“Based on what we know so far,” he reported in a tone verging on hysteria, “terror attacks were launched this morning in India and are still going on as we speak. At least two sites frequented by Israelis appear to have been targeted. One is almost certainly Chabad House in Manali. There are also reports of a second attack in the region of the guesthouses in Rishikesh. It is not yet known whether there are any casualties. We go now to the Foreign Ministry for its response.”
The ministry’s press officer came on screen, looking tense in his suit and tie. “We have been receiving reports from the scene in Manali and Rishikesh,” he stated, “but they have not yet been corroborated by any official sources. We are in contact with the local authorities, including the army and the police.”
Shit. As usual, they haven’t the slightest idea what’s going on. They never learn. You’d think the attack in Mumbai never happened.
“Can you confirm that the targets are Chabad House in Manali and two or three guesthouses in Rishikesh?” the anchor asked.
“For the time being, I cannot confirm anything. We are in direct contact with the Indian Foreign Ministry and the Israeli embassy in New Delhi, and are awaiting their reports.”
“Do you know if any Israelis have been hurt in the attacks?”
The question set off alarms in thousands of Israeli homes. Even before the press officer replied, hundreds of mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and friends were on the phone, eager for a sign of life from their own personal backpacker, one of the ten thousand Israeli kids currently in India.
The press officer wiped away a bead of sweat that had formed on his brow. The viewers’ eyes were peeled to the screen, anxiously taking in his every gesture. “We do not yet have that information,” he admitted.
By now it was obvious that the press officer didn’t have a clue. The anchor went on the attack. “Is it possible, sir, that additional incidents are taking place that you know nothing about?”
The press officer answered—but it wasn’t the anchor he was answering. It was his phone, which had started ringing. “Elisha here,” he mumbled uncomfortably, adjusting the crocheted yarmulke on his head. He listened for a moment, his face going white, and then turned back to the camera. “That’s all. The ministry will apprise the public of any further developments as soon as the information becomes available.”
In a dramatic voice, the anchor read out the phone number of the hotline hastily set up by the Foreign Ministry, repeating it twice as it crawled across the bottom of the screen. Within five minutes, hundreds of calls had come in and the hotline crashed.
“If any of you receive information from any source—e-mail, telephone, text message, Facebook, Twitter—please share it with us. We have opened a special line. Here is the number to call.” A new caption appeared on the screen. The anchor listened to something in his earpiece and then announced, “We can now show you the first report to come in from the scene, a message received just a few minutes ago from Manali.” The text of the message filled the screen:
ISRAELI GIRL’S BLOG
Thursday, Passover eve. There’s a rumor going around Old Manali that terrorists are attacking Chabad House. It started with Yaron David, who’s staying at the Sharma Guesthouse with friends, including Anna and Osnat Belikov. He went downstairs and then came back and said someone shot at him. There are bodies on the road to the bazaar. The road is blocked off. More later as soon as I hear anything.
Here is the link to a picture uploaded by Zigzag at 7:10 this morning.
The text was replaced by the picture of a pale asphalt road with dark trees in the background and small houses closer by. A body lay facedown at the edge of the road. It looked to me as if someone had realized what was going on, tried to run, and was shot in the back.
Cut.
My phone rang again.
“You finally decided to pick up,” I heard Tammy say. “Good God, Dotan. It’s not easy to get hold of you. Did you hear what’s going on?”
“Yes.”
“Hey, Dotan, are you with me?” she said, trying to get more of a response out of me. “We want you in the studio later this morning to commentate on the events. Any chance you’ll do it?”
“Um,” I hesitated. “I don’t know. I just got back this morning.”
“From where?”
She was as sharp as a whip, that girl. Nothing got past her.
“Mumbai.”
“So, you slept through the flight. That is, unless you were fondling one of the baby air hostesses in the toilet.”
“Just fondling?” I said, playing along.
I knew the same image was going through both our heads. One of our so-called quickies that didn’t end until Tammy was summoned back to work at Channel 10. The irregular hours of a news producer have their advantages.
“Come on, it’s a piece of cake for you. I know you. You can go for days without sleep.”
She was right. But I was on to her game plan. Unlike other people in my profession, I didn’t mind public exposure, and she knew it.
“I’ll send a cab. We need someone who’s familiar with the area, someone who feels comfortable in our virtual studio. I don’t have to spell it out. You know what I need from you. And don’t let me see you on Channel 2.”
It was hard to refuse her. Like most men, I turned to jelly around her. I never asked her what she did when she wasn’t with me. It was none of my business. She only appeared on air when she had to replace an anchorwoman who called in sick at the last minute, but whenever it happened, an electric current ran straight from the TV to every male viewer. They sat glued to the screen, staring at her amazing face, brilliant blue eyes, natural blond hair, and seductive cleavage. There was no doubt in my mind that they envied the lucky bastard who was fucking her. I knew one of them. I never understood what she saw in an old wreck like me who had recently moved into an age bracket whose first digit was 4.
In addition to the sublime sex, we had a mutually beneficial relationship, a fair exchange of give and take. She fed me information and I gave her good stories and was a regular guest on the morning show. Every now and then, you might catch my face on the screen in the evening as well. She knew she could count on me for something interesting, real facts on the ground from places most people would like to visit but never get any closer to than the National Geographic channel.
“I have to see what my day looks like,” I said. “What do you know about what’s happening over there?”
“It’s chaos. Not surprisingly, the Indians were caught with their pants down again. They’re barely functioning.”
That didn’t sound good.
After the attacks in Mumbai in 2008, I was interviewed by a number of Mossad and Security Agency departments, despite objections to my presence. It wasn’t hard to guess what my detractors had to say: “He’s a nutcase”; “How can you bring in someone who was booted out?”; “He’s a bad joke these days. He thinks he’s some kind of lethal combination of Bruce Lee and Mahatma Gandhi.” But there were still some people around who knew better, who would have countered that no one knows the region or understands the Asian mentality better.
I offered them my opinion, that Mumbai was just the opening shot. But I’ve got to admit that even I wasn’t expecting the next volley to come so soon.
At the time, I talked it over with other people, too. In the course of my work I’ve made quite a few friends, and no small number of enemies, in all sorts of odd places around the world. Brigadier Tanwar came to mind. He was forced out of the Indian police because he tried to shake things up after the fiasco in Mumbai. The chief of police didn’t like him interfering. Weak people hate anyone stronger than them. Tanwar was politely shown the door. That’s the way a system loses good, reliable individuals and institutionalizes incompetence, indecision, and cowardice. Not that it was any different in Israel. I’m a case in point. I realized I ought to call Colonel Krishna, but Tammy broke my train of thought.