Operation Bethlehem, page 5
The mosque was jam-packed. Thousands of worshippers sat on rows upon rows of red prayer rugs decorated with beige designs, listening to the Friday sermon that blared from speakers across the entire compound, waiting for the prayers to start. Enormous marble and stone columns, crowned with artist-rendered decorations, supported the high ornate ceiling. Huge crystal chandeliers hung above their heads. After a few moments of taking in the impressive beauty of the building, Daniel went out and put his shoes back on. This was standard procedure. Many thousands filled the compound inside and outside the mosques. Some were satisfied with a quick visit inside, then prayed outside under the open skies.
He walked past the crowds of Muslim faithful who gathered outside and made his way to the place that really interested him, the turquoise building with the golden dome. As he got closer, the butterflies in his stomach went wild. Removing his shoes again, he entered the octagonal building and was immediately overcome with emotion. Right there, in front of him, surrounded by a brown wooden fence, was the sacred Foundation Stone, an enormous ancient rock in its natural state. Yet, it was more breathtaking than the surrounding marble columns, stone engravings, and mosaics. Daniel was not a religious man, and even his visits to the synagogue which had stopped when he moved to Israel, were just for the sake of tradition. But he was awestruck by the thought that he was standing where the Temple had stood thousands of years ago. He didn’t hear the commotion around him; it was as if he were alone.
He walked around the stone, passed through an ornate entryway, and descended the stairs to a cave-like chamber, the floor covered with a bright wine-red carpet. There were a few other worshippers there. He sat in one of the niches and leaned against the smooth stone wall. A shiver ran up his spine as he contemplated the fact that this was the only way he could see and experience this extraordinary place. It also angered him. Here, where everything started, was so much a part of the Jewish consciousness and yet so absent in Israeli awareness. That sudden realization saddened him. He wasn’t thinking about the Third Temple at that moment, and not about the Kohanim’s sacrifices, consumed by fire on the altar; he thought that most of the Israelis he knew were not interested in this place, which was identified with the extreme right and messianic movements. But it should interest them. And if not, he thought angrily, this entire country shouldn’t interest them either.
Daniel’s thoughts turned to his grandfather, Rafael. He never got to visit the Temple Mount, but he had been down in the depths of the earth, feet below where Daniel was now sitting. What he might have found there with his colleagues, beneath the sediment and stubborn layers of mud, before an angry Arab mob attacked them, would forever remain a mystery.
The Islamic call to prayer brought him back to reality. “I bear witness that there is no god but Allah,” the Imam recited, “I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah!”
Daniel hurried back up from the cavern and quickly left the Dome of the Rock. He had no desire to kneel like a Muslim there. He joined the crowd outside and followed them while his thoughts wandered. He noticed the man in purple appear once again a few worshippers away from him. The short prayer ended, and Daniel went along with the crowd back to the Muslim Quarter. He wandered around the alleyways for an hour, ate lunch at a crowded restaurant frequented by locals, and then made his way back to the taxis waiting near the Damascus Gate. He took a shared taxi to the At-Tur neighborhood. The taxi passed by Gethsemane and slowly climbed up to the Mount of Olives. He asked the driver to stop when they were close to the Al-Makassed Hospital. Fortunately, no one else got off there, but he decided to make a short stop to be sure he wasn’t being followed.
Twenty-five minutes later, after stopping for coffee at the hospital cafeteria, Daniel walked to the promenade beneath the Seven Arches Hotel at the top of the Mount of Olives. Carefully he made his way between parked buses, their diesel fumes overpowering the scent of spring in the air. He strolled with his hands in his pockets. A group of Israelis got out of a tour bus and went to the observation point to see the panoramic view. Some of them lingered behind and took pictures with a camel which was a permanent fixture there. Their tour guide, holding a voice amplifier, gave an overview of the historical landmarks and Daniel listened: “Below us is the ancient Mount of Olives cemetery. Down on the right is Gethsemane – the Church of all Nations. The gilded onion domes just above Gethsemane belong to the Church of Mary Magdalene. And right across there, you probably recognize the Old City, and the mosque with the golden dome. Who knows what it’s called?”
“Al-Aqsa!” shouted a chorus of tourists, as if the answer were obvious. Daniel was amazed by their ignorance. “Wrong!” The guide sounded delighted as if he had expected their response. “It’s the Dome of the Rock! The dome above the Foundation Stone. Where Abraham nearly sacrificed Isaac, remember? Later, of course, Solomon built the Temple there. The mosque on the far left, with the gray dome, that’s Al-Aqsa, which literally means “the furthest mosque” in Arabic. Over to the left, you can see...”
The tourists oohed and aahed as he spoke, taking pictures with their cellphones. Daniel watched and wondered if any of them, like him, were trying to peel back the layers of time from the unchanging landscape. Were they, too, imagining the wonders of the past, a vision of their ancestral homeland, of two thousand years of longing? Maybe only a handful of them, he thought. This is where they were born. Their homeland was here and now: a path on the kibbutz, an orchard on the moshav, the Sea of Galilee, rivers in the Golan Heights, forests in the north, the Negev, Tel Aviv... each person and their own childhood. They did not have the exiles’ collective yearning for an ancient past they could only imagine.
The group gathered by the bus and the promenade emptied. Daniel sat on a stone bench and viewed the thousands of gravestones below. There was no chance of identifying the grave from this distance, yet he felt closer to his grandfather than he had in a long time. He spoke to him in his head, telling him how much he missed him, about his new discoveries in Bethlehem, his emotional visit to the Temple Mount, and how he missed Israel. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with mountain air, and slowly exhaled. He was overcome with conflicting feelings. The life he had left behind when he returned to France seemed within his grasp again. He lay down on the bench and shut his eyes, listening to the sounds around him and breathing it all in, recalling the last Saturday in the very happy life he’d had with Yael before everything went wrong. The images were burned into his memory; the peaceful Saturday morning, a car starting, the laughter of children playing in the backyard next door, and Yael’s father’s footsteps downstairs.
The winter three years ago had been dry, just like it was now. The winter sun streamed through the narrow slits of the blinds. Bright rays of light trailed along the folds of the down comforter wrapped around their bodies. He wore black boxer briefs, she wore a flannel nightgown and tiny gray panties. The window was cracked, letting cool, fresh air flow into the room. He remembered how he gently ran his hand up and down her thigh. Yael moaned and pressed her backside into him; he nuzzled her short hair and breathed in the lingering scent of her sweet perfume. She tilted her neck and shivered when he nipped behind her ear. His hand moved between her legs and into her panties. Yael pushed back into his groin, and he hardened as she leaned into him. When he felt she was ready, he pulled off her panties and thrust inside. Yael crossed her arms over her chest, and Daniel wrapped one arm around her as they moved together in a hard and fast rhythm until they climaxed, first her and then him. When they came down, he kissed her flushed cheek, and Yael snuggled in his arms. He woke to the sound of water running in the bathroom, jumped out of bed, stretched, and started to do pushups. Daniel was in top physical shape – his body lean and ripped. The water stopped as he finished his third and final set. He went into the bathroom. Yael stood in a thick cloud of steam wrapped in a white towel, wiping the mirror.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Ben Atar.”
“Bonjour, soon to be Madame Ben Atar.” He gripped her hips from behind, “Why did you shower so quickly?”
“Not so quickly. I woke up twenty minutes ago.”
“You’re still wet,” he stroked her hair, “come on, shower again with me.”
“Stop it! I don’t have the energy to go again,” she said, looking down at his erection.
“Hey,” he pretended to be insulted.
“Oh, come on, don’t make that face,” she said. “My stomach hurts, and I’m nauseous.”
“Really?” He got into the shower and adjusted the water. “Maybe it’s something you ate?”
“I don’t think so.” Yael dropped the towel and walked naked into the room to get dressed.
“Maybe you’re excited about the flight tonight?” he shouted at her from the shower, looking at her as she walked out.
“Yeah, right!” She returned to the bathroom, pulling on a pair of blue sweatpants. “I think I’m way past getting excited.”
“I hope you feel better by this evening,” he mumbled through a mouth full of toothpaste.
“I’ll be fine.” She went back into the bedroom and slathered on scented hand cream.
Daniel remembered how he finished his shower and got dressed, and they went downstairs to her parents’ living room. Her father was reading the weekend paper at the dining table. Her mother was sitting across from him doing the crossword. The large window behind them had a magnificent view of Haifa Bay. It was a beautiful clear morning after two days of stormy weather, and you could see all the way to the border with Lebanon.
“How much can you sleep?” her father grumbled, peering at them through his reading glasses. “We never get to spend enough time with you when you visit.”
“Good morning to you too, Dad.” Yael blew him a kiss, and Daniel lifted his hand in greeting. They went to the kitchen – Yael to the coffeemaker and Daniel to the electric kettle.
“I got you fresh mint leaves,” Yael’s mother called out to him, “they’re in the fridge.”
“You’re the best,” Daniel said, and made himself a big mug of sweet tea with the green and fragrant leaves. He usually started the day with a cup of espresso but kept to the Saturday tradition from his childhood. He sat next to Yael’s father at the table.
“Anything interesting in today’s paper?” he asked, taking a sip from the glass mug.
“A lot of nonsense!” her father grumbled.
“So why are you so fascinated by it?” Yael sat next to her dad and hugged him.
“Habit,” he said and pushed the paper to the center of the table. “So... how are the wedding plans coming along? Did you decide where? What about the menu? You remember I told you that I know the owner of –”
“Dad!” Yael lifted a finger in warning. “Don’t start. We’re handling everything and we’ll let you know when we have any updates.”
“Three months go by quickly, Yaeli. And you’re both busy with your work. There’s no reason to drag things out...”
“Why don’t you leave the kids alone!” his wife scolded, and Daniel’s lips twitched at being called a kid. He wasn’t sure that the people sending him around the world would agree with that definition. But her father’s concern was heartwarming. His father never showed much interest in him.
“Alright, alright,” her father said with a wave of his hand. “Tell me, Daniel, will you at least shave your beard before the wedding?”
“Why? Doesn’t it look good on me?” Daniel smiled and stroked the rough black beard he’d been growing for several weeks.
“Actually, it suits you,” his future mother-in-law said without lifting her eyes from the crossword, “The beard makes you look more mature.”
“My bearded babyface!” Yael kissed his whiskered cheek.
“You said it, not me,” her mother muttered.
“I love that Middle Eastern look on you.” Yael picked up her coffee cup. “And that’s what’s important,” she said firmly, taking a sip.
Daniel shook off his thoughts, stretched his arms and sat up. The sound of the wind whispering through the tree above him blended with the laughter of small children. Two little kids were chasing one another. Their mother called to them in Arabic, telling them to stop running. They ignored her pleas and ran even faster until they hit the stone wall of the promenade. Their father caught up to them and stopped them from climbing it. Daniel watched them and his heart ached. With no relatives in Israel, the Barak family had been like his own. They had a close and warm relationship. To him, they were the personification of Sabras, native-born Israelis. Yael’s brother was a deputy squadron commander in the Israeli Air Force, her father was a former battalion commander, now on reserve duty, and her mother was a school principal. They were so different from the family Daniel had left behind in France. Sadly, his family didn’t feel the need to move to Israel despite the increasing difficulties at home. His father’s chain of grocery stores meant everything to him, and his mother and sister wouldn’t leave him behind. Only Daniel’s grandfather, an academic who had devoted his life to the archaeology of Israel, moved there in his late seventies after frequent visits over the years for research and excavations. Daniel had joined him many times as a child, then every summer as a teenager. Sometimes he thought his father preferred to stay in France to keep his distance from the old man. But as Daniel grew up, the distance bothered him. As soon as he could, he left for Israel and joined the army.
The snores of the camel in the parking lot attracted the two children like a magnet. The camel’s owner pulled at the reins and tried to move it away from the middle of the road. Daniel yawned, stood up and started walking back to At-Tur. The climb was short and not too steep, but the emotional stress of his memories exhausted him. He couldn’t shake them off, not even for a day – the events that had brought him to the lowest point of his life. But this time was different. Now he had a spark of hope that his journey would lead him to a new future. Just like back then, when he’d believed in a future with Yael, right before the operation that ruined everything.
That same Saturday at noon, Yael had reminded them that they had to go back to Tel Aviv early, and they’d better set the table for lunch. Her dad again complained that they “never had enough time,” and wondered out loud what was so great about this job of theirs that kept them busy with frequent business trips for someone else. “Why don’t you just go into business for yourselves,” he used to say. They both had no intention of explaining. Yael’s brother, who was the only one in the family who knew exactly what they were doing, shut her father down, saying that at least they got to see the world – “I don’t fly anywhere much except for training in the Negev. And when I do go somewhere more interesting, it’s always a nighttime operation!” Even now, Daniel smiled thinking of it; a wonderful Saturday spent in the company of people who were dear to him. Nothing about it gave the slightest hint of what was about to happen.
‘Eran,’ ‘Roni,’ and the others disembarked the El Al flight in Copenhagen for the start of another operation. It was not something they ever took for granted, but just like so many times before, they quickly got through passport control and went their separate ways as if they were strangers. Outside the terminal, Daniel saw Yael get in a taxi. A minute later, he also hailed one and went to the hotel that had been booked for him, tired from a sleepless night and looking forward to a soft pillow beneath his head.
He woke up in the late morning after only a few hours of sleep and got ready for the day’s activities. He showered and sat at his laptop. He had to send a few emails to real estate agents with whom he’d already scheduled meetings in two days’ time, supposedly to check out commercial rental properties for a fictitious company – a logical reason for his visit to Copenhagen. When he was done, he dialed the front desk from the hotel phone and asked them to book a taxi for him in fifteen minutes. A few minutes later, he walked across the lobby wearing jeans, a gray sweater and black jacket, with a green canvas messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He was dressed casually, but his clothes were chosen deliberately to blend into the background that evening. His beard, the Middle Eastern appearance he’d inherited and his fluent French and Arabic, would allow him to walk around the immigrant neighborhoods as if he belonged there.
To maintain as convincing and authentic an identity as possible, he not only had to keep up his native French, but he also had to get to know the French Muslim immigrants and stay up to date with social trends, even adopt their cultural and religious traditions. He made sure to improve his fluency in the Arabic he’d heard at home and often contemplated unhappily on the fact that his entrance ticket to the Mossad, a symbol of the Israeli identity, was based on the characteristics that defined him as a “non-native.” He almost idolized his Sabra brothers in arms. “I don’t need to work hard to become an Arab,” he confessed to Yael once, “You guys, who have to learn everything from the beginning, are amazing!”
The taxi arrived. Daniel sat in the back seat and asked the driver to take him to Nyhavn. A twenty-minute drive through the streets of Copenhagen took him to the entertainment district. He paid the driver a little above the fare and then walked along the colorful waterfront; new sailboats next to wooden ships, buildings with harmonious colored facades lining the canal, and at the edge of the pier, close to the water, young people sat drinking from green bottles of local beer. Across from them, people sat at outdoor restaurants and cafes, enjoying the winter sun shining in a blue sky dotted with white clouds.
Daniel reached the meeting point, entered the café, and ordered lunch. The chatter was so loud you couldn’t hear the music playing in the background. Fifteen minutes later, exactly on time, the courier entered, wearing an elegant suit. They shook hands like old friends, and while they talked and ate, the courier rummaged through the black briefcase he carried with him and pulled out a book. A casual observer might have thought he was recommending a novel he had just finished. Daniel picked up the book, looked at the blue cover and read the blurb, written in English, on the back. He seemed interested. He also took out a book and suggested they swap. The courier nodded and like Daniel, stowed the book in his bag. Daniel looked around for the waiter, and his eyes caught two local police officers entering the café. The two walked toward them, and Daniel felt his heartbeat accelerating. He told the courier what was going on behind him. They froze. Both had in their possession a book that hid within its pages a passport with Daniel’s photo. Same man, different personal information, different passports. In one, he was Eran the Israeli. In the other, Jalal the French citizen. There was no plausible legal explanation. The courier stood, shook Daniel’s hand, and went to the restrooms at the back of the café where he could hide Daniel’s Israeli passport in his bag without raising suspicion. Daniel signaled the waiter for the check. After looking around and exchanging a few words with one of the employees, the police officers left. The courier came back out, walked past Daniel and went on his way. Daniel left five minutes later, strode down the street, got into one of the taxis that waited at the side of the road, and went to the train station.
