“Reuven-”
The Israeli’s hand went up like a traffic cop’s. He cocked his head toward the second floor of the house. “Look,” he said in Arabic, “Imad Mugniyah is long gone. Zip-zip through the Rafah tunnels to Egypt, and from there, who knows where-maybe Tehran, maybe back to Beirut. Ben Said no doubt used the same route, although now that I have a name and a picture, maybe I can pick up a scent.” He shot the American a look that preempted any objections “That’s that, Tom. So, tomorrow we go sightseeing. The whole day. Tuesday afternoon, your friend, she goes on a plane back to Washington, full of stories about her wonderful surprise trip to the Holy Land.”
The Israeli knocked an inch and a half of ash off his cigar. “Frankly, I think you should propose.”
Reuven saw the shocked expression on Tom’s face and cocked his head in the American’s direction. “What’s the problem? You love this woman, right?”
“For sure, Reuven.”
“So in Tel Aviv I know a place you can find an engagement ring for her. He’s a diamond merchant. I served with him overseas. He has only the best. And I can get you a great price.”
“Reuven-”
“Look, I’m thinking only professionally. Engaged. That would give her real-how do you Americans say it-cover for status for being here.” He laughed. “Cover for status. Perfect.”
“Marriage isn’t a game, Reuven.”
“I’m not playing games. You love this woman, right?”
“Yes, I do.”
“So do the right thing. Don’t make trouble for her-marry her, Tom.” The Israeli’s face clouded over. “If I had it to do all over again, I’d marry Leah five years earlier than I did. That would have given us five more years, Tom. We had thirty-six years together. I can tell you now it wasn’t enough.”
“I’m sorry, Reuven.”
“Believe me, Tom, I am sorrier than you. So give your MJ a good time, buy her a ring, then put her on the plane home. No business, Tom. Not a hint of it. After she’s safely away, ecstatic with a diamond she can show all her colleagues-that’s when we do business. Then-I’ll arrange for you to debrief the scum who came here so they could kill women and children. Then we can start the hunt.”
12
26 OCTOBER 2003
10:02A.M.
SEVEN KILOMETERS NORTHWEST OF QADIMA
IT WAS THE SMELL,more than anything, that had made Tom uneasy; an ineffable but palpable mélange of disinfectant, urine, sweat, must, and fear. The result of this assault on his senses-and this took place even though Tom knew intellectually he was just a visitor here-was a huge and totally unexpected psychological tsunami. It sucked Tom into an emotional undertow that combined apprehension, anxiety, and, as much as he tried to fight against it, complete and utter heart-palpitating dread. He couldn’t help himself. Dread was…just in the air.
They’d left at nine. Reuven had taken the coast road. Just north of Udim, opposite a Toys “R” Us superstore that would have done justice to the Paramus Mall, he’d swerved off the highway, drove down the exit ramp, and continued north on a dusty track that ran parallel to the highway. Two kilometers on, he’d made a sharp turn onto a potholed, single-lane road bordered on both sides by denuded cotton fields. There would be only one interview today. Reuven told Tom that Heinrich Azouz, the Jerusalem bomber, had died of his wounds. But he’d pulled enough strings to get Tom granted permission to interrogate Dianne Lamb. It was a one-shot deal.
They’d driven due east, followed the browntop as it turned north then east again, crossed the tracks of the main Tel Aviv-Haifa rail line, and continued another three kilometers past brick factories, concrete plants, and quarries until they intersected a four-lane blacktop road so new that the center line hadn’t been painted yet. Tom caught glimpses, but he was focused on the work at hand.
Reuven turned north. Tom looked up. The highway was bordered by cypress groves. About three-quarters of a kilometer north of the intersection, Reuven turned onto an unmarked gravel road bulldozed into the wall of trees. He headed west, toward the sea. For the first half kilometer, the road ascended. Then it crested and dipped. As they descended, the tree line opened slightly and Tom saw an old British fort in the distance. It was a squat, square three-story affair built of thick Jerusalem stone, with crenellated watchtowers that looked like old-fashioned chess pieces at each corner.
Reuven pulled up at a rudimentary roadblock manned by half a dozen troops armed with M-16s. Tom glanced into the woods and was surprised to see four olive-drab Jeeps with pintle-mounted.50-caliber machine guns and three camouflaged APCs close at hand. He waited while Reuven palavered with the guards, then watched as a soldier pulled a twenty-foot length of tire spikes out of the way so they could proceed.
The heavy weapons had gotten Tom’s attention, and he scanned carefully as they drove the last half klik to the old fort. In the sixty seconds it took them to do so, he identified five layers of defensive countermeasures: raked cordons sanitaires, surveillance cameras, infrared sensors, K-9 teams, and razor wire. He wondered what he’d missed.
As they pulled onto the small parking lot Reuven turned to him, his face serious. “Listen carefully. This place does not exist. So far as I know, you’re the first foreigner ever allowed inside. Point of fact, Tom, I was surprised when they said yes. So treat what you see and hear here accordingly, okay?”
Tom’s expression showed that he understood the gravity of what he was being told. “Got it, Reuven. And thank you.”
10:12A.M. In a sterile, windowless interrogation room holding a metal desk and two metal chairs bolted to the concrete floor, he stripped down to his underwear and was given a set of utilitarian olive-drab coveralls and a pair of scuffed black leather boots that looked about half a size too small. He’d even had to hand over his watch, which along with his other personal belongings were sealed into a heavy brown envelope then taken away to be stored in a safe in the commandant’s office. The only thing he carried was the handkerchief he’d transferred from his trouser pocket.
When he’d asked why he couldn’t keep the watch, he was told the prisoners were allowed no sense of time. It was an integral part of the interrogation process. The cells were lit by artificial light, which could be regulated to disorient and throw their biometric schedules and thinking processes into chaos. Some “days” were eight hours in length; others might last thirty-six.
“We do not use physical abuse,” the officer in charge of his visit explained. He was a diminutive man who looked to be in his mid- to late sixties and who spoke to Tom in Kurdish-accented Arabic. The left arm of his olive-drab coveralls was folded neatly and attached by the cuff just below the epaulet. From what Tom could make out, the man’s whole left arm had been taken off at the shoulder.
The Israeli introduced himself as Salah and volunteered no further information as to his rank or position. When Tom asked how the prisoners were treated, Salah cocked his head defensively. “There are no stress positions, hooding, or coercion used here.”
“Why not? That’s how our detainees in Afghanistan and Iraq are being treated.”
“Of course.” Salah rubbed his pencil-thin mustache with the edge of his right hand. “They are effective techniques in the acquiring of actionable intelligence. Quick results for immediate needs. A slap in the face, a threat, the pit-of-stomach claustrophobia from being hooded sometimes works to jar loose information about an imminent operation. That’s fear, my friend. You can extract information by using fear-I believe you Americans teach a technique at Fort Huachuca called ‘fear up/fear down.’ But fear is short-lived. I prefer dread. Day-in, day-out, marrow-of-the-bone angst is what I want to produce. Our prisoners know we have a reputation for ruthlessness. It doesn’t matter whether that reputation is true or not. What matters is the psychological effect it has on them. Let me tell you something, my friend: dread works. Dread works very well.”