supplied him with more names from years ago and embroidering the details of my flight from the PLO camp, playing it bitter, I informed him
“I had to give myself up, I said I’d fallen in love with a Palestinian in the camp. I claimed I didn’t know what he was into until he got me there, I said I took no part in what they did.”
“How did you get out?” he probed
“The Israelis let me go” I told him “They couldn’t do anything else, I’m a Brit not Palestinian, when they told Daddy, he paid for my flight back to England, that was fucking humiliating.”
“I’m sorry it went wrong” empathised Ali. Won over he cried “C’mon!”
As he steered me through somewhat scruffy streets, I trailed behind him like his faithful wife. The little wheels on my suitcase finding it hard to keep up and once or twice my load toppling over, oh no, he couldn’t help. Silly man hopping about like he
“What do you want?”
“I was at the camp” I retorted “It was bombed. I want to rejoin you.”
“How did you know I was here?” he quizzed.
“What do you mean, everyone at the camp knew you and where you hang out.”
Ali didn’t know that he had a history. As I reeled off the handles of a few of his mates and more of his haunts, even the Mossad didn’t know some of them until I told them. Several recruits at the camp knew of him and as we gossiped, they all unveiled that Ali was an odd jobber doing this and that as told. Right now
“Are you alone?” he quizzed.
“Completely” I fibbed, “Can we go somewhere we can talk?”
Leaving the café a couple of minutes before me, Ali promised me that he would wait outside in the street. Joining him, as we fell into step together, appearing very troubled, he declared
“I have no means of knowing if I can trust you.”
“That’s not true!” I rejoined, “Rashid cleared me – remember?”
I felt certain that Ali must recall driving me to his lair. Pondering what to do next and abruptly halting us in our tracks, as he apparently studied chewing gum embedded in the pavement. Jogging his memory, I supplied him with more names from years ago and embroidering the details of my flight from the PLO camp, playing it bitter, I informed him
“I had to give myself up, I said I’d fallen in love with a Palestinian in the camp. I claimed I didn’t know what he was into until he got me there, I said I took no part in what they did.”
“How did you get out?” he probed
“The Israelis let me go” I told him “They couldn’t do anything else, I’m a Brit not Palestinian, when they told Daddy, he paid for my flight back to England, that was fucking humiliating.”
“I’m sorry it went wrong” empathised Ali. Won over he cried “C’mon!”
As he steered me through somewhat scruffy streets, I trailed behind him like his faithful wife. The little wheels on my suitcase finding it hard to keep up and once or twice my load toppling over, oh no, he couldn’t help. Silly man hopping about like he
- 57 -
wanted a pee he kept going, stopping only to look back over his shoulder. A miserable locale and making it worse then it started to rain, only drizzle. The newspaper stopped my hair from frizzing. Finally, we reached a dull little house standing on a silent corner. A last shifty glance, his beady eyes darting like the villain in a Chaplin movie, Ali inserted a key and opening the door, once inside the safe house, untidy, but snug. Making myself at home, Ali whispered
“What about your father, where does he think you are?”
Ostensibly putting Ali in the picture, I explained to him that Daddy knew I was staying in Germany. Emphasising that I didn’t want him kicking up a fuss and sending people to chase me, I told Ali that last time, in Beirut, when Daddy didn’t know where I was it had proved too much for him. Asserting that it was different now. Aware that I’m no longer a child, I told him that Daddy assumed that I was simply on the first leg of my vacation touring Europe.
“Your father’s very rich.” fretted Ali, “If he suspects that you’ve betrayed his trust he could stir up trouble.”
“I’ll keep in touch,” I pledged, “I’ll send him loads of postcards, he’ll think I’m fine, I won’t tell him what I’m really up to – trust me. Now, is it okay for me to stay?”
“It’s not my decision,” he pledged, “I’ll make a call, our friends must agree.”
After I had hauled my case up the stairs, Ali showed me into a pretty bedroom. These days, short on numbers, they had made allowances, approving women and one day even children could join them. All factions different and the ethics of this particular offshoot forbade Ali promiscuity. An intricately patterned prayer mat rolled up downstairs reassured me. More anxious about his Browning, he played with it like a toy, but without his gun, Ali would be nothing. My mind dwelt on the bedroom instead, like the rest of the house refurbished, pastel walls and a nice carpet I loved the mirror. Pinching no bear’s bed, this one spare, as Ali left me to unpack, he hastened to make his phone call. I tried eavesdropping, but his voice muffled, it didn’t matter, when I returned to the lounge, he told me
“Someone’s coming here tonight.”
No landlord lets in new tenants without vetting, I would need to bide my time and earn their trust. My background a big help, that said still not enough. Leaving me behind, getting into the brat, I had to believe in and act her part for real. That night, as trouble called, Ali met them in the hallway. As I caught the sound of voices, shortly, Ali let two men into the lounge. Tall and robust, the first man aped an aristocrat, smartly clicking his heels. I didn’t
“What about your father, where does he think you are?”
Ostensibly putting Ali in the picture, I explained to him that Daddy knew I was staying in Germany. Emphasising that I didn’t want him kicking up a fuss and sending people to chase me, I told Ali that last time, in Beirut, when Daddy didn’t know where I was it had proved too much for him. Asserting that it was different now. Aware that I’m no longer a child, I told him that Daddy assumed that I was simply on the first leg of my vacation touring Europe.
“Your father’s very rich.” fretted Ali, “If he suspects that you’ve betrayed his trust he could stir up trouble.”
“I’ll keep in touch,” I pledged, “I’ll send him loads of postcards, he’ll think I’m fine, I won’t tell him what I’m really up to – trust me. Now, is it okay for me to stay?”
“It’s not my decision,” he pledged, “I’ll make a call, our friends must agree.”
After I had hauled my case up the stairs, Ali showed me into a pretty bedroom. These days, short on numbers, they had made allowances, approving women and one day even children could join them. All factions different and the ethics of this particular offshoot forbade Ali promiscuity. An intricately patterned prayer mat rolled up downstairs reassured me. More anxious about his Browning, he played with it like a toy, but without his gun, Ali would be nothing. My mind dwelt on the bedroom instead, like the rest of the house refurbished, pastel walls and a nice carpet I loved the mirror. Pinching no bear’s bed, this one spare, as Ali left me to unpack, he hastened to make his phone call. I tried eavesdropping, but his voice muffled, it didn’t matter, when I returned to the lounge, he told me
“Someone’s coming here tonight.”
No landlord lets in new tenants without vetting, I would need to bide my time and earn their trust. My background a big help, that said still not enough. Leaving me behind, getting into the brat, I had to believe in and act her part for real. That night, as trouble called, Ali met them in the hallway. As I caught the sound of voices, shortly, Ali let two men into the lounge. Tall and robust, the first man aped an aristocrat, smartly clicking his heels. I didn’t
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know that they still did that. He called himself Konrad, greying hair adding to his urbane façade. An expensive lounge suit, his manner icy, even looking like a Nazi. Asserting that he would like to hear my story, fluent English dovetailed his native German.
In stark contrast not quite as tall and a real thug, Konrad’s skinhead pal sported swastika tattoos on the back of both of his plump hands. As Ali fetched in a sharp knife from the kitchen about to divide his orange, settling into comfy armchairs and good coffee as everyone faced each other like old foes across a table, I loved the tangy explosion of citrus as Ali separated his juicy segments.
As I finished my tale, deadpan, Konrad demanded evidence of my ID. No fears, I possessed British papers. Handing him a small pile, all on official record, a neat dodge, only how the Mossad did it not kosher. Unable to argue with this stuff, slow, deliberate, he took out his pocket book and a nice pen. Careful to spell the name right, not forgetting the date of birth, as Konrad made a list, apart from bankcards and a whole clutter of tickets, he copied down all the particulars on the passport, insurance papers, driving licence, you could hear a pin drop until he had done. Seemingly satisfied, Konrad told me
“Sehr gut, danke schön, meine Fräulein.”
No pacifist, indeed zilch in common with today’s Germany, Konrad handed me my papers. Springing from his chair, belly wobbling under his bursting T-shirt, Konrad’s minder abruptly went berserk. Orange peel and cups flying, he kicked over the table and as coffee soaked the carpet, brutal, he ranted
“So you think us fucking idiots, ja, you think fucking rich girls leave home all the time to play at freedom fighters – scheibe!” he thundered. “Yours is a fucking stupid story go now pack, leave this house before I break your fucking neck!”
His tantrum struck me as pre-arranged. Nice to watch someone else take the stage, a big bloke, the skinhead’s muscle ran to fat, it didn’t make him any less formidable. Disregarding his threats, he had to be bluffing. They had to hang onto me now not just for the promise of Daddy’s fortune, but to work out if I could be a spy. When the skinhead had done, a smile made me look a lot calmer than I felt. The feminists back in Beirut would never put up with him, using his lingo, into my rôle now and I launched a screaming attack
“Fuck off, I’m going nowhere, I’m not fucking stupid you’re trying it on, talk to me like that for real and I’ll cut your fucking balls off.”
As I snatched Ali’s knife off the floor, at once retreating, the skinhead stumbled over the upturned table and unable to stop himself, falling back onto the sofa, petrified, he stayed there.
In stark contrast not quite as tall and a real thug, Konrad’s skinhead pal sported swastika tattoos on the back of both of his plump hands. As Ali fetched in a sharp knife from the kitchen about to divide his orange, settling into comfy armchairs and good coffee as everyone faced each other like old foes across a table, I loved the tangy explosion of citrus as Ali separated his juicy segments.
As I finished my tale, deadpan, Konrad demanded evidence of my ID. No fears, I possessed British papers. Handing him a small pile, all on official record, a neat dodge, only how the Mossad did it not kosher. Unable to argue with this stuff, slow, deliberate, he took out his pocket book and a nice pen. Careful to spell the name right, not forgetting the date of birth, as Konrad made a list, apart from bankcards and a whole clutter of tickets, he copied down all the particulars on the passport, insurance papers, driving licence, you could hear a pin drop until he had done. Seemingly satisfied, Konrad told me
“Sehr gut, danke schön, meine Fräulein.”
No pacifist, indeed zilch in common with today’s Germany, Konrad handed me my papers. Springing from his chair, belly wobbling under his bursting T-shirt, Konrad’s minder abruptly went berserk. Orange peel and cups flying, he kicked over the table and as coffee soaked the carpet, brutal, he ranted
“So you think us fucking idiots, ja, you think fucking rich girls leave home all the time to play at freedom fighters – scheibe!” he thundered. “Yours is a fucking stupid story go now pack, leave this house before I break your fucking neck!”
His tantrum struck me as pre-arranged. Nice to watch someone else take the stage, a big bloke, the skinhead’s muscle ran to fat, it didn’t make him any less formidable. Disregarding his threats, he had to be bluffing. They had to hang onto me now not just for the promise of Daddy’s fortune, but to work out if I could be a spy. When the skinhead had done, a smile made me look a lot calmer than I felt. The feminists back in Beirut would never put up with him, using his lingo, into my rôle now and I launched a screaming attack
“Fuck off, I’m going nowhere, I’m not fucking stupid you’re trying it on, talk to me like that for real and I’ll cut your fucking balls off.”
As I snatched Ali’s knife off the floor, at once retreating, the skinhead stumbled over the upturned table and unable to stop himself, falling back onto the sofa, petrified, he stayed there.
- 59 -
Respect won, I ordered him to right the table. As he rounded up the coffee cups and set them down, his humiliation absolute. Showing no fear, nearly through their trial, as I placed the knife on the tabletop before him and rounding off a clearly convincing performance, I warned the thug
“I know about headfucks, I’ve been there, I’ve seen what they do at the camp. I’ll bet you’ve never stepped outside Germany. Fuck you, you’d never survive Beirut I’ve come long ways to aid Palestinians defeat fucking Jewish tyranny.”
Our quarrel charged the room with tension, not taking his eyes off me, Konrad stared, a snake waiting to strike, he thought better of it. As I added more detail to my account, Konrad still sat in judgment, glaring, attempting to see through me the Nazi measured his verdict. A wry smirk giving him away, he delivered his findings.
“Your papers seem in order, as far as I’m concerned Fräulein, you’re genuine” he added, “We should welcome your help, but you understand I have to check your story. You can stay here, after that we’ll see, I may even have to kill you.”
On that cheerful note, Konrad and his thug departed. Over the next week, as I got the coffee stain out of the carpet, allowing me outside for only one hour each day, under orders, Ali kept me on a leash, the house the best place to unearth what was going on, now part of the furniture, I played skivvy. Coy about himself let alone any plot, at first, Ali told me little, our main topic each day the shopping list. Another week, as I got the place sparkling, used to having me around now, Ali no longer saw me as a threat. Watching me at work and pleased, he told me it showed devotion. Judging me safe, nowadays mates a real chatterbox, Ali shared some thrilling tales.
Although I never saw his thug again, never away from the house always turning up at night so nobody noted his face, not even a nod when I served him coffee, Konrad chinwagged with Ali. Usually, he waited until I was out of earshot before enjoying his gossip. Picking up a music mag, casual, I flopped into a chair facing them and absorbed by easy listening, as Konrad betrayed his plot. Animated this evening and always arrogant, he would reckon it above me. Restless to launch the campaign, Ali liked to call it a Jihad, it did him no good talking about freedom for Palestine with Konrad, money talks, in charge, pragmatic, the Nazi desired Jews dead for his own cause in his own time. Detesting Arabs, bent on deceiving them all, the faction only a front to advance his own ends.
Outwardly reputable, Konrad craved to bring on the old days and terrorise German Jewish neighbourhoods. All the riches he ever wanted, insane, now he hungered for political power. At least Ali had some redeeming facets. Alas poor Konrad, the Mossad knew
“I know about headfucks, I’ve been there, I’ve seen what they do at the camp. I’ll bet you’ve never stepped outside Germany. Fuck you, you’d never survive Beirut I’ve come long ways to aid Palestinians defeat fucking Jewish tyranny.”
Our quarrel charged the room with tension, not taking his eyes off me, Konrad stared, a snake waiting to strike, he thought better of it. As I added more detail to my account, Konrad still sat in judgment, glaring, attempting to see through me the Nazi measured his verdict. A wry smirk giving him away, he delivered his findings.
“Your papers seem in order, as far as I’m concerned Fräulein, you’re genuine” he added, “We should welcome your help, but you understand I have to check your story. You can stay here, after that we’ll see, I may even have to kill you.”
On that cheerful note, Konrad and his thug departed. Over the next week, as I got the coffee stain out of the carpet, allowing me outside for only one hour each day, under orders, Ali kept me on a leash, the house the best place to unearth what was going on, now part of the furniture, I played skivvy. Coy about himself let alone any plot, at first, Ali told me little, our main topic each day the shopping list. Another week, as I got the place sparkling, used to having me around now, Ali no longer saw me as a threat. Watching me at work and pleased, he told me it showed devotion. Judging me safe, nowadays mates a real chatterbox, Ali shared some thrilling tales.
Although I never saw his thug again, never away from the house always turning up at night so nobody noted his face, not even a nod when I served him coffee, Konrad chinwagged with Ali. Usually, he waited until I was out of earshot before enjoying his gossip. Picking up a music mag, casual, I flopped into a chair facing them and absorbed by easy listening, as Konrad betrayed his plot. Animated this evening and always arrogant, he would reckon it above me. Restless to launch the campaign, Ali liked to call it a Jihad, it did him no good talking about freedom for Palestine with Konrad, money talks, in charge, pragmatic, the Nazi desired Jews dead for his own cause in his own time. Detesting Arabs, bent on deceiving them all, the faction only a front to advance his own ends.
Outwardly reputable, Konrad craved to bring on the old days and terrorise German Jewish neighbourhoods. All the riches he ever wanted, insane, now he hungered for political power. At least Ali had some redeeming facets. Alas poor Konrad, the Mossad knew
- 60 -
all about him. Meanwhile, I needed more on the bomb-maker, the story went that he had unearthed some obscure Islamic text and manipulating its real meaning until it had lost all sense, his deranged prose had won Nidal’s praise. Also known simply as Abu, the bomb-maker had founded his own one man Muslim Fundamentalist party.
Hiding his politics from everyone, Konrad didn’t attend Nazi rallies singing sad old songs, sharing his design with a mystic circle, crucial to their plans, needing Muslims to make their simplistic scheme work. One of Konrad’s high up cronies had accessed polizei computers and after a quick search through their catalogue of subversives, they had found Ali. Crafty, but not as streetwise as he would like to think, although Konrad knew that the cops had no time to watch Ali, he failed to bargain for the Mossad stalking him. After their meeting, Ali put the Nazi’s dire scheme to slimy Rashid; he in turn drew Nidal’s notice to it. Konrad didn’t dare get directly roped in with that lot. It would spoil his Aryan image and all of his plans. Unable to hire German labour and relying instead on Nidal, like he was an impresario, Konrad explained that he needed help to find a cast of Muslim bomb-makers. Using Nazi funds to further his goals amused Nidal and as a cover kept him secure. A real den of duplicity, whereas Nidal used Abu to promote his ideals, Konrad needed him as a mask to hide behind. No real bomb-maker, Abu probably couldn’t even change a light bulb, an actor, albeit too dangerous to let loose now, crossing the line, his rôle made him a budding bin Laden. Clichéd, but inclined to make an impact, as his benchmark, Nidal told Abu to claim that he blessed every bomb before it left his factory.
As Konrad’s fervour increased, his wagging tongue ran away with him. On another night, still trying to kid me along and making out that Abu and not him ran the show, he bragged that he had seen a demo of the damage that the bombs could do. He promised me that the awful devices had impressed him. Sustaining a subtle link to the Mossad, next day, while in the bath I jotted down my message. Always tailing me, and a lot like the bumbling Inspector Clouseau, Ali had a look of Peter Sellers. Imagining that I would not recognise him in his long mac and trilby, as he followed me, if the cops ever caught him, they would put Ali down as a stalker and I would have to help him get out of gail! A pest, unable to shake him off, I had to stay in when he got out his prayer mat.
Time for my daily hour of freedom, taking the scenic route today and nipping through a leafy park on my way to the shops, as he convinced himself that I would never spot him, Ali hid behind a tree. Having a bit of fun and unwrapping a sweet, I popped it into my mouth and deposited the wrapper in a nearby bin before promptly pushing on. Aware that he must suspect it was a drop and my wrapper might contain a message, risking the cops pulling
Hiding his politics from everyone, Konrad didn’t attend Nazi rallies singing sad old songs, sharing his design with a mystic circle, crucial to their plans, needing Muslims to make their simplistic scheme work. One of Konrad’s high up cronies had accessed polizei computers and after a quick search through their catalogue of subversives, they had found Ali. Crafty, but not as streetwise as he would like to think, although Konrad knew that the cops had no time to watch Ali, he failed to bargain for the Mossad stalking him. After their meeting, Ali put the Nazi’s dire scheme to slimy Rashid; he in turn drew Nidal’s notice to it. Konrad didn’t dare get directly roped in with that lot. It would spoil his Aryan image and all of his plans. Unable to hire German labour and relying instead on Nidal, like he was an impresario, Konrad explained that he needed help to find a cast of Muslim bomb-makers. Using Nazi funds to further his goals amused Nidal and as a cover kept him secure. A real den of duplicity, whereas Nidal used Abu to promote his ideals, Konrad needed him as a mask to hide behind. No real bomb-maker, Abu probably couldn’t even change a light bulb, an actor, albeit too dangerous to let loose now, crossing the line, his rôle made him a budding bin Laden. Clichéd, but inclined to make an impact, as his benchmark, Nidal told Abu to claim that he blessed every bomb before it left his factory.
As Konrad’s fervour increased, his wagging tongue ran away with him. On another night, still trying to kid me along and making out that Abu and not him ran the show, he bragged that he had seen a demo of the damage that the bombs could do. He promised me that the awful devices had impressed him. Sustaining a subtle link to the Mossad, next day, while in the bath I jotted down my message. Always tailing me, and a lot like the bumbling Inspector Clouseau, Ali had a look of Peter Sellers. Imagining that I would not recognise him in his long mac and trilby, as he followed me, if the cops ever caught him, they would put Ali down as a stalker and I would have to help him get out of gail! A pest, unable to shake him off, I had to stay in when he got out his prayer mat.
Time for my daily hour of freedom, taking the scenic route today and nipping through a leafy park on my way to the shops, as he convinced himself that I would never spot him, Ali hid behind a tree. Having a bit of fun and unwrapping a sweet, I popped it into my mouth and deposited the wrapper in a nearby bin before promptly pushing on. Aware that he must suspect it was a drop and my wrapper might contain a message, risking the cops pulling
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him in for vagrancy, unable to resist, Ali scampered to the basket and had a rummage.
Another list of OTP numbers, I had to drop my report in a niche off limits to Ali. Wintry today, the yuletide scene reminiscent of Derbyshire, needing a woolly pully to keep warm, I headed into a girlie shop to buy one. It had not been open long and full of pretty things, as Ali paced the pavement outside, he was barred by all the frillies in displayed the window. I knew how he must have felt. When I looked out again, losing his nerve, Ali had gone. As the woman in the shop took my message, she showed me a nice wool sweater. Once back in the house, much like at the camp, growing restless, I still needed the address of Abu and his factory.
Off with my pinny, I threw a major tantrum. Asserting that I felt upset by his chauvinism and reminding Konrad of my worth, as I banged on about my stint in Beirut. Cold and predatory, as Konrad stared, his eyes blue, like my lingo.
“I’m fucking fed up. All I do is make fucking coffee, get a fucking machine. I need someone who can use me and my fortune.”
“Natürlich you’re right” Konrad loved it when I cursed, “Get your coat on!” he cried, given to impulse “Bitte, come with me – I’ll open your eyes!
Dashing up to my room and pulling on my new pully, nearly tumbling on my way back downstairs, I grabbed my jacket before he changed his mind. As we took the back door, Konrad’s conduct reckless, unknown to him, Ali had told me that even he didn’t know where Abu or his bomb factory were located. Until now, Konrad had gone to elaborate lengths to cover his tracks. Dark and misty out, as I tried to keep up with him, Konrad had left his red BMW several streets away. Once inside the car still pretending that he had to listen to others, the Nazi argued
“It’s not my fault things have been kept from you, your story needed checking ja, it all takes time.”
My legend checked out okay or he would be taking me for my last ride. Maybe once a boy racer, more like Formula One, Konrad drove like Herr Schumacher. Sleet splodges on the windscreen, as the wipers swept them away, we had not been going long when Konrad slipped the car down a side street into a very drear cul-de-sac. Creepy around here like the back of our house in West Gorton, as the car found a crater in the road, the jolt took us near some grotty railway sidings. I didn’t like this, the sort of spooky venue where some do murder. At the far end, as the car’s bright halogen headlights found a block of brick built garages secured by doughty steel doors, a quick jerk on the handbrake and Konrad hastily jumped out. Worried that the weather might spoil his expensive suit, swearing, he headed for the nearest lock-up. As the BMW’s beam floodlit the scene, erratic and short-tempered, a
Another list of OTP numbers, I had to drop my report in a niche off limits to Ali. Wintry today, the yuletide scene reminiscent of Derbyshire, needing a woolly pully to keep warm, I headed into a girlie shop to buy one. It had not been open long and full of pretty things, as Ali paced the pavement outside, he was barred by all the frillies in displayed the window. I knew how he must have felt. When I looked out again, losing his nerve, Ali had gone. As the woman in the shop took my message, she showed me a nice wool sweater. Once back in the house, much like at the camp, growing restless, I still needed the address of Abu and his factory.
Off with my pinny, I threw a major tantrum. Asserting that I felt upset by his chauvinism and reminding Konrad of my worth, as I banged on about my stint in Beirut. Cold and predatory, as Konrad stared, his eyes blue, like my lingo.
“I’m fucking fed up. All I do is make fucking coffee, get a fucking machine. I need someone who can use me and my fortune.”
“Natürlich you’re right” Konrad loved it when I cursed, “Get your coat on!” he cried, given to impulse “Bitte, come with me – I’ll open your eyes!
Dashing up to my room and pulling on my new pully, nearly tumbling on my way back downstairs, I grabbed my jacket before he changed his mind. As we took the back door, Konrad’s conduct reckless, unknown to him, Ali had told me that even he didn’t know where Abu or his bomb factory were located. Until now, Konrad had gone to elaborate lengths to cover his tracks. Dark and misty out, as I tried to keep up with him, Konrad had left his red BMW several streets away. Once inside the car still pretending that he had to listen to others, the Nazi argued
“It’s not my fault things have been kept from you, your story needed checking ja, it all takes time.”
My legend checked out okay or he would be taking me for my last ride. Maybe once a boy racer, more like Formula One, Konrad drove like Herr Schumacher. Sleet splodges on the windscreen, as the wipers swept them away, we had not been going long when Konrad slipped the car down a side street into a very drear cul-de-sac. Creepy around here like the back of our house in West Gorton, as the car found a crater in the road, the jolt took us near some grotty railway sidings. I didn’t like this, the sort of spooky venue where some do murder. At the far end, as the car’s bright halogen headlights found a block of brick built garages secured by doughty steel doors, a quick jerk on the handbrake and Konrad hastily jumped out. Worried that the weather might spoil his expensive suit, swearing, he headed for the nearest lock-up. As the BMW’s beam floodlit the scene, erratic and short-tempered, a
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barrage of Prussian oaths, at first, Konrad couldn’t find the right key. Then, as I watched him unfasten a padlock, hurriedly swinging back both doors, he returned to the car and back in the driving seat, Konrad released the brake. Coaxing the car into barren space he cut the engine, as it began to tick, about to climb out as he snatched a torch from the glove box, as you do leaving the car, I made for the gaping garage doors just as the Nazi snapped
“Nein!” he made me jump.
Halting me in my tracks and chilled to the bone even with my pully on, no more argument, I took a position at the warmer front end of the car by the steaming bonnet. Konrad had left his headlights on so we could see. As I waited for him to secure the garage doors, still sleeting outside and absorbed by its delicate patter on the corrugated roof. Its funny, the soft things you think about when rapt by the surreal, it throttled an inner-voice screaming scarper. Killing my reflection and the headlights, Konrad slammed the car door, impatient, motioning me to follow him he made for the far wall opposite the garage doors. As I watched him wrestle a tall grey cabinet, behind it, he shifted a plain plywood sheet whereupon I spied a sly opening. Not as fit as he once was and breathing heavily, Konrad pulled out a bunch of keys from his pocket and opening the barrier, he held it wide for me.
We had entered a urine-stinking murky tunnel. As Konrad flashed his torch, like a sewer, swiftly smothering my nose and curses in tissues, as I traipsed down the passage after him, passing more doors on the way until I bumped into him. Keys out again, muttering as he tried to find the right one, Konrad had halted by a big padlock, as he sprang it open, the door wide and dazzling tubes flickered as Konrad announced
“Feast your eyes on the Bomb Factory!”
Following me inside, Konrad pounced upon a long queue of five steel cabinets standing upright against one whitewashed wall. My teeth chattering, I wanted him to switch on the two-bar electric fire. Konrad prospered in chill, keys out again, a manic flourish, he flung back the doors of the first cabinet. Neat, uniform, inside it I counted ten shelves each one supporting five tubs, still boring to look at, but no need to ask, he would brag and tell me. As Konrad grasped one tub, opening its lid for me to spy inside. It looked like an innocuous block of clay, ochre and very deadly, every terrorist’s favourite
“The finest product of Der Sudetenland” boasted Konrad “Each box holds ten kilos of Semtex plastic explosive, tell me, what do you think, Fräulein?”
Readily admitting that I felt stunned, selling them to me, he went
“Nein!” he made me jump.
Halting me in my tracks and chilled to the bone even with my pully on, no more argument, I took a position at the warmer front end of the car by the steaming bonnet. Konrad had left his headlights on so we could see. As I waited for him to secure the garage doors, still sleeting outside and absorbed by its delicate patter on the corrugated roof. Its funny, the soft things you think about when rapt by the surreal, it throttled an inner-voice screaming scarper. Killing my reflection and the headlights, Konrad slammed the car door, impatient, motioning me to follow him he made for the far wall opposite the garage doors. As I watched him wrestle a tall grey cabinet, behind it, he shifted a plain plywood sheet whereupon I spied a sly opening. Not as fit as he once was and breathing heavily, Konrad pulled out a bunch of keys from his pocket and opening the barrier, he held it wide for me.
We had entered a urine-stinking murky tunnel. As Konrad flashed his torch, like a sewer, swiftly smothering my nose and curses in tissues, as I traipsed down the passage after him, passing more doors on the way until I bumped into him. Keys out again, muttering as he tried to find the right one, Konrad had halted by a big padlock, as he sprang it open, the door wide and dazzling tubes flickered as Konrad announced
“Feast your eyes on the Bomb Factory!”
Following me inside, Konrad pounced upon a long queue of five steel cabinets standing upright against one whitewashed wall. My teeth chattering, I wanted him to switch on the two-bar electric fire. Konrad prospered in chill, keys out again, a manic flourish, he flung back the doors of the first cabinet. Neat, uniform, inside it I counted ten shelves each one supporting five tubs, still boring to look at, but no need to ask, he would brag and tell me. As Konrad grasped one tub, opening its lid for me to spy inside. It looked like an innocuous block of clay, ochre and very deadly, every terrorist’s favourite
“The finest product of Der Sudetenland” boasted Konrad “Each box holds ten kilos of Semtex plastic explosive, tell me, what do you think, Fräulein?”
Readily admitting that I felt stunned, selling them to me, he went
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on about it being pliable and giving off no odour. In Israel, they had told me that it takes about 30k of this stuff to blow up a ten-storey building only 250g to bring down an airliner and Konrad had a cool 2,500 kilos. Drawing me to a sixth cabinet, no need to open it, he had taken a degree in killing and lectured, Semtex can only be ignited by a detonator. Everything he needed to be self-reliant and going on about the merits of mercury fulminate and lead azide like they were his favourite teams, I’m glad he didn’t show me his radioactive rubidium.
Exhibiting all manner of timers, detonators, printed circuit boards and lots more his keys jangling again, he locked up the cabinet. Fixed to the wall behind me, as I checked out a rack of steel shelves, stacked high with great coils of copper wire and small cardboard boxes, they held a hotchpotch of electronic parts including more silicon chips. Three red-enamelled multi-drawer tool chests dwelt directly underneath. Half open in one packed drawer, I spied a soldering iron and two pairs of pliers. Standing nearby, beside the chests, three stainless steel tables did for an improvised assembly line. Konrad informed me
“A team build the devices here, they’re sophisticated, the bombs I mean, unlike your English Guy Fawkes and his gunpowder, he could have used this lot ja.”
No joke, nonetheless giggling like a hyena, Konrad thought his gag dead funny. As he hastily wiped spittle dribbling down his chin, hanky rapidly stuffed back in his pocket and more poised, he added
“Abu adds the finishing touch, he does that…” catching himself out, smirking, he ended “He does it elsewhere he never comes here.”
No longer a garage, the workforce had turned the far end of the factory floor into a dumping ground. As I beat a path to it, junk yielded sweet secrets. Dodging past three chairs sat together holding a powwow; they did for a rude staff canteen. That and more things in triplicate, no need to ask it pointed to three busy hands. A clutter of cardboard boxes squashed against padlocked, chained, and bolted doors did for waste bins and like Ali, itching for a rummage, I had better not. No kindergarten this, yet the blurb printed on all the boxes proclaimed that they had once held cuddly toys, most of them now contained a litter of pungent takeaway cartons. In one box, I noted empty Semtex tubs.
Content to let him lead, Konrad cried out, look at this and after hefting more plywood, a hidden hole in the wall did for access next door. Privileged, but not like I felt at the Academy. As he got the light, hardly room, I took in his sinister sanctum. Stockpiled in more large boxes, not all toys and much like a prezzy shop, they stored handbags, cases, radios, and cameras. Apart from yet more
Exhibiting all manner of timers, detonators, printed circuit boards and lots more his keys jangling again, he locked up the cabinet. Fixed to the wall behind me, as I checked out a rack of steel shelves, stacked high with great coils of copper wire and small cardboard boxes, they held a hotchpotch of electronic parts including more silicon chips. Three red-enamelled multi-drawer tool chests dwelt directly underneath. Half open in one packed drawer, I spied a soldering iron and two pairs of pliers. Standing nearby, beside the chests, three stainless steel tables did for an improvised assembly line. Konrad informed me
“A team build the devices here, they’re sophisticated, the bombs I mean, unlike your English Guy Fawkes and his gunpowder, he could have used this lot ja.”
No joke, nonetheless giggling like a hyena, Konrad thought his gag dead funny. As he hastily wiped spittle dribbling down his chin, hanky rapidly stuffed back in his pocket and more poised, he added
“Abu adds the finishing touch, he does that…” catching himself out, smirking, he ended “He does it elsewhere he never comes here.”
No longer a garage, the workforce had turned the far end of the factory floor into a dumping ground. As I beat a path to it, junk yielded sweet secrets. Dodging past three chairs sat together holding a powwow; they did for a rude staff canteen. That and more things in triplicate, no need to ask it pointed to three busy hands. A clutter of cardboard boxes squashed against padlocked, chained, and bolted doors did for waste bins and like Ali, itching for a rummage, I had better not. No kindergarten this, yet the blurb printed on all the boxes proclaimed that they had once held cuddly toys, most of them now contained a litter of pungent takeaway cartons. In one box, I noted empty Semtex tubs.
Content to let him lead, Konrad cried out, look at this and after hefting more plywood, a hidden hole in the wall did for access next door. Privileged, but not like I felt at the Academy. As he got the light, hardly room, I took in his sinister sanctum. Stockpiled in more large boxes, not all toys and much like a prezzy shop, they stored handbags, cases, radios, and cameras. Apart from yet more
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steel cabinets, cabled to a monitor plugged in, but shut down, resting on top of a desk, a computer dwelt beside a dot-matrix printer. Konrad declared that all his bomb devices detonated by remote control, visiting the desk and opening a drawer, he fished one out. Save for a red pushbutton, black and handy, a plain plastic box, it slipped into a pocket. As Konrad lifted the lid on a huge steel drum crowding our path, it stored menacing shards of shrapnel and several similar drums squatted nearby. As I shrank away from them, high up on the shelves, monkeys, penguins, all fluffy toys, they included a little duck like Kathy’s. Picking him up, Konrad insisted that though he weighed heavy, you would never suspect that Donald was a bomb until too late.
Assuring me that his clever team had stuffed shrapnel and Semtex inside all the cute toys, Konrad called them drop devices. As he gave me the gen on the best places to discard them, the Nazi yearned for curious Jewish children to pick them up. As he umpired my reaction, playing along, I told him that I loved them. The toys a diversion to fund more fear and panic, it hid his evil scheme to win power and kept Nidal’s lot laughing.
That night my head buzzing and unable to sleep, I still didn’t know the name of the street where the garage block lived. As they kept tabs on me, I felt sure that my unseen travelling companions did. Next day, when Ali went to the shops, far too risky to go outside without his say-so, I stuck to the house rules and stayed in. Frantic to expose everything that I had witnessed, upstairs in the bedroom, sliding my suitcase out from under the bed, I dropped it on a convenient table. Made in Israel, though you wouldn’t know, the case concealed several secret pockets each one stored a component to a jigsaw radio.
Saving it for a rainy day, this gizmo smaller, but not unlike the gadget that I had tried in training. Dropping my messages outside got me out of the house, easy to go funny in this game, it kept me ticking over. Apart from dead letter boxes now the radio, I had sent my stuff via my old mucker the airport taxi driver. Once set up, I placed the radio back inside the case, leaving the bedroom a jiffy, Ali like a mouse, I made sure. He had done it before and had come back home early. My search complete, numbers taped and frequency set, I sent a burst-message. Heart pounding, yet slow and deliberate, I pulled apart the gizmo and once back under the bed, leaving my case unlocked suggested to them that I had nothing to hide. Always giddy after sending a message, phew, it was the relief.
Now that the Mossad knew for sure about the factory, alas disappointing, Abu didn’t work there. I still needed to take him off the streets or wherever he was hiding. Vital not to let him escape, he would have extremists begging him to lead their band. Needing to get around Konrad, why did he take me to the factory? A real
Assuring me that his clever team had stuffed shrapnel and Semtex inside all the cute toys, Konrad called them drop devices. As he gave me the gen on the best places to discard them, the Nazi yearned for curious Jewish children to pick them up. As he umpired my reaction, playing along, I told him that I loved them. The toys a diversion to fund more fear and panic, it hid his evil scheme to win power and kept Nidal’s lot laughing.
That night my head buzzing and unable to sleep, I still didn’t know the name of the street where the garage block lived. As they kept tabs on me, I felt sure that my unseen travelling companions did. Next day, when Ali went to the shops, far too risky to go outside without his say-so, I stuck to the house rules and stayed in. Frantic to expose everything that I had witnessed, upstairs in the bedroom, sliding my suitcase out from under the bed, I dropped it on a convenient table. Made in Israel, though you wouldn’t know, the case concealed several secret pockets each one stored a component to a jigsaw radio.
Saving it for a rainy day, this gizmo smaller, but not unlike the gadget that I had tried in training. Dropping my messages outside got me out of the house, easy to go funny in this game, it kept me ticking over. Apart from dead letter boxes now the radio, I had sent my stuff via my old mucker the airport taxi driver. Once set up, I placed the radio back inside the case, leaving the bedroom a jiffy, Ali like a mouse, I made sure. He had done it before and had come back home early. My search complete, numbers taped and frequency set, I sent a burst-message. Heart pounding, yet slow and deliberate, I pulled apart the gizmo and once back under the bed, leaving my case unlocked suggested to them that I had nothing to hide. Always giddy after sending a message, phew, it was the relief.
Now that the Mossad knew for sure about the factory, alas disappointing, Abu didn’t work there. I still needed to take him off the streets or wherever he was hiding. Vital not to let him escape, he would have extremists begging him to lead their band. Needing to get around Konrad, why did he take me to the factory? A real
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Machiavellian character was it part of a contingency plan that he had drawn up just for me? No questions, I needed action and that evening as Ali let him in, chilling, Konrad exclaimed
“The campaign begins next week!”
“You’ve met Abu,” I told him. “I’d like to meet him too.”
“Why?” quizzed Konrad, an eye cocked accusingly.
“Don’t you mean fucking why not?” I retorted, giving it him back.
“I’m sorry, Fräulein,” he apologised. “Eh, why do you wish to meet him?”
“I want his fucking autograph – fuck off! I know you think I’m a gate crasher, I’m here now and want in – I feel fucking left out.”
“Ja, leave it with me” he responded.
Mum would be upset if she knew that I used all this farmyard, I suspect Dad would think it hilarious. Barring being undone on day one when he found Ali, practised in security, Konrad knew a few tricks. The Yarid had trailed him all over Bavaria, but with aid from his circle of cronies, no trail led to the factory until he took me there. My act had won me a following, by now the Mossad would have watched out for the workforce, tailing them back home. Chasing his spoor, I needed to get my foot in the door and say hello to Abu.
Next day, Konrad phoned the house, taking a message, as Ali finished the call he told me that Abu had agreed to see me. Never using the same method twice in succession, I had to get the news to my pals. Ali still trailed me when I took my daily stroll, getting more into his part he had bought himself a reversible anorak, snag was as it changed colour from orange to yellow, like walking traffic lights, it made him easier to spot than ever. Ali would never hold down a proper job.
During my next walk, I dropped into a gift shop, about to select a picturesque postcard and as he entered the premises behind me, his hood up, head down, Ali resembled a Belisha beacon as he shuffled towards the touristy pewter tankards and pretended that he liked them. As Ali spied on me, hiding nothing from him, I found a handy shelf and addressed my card to Daddy. A jaunty little message, it read ‘not to worry make more money, I’m having a wunderbar time’. Hmm, I don’t know about that. As Ali watched me make for the till, the smiling assistant asked me if I would like a stamp. Handing over my card, as I let her stick it on, craftier than Ali, she read my coded message, before returning the card to me. My data delivered, but making it look good, once outside, I still dropped the card in the box. ‘Wunderbar’ meant Abu. The memo meant that I was about to meet him. Several days later, my anxiety increasing, what had happened to Konrad and his promise, then he phoned the house, as Ali ended the call, keyed
“The campaign begins next week!”
“You’ve met Abu,” I told him. “I’d like to meet him too.”
“Why?” quizzed Konrad, an eye cocked accusingly.
“Don’t you mean fucking why not?” I retorted, giving it him back.
“I’m sorry, Fräulein,” he apologised. “Eh, why do you wish to meet him?”
“I want his fucking autograph – fuck off! I know you think I’m a gate crasher, I’m here now and want in – I feel fucking left out.”
“Ja, leave it with me” he responded.
Mum would be upset if she knew that I used all this farmyard, I suspect Dad would think it hilarious. Barring being undone on day one when he found Ali, practised in security, Konrad knew a few tricks. The Yarid had trailed him all over Bavaria, but with aid from his circle of cronies, no trail led to the factory until he took me there. My act had won me a following, by now the Mossad would have watched out for the workforce, tailing them back home. Chasing his spoor, I needed to get my foot in the door and say hello to Abu.
Next day, Konrad phoned the house, taking a message, as Ali finished the call he told me that Abu had agreed to see me. Never using the same method twice in succession, I had to get the news to my pals. Ali still trailed me when I took my daily stroll, getting more into his part he had bought himself a reversible anorak, snag was as it changed colour from orange to yellow, like walking traffic lights, it made him easier to spot than ever. Ali would never hold down a proper job.
During my next walk, I dropped into a gift shop, about to select a picturesque postcard and as he entered the premises behind me, his hood up, head down, Ali resembled a Belisha beacon as he shuffled towards the touristy pewter tankards and pretended that he liked them. As Ali spied on me, hiding nothing from him, I found a handy shelf and addressed my card to Daddy. A jaunty little message, it read ‘not to worry make more money, I’m having a wunderbar time’. Hmm, I don’t know about that. As Ali watched me make for the till, the smiling assistant asked me if I would like a stamp. Handing over my card, as I let her stick it on, craftier than Ali, she read my coded message, before returning the card to me. My data delivered, but making it look good, once outside, I still dropped the card in the box. ‘Wunderbar’ meant Abu. The memo meant that I was about to meet him. Several days later, my anxiety increasing, what had happened to Konrad and his promise, then he phoned the house, as Ali ended the call, keyed
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up, unable to stop himself he told me
“Abu wants to meet you tonight – at sunset the bombing begins!”
I felt an overwhelming desire to tell the Mossad. Too late to take a walk and the radio risky with Ali about, it compelled me to wait until next morning when Ali held another shock in store, as he spotted me with my jacket, he screamed
“No! We stay in today, Konrad’s orders!”
Confined to barracks, forced to appear upbeat, that evening as Konrad paid a visit, in a dash, he told me to join him in his car. As I got my coat and pully he spotted his mac and gloves, too big for him, Ali had pinched them to track me until he got his flashy new anorak. In the doghouse now, arms waving, spit flying, as Konrad threatened to slap Ali, it was a lot like watching Basil Fawlty telling off Manuel. Outside and mysterious, Konrad refused to say where we were going. We had not travelled very far when pulling off the road and braking by a verge, leaving the motor running. Konrad withdrew a length of black silk from the glove box and barked
“No protests, Fräulein.”
“Fuck off!” I told him. “After five years you can trust me now.”
Aware that I puzzled him as much as he did me, feeling very tense, I knew that sometimes, Konrad would like to strangle me. No decision mine and going along with it, I let him tie the knot. Ours an arranged marriage, it was well overdue a divorce. As Konrad slipped the car back into traffic, me playing petulant and him moody, we journeyed in silence. About half an hour on, Konrad stopped the car, cut the engine and told me to lose the blindfold. He claimed that I still needed to prove myself.
“Oh come on!” I cried, “What does it fucking take?”
“Shut the fuck up whining” he snapped, “You’re about to find out…”
He had never used lingo like that on me before. It did the trick I zipped it. As I tried to see where we were, Konrad had stopped the car opposite a drab block of prefab flats. Another blind date, wishing to stay put, as he made a move, no more outbursts, I joined him in the street. Shivering, a horrible night and turning up my collar only a small comfort, my hands dived into my pockets, as I shrank into my coat, Konrad stretched his arm into the car and grabbed his mac off the seat, draping it over his shoulders, about to show me the way, they changed his mind. Giving me a wolf whistle, two burly skinheads had arrived on the scene. Seedy, oh you could trust no one around here. As they dallied by a phone box on a street corner, you didn’t need to be psychic, the yobs fancied Konrad’s wheels. As the Nazi let go a torrent of abuse, heading back to the BMW, he set the alarm. Light relief, the event
“Abu wants to meet you tonight – at sunset the bombing begins!”
I felt an overwhelming desire to tell the Mossad. Too late to take a walk and the radio risky with Ali about, it compelled me to wait until next morning when Ali held another shock in store, as he spotted me with my jacket, he screamed
“No! We stay in today, Konrad’s orders!”
Confined to barracks, forced to appear upbeat, that evening as Konrad paid a visit, in a dash, he told me to join him in his car. As I got my coat and pully he spotted his mac and gloves, too big for him, Ali had pinched them to track me until he got his flashy new anorak. In the doghouse now, arms waving, spit flying, as Konrad threatened to slap Ali, it was a lot like watching Basil Fawlty telling off Manuel. Outside and mysterious, Konrad refused to say where we were going. We had not travelled very far when pulling off the road and braking by a verge, leaving the motor running. Konrad withdrew a length of black silk from the glove box and barked
“No protests, Fräulein.”
“Fuck off!” I told him. “After five years you can trust me now.”
Aware that I puzzled him as much as he did me, feeling very tense, I knew that sometimes, Konrad would like to strangle me. No decision mine and going along with it, I let him tie the knot. Ours an arranged marriage, it was well overdue a divorce. As Konrad slipped the car back into traffic, me playing petulant and him moody, we journeyed in silence. About half an hour on, Konrad stopped the car, cut the engine and told me to lose the blindfold. He claimed that I still needed to prove myself.
“Oh come on!” I cried, “What does it fucking take?”
“Shut the fuck up whining” he snapped, “You’re about to find out…”
He had never used lingo like that on me before. It did the trick I zipped it. As I tried to see where we were, Konrad had stopped the car opposite a drab block of prefab flats. Another blind date, wishing to stay put, as he made a move, no more outbursts, I joined him in the street. Shivering, a horrible night and turning up my collar only a small comfort, my hands dived into my pockets, as I shrank into my coat, Konrad stretched his arm into the car and grabbed his mac off the seat, draping it over his shoulders, about to show me the way, they changed his mind. Giving me a wolf whistle, two burly skinheads had arrived on the scene. Seedy, oh you could trust no one around here. As they dallied by a phone box on a street corner, you didn’t need to be psychic, the yobs fancied Konrad’s wheels. As the Nazi let go a torrent of abuse, heading back to the BMW, he set the alarm. Light relief, the event
- 67 -
amused me. Muttering as he ordered me tag along behind him, I trailed Konrad to a twisting concrete and iron rail staircase. As we climbed to the first landing, halting outside the fourth flat, too dark, still trying hard to see where we were I bumped into him. Fumbling with his keys, finally, Konrad had the door open. Like the sad café, I didn’t like the look of it, but he still pushed me inside.
Black like his temper, more bad words, scrabbling for the switch, then he had it. No shade, a pallid bulb created yet more gloom. A putrid odour like sweaty socks met me. A bare room and held in position by rusty nails, an old grey Wehrmacht blanket hid the only window. Pervasive, deeply unpleasant, it felt like someone had died here. As Konrad locked the door behind us, pushing past me, he rapped upon a steel-clad interior door. A speck peeping out of the wall above me, a tiny camera, but nothing petite about him, a huge bloke pulled back the barrier. Rolls of fat put 20 years on making him look about 50. Wide more than tall, an Arab gent, T-shirt, trainers, his suit a crumpled tent, this had to be special, Konrad let me go first, usually, he liked me chasing behind him. Size 10 and I still had a job squeezing past Fatman, repugnant too, as my more modest boobs pressed against his bulbous breasts.
Resting upon a shelf behind the door, a waning candle swam in a saucer of wax. As I waited for him in the passage, hurling his mac at me and I don’t know how Konrad got past Fatman, the silent type, he had not uttered a word. Taking his mac, as Konrad joined me, he claimed that he had never seen this venue before. Locked, chained and bolted like the factory, as Fatman saw to the door, scarcely a stump now, he got the candle.
At the far end of the passage, as we tarried outside another stout door, bearing down upon us, Fatman held it open. As Konrad invited me to enter, I didn’t want to budge, he insisted. Treading deep pile carpet, unable to make out the pattern, the stuffy chamber reeked of hashish. Abetted by only the dithering flame of an oil lamp and caught by its sallow glimmer, I spied an intricate hookah and nearly tripped on the plump cushions and beanbags messily scattered all over the floor. As Fatman arrived with his ebbing candle, melodramatic, Konrad ejaculated
“Behold Abu! Vater of our great Aryan-Arab Alliance!”
As a turbaned silhouette materialised before us, his baggy black pants and long grey tunic created a credible costume. Emaciated and his age doubtful, appearing elderly. A frizzy greybeard living his rôle and looking the part, a hooked nose and close up I could see his warts. Bushy brows, his eyes dark and ominous, peering into my face, as he recited his line, Abu had a big surprise for me
“A great honour is bestowed on you. I’ve chosen you to begin the campaign!”
Black like his temper, more bad words, scrabbling for the switch, then he had it. No shade, a pallid bulb created yet more gloom. A putrid odour like sweaty socks met me. A bare room and held in position by rusty nails, an old grey Wehrmacht blanket hid the only window. Pervasive, deeply unpleasant, it felt like someone had died here. As Konrad locked the door behind us, pushing past me, he rapped upon a steel-clad interior door. A speck peeping out of the wall above me, a tiny camera, but nothing petite about him, a huge bloke pulled back the barrier. Rolls of fat put 20 years on making him look about 50. Wide more than tall, an Arab gent, T-shirt, trainers, his suit a crumpled tent, this had to be special, Konrad let me go first, usually, he liked me chasing behind him. Size 10 and I still had a job squeezing past Fatman, repugnant too, as my more modest boobs pressed against his bulbous breasts.
Resting upon a shelf behind the door, a waning candle swam in a saucer of wax. As I waited for him in the passage, hurling his mac at me and I don’t know how Konrad got past Fatman, the silent type, he had not uttered a word. Taking his mac, as Konrad joined me, he claimed that he had never seen this venue before. Locked, chained and bolted like the factory, as Fatman saw to the door, scarcely a stump now, he got the candle.
At the far end of the passage, as we tarried outside another stout door, bearing down upon us, Fatman held it open. As Konrad invited me to enter, I didn’t want to budge, he insisted. Treading deep pile carpet, unable to make out the pattern, the stuffy chamber reeked of hashish. Abetted by only the dithering flame of an oil lamp and caught by its sallow glimmer, I spied an intricate hookah and nearly tripped on the plump cushions and beanbags messily scattered all over the floor. As Fatman arrived with his ebbing candle, melodramatic, Konrad ejaculated
“Behold Abu! Vater of our great Aryan-Arab Alliance!”
As a turbaned silhouette materialised before us, his baggy black pants and long grey tunic created a credible costume. Emaciated and his age doubtful, appearing elderly. A frizzy greybeard living his rôle and looking the part, a hooked nose and close up I could see his warts. Bushy brows, his eyes dark and ominous, peering into my face, as he recited his line, Abu had a big surprise for me
“A great honour is bestowed on you. I’ve chosen you to begin the campaign!”
- 68 -
Abu’s voice reedy and paying heed to him, Konrad told me that a second bomb, which he would detonate by remote control was about to be strapped directly onto my back. It prevented me from running. As he tested my fidelity, Konrad meant me to plant the first bomb. As Fatman’s candle spluttered, aware my life might soon follow it, I searched for an escape, but the window covered like the first one and prowling by the door, as he struck a match and lit a fresh candle, Fatman had a colossal canon tucked into his belt. No chutzpah now, I began to whine, but as Konrad found me a chair to sit on, more spitting, he barked
“Get your fucking coat off!”
Panicky and trembling, I didn’t dare refuse him, taking a fall, my foot caught a stray beanbag and out of grace, I tumbled into the chair. Not so much me, Konrad didn’t like the timing, turning up just as he was about to whistle for kick-off. My legend saved me, but he knew that I had potential to be more than coincidence. Boiling in the room and perspiring, I draped my coat over the back of my chair. Shuffling out of the chamber, not gone long, Abu returned bearing gifts. Wound up, I had not noticed it before, squeezed against a far wall with three more chairs, as he headed for a small dining table, nestling in his arms, metallic, lethal, half as deep, but about the size and shape of a shoebox. Even disguised, they didn’t have to tell me, this bomb he had blessed earlier.
Horribly rapt, as I watched him, a tiny bump, Abu placed his terrible burden on the tabletop. Incongruously suspended from his shoulder, he had also fetched in a ladies shoulder bag and dropping it next to the bomb, diving into the bag, Abu withdrew a lurid label. Printed in German, it warned ‘danger high-voltage electricity.’ Peeling the backing off the notice, taking his time to size it up as he stuck the dummy sign in place, it made the bomb look like a regular fuse box, anyone with any sense would leave it well alone.
Playing sorcerer’s apprentice, as Konrad snatched up the bag off the tabletop and held it open for Abu, slipping the bomb inside it and leaving the bag on the table, Abu left the room again. Back in a jiffy and loaded with second helpings, similar to the first bomb, but about half its size. As he set it down upon the table, from under his arm, Abu passed a thick leather belt to Konrad.
Ordering me to raise my pully and then my arms, the Nazi tried to fasten the belt around my midriff. Barred from local pork plates, my waist trimmer than he had guessed. The belt too slack, it needed another prick to make it fit, an angel, Abu fetched him a ceremonial knife. Stabbing, twisting the blade, Konrad pierced an extra hole in the belt. Trying once more, now a tight fit, he tugged and pulled at it like I was Houdini. Warning me not to interfere with it, Konrad had fastened the belt beyond easy reach behind
“Get your fucking coat off!”
Panicky and trembling, I didn’t dare refuse him, taking a fall, my foot caught a stray beanbag and out of grace, I tumbled into the chair. Not so much me, Konrad didn’t like the timing, turning up just as he was about to whistle for kick-off. My legend saved me, but he knew that I had potential to be more than coincidence. Boiling in the room and perspiring, I draped my coat over the back of my chair. Shuffling out of the chamber, not gone long, Abu returned bearing gifts. Wound up, I had not noticed it before, squeezed against a far wall with three more chairs, as he headed for a small dining table, nestling in his arms, metallic, lethal, half as deep, but about the size and shape of a shoebox. Even disguised, they didn’t have to tell me, this bomb he had blessed earlier.
Horribly rapt, as I watched him, a tiny bump, Abu placed his terrible burden on the tabletop. Incongruously suspended from his shoulder, he had also fetched in a ladies shoulder bag and dropping it next to the bomb, diving into the bag, Abu withdrew a lurid label. Printed in German, it warned ‘danger high-voltage electricity.’ Peeling the backing off the notice, taking his time to size it up as he stuck the dummy sign in place, it made the bomb look like a regular fuse box, anyone with any sense would leave it well alone.
Playing sorcerer’s apprentice, as Konrad snatched up the bag off the tabletop and held it open for Abu, slipping the bomb inside it and leaving the bag on the table, Abu left the room again. Back in a jiffy and loaded with second helpings, similar to the first bomb, but about half its size. As he set it down upon the table, from under his arm, Abu passed a thick leather belt to Konrad.
Ordering me to raise my pully and then my arms, the Nazi tried to fasten the belt around my midriff. Barred from local pork plates, my waist trimmer than he had guessed. The belt too slack, it needed another prick to make it fit, an angel, Abu fetched him a ceremonial knife. Stabbing, twisting the blade, Konrad pierced an extra hole in the belt. Trying once more, now a tight fit, he tugged and pulled at it like I was Houdini. Warning me not to interfere with it, Konrad had fastened the belt beyond easy reach behind
- 69 -
my back. I tried not to think as he fixed the second bomb to the belt. Enough adrenaline fit to explode, as it pressed against my spine, I would say it weighed a ton, more likely half a kilo. Eyes gleaming, as Konrad held it up for me to see, much like the gadget that he had presented at the factory, but this black box had two buttons, one red to trigger the bomb in the bag and thoughtful, a yellow one for me. Konrad directed
“This is an opportunity to prove yourself, Fräulein, to show you’re not a spy. If you deviate from your route, you’ll force me to explode the bomb on your back.”
I had done with proving myself. As Konrad helped me with my coat, taking me back to Kathy, it concealed the bulge protruding from my back. As he proffered a scrap of paper, handwritten, a rough plan of the route that he meant me to take to his first target, another block of flats. Issuing me with a plastic card, he added
”Here – take this, it’s a swipe card, you’ll find a slot located by the right of the entrance, it opens the door into the lobby.”
Like a credit card and reluctantly taking it from him, I dropped it into a pocket. He got the shoulder bag and swiftly handing it over, as he did so, Konrad told me where to leave the bomb
“In the lobby you’ll see a rubber plant sited on a shelf between the two lifts. Make sure no one’s about, take the bomb out of the bag, put it on the shelf to the left of the plant, push it against the wall like it’s a fixture – bring back the bag!”
Making sure the fake warning sign was easy for all to see, once I had planted the bomb, leaving the building and I had to join him outside. Konrad had planned a stake out. Waiting for his target to appear in the lobby and holding the black box just for me, I had to hit the button and kill the victim, as the Nazi said
“Do this for me and I’ll have all the proof I need to trust you.”
Zero hour and trailing his undulating arse into the corridor, while we waited for Fatman to open the door, restless to spoil his fun, I toyed with the idea of taking out Konrad. No easy matter, he always carried a 9mm Luger pistol in a shoulder holster. Unaware that I was weighing up how to slap him, he tried to comfort me
“I’m confident you won’t fail us, remember, I’ll be right behind you.”
As we left the flat together, leaning over the veranda, Konrad checked that his car was still there. Into the misty night, a chill breeze brushing my cheek, feeling faint, I grabbed at an iron rail to steady myself. No mercy, as Konrad dallied by the top step at the far end of the landing, meaning me to go first, allowing a short gap to develop between us, I drifted ahead of him, as he trailed behind me.
“This is an opportunity to prove yourself, Fräulein, to show you’re not a spy. If you deviate from your route, you’ll force me to explode the bomb on your back.”
I had done with proving myself. As Konrad helped me with my coat, taking me back to Kathy, it concealed the bulge protruding from my back. As he proffered a scrap of paper, handwritten, a rough plan of the route that he meant me to take to his first target, another block of flats. Issuing me with a plastic card, he added
”Here – take this, it’s a swipe card, you’ll find a slot located by the right of the entrance, it opens the door into the lobby.”
Like a credit card and reluctantly taking it from him, I dropped it into a pocket. He got the shoulder bag and swiftly handing it over, as he did so, Konrad told me where to leave the bomb
“In the lobby you’ll see a rubber plant sited on a shelf between the two lifts. Make sure no one’s about, take the bomb out of the bag, put it on the shelf to the left of the plant, push it against the wall like it’s a fixture – bring back the bag!”
Making sure the fake warning sign was easy for all to see, once I had planted the bomb, leaving the building and I had to join him outside. Konrad had planned a stake out. Waiting for his target to appear in the lobby and holding the black box just for me, I had to hit the button and kill the victim, as the Nazi said
“Do this for me and I’ll have all the proof I need to trust you.”
Zero hour and trailing his undulating arse into the corridor, while we waited for Fatman to open the door, restless to spoil his fun, I toyed with the idea of taking out Konrad. No easy matter, he always carried a 9mm Luger pistol in a shoulder holster. Unaware that I was weighing up how to slap him, he tried to comfort me
“I’m confident you won’t fail us, remember, I’ll be right behind you.”
As we left the flat together, leaning over the veranda, Konrad checked that his car was still there. Into the misty night, a chill breeze brushing my cheek, feeling faint, I grabbed at an iron rail to steady myself. No mercy, as Konrad dallied by the top step at the far end of the landing, meaning me to go first, allowing a short gap to develop between us, I drifted ahead of him, as he trailed behind me.
- 70 -
Like the thing on my back, the bomb in the bag weighing heavy, suspending it from my right shoulder, shicker on fear, I gripped tight the slender strap. Distant thunder rumbling, it began to rain, for all I cared, my hair could frizz all it wanted now. Careful to avoid fast filling puddles, as I took a turn, heading down another blind alley, it led directly into a deserted street. As I made for a ghostly junction, my thoughts racing, Konrad’s gadget must release only a weak signal. He would never catch me if I bolted, escaping its range. On second thoughts, a bit too risky and at the crossroads, catching sight of him half a block behind me, I tarried under a lonely streetlamp on the pretext of reading my map.
Konrad said it was perfect, all glass and sharp metal. I couldn’t leave the bomb in the car park. I had to take it into the lobby. Loitering under the naked glow of another stark streetlamp, as Konrad played Orson Wells, he reprised Harry Lime.
My hair dripping, I closed in on the target, ten storeys high, counting the lights in the windows, most residents home. I had enough stuff on me to bring the house down. Dallying at the kerb, waiting for a black Mercedes van to pass by, I crossed the road and retrieving Konrad’s plastic card from my pocket, as I stood outside the entrance about to step into a bright lobby, some guy started whistling Hatikva. As Israel flashed before me, ending his recital with not a little irony, he told me
“I guess you’ve heard that tune before – it’s over. I’m Shaul, from the office!”
The final curtain, fleeing the storm, as I took shelter in the lobby, imploring me to stay cool, Shaul told me that he was part of a Yarid team and as all my fears subsided, Konrad was for me no more. Splashing through more puddles, a black van, the one that I had just seen pass me in the road, sped up to the entrance and in a rush, two men leapt out. I might have known, they were the skinheads that I had seen eyeballing Konrad’s car. As Shaul let them into the lobby, leaving my bag and its lethal payload on the tiled floor, he urged me to join him outside.
Jumping into the rear of the van as I found a seat, sitting behind me, he soon got to work. Helping me to remove my saturated coat, as my hair stopped dripping, wary of booby traps and diligent, taking his time, my mind elsewhere, finally, my new friend cried
“It’s off – you’re safe!”
Leaving the van, Shaul led me to a mystery Mercedes, which had since drawn up behind us. As he opened the door, here was my bouquet, Moses urged
“Out of the storm child, you’ve had a busy day, tell me all about it.”
As I slid onto the rear seat next to him, the sleek car sped us from
Konrad said it was perfect, all glass and sharp metal. I couldn’t leave the bomb in the car park. I had to take it into the lobby. Loitering under the naked glow of another stark streetlamp, as Konrad played Orson Wells, he reprised Harry Lime.
My hair dripping, I closed in on the target, ten storeys high, counting the lights in the windows, most residents home. I had enough stuff on me to bring the house down. Dallying at the kerb, waiting for a black Mercedes van to pass by, I crossed the road and retrieving Konrad’s plastic card from my pocket, as I stood outside the entrance about to step into a bright lobby, some guy started whistling Hatikva. As Israel flashed before me, ending his recital with not a little irony, he told me
“I guess you’ve heard that tune before – it’s over. I’m Shaul, from the office!”
The final curtain, fleeing the storm, as I took shelter in the lobby, imploring me to stay cool, Shaul told me that he was part of a Yarid team and as all my fears subsided, Konrad was for me no more. Splashing through more puddles, a black van, the one that I had just seen pass me in the road, sped up to the entrance and in a rush, two men leapt out. I might have known, they were the skinheads that I had seen eyeballing Konrad’s car. As Shaul let them into the lobby, leaving my bag and its lethal payload on the tiled floor, he urged me to join him outside.
Jumping into the rear of the van as I found a seat, sitting behind me, he soon got to work. Helping me to remove my saturated coat, as my hair stopped dripping, wary of booby traps and diligent, taking his time, my mind elsewhere, finally, my new friend cried
“It’s off – you’re safe!”
Leaving the van, Shaul led me to a mystery Mercedes, which had since drawn up behind us. As he opened the door, here was my bouquet, Moses urged
“Out of the storm child, you’ve had a busy day, tell me all about it.”
As I slid onto the rear seat next to him, the sleek car sped us from
- 71 -
the scene. Beginning to recover from the ordeal, bemused, I asked him
“How is it you always show up when I most need you?”
“Classified”, he joked ”Top secret!”
As the car joined the autobahn, despite the storm, Moses promised me that the mission had gone well. Heading now for a secret location, a long drive, it lulled me to sleep.
As Moses nudged me awake, he didn’t mind, I had done it before, all the same, my hair dry now I removed my head from his shoulder. We had stopped outside a splendid old schloβ. Taking a luxurious hot bath and fixing my hair, no longer undercover, my legs sheathed in sheer stockings, I had lost the pully and wearing a little black number, I found Moses amid a beautiful candlelit chamber abounded by Teutonic heraldry. As the spymaster gave me his arm and led me to the table, during dinner, alone together, we discussed the mission.
The Yarid had never once lost track of my progress. Aware of his electronics, as they spied Konrad tailing me, his unnatural movement betrayed him and all his devices. A joint venture, Israeli trained, the German counter-terrorist unit GSG-9 rounded up the faction. Like all the best missions, hush-hush, they claim that the truth frightened the public.
Although Nidal outlived this party, an unlikely demise, they found his corpse in Baghdad. It was August 2002, only months before the fall of Saddam Hussein and Nidal fell out with him. Like many thousands more, the Iraqi despot had had him bumped off. Releasing Ali, as the Mossad tracked him he would lead to more missions, but no more for me.
Older, wiser, scarred, my dream shattered. I had survived a carousel of combat, love and tragedy. I had gone to Israel reckoning that once terrorism stopped, then peace must begin, but Arafat and Sharon hardly Ghandi and Mandela. Bursting to live and winning Mum and Dad’s acceptance, my excuse for being there.
As I witnessed their suffering, Palestinians pursued only freedom and like Jews before them, no more occupation, they hankered for their homeland.
An intoxicating backdrop and the desert often stirred me to philosophy. About to leave Germany, it brought to mind Immanuel Kant. I think he summed me up.
’Two things fill the mind with ever-increasing wonder and awe…the starry heavens above me, and the moral law within me.’
“How is it you always show up when I most need you?”
“Classified”, he joked ”Top secret!”
As the car joined the autobahn, despite the storm, Moses promised me that the mission had gone well. Heading now for a secret location, a long drive, it lulled me to sleep.
As Moses nudged me awake, he didn’t mind, I had done it before, all the same, my hair dry now I removed my head from his shoulder. We had stopped outside a splendid old schloβ. Taking a luxurious hot bath and fixing my hair, no longer undercover, my legs sheathed in sheer stockings, I had lost the pully and wearing a little black number, I found Moses amid a beautiful candlelit chamber abounded by Teutonic heraldry. As the spymaster gave me his arm and led me to the table, during dinner, alone together, we discussed the mission.
The Yarid had never once lost track of my progress. Aware of his electronics, as they spied Konrad tailing me, his unnatural movement betrayed him and all his devices. A joint venture, Israeli trained, the German counter-terrorist unit GSG-9 rounded up the faction. Like all the best missions, hush-hush, they claim that the truth frightened the public.
Although Nidal outlived this party, an unlikely demise, they found his corpse in Baghdad. It was August 2002, only months before the fall of Saddam Hussein and Nidal fell out with him. Like many thousands more, the Iraqi despot had had him bumped off. Releasing Ali, as the Mossad tracked him he would lead to more missions, but no more for me.
Older, wiser, scarred, my dream shattered. I had survived a carousel of combat, love and tragedy. I had gone to Israel reckoning that once terrorism stopped, then peace must begin, but Arafat and Sharon hardly Ghandi and Mandela. Bursting to live and winning Mum and Dad’s acceptance, my excuse for being there.
As I witnessed their suffering, Palestinians pursued only freedom and like Jews before them, no more occupation, they hankered for their homeland.
An intoxicating backdrop and the desert often stirred me to philosophy. About to leave Germany, it brought to mind Immanuel Kant. I think he summed me up.
’Two things fill the mind with ever-increasing wonder and awe…the starry heavens above me, and the moral law within me.’
© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
