Peace, Love and Lies: International Mystery & Crime Thriller

  The only one who kept coming at least once a month was Marcel, the company sergeant major who had known my mother when she was still married and worshiped her and my father. He wasn’t really one of the guys but was clearly the most devoted of them all. Mom married him when I was five. It was comfortable, and she hoped that with time she would grow to love him a little more. Marcel was very successful in his studies and in business, but always remained the company sergeant major who admired his company commander.

  One time, when we returned from East Jerusalem through the Mamilla district, I tried to understand from Theo this thing called love. He held my hand in his and I felt warm and comfortable.

  “Do you love them, old man Barakat from the antiques, and Joseph from the patisserie?”

  “Of course, my dear,” he replied. “I love them very much. They are good people; interesting people. They give me a sense of the world at large even though they have never left East Jerusalem. They are more open to the universe than some of my good friends in the Rehavia neighborhood who have already been around the world numerous times but it is as though they never left their room.”

  “Do you love them like you love Danny?”

  “Me, Shira,” said Theo, “I love them all. There is a lot of room in my heart and I am ready to love every person all the way. It takes nothing from me, it only gives me more. Love, like imagination and thought, is like a muscle. The more you use it, the more room you have for it, more room for thought, more room for love and vice-versa.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Those who fear love, their heart closes up. Those who are afraid to read and to dream, their brain shuts down. In our region, you can either love your neighbor or hate him. There is no road in between”

  That sounded scary and unreal. Suddenly I thought about the woman from the Savion café who had held hands with Theo and gave him rapt looks. Where did she fit in?

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  I went back to the office downtown and boiled some water for tea, trying to figure out how I felt. Exhausted, tense, relieved, and worried, all at the same time; mainly worried. Something was still about to happen. I wasn’t sure what. There were too many uncertain parts in today’s puzzle. Over the next few hours, one of our teams would remain at the airport for some background shots of the aftermath of the bombing, but the main story was over, at least for the time being, and there was no reason for me to stay there. The skies were clouding up preparing for a late October storm. I was concerned about Uzi, whom I had left behind at the airport, looking for his driver. My drivers don’t disappear when you need them. The radio in the office was playing melancholy songs; a customary routine after terrorist attacks. The television was tuned to our station. At two p.m., the young voice of a female newscaster on public radio announced that the foreign minister’s plane had left for Cairo with a two-hour delay. She moved on to describe the bombing at the airport and reported on the three bus-stop bombs. The minister of police issued a press release about the need to remain alert and the chief rabbi spoke of the sanctity of our spilled blood and the duty of exacting revenge from the Amalekites2.

  The newscaster moved on to economic news. I turned down the radio. On CNN they were talking mostly about the flaring conflicts among the new republics of the former Soviet Union. The origins of these regional conflicts lay in the early twentieth century but they had been frozen when Communism was born. They were now reigniting. The CNN broadcast was interrupted to show the Israeli Air Force Boeing and to say something about the foreign minister going to Cairo to advance the Peace Process.

  This was followed by a commercial break giving a list of Swiss hotels where CNN could be watched. I once spent a whole summer in Geneva. We went on a summer vacation and participated in a family seminar to improve our French. After two days, the parents left and I, together with ten American kids and another twenty from the Arab Emirates, stayed for another month on my own. Now we have a foreign minister who is going to Cairo for the sake of peace, we have terror attacks as well, and I have a job to do.

  It took me a lot of effort and convincing, but I managed to get a seat on the minister’s plane for Jean-Claude, a freelance producer who sometimes worked for me. They wouldn’t allow us to send a film crew or even a reporter. I knew that Jean-Claude could improvise and would hire a film crew in Cairo. Martin, on his part, might do something crazy like take his jeep to Cairo; something he had done twice before. It was dangerous and unsafe. On the other hand, we could also take Marie from our Cairo bureau, a reporter for the Philadelphia Enquirer who could do a stand-up like the best of them. Jean-Claude would know what to do.

  Something had happened. I turned up the volume on the radio. A bomb had gone off on the beach. There were hardly any swimmers. One swimmer had been slightly injured. Be careful, for God’s sake! Too many things were happening all at once. That hunch of a coming disaster started crawling in my throat again. The phone rang. I grabbed it with tense nerves. It was either the sound of the howling wind or a falling bomb or maybe just a bad connection. But I could also hear Jean-Claude’s whisper.

  “Don’t say a word; don’t say a word.”

  I didn’t say a word. My shock had to pause so I was cool and concentrated.

  “Don’t hang up,” he said in a thick French accent. ”Whatever happens.” I was calm but my heart felt like it was going to explode.

  “Are you in the foreign minister’s plane?” I whispered.

  “Ne parle pas.” Do not talk, he said in French. ”Just listen, and whatever happens, do not hang up.” In the background, I heard a loud, shrill scream, and for a moment I thought I heard shots. I said nothing, and Jean-Claude did not talk. Only the hair-raising whistle could be heard. I left the handset open, afraid that someone might inadvertently touch my line. I lifted the handset of another telephone. I dialed the situation room at the army’s general staff HQ. I’d been given the number once from wily Ehrlich, our tipper. Someone picked up after at least ten rings and said, “Operations branch. What is it?” It was an impatient manly voice.

  “I’d like to speak to Sarit.” I didn’t even notice that I had stood up.

  “Who wants to talk to her?”

  “Shira.”

  “Shira wants Sarit, how lovely. Which Sarit are you looking for?”

  “How many Sarits do you have?”

  “I’m the one asking the questions here.”

  “Sarit Caspi, of course.”

  “Sarit Caspi has been in Kathmandu for the past two months, you need to catch up.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I screamed. I shot a frightened look at the cell phone that continued to beep.

  “Listen, honey,” he sounded matter-of-fact and tough. “I would gladly tell you more about Sarit but we are kind of busy here. Very busy.”

  “OK, I am Shira from CNN and I have to talk to the head of operations.” The soldier on the other end of the line sounded human despite his toughness. “My name is Amir. I am the operations duty sergeant. The head of operations is too busy to talk to you. If you have anything to say, say it now, and then get off the line.”

  “Listen, it’s about the foreign minister’s plane.”

  He muttered, “What have you heard?” And his voice trembled.

  “What do you think I’ve heard?”

  “Never mind that, what did you want to say about the foreign minister’s plane?”

  “You have to tell me what’s going on. Something is happening, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not up to you to tell me what I have to tell you or don’t have to tell you. I just can’t answer your question”

  “I have a direct connection with the plane right now,” I shot back quickly. “Someone from my crew is on the plane with a cell phone, and I believe that something terrible is happening.”

  His voice quivered once again but gained a sense of urgency. He asked, “Shira what?”

  “What do you mean, Shira what?”

  “Give me your
f-f-f-f-ull name,” under the pressure, he began to stutter.

  “Shira Tailor, what difference does it make?”

  “Listen, Shira,” he sounded serious and tough. “Drop all the bullshit now and don’t hang up. You’ll have the head of operations on the line in a f-f-f-f-few seconds.”

  I waited for close to three minutes and almost lost my mind. A man with an authoritative, raspy baritone came on the line.

  “Hello, Shira, this is Brigadier General Harel. What’s your connection to the foreign minister’s plane?”

  “You guys sure aren’t in any hurry.” I couldn’t help myself. “I have a crew member, Jean-Claude Benishu. He called from the plane and left the line open, and told me not to hang up and not to say anything and just listen. For the time being, all I can hear on the line is a whistling sound. The plane has been hijacked, hasn’t it?”

  “What is his number? What kind of phone he is using?”

  “The new Nokia 6100.” I gave him the number. They’ll be on the line in few seconds.

  “A battery that can last for six hours?”

  “Eight hours. What is happening for God sake?”

  “As a journalist, or not a journalist, or just an Israeli citizen,” Harel started warning me, “you should know that we have a very difficult situation on our hands. There is a total blackout on all information and I request that you publish nothing. We need this connection of yours, and in fact, we’ve already tapped into it. This is a matter of life and death and national security. It is a critical event and I believe you understand that, don’t you?”

  “If there’s a story, then the moment it’s out—it’s mine!”

  Harel was a little bit put off by me but managed to say, “Yes, it’s yours. You’re Danny Taylor’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, he’s married to my mother.”

  “So, we have met. Do you know that he is on the plane?”

  The thing that was hammering inside my head that whole time suddenly burst out. Danny! Oh God!

  “What’s happening? Tell me what’s happening!” I shouted.

  “Relax,” he ordered and waited until I replied in my normal voice.

  “OK, tell me what’s happening.”

  “Terrorists have taken over the foreign minister’s plane. The first report came from the plane’s captain. He gave us the code word for a hijacking and then he stopped transmitting. An Arab, then, came into the cockpit and announced that the plane’s call sign was now Deir Yassin, that they had exploded one hand grenade near a window, that cabin pressure was down, and the plane had to dive. Both pilots have been killed.”

  I felt that I was choking. The phone almost fell from my hand. I looked at the open handset. I picked it up. I thought I heard shots again.

  “Harel, I think they are shooting again.”

  “I have to get off the line. Give me your office numbers, just in case.”

  I gave him the numbers and said, “Listen, if I can’t work right now, I want to at least come down to see you guys in the situation room and see what happens. I am allowed to, aren’t I? My father is on that plane.”

  “On the contrary, you do know that we do not allow family members or journalists in here?”

  “Do you really think you have time to be properly introduced to Jean-Claude and convince him to work with you? You have to let me into the situation room if you want to keep this connection alive.”

  “The line is yours. Perhaps you could help us,” he agreed reluctantly. “Enter the army HQ through the air force gate, get to the situation room bunker, and say that I invited you. Someone will be waiting for you. Bye now.” He hung up.

  I went back to my phone and suddenly I heard nothing. “Jean-Claude, Jean-Claude,” I whispered.

  He replied in French, “I don’t know. I don’t understand. This is scary as hell.”

  Then he switched to whispers, and I was really hoping that the guys in the situation room were hearing it, maybe even recording it. I was sure they wouldn’t wait for a court order to wiretap the phone if that was necessary. This was an emergency.

  Jean-Claude said, “Twenty minutes after take-off, they came up from the cargo bay. I think they blew up a hand grenade in the cockpit because we suddenly took a steep dive. There was some shooting… They say a security guard and our two pilots are dead and so is one of the terrorists. They are four now. One is in the cockpit the whole time… Apparently, they are pilots… The plane is pretty stable now. The flight engineer and a reserve steward took two corpses out of the cockpit into the first class compartment where the minister and the cabinet secretary are seated.” He suddenly went quiet. He had managed to pass on most of the important information.

  “Jean-Claude?” I whispered.

  He replied, “Ne parle pas, do not talk.”

  I didn’t want to put him in danger.

  “Haroush!” I shouted, keeping the mouthpiece away from me. “Come quickly!”

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  He skated in quickly and quietly. “Whassup?”

  “Haroush!” I begged for help.

  “What happened? I don’t get it. Did I hear something about a plane? A hijacking? Are we sending film crews?”

  “For sure,” I started recovering. “Send two to the airport. I am staying in Tel Aviv for the moment. I was invited to the bunker. We’ll see what happens there. God help us.”

  He approached me instinctively, to support me.

  “Danny is on the foreign minister’s plane with the Israeli delegation to the peace talks,” I said. “Where’s Ilan Ehrlich?”

  “He called twice already and helped us with Martin. He’s on the line again and wants to talk to you.”

  I examined the phone on my big desk and managed to press the right button.

  “Are you beginning to rust, or what?” I was angry and impatient with him. Police reporters are not made of the gentlest materials, and I wasn’t trying to be nice. “Give me everything you’ve got, pronto!”

  He was not offended. To the contrary, he sounded quite proud of himself.

  “If you could see me you wouldn’t talk this way.”

  “Are you ok? Are you sick or something?”

  “No, better than ever. I am extra-healthy and I look great. The army called me. I was recruited to the IDF3 spokesman’s bureau, press liaison directorate; a hundred feet away from you at Sokolov House, but I am going down to the bunker as liaison to the operations branch. I’m not sure I will be in a position to help you.”

  “Oh yes, you will. I’ll be there in five minutes.” I hung up before he could reply.

  I made my way down twenty floors to Kaplan Street and from there to the Army HQ as if I was floating inside a bubble. With a lump in my throat and wobbly knees, I saw the passers-by through an opaque windshield. They were walking in a daze; still shocked after the morning’s bombings. Traffic was flowing regularly. A young corporal who tried her best to be nice was waiting for me at the gate. I passed through one checkpoint and then another, and then I went through some metal detectors. My escort started walking with me down an endless flight of stairs. One staircase, then a second one and a third, then an elevator and more stairs, and then I started inhaling detergents and air sanitizers. I walked through corridors and saw cubby holes, offices with maps, pushpins, and computers. Suddenly we were in the bunker with lots of maps and telephones hanging down from the ceiling. A long-faced sergeant with a serious look and a carefully-ironed uniform, who turned out to be Amir from the telephone, was toiling alongside an authoritative sergeant with large breasts and heavy make-up. The two were following the evolving events on the screens. They exchanged remarks, in a language I didn’t fully understand, while rewriting addresses and numbers on a computerized drawing table. The changes appeared instantly on the screens. The whole thing was strange and very new to me. I had very little experience in military matters. With all my country-hopping between New York and Tel Aviv and thanks to some family issues, I was exempt
from military service, to Danny’s chagrin.

  Through the huge glass window, I could see another situation room. A small sign above the window read ‘inter-branch coordination’. A number of officers in different beret colors and unit insignia were crowded around a large table. They were obviously very experienced. They used sharp movements and spoke tersely, lifting and lowering telephone mouthpieces in a sort of quick and professional understanding that a stranger such as myself could never comprehend.

  Ehrlich, a loud-mouth, unshaven redhead, saw me from his place around the table and jumped to his feet, his stomach and buttocks almost bursting from within his major’s uniform of which he was so proud. His self-satisfied smile revealed a set of rotten teeth.

  “Here’s the feed from your phone,” he said with the air of an expert, pointing to one of a battery of loudspeakers painted military green and connected to the wall. His mousy eyes were scouting the room, looking for either events or girls.

  I could hear the same whistling sound I had heard on my phone coming through the loudspeaker and I heard heavy breathing. I was hoping it wasn’t Jean-Claude’s.

  “If you need to talk to him, press this button and it will be as if you are talking from your office,” Amir instructed me.

  “Don’t worry,” Ehrlich cut him off abruptly. “If there’s any need, I will explain it to her.”

  I pulled him aside. “How did you get in here, you nut?”

  Ehrlich took it as a compliment. “As a representative of the IDF spokesman, I have an office at the operations branch. From here, I am supposed to send confirmed reports and communiqués to our bureau at Sokolov House, and from there it goes to the wires and the papers.”