TWENTY FIVE.
It looked like the
roulette wheel would stop on Hebron, a Palestinian city of over one
hundred thousand, twenty miles south of Jerusalem. In the
fifty-plus years of Israeli statehood, Hebron had been a city
caught in the middle. Located in a mountainous region, it was home
to the Tomb of Abraham; a prophet revered by Muslims, Jews and
Christians alike. A small community of Orthodox Jews lived near the
center of the town, but they numbered less than a thousand and had
to be protected by a garrison of Israeli Defense Forces.
The Palestinians
resented the fact that a single Jew lived in their city and had
tried countless times over the last century to rectify the problem
by means that were less than humanitarian. The terrain lent itself
naturally to urban guerrilla warfare; narrow streets that wound up
and down hillsides flanked by multi story stone buildings with flat
roofs.
Blind corners
abounded and streets stopped and started without warning.
Israeli soldiers
steered clear of much of the city knowing if they went in, there
was a good chance they might not make it out. In short, Hebron was
Palestinian-controlled territory.
It surprised David
not in the least that this was where the meeting would take place.
His altercation with Rashid in the parking garage had been
extremely satisfying. If Rashid and his men understood anything it
was force. They had seen their boss bested, and bested easily, by a
younger man who by virtue of the meeting he was about to attend was
somebody important.
Still, David didn't
give them much time to react as they gawked at the bloody Rashid
lying unconscious on the floor. He yelled at the men to get moving
and climbed into the white Israeli taxi. The men hesitated, not
sure what they should do.
"Leave him!" he
ordered.
"When I tell Mohammed
Atwa what he has done, he will be grateful that you left him
here."
This was a name that
stirred genuine terror in the Palestinians. The three men did not
hesitate to obey. Mohammed Atwa was the head of Palestinian General
Intelligence; an organization that many Palestinians feared more
than Mossad. The security service was known for torturing and
killing suspected collaborators with impunity. Atwa had even
resurrected the old practice of killing Palestinians who dared sell
their land to a Jew. He also happened to be the same man who
ordered the torture and interrogation of David when he was a young
teenager.
David looked out the
window of the sedan as they meandered through the canyon like
streets of Hebron. Darkness had fallen and they were no longer in
the white Israeli taxi. Driving such a vehicle into Hebron would be
akin to walking through Harlem in full Ku Klux Klan regalia.
Instead, they'd switched to a yellow Palestinian taxi.
As they rounded a
tight corner they came to a sudden stop. A group of masked young
men immediately surrounded the car. They carried a variety of
weapons from Russian-made AK-47s to American-made M16s. All four
doors of the sedan were yanked open and everyone was told to get
out. David was searched once again for a transmitter. When one of
the men stepped up and tried to grab the attaché cases, David
stopped him with a stern rebuke. He placed both cases on the trunk
of the car and opened one and then the other. The packets of neatly
bound one hundred dollar bills left the men momentarily awestruck.
The nicely dressed young man they were dealing with was apparently
someone very important.
David slammed the
cases closed before the guards had time to gather their wits.
Acting impatient, he grabbed each case and told the men he was not
to be delayed further. With the vision of millions of American
dollars still fresh in their heads, none of them argued. David was
walked through the barricade and placed in the back of a
minivan.
The van raced up the
street, turning several times. On each corner men stood watch with
assault rifles at their sides.
Six blocks later they
stopped in front of a three-story house. Both sides of the street
were clogged with parked cars. David grew nervous for a second and
then saw the vehicle he was looking for. The Mercedes sedan was
parked just on the other side of a van. David breathed a sigh of
relief, knowing that the armored car belonged to Mohammed
Atwa.
Clutching the attaché
cases, he stepped from the van and walked toward the house. His
arms suddenly felt very heavy, and everything began to slow down.
He looked down at the cracked sidewalk and then slowly up at the
two masked men standing guard in front of the blue wood door with
chipped and peeling paint. The men were gesturing for David to
hurry but he didn't hear what they were saying.
He just casually
placed one foot in front of the other, and then the next thing he
knew, he was in the house.
There were people
everywhere. It was as if a party were going on.
Smoke and loud
conversation filled the air. To the room on his left there was a
virtual banquet; mounds of grilled lamb, shashlik, musakhan and
chicken liver. A middle-aged man who ran the Popular Liberation
Committee in Gaza was popping baklava into his mouth and nodding
enthusiastically to the head of Force 17. Over in the corner he saw
two men sipping Arab coffee and discussing something in earnest.
One of the men he knew to be the head of security for Islamic Jihad
but the other man he didn't recognize. David felt his throat
tighten a bit; this was the culmination of meticulous planning and
great patience. It was almost exactly as he'd dreamt it would
be.
He looked to the
right and saw a big screen TV. It was tuned to Al Jazeera, but it
seemed no one was paying attention. Three large couches were
arranged around the TV They were filled with men, some of whom
David recognized. This was the closest thing David had ever seen to
a terrorism summit.
There were
representatives from the Gaza Strip, the West Bank, and at least
one from Beirut. There were several new faces from the martyr
brigades and many old faces from the PLO and its only true rival,
Hamas.
Through the crowd
David saw Mohammed Atwa approach. David forced a smile to his face
and lifted the two attaché cases in the air.
Atwa, the head of
Palestinian General Intelligence, the torturer of thousands,
grabbed David by the cheeks and standing on his toes, kissed the
younger man's forehead.
With a flourish Atwa
turned and waved a theatrical arm in the air.
"He is here! Our son
has returned from visiting our rich Saudi friends!"
Everyone fell silent
for a brief moment and then the room broke into applause, toothy
grins and nods of enthusiasm. This was the apogee of two years of
hard work. David had started small, working his way up the ladder
of the Palestinian Authority. His first donation had been $10,000.
From there it got bigger, and as his stature grew, he worked his
way closer to Atwa; the power behind the power, the man whom he
someday would kill.
David knew if he were
to ever see a Palestinian state, Hamas would have to be dealt a
vicious blow. The Islamic fanatics would never be happy until every
last Jew was dead, and when that happened they would only be
satisfied if a Palestinian state were run by clerics who enforced
strict Islamic law. Even the radical PLO looked tame next to the
crazed members of Hamas.
David had cautiously
counseled Atwa to bring Hamas into the fold by providing them with
capital. The agreement was that David would use his skills to raise
money and Atwa would hand part of that money over to Hamas to
finance their terrorist and martyr operations. As David's
fund-raising prowess grew, so did Hamas's reliance on PLO support.
David was so successful that Atwa was also able to entice some
other groups to the trough. They included Islamic Jihad, the
Popular Resistance Committee and Hezbollah.
Tonight had been
billed as a watershed evening for the groups. The last month's
fund-raising had been so fruitful that they would all gather under
the benevolence of Atwa and the PLO to divide the spoils.
Atwa relieved David
of one of the attaché cases and grabbed him by the arm. Excitedly,
he led David between two of the couches to a spot in front of the
big screen TV. Atwa turned his case around and opened it for the
group to see. He nodded for David to do the same.
"Two million dollars,
my friends!"
The room broke into
shouts and praise for Allah. Men jumped to their feet and began
hugging each other. The irony of seeing these cold-blooded killers
act in a such a lighthearted way made David smile to himself. What
idiots! Not only was the money counterfeit, courtesy of the Iraqis,
but there was an even better surprise in store.
Atwa set the attaché
case down on the table and David did the same. Turning to one of
his lieutenants, Atwa handed him a sheet of paper that explained
how the money was to be distributed. Then, overcome with the
emotion of the moment, he grabbed David and hugged him. Patting him
on the cheek like a son, he told David how proud he was of
him.
David kept up his act
and shrugged off the compliment.
"It was no big
deal."
"Yes it was, and
don't say it wasn't." Atwa stuck a finger in his face to warn him
against any more modesty. Then, looking around the room, he began
to frown and asked, "Where is Hassan?"
David hesitated just
briefly and then seized his chance.
"I need to talk to
you about that."
Atwa's lined face
became concerned.
"What has
happened?"
David looked over one
shoulder and then the other.
"Not here.
Not in front of the
others." After looking around the room one more time, David
gestured for Atwa to follow him.
The two men walked
through the crowd, David stopping every few feet to accept another
hug or handshake. He feigned reciprocity as the men showered
affection on him, which was made all the more difficult by the fact
that he was about to send them to their deaths. As they stepped
outside, Atwa stopped; his look of concern now much deeper.
David pointed to the
butcher's Mercedes sedan.
"In private." David
walked around the other side and climbed into the backseat. Atwa
joined him and when both doors were closed David breathed a barely
discernible sigh of relief.