The Mahdi, page 24
“I met with the Israeli prime minister as a diplomat, with a sealed introduction from the king of Morocco. I then met with the Haredi defense minister, Yakov Bernstein. And what did I receive in return for my diplomatic efforts? A sedative needle in my arm, and an unpleasant vacation to the Negev, to Ktzi’ot Prison. Did they expect no retaliation?”
Kufdani paused for a moment. I’m coming for you, Bernstein, he thought. I am planning your demise. Maybe he would rip the Haredi man’s arm off and beat him to death with it. But no, that would be a mistake. Not enough pain.
He went on. “While I was in prison, an accident occurred at a West Bank construction site. Israel has produced no proof of who caused the damage, yet has used this excuse to evict all Israeli Bedouin, men, women, and children, from their homes. Again I ask, did the Israeli government, the IDF, the Shin Bet expect no retaliation?
“In response, the Bedouins chose to target Israeli infrastructure in Jerusalem and disrupt Israelis’ basic civil rights, to show them what it means to be denied these things as they had been denied to us. We killed no one. We injured no one. And yet the prime minister issued a kill order for thousands of people, including me. He then authorized a vicious attack on my partner, my true love—and her friend, the wife of a US special ambassador. Did the Israeli government, the IDF, the Shin Bet expect no retaliation?”
Kufdani glared into the center camera. His eyes hooded into slits, shifting left and then right, and his face morphed from angry to evil. His long scar turned brighter. His enormous neck bulged from the loose, white neck of his shirt. His tongue flickering between his lips as if tasting the air.
“Mr. Prime Minister, if you take issue with me, please come and hurt me personally. I would welcome an opportunity to expose you for the cowardly, inept, worthless person you are. You were special ops in your youth, as was I. We know much about killing. How about killing me one-on-one instead of hiring people to dispense your filth? You may try, but I will hurt you.”
But not as much as I’m going to hurt you, Bernstein.
Kufdani looked away from the camera, striving to recover himself. He looked over at Edgie, who glanced at his watch and raised a thumb. His message was coming through loud and clear.
Mahdi! the crowd continued to roar. Mahdi! Mahdi!
Kufdani made a conscious effort to relax, willing himself to lose the Gila monster look. “During my time as a prisoner at Ktzi’ot,” he continued, “I became acquainted with a great man: Yousef Salama, the righteous Palestinian leader. He was kind enough to allow me to minister, to pray, and to teach Allah’s lessons to the prisoners under his protection. Then, when our frustration and rage at the mistreatment of our loved ones spilled over, he allowed me to escape with him from Ktzi’ot. Together with thousands of other Muslims, we escaped to Egypt—again graciously sparing the lives of Israeli Jews, despite experiencing years of brutality under their prison guards.
“Today the Israelis came to punish us, the Muslims who live in Palestine and the Muslims who serve Allah without a country, we Bedouins. Yousef Salama named me as commander of our defense. I welcomed this opportunity. As you can see, I am a man competent in violence, as was Muhammad (peace be upon him).
“Under the orders of Yousef Salama, today I commanded our forces deployed to resist the invasion of Palestine by the Israel Defense Forces, Shin Bet, and the Israeli Navy. They came across our border with all of the might of Israel: armored infantry, navy, helicopters, and jet fighters. Here at the Sufa air base, you see the result of our resistance. We were not known to be armed with more than slingshots, so they did not fear us. But we had the blessing of Allah!”
Mahdi! Mahdi! Mahdi!
“The nations of Islam everywhere are uniting in support of the Bedouin people and the Palestinian nation,” Kufdani continued. “My leader, Islam’s champion, was victorious today, and we support him. We applaud our leader, Yousef Salama.”
Salama stood and raised his arms. The crowd cheered wildly, and a few shots were fired into the air. The cameras panned over the Palestinians and Bedouins gathered there, before focusing once more on the prisoners of war.
“Rather than competent soldiers,” Kufdani continued, “Israel sent these red-topped surrender monkeys whom we now return to their wives and mothers. They are cowards who gave up at the first shot. They abandoned their weapons and equipment, which we have now confiscated. The commanders of the unit are among them, no longer distinguished by anything but their lack of courage. We shall keep their armor and weapons in case of another attack, with real Israeli soldiers now that the 97th battalion is no more.”
Mahdi! Mahdi! Mahdi!
Kufdani paused, glaring into the camera one final time.
“That fight will be very bloody.”
MOSSAD HEADQUARTERS, TEL AVIV
SUNDAY
GUNS TURNED TO THE TEAPOT, STARTING OFF THE PROCESS FOR A badly needed refill. He could hardly blame his boss. Sitting together in his office, he and Pelzer were reviewing, frame by frame, the Israeli drone videos of the day’s fiasco—the tragedy unfolding in the Gaza Strip and at the Sufa air base. Thanks to the IDF link to the new Boeing 03b mPower satellites covering the Kufdani turnover of prisoners, the images were clear and distinct. Guns was forced to come face-to-face with the reality of the damage at Sufa, and with the image of Kufdani in all his glory.
“We suffered a major defeat today, no matter how the IDF and the prime minister want to play it,” Pelzer was saying. “I want to understand how this happened, what we know about the planning and logistics, and what we do from here.”
Another technology triumph for Caitlin and Cooch, Guns conceded. “I guess it’s time to step it up a notch.” The escalation had run its course: Israel had deployed fighter jets, tanks, infantry, and the navy against Kufdani—and had lost on every front. Guns hadn’t anticipated this level of response. Perhaps he should have, even though the prime minister had instructed Mossad to butt out. “We’ve moved past the West Bank situation. Cooch has somehow gotten the Palestinians involved and under his control.”
Without Cooch as their leader, the Palestinians would have killed all eight hundred of the 97th Netzah Yehuda. Guns knew this without a doubt. Sadly enough, it would have made things easier for him. Just think of all the sympathy for the dead, not to mention the grieving! The possibilities regarding an Israeli response would have been unlimited. But instead he was returning every last prisoner to Israel, live on global television.
“And now?” Pelzer asked.
Guns raised an eyebrow, and when Pelzer nodded, he poured for two. “We’ll see soon, I imagine.” The Cooch he once knew would have killed them all on the battlefield, gathered their weapons, and passed them out to be used for the ambush on the revenge attack. That was what his daddy had taught him: if they’re on the battlefield, they are the enemy and should be killed.
Pelzer looked puzzled. “What do you think he wants?”
Guns handed Pelzer a steaming mug and sat down. “I don’t know, but he’s not operating from the goodness of his heart.”
Pelzer took a tentative sip. “We must get on top of the public relations aspect. Our allies have a set of expectations. They believe in our military competence. For goodness’ sake, this is the state of Israel against the great unwashed.”
“Uh-huh. And we appear to be losing.” Guns was feeling a little underwater. The Egyptians, the Moroccans, even the Iranians were making protest noises and vague threats about the need for a global Islamic response. The Egyptians were already in the fray, given that the S-300 had brought down two of Israel’s F-16s in Egyptian airspace, according to the press releases, with promises of video to come. And IDF was telling them nothing thus far.
“Tell me what’s going on, and I’ll make sure you’re the next head of Mossad,” Pelzer said.
Guns laughed. “Thanks for the promotion, but it’s a bit premature. The scope of this conflict has moved beyond the West Bank. Our nation is at risk.”
“My word, that seems a bit extreme.”
“Think about it,” Guns retorted. “Kufdani has a plan that is now playing out.”
The speech bragging about the capture of eight hundred IDF soldiers on Palestinian soil was just the first step, but it had been given the full propaganda treatment alongside fabulous photography. And Cooch had hired Reginald Edgeworth to manage his public relations. Guns suspected they would soon be hearing more from him.
Not only that, but Kufdani had suborned the most powerful online voice of liberal Zion, Haaretz Online. Elsa Sachs was increasingly being recognized as a bright and committed journalist—who was also very ambitious. Guns had heard she would soon be heading for New York and a major promotion. Given her recent journalistic disclosures, that couldn’t be good for Mossad and its interests.
“Israel has suffered more than twenty billion dollars of damage and counting,” Guns continued. “The president of the United States is furious with us. I’m thinking he’s not exactly about to volunteer to fix what Cooch has broken.”
“I get it,” Pelzer said. “But what is Kufdani’s end game?”
“I dunno,” Guns replied, “but his midgame is coming into focus.”
“To wit?”
“It’s just as he told us: He wants our diaspora and the liberal Israeli community to give up on the West Bank. He wants our best public opinion on his side.”
Pelzer took a sip of her tea and stared at a blank wall. “And from there?”
Guns looked at his shoes. “From there, it will get nasty. We need to begin planning for a new election.” Of that, he felt sure.
“That isn’t exactly the business of Mossad—”
“The survival of Israel is the business of Mossad,” Guns said, “and the business of patriots. Let’s let the midgame play out and continue taking the temperature of our colleagues.”
Pelzer put her mug down and gazed at him. “How do you think I should be planning my time, Epstein?”
His answer came immediately. “Find a way to get next to Sachs. See where her head is. We’re going to need a new prime minister, and she can help or hinder our candidate. Make her see our world the way we do.”
Pelzer gave a wry chuckle. “I don’t see Ms. Sachs and me sitting down to tea, unless she starts changing her message. And when is someone going to figure out who this next prime minister will be? That’s a real hornet’s nest.”
“I’ve already figured it out,” Guns said. He had yet to discuss things with Moishe, but he was sure his mentor would share his opinion. “You’ll want to think it through, but no matter. You’re good at that.”
“Who is it?”
“Sheila, it’s you.”
EL-ARISH, EGYPT
SUNDAY
FRESH FROM MAKEUP AFTER HER HELICOPTER TRIP FROM TEL AVIV (courtesy of Reginald Edgeworth), Elsa was sitting at the edge of her chair at the recording studio in El-Arish. She was both anxious and excited to record this next interview. The images from Sufa—the destruction, the cheering Palestinians and Bedouins, the nude prisoners with red heads and stained thighs—were compelling. Kufdani’s speech from the battlefield was being projected around the world.
Edgie was delighted. “So far, our PR operation has exceeded my fondest hopes and wildest expectations,” he’d told her a moment ago. He thought she and Kufdani had shown a certain chemistry during that first, brief interview in Tel Aviv. Now he wanted the world to see it again, in prime time. Another live interview would really put the level of global attention over the roof.
Perhaps Edgie’s right, Elsa thought. He’s been right about everything else so far.
Kufdani sat facing her, also newly made-up for the interview in a clean, white, flowing desert shirt that was loose at the neck. Elsa was distracted by the vertical scar zigzagging down from his left eye in bright white, but the rest of his face was relaxed. He was looking her dead in the eye and smiling faintly.
The display cameras scrolled through the camera views, so both interviewer and interviewee could get a sense of how they appeared to viewers at each angle. The art director called out orders to adjust the lighting in the studio, reaching for the right tone and the best use of shadows. Edgie and Elsa had discussed the politics of the Kufdani coverage at great length already, and now he was working with two technicians, directing Emilie to manage the image flow.
“So you have the images pretty much the way you want?” Elsa asked. There hadn’t been much time, given that the battle had ended just hours earlier, but the editors in New York had done double duty. They had been working with the images and footage taken by Edgie’s photographers—of the woman getting shot, the crowd’s reaction, the Haredim surrendering and being treated—and were loving it.
Edgie nodded and smiled. “We’re good to go. My client has precedence in the editing of all TV views. Any scripting from me is secondary. Get anything into the interview that you can, with that in mind.”
Elsa nodded back. After seeing the footage from Kufdani’s speech, she was determined to take a chance on getting to one viewpoint in particular: she was going to ask him about the Mahdi.
The supposed ways that Muslims would be able to identify the Mahdi were apocryphal, taken from one hadith or another. There was no disclosure from Allah in the Quran on this topic and little from the prophet himself. Nor was there any denying the cries for justice—and for the man who would restore it—among Kufdani’s supporters.
Edgie waved for the cameras, waved again for action, and the lights winked on the cameras.
The first series of images ran on the screen, showing the blown-out windows, smoking F-16s, and abandoned service trucks of Sufa under the header BILLIONS IN DAMAGE TO ISRAELI AIR BASE.
“So,” Elsa said, “once again, Sheik Kufdani, we meet about conflict.”
The man across from her dipped his head slightly, his faint smile still in place. “We meet on my quest for the return of Bedouin lands and the protection of my people, who suffer under the Israeli theocracy. The conflict today was initiated by your country, thrown as a slap in the face of Allah. We merely reacted to Israel’s attack—after giving you full warning, I might add.”
“And now that violence has come once again to the Gaza Strip, how are you going to get out of that?” Sachs retorted. “All of Palestine will now become the bigger target.”
“Palestine was attacked by Israel. The IDF sent armored infantry, navy corvettes, helicopters with drones, and fighter jets after us on our own land. Each infantryman, as we discovered in Al-Bayuk, was carrying one extra magazine of live ammunition in his vest, just in case.” Kufdani lifted his head high now, still gazing directly at her. “Ms. Sachs,” he said softly, “your ‘just in case’ just happened.”
Elsa knew the camera was going to switch to her now. She sat without saying a word, allowing her silence to encourage him instead.
“You sent armor against us. It’s gone,” Kufdani continued. “You sent fighter jets. Two are gone, and your valuable air base is destroyed. You sent armored infantry with an abundance of live ammunition in their vests. We spanked them and sent them home, mostly unharmed, with their heads painted red to match their spanked bottoms.”
He chuckled as the second series of images appeared on the screen. Elsa held her tongue.
“Israel had the temerity, the arrogance to send the Haredi battalion, the 97th Netzah Yehuda, against us,” said Kufdani, the cameras back on him now. “These are the troops who have stolen our land and raped our children. They are cowards, rapists, and thieves. They come from a community of people who don’t work, don’t serve, don’t educate their children. Instead, the Haredim study only their religious book, breed like rabbits, and vote for whom they are told. They are worthless scum feeding on a narrow interpretation of the word of Allah or the Hebrew god. And today, one of them murdered an unarmed, beautiful, young Palestinian mother of two.”
With perfect timing, the screen displayed the image Edgie had singled out, of the Palestinian mother with her hands and black hair in the air, the blood spilling from her chest and the shock on her dying face.
The next image showed the moment the crowd of Palestinian women fell on the shooter in a rage. The header this time read, PALESTINIAN WOMEN ATTACK PRISONER OF WAR WHO KILLED UNARMED MOTHER OF TWO.
Elsa couldn’t help but appreciate the juxtaposition of such raw emotion. That Edgie really is a genius.
“The murder of this young mother was but one among countless,” Kufdani said, his voice hard. “We have neither the time nor the inclination to punish just one or two of these cowards, as today they have proven themselves to be. All must face retribution for their actions. Maybe the next time we’ll geld them, as we do camels who are found wanting.”
“And is that what this was, returning the prisoners of war to Israel in such a demeaned state?” Elsa asked. “Was that retribution?”
“You sent them against us, against me, against Islam. This was an insult to all of Islam. Next time they will come home far worse off.”
“I understand the hyperbole, Sheik Kufdani,” Elsa said, “but what conclusions do you think we can derive from this skirmish? How do we bring this unfortunate matter to an end peacefully?”
Kufdani looked away for a long moment.
“Moroccans rely on our king to grant us rights as citizens, so that we may live well and care for our property no matter our religion. Jews in Morocco have been successful owners of property and business for more than a thousand years. We value them. They are our brothers, with the Christians, in observance of Abrahamic religions.
“In Israel, hundreds of thousands of Bedouins have been citizens since the nation’s founding in 1948. The Bedouins brought to their new Israeli citizenship property that they had owned for more than two hundred years, much of it on the western bank of the Jordan River—known as the West Bank.”
