The Tel Aviv Contractor.

[MANICHAEAN]

THE TEL AVIV CONTRACTOR.

Chapter 1.

If you saw Aaron Bernstein in the street of Dresner Yehi’el you would not extend a second glance, or venture to note anything out of the ordinary. He was diminutive in stature, wiry, a conservative dresser and had the slow unhurried walk of a senior citizen in this northern, sought-after residential suburb of Tel Aviv. He was to all appearances just another comfortably well-off retiree, with his main years behind him.

I should explain that for any potential buyer of property in the area mentioned, that most of them evoke postcode envy. It encompasses anything north of Ben-Gurion Boulevard and west of Ibn Gabirol St, and anything north of "Sha'ul Ha'melech" Boulevard and east of it, including the neighborhoods adjacent the Hayarkon river. It was thus, a settled peaceful location, unlikely to make any headlines in the local evening news.

Aaron had risen early, and as was his routine, walked for half an hour, ostensibly to work up an appetite. That goal having been accomplished, he proceeded to make his favourite meal of the day “Shakshouka,” or eggs poached in a herbed tomato sauce; except that today he decided to spice it up a bit more in memory of tastes he had acquired from his Israeli army days.

The phone rang at his desk by the window.

“Aaron is that you? Long time my friend. You still alive?” The voice was deep, soft and yet conveyed energy. He recognized it immediately.

Aaron looked out the apartment window down onto the quiet street below. Cars were still few, as most had already left, taking their well-heeled inhabitants to work.

“Yes Simon, it has indeed been a long time. I'm fine thanks, retired now. What can I do for you?”

“One more job Aaron. I want you to do just one more, a last hurrah if you like.”

“I told you I’m retired.”

“Retired, expired, what's the difference?” came the response. “It's good money Aaron.”

“I’m already comfortable. Don’t need it anymore. Where is it anyway?”

“Lebanon. Beirut to be precise. In and out. Two to three days max.”

“But why me? Mossad has plenty of operatives.”

“It's political” Simon replied even softer,

Aaron paused. “You mean it's too hot, even for them? Not even semiofficial?”

“Something like that.” The tone was conciliatory in a pendent kind of way. “Will you think about it then? Think it over and I’ll ring you again in a couple of days.”

Aaron put down the phone.

So much for a peaceful retirement he thought. He was well aware that his career had spanned all the main military / intelligence services in Israel. First the IDF back in 1965, then recruited by Shin Bet, and subsequently loaned out to Mossad.

Once considered a commitment to lifelong anonymity and even invisibility in Israeli society, he knew that in today's world a Shabak agent in Shin Bet, (the country's internal intelligence agency), who achieves high rank in the service, especially director status, is considered a candidate for membership in the top brass of the Israeli government and business community. This process had followed a trend started by ex-generals and colonels of the Israel Defense Forces; the trailblazers if you like, including Moshe Dayan, Ariel Sharon, and Yitzhak Rabin.

Career motivated at the top echelons, he understood therefore in this instance the need to utilize a middle man like Simon for any work that could go pear shape, thus distancing themselves from any repercussions.

Mossad was a different set up, where the Metsada entity ran small units of combatants whose external counter terrorism missions included assassinations and sabotage. Within it he was aware, of the “Kidon," a unit which belonged to the Caesarea department, (one of Mossad's eight departments). Aaron knew it for what it was; an elite group of expert assassins.

Hence the puzzle. Shin Bet was too public these days, but why was it that not even the mysterious Mossad was hands off for this job? After all, although not much was known about this mysterious unit, details of which are some of the most closely guarded secrets in the Israeli intelligence community, this unit had been a policy that Israel has used more than any other country in the West since World War II, having carried out at least 2,700 assassination missions.



Perhaps he thought, it was the target location? Mossad had a long record of undercover work in the Lebanon: the sending of letter bombs to PFLP member Bassam Abu Sharif in 1972, the killing of the Palestinian writer and leading PFLP member Ghassan Kanafani by a car bomb in 1972, the car bomb killing of Ali Hassan Salameh, the leader of Black September, in1979 in Beirut. The list went on and on and initially operations were successful.

For Mossad had established a large spy network in the country, recruiting from Druze, Christian, and Sunni Muslim communities, and even officials in the Lebanese government, to spy on Hezbollah and its Iranian Revolutionary Guard advisors. Some had allegedly been active since the 1982 Lebanon War.

But then in 2009, Lebanese Security Services supported by Hezbollah's intelligence units, and working in collaboration with Syria, Iran, and possibly Russia, launched a major crackdown which resulted in the arrests of around 100 alleged spies working for Israel.

Was this perhaps the new safer rationale to sub contract out work to more expendable, yet esoteric personnel?

All he knew now, was that he was being asked once more to walk in that formless immeasurability that he thought he had given up; half weary of a world that was likely more than half-weary of him.

[Danik 2016]

Interesting introduction of character and location. I´m curious about the sequel.

[Steven Hunley]

The details! The setting! The authentic vocab. The suspense in this reader mirrors the suspense of Bernstein! Let us have it!

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 2:

Aaron arrived first at an arranged meet with Simon, a week after the telephone call.

The location was a small, relatively quiet café in the northern suburbs of Tel Aviv, and Aaron sat at one of the outside tables to the rear, situated up against the café external wall. His hands lay curled across his lap.

Simon arrived shortly after, and nodding in recognition sat down opposite.

For anyone who knew of their history and relationship, it was a story of opposites. Simon, the secular Jew was a man of instincts and insights. It had served him well in a life where it was complimentary to say, that he had earned the shadow of a name within the work he undertook. With Aaron it was not what you saw, but what you did not see. One of the roughest of lion’s whelps that was ever littered of that rough breed; yet to outside observers, or even those that thought they knew him, he seemed to just hang there in a somewhat benign metamorphosis as circumstances dictated.

Simon was there to brief him.

‘As I told you over the phone Aaron, the job is in Beirut. A lot of the agencies we work with internationally, and including ourselves, are experiencing a spate of unfortunate accidents lately. We believe that Hamas, who you know controls much of the Lebanon by proxy, has hired an outsider to undertake its dirty work. They have realized that their own intensity and activity that sometimes verges towards madness, (yet does not reach it), is open to exposure. The work they have undertaken so far has been; surgical, efficient, besprent with blood & yet carries the bonus of deniability of their own involvement."

Aaron listened quietly.

“So, you want me to undertake a contract?”

“What do you know of the target?”

“Any qualms about killing a woman?” Simon interjected abruptly.

“Not if it's justified.” was the soft reply.

Simon looked, and focused on what he had long thought. There was no symbolic Ark, like the old Hebrews, that this man opposite bore. Yet with him too was a Covenant, as moral and practical as any in the annals of the Jewish faith.

“We know very little of the lady concerned, not even her nationality or description. All we know is that in between assignments, she is holed up in a suite of rooms in the InterContinental Phoenicia overlooking Zaitunay Bay. Oh, and she has a yacht named “Samaya” moored near the Babel Restaurant overlooking the harbour. Very likely she meets her minder / contact from Hamas there.”

“Why me specifically Simon?”

The waiter came and went with two more coffees.

“Well your cover would be good. Don’t think I’m being disrespectful, when I say that your age is a good cover, your pedigree and past work is known, and finally being a Sephardic Jew, you could pass for an Arab and arouse less suspicion.”

“Are you in my friend?” ask Simon.

Aaron looked and nodded.

“Start working on the logistics” he said.

[Danik 2016]

Such a story requires a lot of information about the country and the local political circumstances specially those that are not so obvious. You seem to be very well informed, M., this beginning is convincing and fluid, congrats.

[MANICHAEAN]

Steve and Danik thank you both. Two stalwarts always prepared to read and comment.

Luckily it helps having worked and lived all over the Middle East as background for the tale.

[Danik 2016]

I suppose the misterious woman got the better of Aaron somewhere between Lebanon and Palestina

[MANICHAEAN]

Sorry Danik. I keep meaning to get back to this tale, but not very successful yet. Cherchez la femme!!!!!

[Danik 2016]

I see! Have a good time!:D.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 3.

Of course, the 4th August bomb blast in Beirut changed so much. Aaron was just crossing the northern border by car from Israel into Lebanon when the news came through.

The crossing itself was unusual, for the Rosh HaNikra Crossing, also known as Ras Al Naqoura Crossing is an international border crossing between Naqoura, Lebanon and Rosh HaNikra, Israel. The terminal is operated solely by the United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon and the Israel Défense Forces. The passage of regular tourists/visitors is forbidden. Aaron via his unofficial security status was the exception. His papers, inclusive forged passport showed him as a Lebanese doctor based in the US.

Whether to continue or not was the question? His planned accommodation destination at the Inter Continental Phonecia in Beirut was located near the main blast area close to the port. He guessed that there was likely to have been significant damage, and doubted even if it was still open. There was also the question of where was the female assassin who was initially located there? Was she still alive and active? How could he trace her?

On the constructive side; if one could even coldly grasp this negative virtue of circumstantial change, his job would be easier. Confusion would be reigning at all levels of Lebanese society. They had more pressing things on their minds that the activities of one elderly spy.

So he decided to press ahead. He crossed the border early in the morning to escape unwelcome attention, and as the sun came up from the east, the heat and humidity became oppressive.

Taking the A51 coastal road it took five hours to reach his initial stop at Tyre. This route initially meandered, with the Mediterranean on the left and steep escarpments on the right. He made good progress through Iskandarounah and Mansouri, then cut inland on the road to Tyre. If anything, it was a welcome return to a pre-pandemic normality and lifted the spirits.

Hotels were few in Tyre, but he chose the Al Fanor Resort to the north west Christian part of the city: small, perched on the waters edge. The furniture was dated, waves crashed on the small pebbled beach; but it was unobtrusive and suited his cover.

[Danik 2016]

Found! Let´s follow him stealthily and see what next!

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 4.

After a light lunch in the sparsely occupied hotel restaurant, he retired to the small pebbled beach at the side of the hotel. The sun was beginning to fade like a reluctant guest on the edge of the Mediterranean, and light waves lapped near his feet.

It is at moments like this, when not pre-planned, that reflection surreptitiously creeps with serpentine stealth into one's being. He had been a loner for so long; not that he did not enjoy the company of women. He was comfortable with them, and likewise sensed a reciprocal emotion. But nothing lasted.

The life he had led had been no basis for deep attachments, both in its nature and in the transitional need for constant movement.

But it was now too late he felt to feel saddened by the lack of family. No need to dwell on it. The choice had been made voluntarily earlier on and he was obliged to live with the downside.

He was suddenly aware he was not alone. Looking up he saw her. The liquid black eyes and long dark hair so typical of that ****-tale assortment of the genes of the Lebanese race. She spoke softly asking if she could join him.

White teeth set in vibrant lips with the involuntary quiver of tongue, barely perceptible against a soft brown skin.

[Danik 2016]

That´s a quite poetic beginning!

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 5.

That night in an insignificant small hotel, perched beside the Mediterranean, in a rarely visited part of Lebanon, there occurred that most precious of human encounters; a transaction that was equally; physical and emotional, transcending two worlds of mortal existence.

This was not the quarry sented from afar; the snipers bullet atop a distant parapet, followed by a hasty retreat. It was a drawn out, thrusting rhythmic kill, to the haven of her immortality, executed close up from multiple angles. An urgency bordering almost on desperation that seemed never to be sated.

No verbal communication; unless one counts the whimpering cries, akin a small struggling bird caught in a net. In its place, the violent jerking of her long black hair and the sharp slap of his hand across both of the crests of her ***, that were raised before him. A celestial half light intruded through the open window. Heavens blessing upon mortal indulgence.

[Danik 2016]

That´s beautifully and maybe a little bit satirically described. Let´s hope they won´t blow each other up at their next meeting.

[MANICHAEAN]

Haha. Now there is an idea!!!!!

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 6.

It was at three in the morning when it occurred. He knew the exact time; for swinging* his legs over, and sitting at the side of the bed, he tapped his mobile gently and it came up on the screen. If anything, it brought him back from the vividness of what he had just experienced. There are for most people, dreams that seem to fluctuate and float in a hazy manner, of which you remember salient parts. In fact, you struggle to remember the contents of this type before they sink into a void, never to be revived.

But this had been something different. The layout of the room he knew, and yet there in all its material composition, stood a young man in a white shirt taking the pulse on his left wrist. He even remembered offering the arm, whilst struggling to articulate. But no words came. Just dull attempts at mouthing. The figure, so real, was not in anyway threatening and proceeded to switch to feeling the pulse at the side of his forehead.

He woke, and as noted, sat at the side of the bed besprent in sweat. The woman had gone. No trace or sound.

He struggled to both comprehend and interpret. This was no ordinary dream. Too realistic. The rather bizarre thought crossed his mind, that if this was a visitation by one's guardian angel, did they now wear white shirts akin an airline steward?

But doubt is but half a magician. She evokes the spectre which she cannot quell. He was a mortal momentarily without Heaven above him, or Hell beneath him.

He checked the unlocked door through which she had gone, and relocked it. For some obscure reason he linked her as like the mystery of Mary Magdalena; had she been the penitent whore, or someone who understood him? For he realised that she had been adept at awakening in him that night, a waste energy as of Hurcules furibund.

[Danik 2016]

This is getting better and better. Only your protagonist should check if someone hasn´t shipped him or if the most recent lady of his heart hasn´t put something in his drink, to make him sleep.

[MANICHAEAN]

We manoeuvre effortlessly my friend between "Cherchez la femme," to a "Micky Finn." Its getting more Raymond Chandler by the minute!!! ��

[Steven Hunley]

Oh Jeez, as usual, as usual with everyone here, you have out-penned us. This is why I always put off reading your stuff. I always know it will be good, so like dessert, I save it for later.

[MANICHAEAN]

Thanks buddy. Bon Appetit.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 7.

The next day Aaron drove in light traffic the 51 miles from Tyre to Beruit along the main coastal highway through Sayda. It took just over an hour. The woman was still on his mind. Something more than an unplanned one night stand with a stranger was prodding him. Unknown factors always whet suspicions, especially in his profession.

The first stop in Beruit was the Inter Continental Phonecia Hotel located at the junction of Fakhreddine Street and Ibn Sina Street, where his target was reportedly holed up. Imposing and overly plush, as one would expect from a 5 star hotel in what was once the playground of the Arab world, he was politely informed by the somewhat smooth concierge that the hotel, although still open despite recent events, was regrettably booked solid until the 18th January 2021.

Aaron was surprised. Beruit had been a wasteland since the 4th August bomb blast at the port. The starkness of the ruined grain silos, bleak like violated cathedral pillars: a statement of abomination to the structures that existed before. Add on the virus pandemic, economic collapse and political chaos and one could understand the closed banks and the vandalised ATM machines he passed; the reports of starvation in Tripoli and the hard, resigned, barely suppressed anger on the face of the inhabitants. Nothing but what Nature gives her wild children originally of the desert: ferocity and appetite; strength grounded on hunger.

He settled as an alternative accommodation the Radisson nearby and booked in a suite on the seventh floor.

Not much for the moment could be gleaned from the Inter Continental. Tomorrow he would undertake a reconnaissance of the Babel Restaurant in Zaitunay Bay where the target was supposed to meet her minder. The yacht "Samaya", reportedly anchored there would also be of interest.

[Danik 2016]

WoW! Aaron is back in high form. One good part of his job, is that it includes the visit and frequency of five stars places. I didn´t know Arab hotels held that preference for plush.

[MANICHAEAN]

Yes buddy. There are some really luxurious ones all over the Middle East, especially in Qatar and Saudi that I know. Lebanon is a mess now, but at one time it was where all the Arabs went for: the beaches, skiing, fantastic cuisine and rock n roll.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 8.

He got to the Babel Restaurant at around 12.30pm for an initial reconnaissance. Situated on the Marina he detected signs that both the establishment and its surroundings had known better days. The harbour was pristine and calm, yet he guessed the yachts moored there were less in number. The outward facing promenade; part concrete, part wooden decking had the inviting attraction of comprising both a yacht club and numerous substantial restaurants at the upper end of quality and most likely, price.

He left the car with the attendant for the convenience of private parking and walked across the outer canopied terrace to the entrance. A tall, smart middle aged man, hair combed forward greeted him in the traditional Arabic manner, welcoming him to the restaurant.

"As-salaam alaykum. Marhabaan bikum fi mateam Babel.

And almost as if he sensed the new guest was a travelled individual, he quickly switched to English

"My name is Adnan Mahdi and I'm the Manager."

Aaron responded likewise, "Wa alaykum as-salaam. Can I have a table for one please."

Adnan moved like a man with very sound muscles, who despite required civility on his part, did not look like the type to mess with.

Adnan opened the main entrance door and one could see from the imposingly sandstone column / shaft wall structures, that the interior of the building had been designed to theme the biblical tower of the restaurants name.

Too much like an overbearing mountain cliff edge atmosphere for Aaron, who chose to eat instead outside overlooking the harbour.

The Babel was sparsely occupied with diners. Perhaps most of the Lebanese cliental ate their main meal in the evening, or business was tight due to the current state of the country? In any case it was quiet, and numerous waiter staff hovered aimlessly at the doors or discreet vantage points.

It was a prudent move on his part coming here at this time; low key, and important to understand the layout, or even exit routes if required quickly in the event of a potential hit location.

He blended in well and looked the part as one of the more successful of the Good Lord's creatures: dark blue suit, white cotton shirt, smart loafers and the subtle understatement of a Tag Heuer watch, suitably apparent on the left wrist.

He ordered the meze, fish, a side salad and a glass of white wine, whilst noting from his coign of advantage the various yachts. Most of the smaller ones were moored side by side nearest to the restaurant. A few individuals could occasionally be seen on deck, doing whatever one does on such craft. But over to the outer breakwater side near the harbour entrance, there were a few larger, (one might even say), substantial craft; ostensibly more like floating palaces than a means of marine transport. They caught his attention.

The manager approached through the terrace to his table, moving with that easy grace that some large men are endowed with. He enquired politely if everything was to Aaron's satisfaction?

Aaron nodded in agreement, throwing in the requisite complimentary aside; then, looking out across the marina, asked if there were any yachts one could hire for a sightseeing trip along the coast?

There was returned that professional smile; white teeth set in an olive tanned face.

"I'm sure sir that in these difficult times, that might be quite feasible." The eyes, intelligent yet with an unknown depth, held his gaze.

"I'm obliged," responded Aaron. "Perhaps I will just take a stroll and see who I can talk to."

He made no enquiry of the "Samaya." It paid at this juncture to impart as few specifics as possible.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 9.

Aaron left the Babal and leaving his car in the restaurant garage turned left and started to walk along the marina.

It was by now mid afternoon and hot. Few other walkers were apparent. Strolling casually he passed the yachts lined up adjacent each other and nearest to the restaurant side.

He proceeded around the inner western side to the breakwater to where the larger vessels were moored. It was there that he saw the "Samaya" for the first time. She was a beauty; whether one was into boats or not. Sleek, white satin exterior finish and oozing wealth.

A young fit looking man was on deck and Aaron nodded to him whilst standing on the quay as if in admiration. Aaron was unaware he was being observed, until a voice from somewhere inside asked something of the man on deck.

Aaron was then asked if he wanted to come on board to meet the owner and see more of the yacht. Smiling pleasantly he gave thanks for the hospitable gesture and proceeded up the metal ramp.

It was as impressive inside as he anticipated: brown stained teak deck and walnut finish panelling with luxurious beige leather seating. The deckhand motioned him in from the rear deck into the cabin.

There sat a man, quite old in an upright chair obviously dying. He watched with eyes from which all fire had died long ago. The face was akin a parchment mask with bloodless lips. Hands like claws across his lap were mottled with prominent knotted veins. A few strands of white hair took precarious refuge on his scalp.

" Come in, come in," he said. " marhaba, welcome."

"I see so few visitors these days. I am Zaynab Nakhjevani. Please take a seat," flourishing weakly with his left hand to the chair opposite.

The voice alternated between a breathless wheeze and a rasp deep in his chest.

Aaron introduced himself as Dr Rami Kabanni, travelling through Lebanon on his way back to the USA.

The owner appeared interested.

"But you are Lebanese by birth?"

" Yes, but I left Lebanon during the civil war and now call the States my home," he responded.

"All too common these days. But the Lebanese are as you know the original Phonecians; traders throughout the world, but in their hearts Lebanon is still their spiritual home. A bit like the Jews with Jerusalem."

There was something about the eyes in that last sentence.

" Myself, I am Iranian as you may have noted from my name. I have been successful in life, but now my health is precarious. My sleep for example, is so close to waking that it is hardly worth the name these days", he said.

All the time he watched Aaron's face, licking his lips, drawing one slowly across the other with a funereal absorption, like an undertaker washing his hands.

To Aaron's mind here was an old man two-thirds dead physically, but mentally still there, and still determined to believe he could take it.

"Excuse my manners, would you care for a drink? I normally have a whisky about this time. My hold on life is slight, but I must have some small indulgences."

The deckhand must have been standing quietly behind Aaron, for as if by instinct, there appeared a bottle of Balvenie 21 year old malt, two crystal glasses and a silver bucket of ice.

The drinks poured Zaynab held his tentatively up and sniffed it, as if drawing strength from its contents. He sipped, leaned back and closed his eyes momentarily as the liquor ignited that which was not there before.

The pulse in his lean throat throbbed visibly and yet so slowly that it was hardly a pulse at all.

"Let me introduce you to my daughter."

Unaware of the new presence Aaron rose and turned.

It was the woman from Tyre who stood before him.

[Danik 2016]

Loved the descriptions and am quite keen on the Babel Restaurant.

But for an experienced international spy, Mr. Aaron is somewhat careless. Boarding a unknown ship without checking first.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 10.

She gave him a broad smile and a "hello." Secret thoughts and open countenance.

This lady was; cool, composed, contained. Unrestrained alliteration, yes, but it summed it up.

More elegantly dressed than when he had first met her: mustard top well cut, knee length pleated black skirt and a few jewellery accessories that spoke of educated wealth.

She kissed her father lightly on the forehead and then sitting to one side, viewed Aaron, with something akin amusement. Like Caesar's wife, all things to all men.

Perhaps it was mutual surprise; both having shown some of their top cards. Its not as if "sleeping with the enemy" is a parlour game to be taken lightly.

Aaron knew that he was as deep in as he would ever be; both with his ex-bed partner and likely the father as well.

The ensuing conversation was polite, not overly intrusive and if anything, seemed to hang in a kind of benign metamorphosis, with mysteries flowing like sap in narrow channels.

Outside in the harbour, a succession of singular prismatic tints, flush after flush diffusing the Mediterranean horizon, signalled the end of the day, whilst on the Elysian Fields there was a pause.

[Danik 2016]

Enjoyed Chapter 10!

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 11.

They finished talking about 10.30pm and Aaron made his goodbyes. Strolling back along the marina he retrieved his car from the restaurant car park and proceeded to drive back to his hotel.

Passing the stark bombed out silo structures in the port, he shuddered. What was once the playground of the Arab rich lay like a wasted decaying cadaver; silent as a vault, and bereft of either hope or emotional sustenance.

Arriving at the hotel he handed over the car keys and proceeded to the hotel bar. A strong drink was the order of the day to help sort out priorities and options.

The place held just one couple sitting at window seats and himself.

Ordering a “Negroni” he slipped onto one of the bar stools and glazed vacantly at the display of backlit bottles.

He thought back on the night’s events. In the past he had attained an internal satisfaction in the belief with regard to his opponents, the saying, “Just when they think they are screwing you; you are screwing them.”

Tonight, was the exception, the only saving grace being that it had comprised a mutual state of equipoise regards the screwing being undertaken.

If she had caught him off-guard in Tyre, he had countered in Beirut. But all the more reason to be wary, for he guessed she was durable; the kind of lady who could function under strain.

The father was obviously; rich, intelligent and sinister in a way that his hold on life seemed too slight to include any Victorian hypocrisy. Even so, he played whatever cards he had memorized in a brain that still functioned acutely, and positioned face down on the table.

Aaron ordered another drink.

It sat before him, swirling bright and deep red; the bar lights reflecting off the ice; and he cradled it between his fingers, akin a priest’s chalice.

“This is my blood that I give up to you for the redemption of sin.”

[Danik 2016]

The force of a good story often is in the details, I think. I recon this is the best and most complete story I have read from you so far, Manichaean.

[MANICHAEAN]

Thank you for the kind words buddy. Glad you are enjoying it.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 12.

It was all a bit of a blur after that. Aaron remembered getting back to his room, but whatever it was they had slipped into his drink on the yacht was now kicking in. He started feeling; first light headed, then unsteady on his feet. He made it to the divan steadying himself on the armrest. Floaters came across his vision and before he passed out, he saw figures at the door so recently closed behind him.

He had in fact passed out in the Radisson and regained a semblance of consciousness in the hotel that had previously turned him away as being fully booked; the Inter-Continental Phonecia.

Still 5 stars; but this time, tied naked to a bed, with room service comprising his own reincarnation of the Greek goddess Rhamnousia, there to enact retribution for succumbing so unwittingly to personal hubris.

Her voice was soft as she leaned over him.

“You know of course, I could have killed you there in Tyre?”

No mockery in the tone, just realistic.

“And you a nice Jewish boy,” she murmured lifting his circumcised penis with one finger.

If one defines being hubristic as a combination of; pride, arrogance, and overconfidence, then Arron knew starkly he was guilty of the last quality. Age had on that first day since crossing the border, laid over him a loss of contact with reality and an overestimation of his own competence and past exploits.

“Let me take you back” she said “to 1982 when the Israel Defence Forces, or IDF, of which you were part, invaded southern Lebanon.”

“If you recall this military operation was launched after gunmen from the Abu Nidal's organization attempted to assassinate Shlomo Argov, Israel's ambassador to the United Kingdom. Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin blamed Abu Nidal's enemy, the PLO, for the incident, and used the incident as a cause for the invasion.”

“I can see you are with me so far.”

Aaron remained silent.

“After attacking the PLO the Israeli military, in cooperation with their Maronite allies, occupied southern Lebanon, eventually surrounding the PLO and elements of the Syrian Army.”

“By expelling the PLO led by Yasser Arafat, removing Syrian influence over Lebanon, and installing a pro-Israeli Christian government led by President Bachir Gemayel, Israel had hoped to sign a treaty which Menachem Begin promised would give Israel peace.”

“However, following the assassination of Gemayel, Israel's position in Beirut became untenable and the signing of a peace treaty became increasingly unlikely.”

“We then come to the connection that brings us together today: namely the IDF's role in the Sabra and Shatila massacre of Palestinians and Lebanese Shias on the 16th September in West Beirut.”

“Between 460 and 3,500 civilians, mostly Palestinians and Lebanese Shiites, were massacred over two days by a militia close to the Phalange, a predominantly Christian Lebanese right-wing party, in the Sabra neighbourhood and the adjacent Shatila refugee camp in Beirut.”

“Carried out by the militia in plain sight of the Israeli Defence Forces, the Phalanges were ordered to clear out PLO fighters. No attempt was made to prevent or stop the massacre.”

“A subsequent international commission deemed Israel indirectly responsible, and that Ariel Sharon, then Defence Minister, bore personal responsibility, which forced him to resign.”

Aaron looked at her, the soft facial features that belied such determination.

“And I’m presuming,” speaking for the first time, “that you lost friends in that conflict?”

“Oh yes,” she said in a voice formed and constrained by years of inner grief.

“My entire family.”

“Which might explain why a surgical demise of yourself in Tyre would have been inadequate.”

[Danik 2016]

Interesting chapter, where one learns what it is all about. But I must say that the lady is always several steps in front of that absent-minded Aaron.
(4 log ins to be able to post that comment)

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 13.

The next few days were both surprising and a little unnerving for Aaron. There was no rough treatment and no attempt to coerce information. He was given his clothes and guarded by two men who looked like they moved fast and played for keeps. He had the freedom to watch TV in the living room during the day and at night he was locked in his room handcuffed to the bed.

The woman was not to be seen, which was strange. Obviously busy he thought, checking out aspects of the events that had so recently unfolded.

On the fourth day, which was a Friday, the call to prayer was heard across Beirut. Shortly after noon he was joined by both the woman and Zaynab, the Iranian from the yacht.

They sat opposite him.

Zaynab led the conversation.

“Let me put something to you,” he began.

His skin was even more parchment like than when they had first met and his sombre eyes probed in an impersonal manner.

“We know who you are and what your objective was in Lebanon.”

“Fortuitously we discreetly check all arrivals from Israel and despite your credible cover, your past came up from when you were in the IDF during the invasion here. Hence our subsequent ability to check you on every stage of your journey.”

He spoke carefully and solemnly, as if that was as important as anything he would have to do that day.

Aaron listened, hands folded across his lap.

“But I must confess we were confused at first,” Zaynab continued, “as we were surprised by the manner of the operation.”

“Traditional Israeli assassination techniques, as planned on our colleague here, would normally involve techniques we are familiar with: motor bike drive by shootings, letter bombs, drone strikes etc.”

“But then we asked ourselves, was there a difference because the target was still a bit of a mystery, inclusive her exact whereabouts?”

“What was more confusing was the lone wolf plan.”

“Believe you me, we are well versed on the processes and hallmarks of murders by Mossad.”

“Firstly, there is the identifying of a target for by Israeli intelligence which in itself usually runs through several institutional and organizational steps within; Mossad, the broader Israeli intelligence community and the political leadership.”

“And we know, of relevance to this case in particular, that Hamas communications between Gaza, and Beirut are tightly monitored by Israeli intelligence networks.”

“Then of course, there is the assassination process itself; namely once identified as a target, and evaluation of available intelligence, to decide whether the kill should be executed, what the benefits of killing are and the best way to do it.”

“Once the Mossad finishes its file on the target, it takes its findings to the heads of Intelligences Services Committee, which comprises the chiefs of Israeli intelligence organizations known by its Hebrew acronym, VARASH, or Vaadan Rashei Ha-sherutim.”

“However, this entity does not have the legal authority to approve an operation. Only the prime minister of Israel has the authority to approve, and they typically prefer not to take that decision by themselves for political reasons.”

“Oftentimes the prime minister would involve one or two other ministers in the decision, which invariably includes the Minister of Defense,”

“Once obtained, the operation then moves back to Mossad for planning and execution, usually through the Caesarea branch and ultimately through the Kidon unit.”

“Needless to say, that in Mossad, the legality of any assassination is much more liberal than in many countries and does not usually involve legal constraints. It is part of their national policy.”

“So where does that leave us?” Aaron finally interjected.

Zaynab took a sip from what Aaron presumed was water on the side table. Running his tongue across his lips, he seemed to be almost in an internal convulsive struggle to reach the conclusion of the monologue undertaken so far.

“We think,” he began hesitantly, “that someone on your side is, as they say in English, playing both ends against the middle.”

“There are none of the hallmarks of a typical Mossad operation, and there is more than meets the eye in the reasoning behind the operation.”

“Let me be open with you. We are both old men with little time left” he continued.

“Adversaries yes, but I believe both possessing integrity in protecting our own.”

“For that reason, we are sending you back. You will know what to do and how to do it. Killing you here would be a short-term expedient and a long-term waste.”

“After all, in human beings, especially in human society, all death is but a death-birth.”

[Danik 2016]

That´s getting more and more interesting!

[MANICHAEAN]

End in sight now, but I was sweating blood about the conclusion.

I really must not embark on these voyages away from sight of land, without a map or compass.

Stay safe my friend.

[Danik 2016]

I am no expert in espionage tales not even as a reader, but I believe it isn´t easy to get all those details right.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 14.

There was, what turned out to be, a farewell dinner the next evening with Aaron and Zaynab. The venue surprisingly was not the yacht in the Zaitunay Bay Harbour, but the Babel Restaurant on the promenade that Aaron was already acquainted with.

“Bizarre” is the word that comes to mind; two elderly males, sworn technical enemies from either side of the political and religious divide, strolling into a high-class restaurant like two old school acquaintances. Zaynab walked with the aid of a stick to steady his gait, and Aaron forever the epitome of a retiree.

The manager Adnan Mahdi, that Aaron had met previously, was poised to greet them at the entrance with that same professional smile and a discreet recognition of both of them.

They were led to a quiet table away from the otherwise busy clientele.



The food was ordered and served, starting with the raw fish marinated salmon starter.

Zaynab, as was his custom, led whatever conversation there was between the two of them. One the talker, the other acutely receiving.

They were not disturbed unnecessarily; likely already communicated aforehand.

Zaynab drew his tongue across thin withered lips, akin the sealing of a letter. He appeared less tired and more animated than when they had met previously.

“I thought that in the unlikely event that we would not meet again for operational reasons; not to mention my declining health, that I talk to you as a professional equal tonight.”

Aaron listened politely, poising his fork.

“Tomorrow you will have your car returned and cross back into Israel by the Rosh HaNikra Crossing.”

“What action you take after that is for you to decide.”

“I, as you have already likely discerned, am what you might call quite senior in the Hamas organization.”

“Part of my responsibilities has been to control and direct our agent, Halima whom it was your mission to kill. By the way, I am not her biological father, more a father figure. She is Palestinian as I believe she told you.”

“Killing is unfortunately a necessary expedient on both our sides. From your perspective it is one of national survival; on ours for what we see as a need in justice for the Arab world.”

“But there is killing and killing,” he continued.

“If you swat a fly, because it is unhealthy or an irritant, there is no feeling. It is an almost unconscious reaction”

“But if you kill another of your own species, then certain qualities in the killer are I think requisite. Compassion must be subdued, conviction in the rationale must be predominant.”

“Are you with me so far?”

Aaron nodded in affirmation.

At this juncture, the table was swiftly cleared and the ordered red mullet fish with fattoush salad was laid before them.

Zaynab continued.

“Which brings us to the question as to why we are sitting here tonight.”

“Betrayal” is an ugly word. The Christians invariably refer to what they call as “the Judas kiss of their Christ.”

“This is He. Take him and crucify Him.”

“Yet in this case Aaron, we have both been betrayed.”

Aaron held his gaze.

“You, by those who sent you. Us in those we thought on our side.”

Aaron found these last remarks both disturbing and questionable.”

He had been nurtured long enough in the Middle East to recognize that strange, almost alien perceived virtue, that some Arabs have, for deception comprising both an art and an attribute of cunning and strength.

And yet of more singular significance for Aaron, one could not underestimate the argument being made of a mole / sleeper, (call it what you will), in Israel intelligence itself.

[Danik 2016]

Enjoyed tha chapter. Not sure that this Zaynab is to be trusted.

[Steven Hunley]

"Add on the virus pandemic, economic collapse and political chaos and one could understand the closed banks and the vandalised ATM machines he passed; the reports of starvation in Tripoli and the hard, resigned, barely suppressed anger on the face of the inhabitants. Nothing but what Nature gives her wild children originally of the desert: ferocity and appetite; strength grounded on hunger."

Oh, Jeez, this writing is definitely top-drawer. it's dense. (full of stuff with very few words)

[Steven Hunley]

This is top-drawer. "Nothing but what Nature gives her wild children originally of the desert: ferocity and appetite; strength grounded on hunger." One hell of a line.

[Steven Hunley]

This is top-drawer. "Nothing but what Nature gives her wild children originally of the desert: ferocity and appetite; strength grounded on hunger." One hell of a line. And chapter 11, just love these descriptions and plot-twists. 12 days to my second inoculation of Moderna, but who's counting?

[Danik 2016]

You are a lucky guy! Counting the weeks for the first shot yet!

[Steven Hunley]

Stay safe in the meantime. Days are never more precious than these, no matter how hard they are.

[Danik 2016]

And right you are. Thanks!

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 15.

Treachery is an ugly word.

Uncovering it however requires emotions to be set aside, in order to highlight reality. It was in this case, not helped when there did not exist an official credible back up, attributed to he who was undertaking the probing. For it takes a certain kind of strength to work alone, with all around you suspect. In fact, then treachery itself becomes pervasive and almost demands that, “evil be thou our good.”

Perhaps unsurprisingly therefore, it was that a cold determination entered Aaron’s soul. If, (as all pointers suggested), Simon, the instigator of his mission had entered a dark place; then there was no option to forgive him, and then as soon as possible, forget him. There now lay between them, soaked in his weariness, a thirst for retribution, even vengeance. For Aaron believed that all lies have a sentence of death written down against them; whether in this life or the next; and slowly or fast they advance incessantly towards their hour.



The proposed Rosh HaNikra Crossing by which he had entered Lebanon was now not an option. Too many parties, perhaps on both sides knowing of his movements.

In a trade where he had grown grey in surroundings of treachery, it was imperative he went to ground. He was to all extents and purposes, to undertake a journey to the city of Nowhere and then arrive.

Thus, instead of taking the southern coastal road, he drove east from Beirut into another Arab wasteland, namely Syria. Via the outskirts of Damascus, he drove south on the broad fast tarmac of the motorway; yet still was exposed to the occasional glimpses of the devastation inflicted by a ten-year brutal war. At Jaber as Siran he changed direction again, and this time entered Israel from the east, across the Jordan River border crossing.

Pulling over to a small petrol station he filled up the car and slept in the carpark for an hour.

His destination was in the Southern Negev Desert town of Beersheba; far away from Jerusalem and potential prying eyes.

It had taken him just under eight hours solid driving since leaving Beirut and he was exhausted; not just physically, but mentally as well.

But the journey had granted the necessary solitude to decorticate numerous elements in his head.

Cherished illusions had been mercilessly cut down; and then of course there was that most important question, which lay in the discerning between truth and fiction; in a climate where for the authors involved, fiction had to make sense.

[Danik 2016]

I don´t know whether you noticed, but your narrative has improved, becoming more and more fluid in the last texts.

[MANICHAEAN]

Must be that bottle of whisky I brought. Haha

[Danik 2016]

Lol! Whisky + Practice! Not a bad combination.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 16.

The bolt hole named “The Eshel Mansion Suites” that he chose in Beersheba, was a low-profile establishment in Beit Eskel Street in the Old City.

There were no signs outside, and it comprised an inconspicuous ground floor layout with a high yellow perimeter wall & a blue steel door which opened onto a quiet street. No reception checking in and out; and few other occupants due to a lack of business; presumably resulting from the ongoing pandemic. Fast food could be obtained from the various places in and around the local Bedouin Market area.

It suited him fine.

Aaron set himself to work on digging deeper into Simon’s financial affairs.

His suspicion was that this area may have been partly the motivation for any treachery. He knew that for Simon, (like himself), all payments for work within Israeli state security was conducted strangely enough through a lesser-known finance investment bank, and not through one of the big three commercial banks: the Leumi Bank, Bank Hapoalim or the Israel Discount Bank.

He was betting this account was still active.

Like elsewhere in the world, banking secrecy may be ring fenced by substantial IT security features; but the weak link was always the human element working withing the bank itself, that could access information within seconds with some basic data.

Years later, it was never known if Aaron had someone on the inside; for if he did, he would anyway have protected his sources as if they had been his own children.

But be that as it may, in subsequent days, he undertook two visits to the bank concerned. To visitors it could be defined by frosted glass partitions inside; whilst the sandstone exterior comprised thick rectangular columns over the pavement. Traffic outside was invariably heavy, and it sat opposite a small flower / vegetable market.

The transfer of funds to and from Israel is relatively flexible compared to elsewhere globally. Foreign currency control is administered by the Bank of Israel and this affects transactions carried out by Israeli residents and non-residents alike.

While the basic rule is that foreign currency transactions are prohibited unless authorization is obtained, many types of foreign currency transactions are allowed by virtue of the General Permit under the Currency Control Law of 1978. This General Permit authorizes Israeli to conduct certain transactions through an authorized dealer (usually an Israeli bank) and the transactions authorized in the permit include most transactions conducted in the ordinary course of business activity.

It did therefore to some extent, come as not too much a surprise to note that on Simon's past bank account statements, substantial sums had been regularly, (and legally deposited). The mystery lay in the subsequent transfer to another bank in Limassol, Cyprus. Likewise in the initial depositor being titled as “China Harbour Enterprises.”

Despite the mists that still hovered, and what paths they concealed; all was becoming clearer to Aaron. Delusions needs had come: yet how gently, and in softening diffusion and mild succession, were these now made to fall. Thus, like a wineskin from which all is drawn, he had moved on to become almost a ghost of himself.

[Danik 2016]

That´s a rather unexpected but interesting development. And I am happy that one still can find good narrative on LitNet!

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 17.

The Cyprus Bank.

Aaron arrived in southern Cyprus by plane on the 1st August. It was Sunday, and the airport was quiet. An amber alert was in place for extremely hot conditions, as temperatures were forcast to soar to 43 degrees Celsius inland and 34 even on the mountain peaks.

New covid restrictions had came into force that day, with a safe pass now required in all smaller businesses, such as mini markets; whilst the authorities had intensified their checks over the past 48 hours; fining those for not wearing masks in open areas and in cars.

The only semi-encouraging news was that despite signs that the fourth wave of coronavirus cases, powered by the more contagious Delta variant was stabilising, Cyprus had reported its highest 14-day cumulative notification rate since the pandemic had started; back in what seemed like eternity.

He took a taxi to the quiet 3 star Pefkos City Hotel, located close to the old town of Limassol and the Limassol Marina. The balcony with the Mediterranean Sea views was not availed, but he turned the AC to maximum.

Aarons plan was to draw Simon in person to his bank in Limassol, into which so much funds had been transferred from China Harbour Enterprises over the years.
His espionage tradecraft was such that he had been able to obtain through his past contacts a passport in Simons name, but with Arrons photo. He knew that for those that held offshore accounts in exotic foreign countries like; the Caymans, Singapore and Macau, that the owners of such accounts rarely visited. They had no need to; being briefed invariably only on a 6 month basis by phone / email, or by having daily access to a client portal.

He was also well aware of the past, (and likely present) reputation of Cypriot banks, both on the Greek & Turkish parts of the island.

Cyprus, like so many other countries had been crippled financially by the global economic downturn that began in 2008. One initiative had been the, (since discontinued) investment citizenship scheme (“gold passport”) in 2013 to foreign investors. By this move, Cyprus being a full EU member state, it followed that all nationals granted citizenship under this investment scheme would enjoy full EU citizen status, with right to; live, work and study in all EU-28 member states. Naturally it attracted some questionable applicants.

The most highlighted case involving the banking sector in Cyprus had been the Federal Bank of the Middle East, based in Tanzania but where about 90% of its banking was conducted in Cyprus. The owners were Lebanese brothers Ayoub-Farid Saab and Fadi Michel Saab.

It started to unravel and was subsequently closed down when a request for information about FBME Bank came as Cyprus emerged as a key area of interest for Robert Mueller; the US special counsel who at the time was investigating a possible conspiracy between Donald Trump’s 2016 presidential campaign and the Kremlin. Reports emerged that the bank had been evading efforts by the Central Bank of Cyprus to supervise its activities, and that FBME was facilitating; money laundering, terrorist financing, transnational organised crime, fraud, sanctions evasion, weapons trading and political corruption.

Thus it was, that on Monday 2nd August at 9am sharp, Aaron presented himself at the bank, ostensibly on a flying visit. His passport credentials had proved credible. He had also hacked into Simons email account via an innocent link and had that very morning informed the bank he would be visiting. Back in Israel it would likely be that Simon would check his inbox, but was unlikely to do the same for messages sent.

It was a comforting office in the bank with an accommodating manager. The usual pleasant small talk dispensed with, Arron, (or Simon as he was now) informed that he wished as an humanitarian gesture to transfer his funds to a Lebanese charity known for its work among those currently suffering hunger & poverty, especially in Beruit & Tripoli.

'Do you wish to close the entire account?" asked the manager.

"No" replied Aaron.

"I have here 30 pieces of silver Israeli shekel coins that I will deposit for safe keeping."

As he emerged shortly after onto the street it struck him; that that should flush the bird out of coven.

Sometimes the battle itself is victory.

[Danik 2016]

Enjoyed the new development of the narrative, though it makes one reflect sadly on the precarious security of personal data.
Liked also the update to the present with it´s Covid context

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 18.

Arron was surprised that it had taken just over a week for Simon to be lured to Cyprus.

The island had in the meantime been oppressively hot even by local standards; and even if Cyprus had not experienced the wide fires that were still raging elsewhere in Turkey and Greece, the population were nervous and emotionally repressed by both the heat and the ever prevalent pandemic.

Arron sensed that though panic for Simon would have undoubtedly crept in regards the depletion of his funds held in the bank; he would at the same time have been aware of the implied message generated by the deposit of thirty pieces of silver. Greed mixed with confusion, laced with suspicion, imbued with caution, would have sustained the most exotic of emotional cocktails. Even if ice and a twist of lime had been deferred, it had certainly been shaken, if not stirred!!

If one is objective about status, then it would be realistic to presume that the initiative now lay with Aaron. Both parties, despite not being formally exposed, considered their positions akin chess players striving for that mental detachment so essential in winning, if not survival.

As Simon's plane touched down on the Larnaca runway, he involuntarily smiled. But it was a smile sadder than tears.

He had been obliged to play the cards as dealt, even though he was aware that he was being drawn out into open ground. Hope lay in the possibility that the knowledge of his treachery was limited; otherwise the Israeli authorities would have picked him up by now. His current footwork was his only salvation.

For when Aaron had gone to ground and feedback had ceased as to his movements, it was inevitable that Zaynab back in Beirut had not informed the Islamic Revolutionary Guard in Iran, or that Mossad itself was not asking questions. Perhaps whisperings had already reached the ears of the new Iranian & Israeli leaders, President Ebrahim Raisi & Prime Minister Naftali Bennet.

For Simon, Aaron was now his number one suspicion. Whilst Mossad had wanted the female Lebanese assassin killed, Simon had been obliged to protect his Hamas paymasters. The subsequent approach to and mobilisation of Aaron; ill-equipped, limited in resources and set up for failure had been the plan. With the new developments there was perhaps a chance of a one on one negotiation; or in the extreme, that sordid euphemism "damage limitation?"

Larnaca Airport was a 50 minute taxi ride to Limassol and Simon sat back taking in his surroundings. He assumed that the bank he would visit on Monday would become the most likely vicinity for a showdown.

It begged the question as to who was to be the Judas goat; Arron or Simon, as each sought to draw out the other?

[Danik 2016]

A difference of your story to others of the genre I have read is its elegance of style and occasional subtleties.
"...he would at the same time have been aware of the implied message generated by the deposit of thirty pieces of silver."

[MANICHAEAN]

Thanks for reading buddy & the feedback.

Couple more chapters should put this one to bed at last.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 19.

Monday morning and Arron was in a dark blue Citroen parked strategically, both; within striking distance and with visual sight of approaches to the bank prior to its opening at 9am. It was 35 degrees C in Cyprus and had been hovering around that all week. Understandably a yellow weather warning continued to be in place for the extremely high temperatures, which explained the lack of movement in the street in what was normally a busy time.

Aarons instincts told him that Simon would arrive early; whilst his logic told him that he had to be approached prior to entering the bank. Once the earlier deception of Arron had been exposed, there was always the danger of the police being called which would have complicated the situation.

Aaron focused on the odd individuals approaching and passing by the banks front entrance.

A tap on the window interrupted his concentration from an unexpected quarter.

It was Simon looking down on him.

Aaron activated the window switch.

"Looks like we are two boxers past our prime, looking for an opening in a fight we did not need, my friend," said Simon.

He looked tired and world weary.

"Would you like to get in the car Simon? Its cooler in here."

Simon walked around the front of the bonnet and slid in on the front passenger side.

"I suppose we need to talk?" he said.

"Yes" responded Aaron, "We really need to settle this one way or the other."

They drove down to the Pier One Cafe in the Old Port and overlooking the sea. They ordered coffee and looked at each other; not with hatred or even animosity, but with a kind of benign curiosity and sadness.

"Why Simon, why?" as if there was no need to delve into the minutiae of what lay between them.

"Its simple," was the response. "Money. You did not know, but I got divorced from Rachael and lost everything: house, savings, the lot. Mossad offered me this assignment on a temporary basis with a free hand to run my own show, so at least for a time there was a bit of money coming in."

"I was walking wounded as they say in some quarters, when referring to a broken marriage late in life. No chance to recover, unless I took that which was offered, for that which was previously unthinkable. I don't expect you to understand, especially when you view how I betrayed not only my country, but a friend."

Aaron sipped his coffee slowly, yet never averted his gaze.

"Who am I to judge if I had been in your shoes?" he said.

"But what now? I'm not going to harm you. I had been told by Zaynab the Hamas lead in Beirut who I think you know, that although captured as per your plan, that I was being released and that I would know what to do."

" I now do the same to you. We were friends once after all and it must count for something."

"It looks like I have limited options," whispered Simon to himself.

"I can go on the run with no money until they track me down; which inevitably they will. And I include either side. Or I can spend whatever time I have left in a prison cell."

He seemed to sink into himself in a moment of deep sad acceptance.

"Masada" was the only word that Arron heard him initially say.

Then, as if by instinct, they both spoke softly to each other across the table, the words they remembered from the Psalms, imbued in their youth and using the Hebrew name for God,

"In You, Adonai, have I taken refuge: Let me never be put to shame. In Your righteousness, deliver me. Turn Your ear to me, rescue me quickly. Be a rock of refuge for me, a stronghold for my deliverance. Since You are my rock and my Masada , You lead me and guide me for Your Name’s sake."

Simon rose, shook Aaron gently by the hand and left the café alone. He did not look back.

[Danik 2016]

I'm wondering if this is the end, an open end.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 20.

Six months had gone by since the death of Simon when Aaron made the trip to the scene of that event; subconsciously perhaps, as both an act of remembrance and in order to reflect more deeply on what had unfolded. For in the interim fusion and confusion of his mind, imagination herself had flagged under the reality of the events that had transpired.

It was becoming a cooler August in Israel than he had previously remembered, and there was an early morning, almost vernal sky in Arad; the calm and quiet town located between the Judean and Negev deserts. A change from the noise of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem; almost deserted, with few people on the streets and not many cars.

Aaron had his morning coffee in the garden of the house he was staying in, then started the car and headed west.

For those of you not familiar with his destination of Masada, it was an ancient fortress built by Herod, the king of Judea on top of a barren mountainous desert plateau, thousands of feet above the nearby Dead Sea.

Its significance lies in it being the location for the last stand of the Zealots and Sicarii in the First Jewish Revolt against Rome after the fall of Jerusalem. Of greater underlying significance had been the manner of the final collapse in this conflict.

The story goes, that the Roman governor, Lucius Flavius Silva, heading the Roman legion X Fretensis laid siege. It surrounded Masada, built a circumvallation wall and then a siege ramp against the western face of the plateau. The ramp was complete, after probably two to three months of siege, allowing the Romans to finally breach the wall of the fortress with a battering ram. According to the historian Josephus, when Roman troops entered the fortress, they discovered that its defenders had set all the buildings ablaze and committed mass suicide or killed each other; 960 men, women, and children in total. Only two women and five children were found alive.

It is therefore perhaps understandable how in Israeli culture the siege became a symbol of heroism against oppression.

For Aaron it was a relatively short 20 km drive before he caught sight of his destination. Masada was a stark location, yet seemingly glorying in its stand alone presence; with a plateau abruptly ending in cliffs steeply falling 1,300 ft to the east and about 300 ft to the west.

He chose to take the eastern side the plateau using the road starting between Ein Gedi and Ein Bokek. Parking the car he knew that he could climb the so called "Snake Path" route in about one hour before the sun had attained its maximum power. In fact hikers there frequently started an hour before sunrise, when the park opened, to avoid the mid-day heat.

There were few visitors that day.

Aaron wondered if Samuel had trod this same path on the day of his demise. Or perhaps he had taken the Roman Ramp trail accessed from the western side of the mountain. But for the moment he concentrated on his climb and his breathing, until the top was attained.

He stood against the metal railing. The incipient heat rallied from across the Dead Sea in the early dawn.

Below, one could make out in the clear desert light the meter-high circumvallation wall that the Romans had built around Masada, together with a few of the eight Roman siege camps just outside this wall.

Aaron had researched from reports in the papers that an unnamed man had thrown himself to his death from this spot soon after from when Arron & Simon had previously parted.

It was hard for him, (even after endeavouring to put aside emotion), to reason out this act of suicide, even though prewarned, and especially in such a poignant location.

Perhaps for the Zealots it had been more straightforward. They had decided, in their religious fervour that it was by the will of God that they were to die on the mountain. Instead of becoming slaves, they chose to die. Judaism prohibits the act of suicide, and the Zealots killed each other. All of course except the final man who was obliged to commit that final transgression.

Arron asked himself did Simon have to die like that? The pressures on him were just as heavy.

Was the act itself one of courage or cowardice?"

He remembered that at the time of the siege, one of the greatest ambitions throughout large tracts of Europe had been to become "a citizen of Rome". But for the Jews it had marked the end of the Great Revolt, the first of three rebellions by the Jewish people against the Romans.

Perhaps the lesson he thought, lay in patience and time being a prerequisite for redemption and change. The Roman Empire had fallen and the Israeli State had emerged, albeit with so many of its traditional values diminished; the very values cherished during years of persecution.

Arron stood alone for a long time at that barrier. No birds sung their dawn chorus; only the silence of the stark desert hung heavy about him. But he was glad he had come.

[Danik 2016]

Beautiful Chapter, Manichaean! I think the strength of this story lies more in its descriptive or reflexive content, than in the action. I am not familiar with spy stories, having read only a bit of John Le Carré, but this may be something inovative: a spy story where action itself doesn´t matter so much.

[MANICHAEAN]

Thank you my friend for the comments. It was in fact a labour of love writing it and exploring week by week the interrelationships of: friendship, culture, religion and human weakness to which we are all prone.

Take care and best wishes.
M.