“Tell me what is wrong.”
“It’s not that something is wrong. It is just a remarkable coincidence. The director came to tell me something about my personal life that I didn’t know.” He hesitated, gathering his thoughts. “It’s just that… I don’t know. It’s crazy really.”
“Amit,” the tone was pleading. “Just tell me what it is.”
“My father was in Mossad as well.”
Enya was not sure how to respond or where Amit was going with this. “Is this why you are now in Mossad?”
“No. No. It’s something different.” She simply gave him a puzzled look. Amit continued. “My father is the man who arranged for your parents to get out of the Soviet Union. He brought them here.”
Enya stepped back one small step. “No. This is too freaky.”
“It is a crazy coincidence. I don’t know what to think about this.”
“What are the odds that we would meet and fall in love? Maybe this was meant to be.”
“There is more, though. Do you know about your grandfather?”
“My grandfather? He was a Soviet physicist. A dissident.”
“Do you know about his death?”
“All I know is that he was the victim of PLO terrorists.”
“They were definitely terrorists. But not the PLO. The PLO was a cover story.” Amit gathered his emotions, scared to death about where the next few sentences would lead. “He was murdered by a Soviet kill team.”
“Here in Israel?”
“Yes. I don’t know the whole story but apparently he knew about a coup plot in the Soviet Union. They came after him for that.”
“How does your father fit into that?”
“My father went into the Soviet Union based on the information he learned from your grandfather. He — my father — was killed inside the Soviet Union. But apparently he uncovered this coup and foiled it before he was killed.”
Enya exhaled loudly and covered her mouth with her left hand. “Oh my God, Amit. Your father died because of my grandfather?”
The statement caught Margolis off guard. It was the opposite of the way he had been thinking and it was not the message he was trying to convey. “No, honey. My father died for his country, for what he believed in. There is another aspect.” Amit looked down, unable to make eye contact. “He was responsible for protecting your grandfather while he was here.”
“So?”
“So? Don’t you see? He failed. That failure cost your grandfather’s life.”
“Amit, really? You just said my grandfather was killed by the KGB… or whoever.” She raised her hands up and cupped Amit’s jaw in her palms. She brought his face to hers. “I don’t know everything like you, but I am smart enough to know that if the KGB wants to kill someone, they will probably succeed.” She kissed him softly. “I never even knew him. The way it sounds to me is that your father died for him, and for you, and for me. That is what I call a hero. And you, Amit Margolis, you are my hero.”
25 — Into Baghdad
Ibrahim Hajjar sat in the over-wing exit row of the Emirates Airbus A330 as it corkscrewed down to its final glide path into Baghdad International Airport. The plane’s steep left hand turn leveled out only a mile off the end of runway 15 Right. Just seconds later the rear tires of the plane scorched the concrete runway. Only three minutes later the plane was at the gate, its passengers eager to deplane. Another hour long journey through customs awaited, but at least the venue would be the relative safety of the terminal building. Beyond that awaited the eight-mile taxi ride into the International Zone — the chosen Iraqi name for the area of downtown Baghdad defined by a sweeping bend in the Tigris river and known to the world as the Green Zone — where foreigners could find comparative normalcy and a decent hotel. At least, thought Hajjar, the route from the airport into the city, which had been dubbed “Route Irish” by the American military during the dark days following the fall of the country in 2003, was now fairly safe. The experienced taxi drivers kept a healthy distance from any American convoys — both to minimize the chance of being caught in an ambush and to keep any trigger happy GIs from unloading a machine gun in their direction.
Hajjar checked into the Al Rasheed Hotel a little after 6 p.m. on February 17, 2011, hungry and tired from the travel. The flight from Kuwait City had been short, but the added stress of flying into Baghdad made every traveler weary. The next day he would meet a man named Joseph Calantro in the lobby of the unmarked Iraq Civil Aviation Authority building on Nasir Street. Mr. Calantro, he was told, would be the “grease” he needed to accomplish his job over the next few days in Iraq. But right now, he just wanted some food and a good night’s sleep.
Ibrahim Hajjar awoke the next morning to a cold cloudy day. Odds were high that rain would fall on any given winter day in Baghdad and as Hajjar looked out the window of his room he was thankful that he had planned appropriately. After a surprisingly good breakfast of omelet and fresh melons, he retrieved a backpack from his room and a large aluminum-sided case on wheels. In the backpack, Hajjar had packed enough clothing and basic supplies to last him for several nights. In the aluminum case, he had the instruments of his profession: a Radiodetection RD-1000 ground penetrating radar, a GPS mapping device, an 18-volt cordless drill with a series of bits, and a set of batteries and charging adapters to ensure power for each instrument. He had a contract to perform engineering services, and he was prepared for the most hostile environment short of combat.
A taxi dropped him off at 8:47 a.m., Hajjar tipping the driver well to compensate for the short drive from the hotel. He quickly gathered his items and walked into the lobby. Inside, two Iraqi policeman checked his ID and confirmed that he was an invited guest. Before he was allowed into the reception area, he was frisked and his backpack and aluminum case were searched. He was made to explain what the lawnmower-shaped device was in his case. The ground penetrating radar was portable and not particularly powerful, but to the trained eye it could reveal the geological properties of the first 20 feet or so of earth underneath it when run along the ground.
Finally Hajjar was issued a pass and allowed into the reception room. Inside, a shorter man wearing a long sleeve button down cotton dress shirt and dark slacks immediately stood and walked toward the engineer. “Ibrahim Hajjar?” came the challenge.
“Yes. Mister Calantro?” The men exchanged smiles.
“Salam alaykum,” said Joseph Calantro to his guest. “Welcome to Baghdad.”
The men exchanged a firm handshake. “Wa alaykum salam.” Hajjar put his hand to his left breast.
“Please follow me.”
Over the next hour in the office of Deputy Director Walid Hafeez al-Salih, Calantro and Hajjar discussed the Kuwaiti’s contract with the Iraq Civil Aviation Authority. The common language spoken was English. Hafeez’s English was nearly fluent, a skill that had been useful in keeping him gainfully employed since the American invasion. Hajjar did not speak fluent English. He described his knowledge as “conversational”, but it was clear to all in the room that he was quite rusty. Deputy Director Hafeez would occasionally speed the process along by explaining technical matters in Arabic. But by the end of the meeting, all three men understood the project clearly: Hajjar would be assessing the status of a small number of abandoned Iraqi airfields. His job was to deliver a report with a detailed assessment of the condition of each of five airfields located in the western region of Iraq known as Anbar Province. Two main airfields, called H2 and H3, originally had been built by the British in the 1930s to protect and service pumping stations along a pipeline built to bring oil from Kirkuk in Iraq to Haifa, now Israel’s third city.