BigB Publications

It was one of the most brilliant ideas to have come out of the Islamic Jihad cell in Halhul. It was so brilliantly simple, one could  not fathom why it had never occurred to anyone else over the long years of the Intifadeh.

There were always two facets to the activity of the Islamic Jihad. One was the basic truth of the liberation of Falasteen from the Zionist oppression, and even more fundamentally, from Jewish presence. All Arabs sought to achieve that end, in the myriad ways imagined by the fertile Arab brain. Every Arab did his or her part, some small and some large. On the large part, all the Muslim nations, even those who were leaning to the West, such as Jordan, lent their territory to the Refusal Organizations, such as the Islamic Jihad, or the Popular Front, to stage anti-Israeli activities from. Each Arab state thwarted Israeli attempts to become a full-fledged member in international organizations. Blocked Israeli women from Women organizations, even though no Middle Eastern country had nearly the equal rights as Israeli women did. Blocked Israeli Hydrologists from appearing in Water Conservation forums, even though Israel has the most efficient water economy and conservation organizations anywhere on the globe.  Every decade or so one or more of the Arab countries became engaged in open warfare against the Jewish Entity. Egypt and Syria and Jordan in 1967. Egypt and Syria in 1973. Syria, via its role in Lebanon in 1982, and Iraq using Russian Scuds in 1991. Etcetera. Great sums of money were devoted by Arab countries to persuasion, propaganda and lobbying designed to discredit the Jewish State, and equate it with Nazi Germany, the perpetrators of the Holocaust. The holocaust itself was vigorously denied, or minimized, it was a figment of the sick Jewish imagination. Adolf Hitler was lionized for his attempt to eliminate the Jews, and mourned for his partial failure to complete the task.

One grade smaller was the PLO. Not a State, but certainly a force to reckon with. The PLO worked on two fronts concurrently, the Guerrilla front and the Political Front. As a guerrilla force it established bases from which attacks were mounted on the Jewish State’s flanks, from the sea and air. As a political body, the PLO achieved virtual Statehood in the eyes of all nations, with a tacit agreement to carry out its prime responsibility of replacing the Jews in Palestine with Arabs. Rivers of money were delivered to PLO coffers to maintain its bureaucracy until such time that it was needed to run the State of Palestine.

Arab guerrilla organizations participated in the great war with car bombs, way-side shooting attacks, guerrilla invasions from the sea, and Katyusha rockets from Lebanon. Aircraft blasted from the sky, to warn all allies of Israel. Other aircraft hijacked to Africa, embassies and airline offices bombed, and diplomats shot on the way to work. No means were too low or too bloody, and all claims to compromise were branded as treason and collaboration, to be hanged and quartered. Shaheeds were sent to commit suicide along with the maximum of victims, with promises of religious nirvana. Each Shaheed was assured that his family would be honored and cared for by the people, with a donation of ten thousand dollars from Saddam Hussein and later his trust-fund, thrown in.

The common men and women were pressed into service in many ways. Plumbers working new construction dumped concrete and stucco dollops into the pipe systems. High pressure pipes delivering potable water to the cities and villages were broken asunder by trucks, so that the precious clean water was wasted onto the thirsty desert floor.  The occasional Palestinian bus driver would crash his vehicle into the passengers waiting for a ride in the bus-stop.  Truck drivers would innocently drive into an intersection so that a car filled with children would be crushed underneath. Other trucks changed lanes abruptly so that an oncoming car or motorcycle would be forced to swerve and roll over into a ravine. Still others grabbed the steering wheel of a bus and drove it into a gorge. Cherished forests planted by the UJA were set ablaze, in the direction designed to burn Jewish villages. Women sent their young children to running rock-and-gun battles, hoping for a blood-curdling picture of a dead child. Etcetera. The means of disruption of the life of the enemy were endless.

The other facet was pure competition. Which organization could set off the deadliest bomb? Or cause more damage to the electric grid? Or hijack the biggest plane? Fierce competition reigned between the various organizations for the most spectacular feat, the most injurious to the security of the Jewish nation, for the biggest headlines in the world press. In fact, this competition became so bloody, it claimed as many lives as the actual warfare against the Zionist enemy.

Grabbing Metzada for a military political showdown would be a great coup. Imad Al-Ulban was absolutely certain of it. 

Metzada, because the name evoked a great and deep visceral response in the Jewish and Israeli psyche. Two thousand years before, in the year 73 A.D. the last of the Zealots who had escaped the ruins of Jerusalem made a stand in Metzada. Surrounded by the Roman legions, they held onto the desert stronghold for a year. Metzada, a ship-like mesa separated from the Judean desert by deep gorges, overlooks the Dead Sea, the lowest place on earth, 1200 feet below sea level. The mount did not have a source of water. Nor did it have a source of food. It stands in splendid isolation, facing the tremendous vista of the deep-blue Dead Sea, and the Mounts of Moab standing guard against the rain clouds on the opposite side of the Great Syrian African Rift. It is parched and lonely and sun-baked, and King Herod, the greatest despot and builder of all time, caused two magnificent palaces, completed with every convenience known to the ancient world,  to be constructed on it. And tremendous water reservoirs. And huge food-stores. It was fortified with double-walled battlements all around. The Zealots, who came to the magnificent palaces one hundred years later did not respect the beauty of the palaces, but did respect the canniness of the dead king when it came to fighting and repulsing the Roman onslaught and withstanding the Siege. They prayed hard, every day, prayed that Truth and Justice will prevail against the Roman Legions. They found out that God was on the side of the Big Battalions, not the righteous few. The Romans used ten thousand slaves, Jews, to construct a huge ramp which filled up the gorge and allowed them to bring forth their mechanized battering rams and breach the defenses. Many more Jewish Slaves died in that horrific work than lived on the Metzada. On the final night, before the last battle, Ya’ir, the leader of the Zealots, proposed that all Zealots, men women and children commit suicide, rather than march into Slavery. And they did, as retold by the greatest Jewish Traitor of all times, a former Zealot general, Yosephus Flavius.

Two thousand years later, as the Jewish State revived itself out of the ashes of the Holocaust (over the dead bodies of the Palestinians, said Imad) Metzada became a relic second only to Jerusalem in mystic and cultural importance. The old Snake Path, foretold by Yosephus, was resurrected. Thousands of youth made the ritual climb at dawn, 1200 vertical feet of a tortuous, traitorous path to witness the sun-rise over the Mountains of Moab. Archeologists dug the palaces and the store-rooms and the caverns and the reservoirs with great reverence, found the Synagogue which faced north to Jerusalem, and reconstructed the life of the Despot King, and the hardy Zealots. The glory of the past, long buried, came to light, and with it the pride, and the perseverance, and the lofty cry

 

SHENIT METZADA LO TIPOL

(Masada will never fall again)

 

The Jews promised themselves. Vowed. By the thousands. Each Officer Corps graduate made it to Metzada. Scouts formed on top, and made the oath. Tank Commanders ended their arduous training with the ritual climb to the top of Metzada, double time quick march, and with their breath whistling through their parched lips, overlooking the neat Roman Legion camps they vowed, that Metzada will never happen again. The Jewish tourists from the United States and Canada and England and France gawked at the glory that was only theirs by association, rather than by deed, and opened their checkbooks wide to sign generous support for the Jewish abomination of Falasteen. 

Imad Al Ulban wanted to prove them wrong again. With audacity and the single-mindedness of the Islamic Shaheed who knows that Heaven is his due and that death is the reward of the Faithful.

 

Imad, a stern intellectual-looking man, the second of eight siblings, became the commander of the Islamic Jihad through deeds, not talk. Like all other kids he began his anti-occupation career with the simple stuff, such as stone throwing. He progressed from throwing small pebbles as a child, to slinging them at the soldiers and passers-by cars on the road to Hebron, to lobbing rocks on cars and Israeli jeeps. His father worked in the stone works of Hebron, cutting the massive stones brought from the quarries into the flat slabs of Jerusalem Stone so beloved of Jerusalem home-builders. Years and years of inhaling the calcium dust and smoking filter-less Aziz cigarettes turned him into an old man with a severe emphysema by the time he was forty. Life meant constant grubbing for food and clothing, and the fight for space in the small bare-brick house which had a parents’ room, a children’s room for all eight, and a living room which Suheir and Raheem tried to keep presentable. The enemy, which was the Jewish Settlers and Soldiers were always close and far, in physical proximity and spiritual distance, hated for their superiority in arms and organization, and their spiritual abyss as Infidels. They were both the source of the wealth that did exist, and the barrier to reaching the true wealth of total ownership of the Land.

School was rudimentary, and only the truly gifted could get ahead. Imad was good at his studies, and was also good in sports, which usually meant soccer on the rude paved school yard, and the ability to flee the Jewish Soldiers as they chased the stone-throwers through the crooked alleys. Then he began organizing the more daring coups. Nailed boards on the road, the fleet youth to taunt the angry soldiers with epithets concerning their mothers and sisters, and the ambush of the unwary hothead soldiers who chased them with rocks and blocks thrown from the top of the skinny buildings.

Imad became aware very early that if he appeared to present no threat, the Soldiers never shot on a whim, despite their impressive weapons. The Soldiers who did were court-martialed and disgraced, especially if they were Officers. In fact, after one of them did catch up with him, and gave Imad a black eye, Raheem took the thin whimpering youth to the Division headquarters, and with crying and beating his breast was shown all the way to the Colonel’s office, and was treated to the public disgrace that was heaped on the soldiers who did hit him. On the way out Imad noted the huge wall map with the positions of units  in the vicinity, and committed them to memory.  The next time a single jeep left the outpost on a routine run, it was viciously attacked with great volleys of rocks and blocks, with severe injuries to two of the three soldiers. The third one did manage to loose off a few shots at the fleeing kids, but they were an empty gesture.

By the time Imad was sixteen he had mounted many attacks on the Enemy, and was never caught. That made him a prime recruit for Mahmood Zaanoon, the Islamic Jihad cell leader.

“We expect more of you than these hit and run jobs” Mahmood admonished the respectful Imad. “I want you to learn Hebrew and English in school, and when you are eighteen you will go for real training.”

Imad finished his UNWRA vocational school, to major as an Electrician. Usually that meant working for a mean Jewish contractor who paid him pennies on the shekel he made off the Jewish home builders. It meant eking out a mean living, getting married at nineteen to an ugly village wench, living in a mean block of bare brick with no running water, stolen intermittent electric service, and running the risk of home-demolishing by the Israelis who used their court system to sanctify their despicable practice of demolition of Palestinian homes. The Jews always came up with some legal execrable way to justify their cowardly actions, quoting Zoning, and Roads, and Fluid Waste. Waste had run down the wadis for millennia, who were the Jews to tell the Waste where to run? Imad did not have to look far. Most of the working population of Halhul lived that way, choked by their own irrepressible reproduction.

Imad got a Palestinian Passport from the Military Civil Administration, left to Cyprus, then Beirut on a different passport supplied by the Islamic Jihad organization, then the Baquaa.

The valley which is at the north of the Syrian-African rift, between the Lebanon and the Anti-Lebanon, houses two colossal industries. Hashish and Terrorism. Everyone of any consequence in the Islamic Fundamentalist Armies of Allah has visited or has been schooled there. The great majority of the teaching faculty is Iranian, and they had been taught by the CIA, in the merry days of the Shah.  Hezzbolah, the Party of God, is the main messenger of Iran, and under the Syrian umbrella carries out its relentless war against the Jewish Infidels and their American sponsors.

Imad learned basic infantry and survival in a hostile environment. Small arms, sniping, automatic machine guns, both Western and Eastern Bloc, basic demolition, then more advanced demolition. Signaling  in Semaphor, Morse, Communications in VHF and SSB, phone lines and basic tapping of phone lines. With other Muslim Brothers he studied Religion and the history of the Shi’a. He trained with the Strella and Stinger anti-aircraft missiles, supplied in great abundance by the Soviet and American manufacturing might, and anti-armor missiles such as the Sagger and the LAW and Bazooka. His training as an electrician made him the obvious choice to rig up explosive charges and place them on the twisted roads which served the Israeli Army in Lebanon. After a few failed ambushes Imad scored his first blood with a land mine which exploded under an APC, and the subsequent killing of two Israeli soldiers who extricated themselves from the vehicle. His crew retreated under fire into the harsh territory of the Lebanese high ground and overnight north to the Syrian zone of the Baquaa.

Imad was an excellent student of war. For a graduation tour he was sent to Afghanistan, and together with the Mujjahedin used the Stingers to fell Soviet MI-8 helicopters and massacre ambushed contingents of fair-skinned, terrified Russians. Those were heady days in which he learned that a small, mobile, well armed, determined, and Believing force, could oust the much larger, more sophisticated, highly-organized military machine of a super-power. Israel ought to be an easier chore than the Russians, since the Russians were willing to be ruthless and practice village annihilation, whereas the Israelis never did, even under the worst of provocations.

The news of Mahmoud  Za'anoon’s death in a shootout in Dahariyah reached him in the mountains of Pakistan. There was a vacancy, and Imad intended to fill it.

Imad was twenty three years old and a veteran of war when he returned to his home town of Halhul to assume control of the Islamic Jihad cell. He was the hero of his younger brothers as he spun the tales of the resistance inspired by Allah, and the fear of the Mujjahedin which petrified the Infidel Russians. On the other hand, he had to find a legitimate job to cover his activities.  He was loath to become a lackey, and looked for other opportunities in the Israeli economy. His uncle Shafiq Al Ulban was an independent  contractor for a company installing the cable-car in Metzada. Shafiq was doing the ancillary electrics of the stations on either end, and was happy with the pay. Raheem, whose working days were over, implored Shafiq to take Imad with him to the site. Imad, who had never been to Metzada before, and knew little of its mythical past for the Jews, began to take notice.

By the time the job was ended, everyone knew Imad, and how helpful he was in solving all sorts of electric snafus. He had quick hands, that peeled the wires with surgical certitude, connected and wired and soldered with never a short. The manager of the Metzada National Monument noticed too, and asked Imad to become the on-site electrician.

Imad accepted, and began to plot the second fall of Metzada.

He took a year to tour the palaces, the grottos, the huge water reservoirs, and he wired them all for the benefit of the tourists and other visitors. And wired them extra for future explosives. Imad took special notice of all the other visitors. The likeliest targets would be the Jewish Youth Tours because they were not armed, and they were American and English and Australian, maximizing the exposure for his coup. Those tours tended to come in summer, and would make the hallowed climb to Metzada in the early A.M. hours, to greet the sun on top. And, the intelligence was right there, on the big board of the Youth Hostel, Who and When and Where.

 

Ilan and Sarah Zehavi loved riding the desert. Their special mount was a Yamaha XT 500, single-cylinder motorcycle whose sturdiness and reliability was legendary. Ilan was quite a big man and the shock absorber springs sank deep under his weight. Sarah was much lighter but together, especially with some gear tied to the carrier, the springs reached the end of their travel at high speed and deep troughs. There were many such troughs on this black-top twisty road which stretched before them in the pallid Judean desert. Stretched would be somewhat of a stretch, because in Israel, distances are compressed, and the hairpins numerous, and a long trip is fifty miles. As usual the couple acted on an unexplained whim.

“When is the last time you saw Metzada?” Ilan asked his girl-friend. They were not married yet, but it was only a matter of time. The Mediterranean-faced, large bodied, well muscled Ilan had been in love with the fair-skinned green-eyed ash-blond Sarah ever since they had met in a mutual friend’s wedding. Ilan took a break after a long day of study for the finals of Medical School and the American Boards (Might as well do them together,  same textbooks anyway, he explained to Sarah) and Sarah likewise took a break from her Masters of Psychology exam preparations. Ilan was wearing his running shoes, and sitting on a concrete bench. Sarah leaned her bicycle on the concrete column that held their apartment building aloft. Ilan had completed a five mile run, which Sarah followed with the bicycle. Although warm, the desert air of Be’er Sheva dried their sweat quickly.

“Years and years ago, with the Scouts” Sarah replied wistfully. With Sarah, the Past was always beautiful, the trees were taller, the grass greener, and the Scouts trips were magical, and her mom-and pop always young and loving. No money troubles. Yeah right.

“How about going tonight?” Ilan challenged.

“Are you crazy?”

“Of course, always was, that’s why you love me!” Ilan declared and pulled her on his knee. She was almost weight-less, especially compared with his tree-trunk thighs.

“What about the exam next week?”

“I am not Moses, you know” Ilan admonished, and teased her breast with a long reach. “I don’t have to study forty days and nights. By the time I finish Medical School, half the stuff will be outdated.”

“Wouldn’t you rather go to bed?”  Sarah teased him back, holding that big hand tight against her breast. “Stroke, don’t tickle.”

“I love to feel you squirm” Ilan explained “And we can go to bed in the King’s chambers, I never slept in a palace.”

“That’s an idea” Sarah warmed to it “How are we going to get there? Is it open at night? And is it legal to stay the night?”

“Legal shmigal” Ilan laughed “let’s do one more crazy thing before I become a square doctor and you a matron with three children and a PhD.”

“All right. Lets wash up and go, how far is it?”

Ilan got up and spilled Sarah off his lap “Forty minutes to Arad, and then another thirty or forty to the Western Ramp. It’s eight now, we should be there at ten, ten-thirty, and then we can make love on the King’s bed, that is on our inflatable mattress. Herod was only 150 centimeters tall, so I think the floor would be better than his bed.”

“A Sodom Bed, how fitting” Sarah laughed, her voice free and clear and glad.

They took some time to load the bike. Inflatable mattress, sleeping bags, food, water, flashlights, toilet paper and nylon bags  Ilan always kept a small repair kit with wires and a Multi-plier and a roll of insulation tape. A small camera and binoculars. Finally he strapped on the big Taurus revolver, a relic from his days in the Army, and kicked the bike over.

Vroom.

“All aboard” Ilan yelled over the motor and the helmet.

“Yallah, Zooz” Sarah yelled back. And they were off.

Arad lies thirty miles to the east-south east of Beer’Sheva, on the ridge of the Judean desert. As they climbed the well-graded road, the single headlight cutting through the darkness ahead, Ilan and Sarah conversed through the intercom Ilan had rigged between the helmets.  Mostly Ilan concentrated on piloting the gangly bike and avoiding the trucks that were coming from the Dead Sea Works, laden with chemicals for fertilizers.

In Arad, a sleepy town with clear, dry, cool air that attracts the asthmatics of Israel, Ilan followed the signs that led to the back road to Metzada. It was paved and narrow, with hundreds of sudden switch-backs and dips into the wadis which it crossed. Metzada was closed at night, so that they were the only vehicle going in that direction. There was no other destination for that tiny, twisty road.

The air warmed up as they descended from eight hundred meters above to sea level. The motorcycle was not the only moving thing in that expanse. Occasionally a pair of eyes would flash on the road, and Ilan would slow abruptly, and watch the fox, or jackal or porcupine cross the lonely road. The Judean desert is full of life, at night. The machine dropped into the final wash and ahead loomed Metzada.

Together they unpacked the motorcycle into two loads. Ilan’s load was predictably the heavier one.  Ilan parked the machine in a ravine, one of many which began right off the generous parking lot.  The park-ranger booth was at the mouth of the trail, and he did not want the Ranger to see the Motorcycle in the morning and divine it’s meaning.

Ilan trained his flashlight on the sign which hung on the gate.

“The site is closed between nine P.M. and five A.M.” Sarah read in a whisper. Now that the boom of the machine was no more, the silence was doubly profound, especially since it was a moon-less night.

  “Right” Ilan said and threw his pack over the gate, catching it on the way down and setting it on the bone-dry pale ground. Sarah’s pack went the same way. With a quick hop he reached the top of the gate, and pulled himself up easily. Legs up and over the gate to land softly on the ground. The lithe moves belied the big frame, and bespoke of the strength in those arms and body. He offered his open palm to Sarah, who climbed it as if it were a step, and levitated her over the gate. Ilan caught her on the way down and set her gently on her feet, with great reverence.

“Every fence is an invitation to climb” Ilan quipped as he hefted his load to settle it comfortably on his broad back.

Their eyes adjusted to the dark as they climbed the mighty causeway that ten thousand Jews had died for. The mount loomed larger and larger against the star-studded night sky. With no artificial light around for twenty miles, and the air bright and clear without a speck of moisture, the heavens were close and incredibly full, and the Milky Way stretched from horizon to horizon, a majestic ellipse.

They stopped to catch their breath in front of the insubstantial wood gate. 

“It's beautiful” Sarah breathed as she took in the night sky.

“Only half as beautiful as you are” Ilan said, with utmost gravity.

“No way” Sarah replied, pleased.

“Half, because I can look at you day and night, and never grow tired of it.”

“You will, one day, when I am an old hag.”

“Never.” 

The wooden gate was not even locked. Ilan depressed the simple latch and pulled the wing out, Sarah pulled it back in as well as she could. They were in deep shadow now, no moon, and only half the sky.

“Keep close to me” Ilan said and began to toe the trail.

“How can you see anything?” Sarah whispered.

“I don’t look directly at anything. Peripheral vision is best at night, when macular vision is useless. Now you can understand people who suffer from macular degeneration.”

“From your mouth to the ear of God. If we fall, we fall together” Sarah doubted. 

“I’ve done this route before, at the end of the Intelligence Officer course” Ilan explained, and began to climb the steel staircase erected in the sixties by the Army Engineers.

They made it through the ramparts and battlements and on top, the night sky was stupendous.

“Almost like broad daylight” Ilan said “let’s go to the Northern Palace. I want to go to the Round Veranda.”

They passed the Synagogue, which was built like a square amphitheater, facing North, to Jerusalem. At night, the going was slow, but Ilan and Sarah enjoyed every minute of it. They passed the great store-rooms which had been fired by the Zealots, all save one, to show they still had plenty of food left. The black wavy lines that designated the original findings of the early archaeologists of Metzada were visible even in star-light. Following the well-marked paths along the perimeter walls they arrived at the North Palace. Ilan, his visual memory sharp, and possessing of phenomenal three-dimensional grasp, led the way unerring down the steps to the mid-level described in detail two thousand years before by Flavius, to the Circular Veranda.

“I want to see the frescos” Sarah said quietly. From this spot they could clearly see the softly shimmering Dead Sea, and the lights of the vehicles traveling the road from Sodom to Jerusalem and vice-versa, they were few and far between.

Hemmed in by the reconstructed circular walls which once supported the roof of the veranda, they set up a couple of candles.  The candle light was absorbed by the frescoed wall that was partially restored. The  frescoes looked like marble, down to the veins, even though they were really stucco.  The wall was interrupted by massive columns with Corinthian crowns. Twenty one hundred years before King Herod had this magnificent villa built in this desert hide-away, in the only spot which was impregnable, grand, sheltered from the fierce sun, and required the utmost of his engineers and artists.

“We won’t see much. It's much better to see them in broad daylight, which” Ilan flashed his Maglight onto his watch face, for half a second, to make the phosphorescent hands illuminate “will be in six hours. Some of them are covered with glass to protect them from the likes of us. I thought you wanted to go to bed!” Ilan teased.

“So I did. Let’s spread our bed under the stars.”

 

“Imad!”

The urgency of the voice, who Imad knew belonged to Hosny Abu Da'ood, stopped him cold. The force, a dozen of the toughest men in the Southern Command of the Islamic Jihad brotherhood, each with a kill or a near-kill in his record, coalesced five miles away from Al Sabbah (the Accursed, the name Arabs called the old fortress), and from then proceeded on foot. They collected their weapons from a cave, one of hundreds of caves, natural and man-made, carved into the walls of the Nahal Heimar canyon, so that each man carried his own Kalashnikov, five clips of ammunition, three water canteens and two to five grenades and blocks of TNT. All stolen from the Israeli Army, or stripped off kidnapped soldiers, or supplied by the Beduins who were the undisputed masters of theft, or smuggled from the Hashemite Kingdom across the valley. Imad carried the detonators and wiring. Approaching from the north-west, Metzada loomed above the wash where Imad had parked numerous times between the tourist buses and Bar-b-Q-ing Israelis.

“What is it Hosny?” Imad whispered, although for all he knew he could scream his lungs off, no one would hear. Night march enforced a discipline of silence.

“I saw a light on Al Sabbah, a short flash.”

Imad crouched, and the rest of the men crouched. He stared at the mesa through the binoculars, especially the three-tier Palace with intense concentration. The night was moon-less. Any light, even a cigarette would be seen. For ten minutes and change. Then he lowered the binoculars.

“I don’t see anything.”

“But” Hosny’s voice positively quavered, what a superstitious wimp, Imad thought with disgust “I saw something there. I swear I did by the Prophet’s Beard.”

“One of the ghosts of the thousand Jews who died there” Imad replied sardonically “A firefly, a floater in your eye. Allah is with us, we have committed to die in Jihad if needed. Yallah, follow me.” Imad had learned the command from the Israelis. The junior officers never said “Charge”, they yelled “Follow me.” The Israelis  turned a much tougher proposition than the Russians, whose officers always sent the Enlisted men to do the dirty work while safely staying in the rear, gun in hand, ready to shoot laggards. Imad exuded confidence as he stood up and marched down to the wash, exposed in the star-light, master of the night.

 

“Let us prepare our royal bed” said Ilan, and began blowing his six-liter capacity lungs into the mattress, right by the decorative wall between the columns cut out of the rock. The upper level of the Palace was right above them Sarah unpacked the water bottle and the Coleman stove and the tea. They enjoyed their tea in silence

Ilan spread the sleeping bag on the mattress, and placed the other over it, the Taurus went under the mattress, within hand-reach. In the wavering light of the candle set in a jar placed low on the rough floor he stripped all the way to buck-naked. With Sarah he had absolutely no inhibitions, despite his frummi brother’s admonitions that living together before marriage was sinful.“We are married” Ilan had told Erez “We just did not inform the Rabbi yet.” Erez was such a frummi, he would never understand. The Rabbis controlled everything in his life.

“Show off” Sarah bantered.

“Who am I showing off to?” Ilan perplexed.

“Me, I guess.”

“Nothing you haven’t seen before, and take a good look now, before it all turns to middle-aged flab.”

“You wouldn’t” Sarah replied.

“It’s the way of the world baby, come and join me.”

Sarah crawled under the cover, equally naked, and blew out the candle.

“We are such a boring couple” she said, snuggling up to that hard, massive body “fall in love, make love, get married, grow old.”

“There is nothing boring about you Sarah, every inch is a wondrous exotica” Ilan said, his hands roving under the blanket.

 

 Ilan woke up, and immediately discerned the reason. His bladder was clamoring for release. His eyes were perfectly adapted to the dark.  He pronated the left wrist, and the dials was faintly illuminated, 0421. Gently he extricated himself from Sarah’s sleeping embrace, found his undergarments by the mattress. He chuckled silently about the feat he was about to perform, peeing in a great arc over the Round Veranda. There were some things men could still excel in. Thrusting his feet into the hiking boots, he trudged over quickly from the shelter of the wall, around the ancient benches, to the circular veranda between the circular stone-walls. His bladder contracted painfully and he was about to climb the outer wall overlooking the 1200 foot drop to the Dead Sea when the stench of a burning cigarette reached his nostrils. Ilan froze. He looked down, then he looked up A figure was on the precipice above him, on the semi-lunar upper terrace of the palace, silhouetted against the bright star-lit sky. The figure disappeared, then returned, and this time it was easy to see the stick-shape of a rifle across his mid-line. Back and forth, then suddenly he stopped, the glowing end of the cigarette flamed brighter,  and with an arc the butt flew off, like a firefly, and landed almost at Ilan’s feet. Ilan, a non-smoker, almost choked on the stench. This was a different stench, if that were possible, it stank worse than the usual cigarette. Ilan’s desire to crush that smoldering stinking butt was almost unstoppable, but stop it he did. The stench was of Aziz, a brand preferred by Arabs, every West Bank floor was littered with butts of Aziz, and in numerous raids with Shabac (General Security Service) Ilan had inhaled, and hated them intensely.

The smoldering butt died, and the figure at the top was joined by another, a gun across his belly, and this time he could see the shape of the magazine. The shadow projecting from the stick was banana-like. A Kalashinkov. They were talking conversationally, sound carries extremely well at night,  in Arabic, which Ilan did not understand. His Arabic was limited to medicinal use. For a second he forgot all about his bladder. And then it hit him again with a powerful, painful contraction.

Ilan could not stand still, he had to move. He lowered himself to all fours, and slowly picked his way back to the shelter of the rock-face, between the columns. He recalled with horror his careless trudge out to the periphery of the Veranda. A figure stood up in his path and the flashlight came on.

“What?...” Ilan leaped at the flashlight and the figure behind it and smothered it under his weight. They crashed heavily to the dirt floor, and Ilan braked the fall with an outstretched palm,  a typical exercise in basic infantry training..

“Shhhhh” He whispered urgently at Sarah who was shocked under him.

“But....”

“Shhhhhh, there are Mechablim up there.”

Sarah froze, then whimpered  “I have to go.”

“Me too.”

They both quivered with need. Ilan eased himself off, now they dared not show a light, and their night vision was destroyed.

“What did you see?” Sarah whispered, fearfully.

“Two men with guns, speaking Arabic, one of them threw a cigarette at me, an Aziz.”

“What are they doing here?”

“I have no idea, but it can’t be good.”

“What are we going to do?”

“First, we have to pee.”

Sarah shook with suppressed laughter.

“Let me go first” Ilan said  Ilan found the mattress with his feet, found the Taurus in its holster, and clawed around for the thermos.

“What are you doing?” Sarah whispered.

“I’ll drink the rest of the tea, then go inside.”

With a barely suppressed sigh of relief, the bottle tinkled.

“What about me?” Sarah whispered.

"Can’t you do the same?” He whispered back.

“If I must”

“You must"

“I don’t see anything anyway, gosh it’s heavy.”

“Try not to spill, the King might not appreciate it.”

Sara handed him the thermos. It was full. Ilan placed the stoppered top back on the heavy bottle

 “What now?” Sarah whispered.

“The least we should do is get dressed. At least they will kill us decent, they would have been blind not to see that flash.”

“Don’t talk like that” Sarah whispered her admonition, and slithered into her jeans. Ilan did the same. Then he strapped the gun-belt on.

Ilan looked at his watch, saw nothing, his night vision was still not up to par.

“Let’s roll everything up” Sarah said “And find some boulder to hide it behind.”

Stealthily, in pitch dark, their ears straining to hear any approaching footfall, they let the air out of the mattress, rolled it up to a compact cylinder, stowed their gear in the back-packs, and were left with the question of the urine bottle.

“What boulder?” Ilan murmured.

“Figure of speech, you know, scuttle under a rock” Sarah replied.

Ilan walked blindly till he hit the wall. He remembered a staircase which ran up the cliff-face, as described by the archeology teams.

“What are you doing?” Sarah whispered from ten feet away.

“I know there is a staircase somewhere here” Ilan whispered back, searching with his fingertips.

“I always knew you were mad!” Sarah murmured, with appreciation. Then froze.

The footfalls of someone coming down the steel steps could be heard very clearly. Then they were two, then three.

“I found it” Ilan said, and grabbed the backpacks and tight bedroll. “Come on” he whispered fiercely and they both ran up six steps cut into the rock face. Ilan pushed himself into the rock, trying to meld in, Sarah fast against him.

The rock moved behind his butt. Amazed, Ilan shoved back. It moved some more, then it fell away from him. Ilan bent down. A passage-way about the height of his waist.

The door-way was small, the space behind it unknown, but they did not have much time, because the wash of flashlights began to play on the stones around them. Sarah went first, then the back-packs, then the bedroll and the urine bottle. Ilan shoved himself through the narrow hole-in-the wall legs first, felt Sarah dragging his legs, passed his wide shoulders on the diagonal and pushed the rock-door back into the frame. He tried to align it as well as he could. Then they waited, in trepidation.

The voices waxed, muffled, and Sarah and Ilan could see faint steady light coming through the chinks. Ilan was completely jammed, this was not a space, this was a tunnel, or a cubby-hole. They froze and bade their beating hearts to be silent.

The men were stomping about and talking softly among themselves. Ilan felt Sarah climbing over him. Any other time and place it would have been very pleasant.

“What are they doing?” She whispered in his ear.

“Looking for us, I presume” Ilan whispered back.

After a while one of them trudged away. The light of a flashlight continued to dance. They heard the steel  rungs creak under two  heavy boots. Two men presumably remained on the open terrace.

“I wish I could understand what they are saying” Ilan whispered.

“Me too.”

“We have to get away from here” Ilan whispered in Sarah’s ear “Turn around slow and start crawling, slowly. Push the backpack in front of you.”

With infinite patience Sarah slithered off his body, and began to crawl into the black void.

 

Imad opened the padlock on the gate with his keys and stood aside to let the troops in. Then he relocked the gate. This was the darkest hour of the night, and he wanted to use it to deploy around the north end of Mount, which was the high ground of the mesa. He led the troops up into the fortress leaving two at the Western Ramp gate, two more at the North Palace, two at the baths and six including himself at the East gate, where the Snake Path ended, and the upper cable car station was constructed. He set two of the men to watch for movement along the Snake Path, and busied himself with rigging the cable-car with explosives. The explosives were standard issue TNT,  bought from the Beduins who routinely broke into Army armories as the sentinels slept. He sent Hosny to make rounds on the troops, and keep them alert. At 0400 everything was ready. At 0415 one could see the activity around the Youth Hostel as the United Synagogues Youth groups assembled outside, with lots of flash-light activities. At 0430, the long snake of people interspersed with flashlights began the arduous climb. As expected, the tight assembly broke up into small groups of two and three, according to their physical fitness, and even at a distance Imad could hear the laughing and joshing and exhortations to climb.

The false dawn withdrew, and then the mountains of Moab outlined themselves on the horizon, making the sea below even darker. Majestically the East grew brighter, and brighter still, and the flashlights were extinguished, and the first climbers, predictably led by a volunteer soldier on leave, dressed in shorts and a tee shirt and shod with thong sandals approached the gate, huffing and puffing and completely unready. Imad crouched behind a post and as the soldier passed him, calling on the followers to hurry up to see the sunrise, Imad stuck the sights of the Kalashnikov into his kidney, while Khader disarmed the stunned man.

“Shut up and run” said Imad in Hebrew, and the young man ran with the gun in his back, into the store-rooms complex, behind one of the reconstructed walls, and under the gun of Taleb-a-Sanaa, the Beduin from Lakiyah.

“Lay down” said Taleb venomously. He lived with the Israelis in the Negev, and regarded himself the master of the desert. Today was the day to show the Yahood who was second class. He would have loved to drill this frightened man, skinny and dark-skinned as himself, but Jewish all the same, full of holes. But Imad insisted on silence.

One by one they were collected, like hens’ eggs into the basket, and made to lie in silence on the floor of a store room, which had only one exit. The next batch of youth came in gaggles of two to three, mostly boys, who had run up the Snake Path to prove their physical prowess. They were shocked into silence by the menacing Keffiahed men with guns, and rushed into the next store-house, and laid on the floor, the easier to guard. By now it was broad daylight, and the rim of the sun began to show over the mountains of Moab.

There was a break in the flow, by now Imad had collected sixty hostages. He peeked over the casement wall and the next batch was led by an adult, armed with an ancient M-1, second-world-war vintage, commonly used in the Israeli Civil Guard. He appeared to be in his fifties, he was picking his way carefully on the treacherous path, and was looking up expectantly. Behind him there was a dense column of girls and boys in their teens, anxious to cover the last few feet of the ascent to the plateau , and to watch the sun-rise.

“Ronny, Ronny” the man stood, looked up and yelled, stopping the column behind him, They were jesting about the old man and his sedate pace.

Imad pondered, decided to wait it out, just in case he slid his gun barrel forward, the bayonet mount  pushed a pebble out, then a stone off the top of the wall, which rolled down the wall, down the escarpment and almost on top of the frightened man. The man discerned the gun, and the keffieh behind it, revealed where the large stone had dislodged.

“Mechablim” he screamed, frantically grabbing at the lever to load and cock the M-1.

Calmly Imad stood up, placed the terrified man into his sights, and released one shot. The man was knocked up, and sideways, his gun clattered to the rocks, and rolled end-over end over the escarpment, a useless stick. The fear was replaced by surprise, then pain, then dissolution, as the man toppled off the path and followed his gun down the sheer slope, carrying a veritable avalanche of stones and pebbles in his body’s wake.

The girls stared in mute horror at their leader falling from the heights, then at the gunman staring at them down the barrel of the gun fifteen yards away, and as one shrieked the shriek of the doomed female soul, which cut like a jagged knife at Imad’s eardrums. The shriek reverberated off the rocks and re-echoed off the cliffs. It was so intense, they left Imad no choice but to switch to automatic, and drown their shrieks with the staccato angry bark of the machine gun.  The bullets caught the first five girls in the chest and belly and heads, their shrieks choked, and the rest turned and ran.

They tried to run, but the column of climbers was thick, and there was nowhere to go off the precarious path. They tried to push, and shove, behind them the machine gun was joined by another. Imad and Hosny, their blood-lust aroused, both stood on the casement wall, and released burst after burst at the fleeing girls. The thirty-five round magazines were emptied, and Hosny was about to change to the second magazine when Imad stopped him.

“We don’t need to do anything. They will kill themselves.”

And kill themselves they did. Leaping over the path, they lost their footing and rolled down the scree, and over the sheer escarpment to their deaths. They shoved the youth in front of them off the path, and followed in their momentum over the cliffs. Bodies of young girls and boys rolled over and over, cutting and spraying the rocks with their blood. The sun climbed over the hills of Moab and bathed the indifferent cliffs with its dawn golden light, highlighting the gruesome brains and broken bones and twitching bodies. The stretch of the Snake-Path exposed to the top upchucked its human load onto the cliffs and the escarpments and finally into the ravines in five minutes. The other climbers behind the switchbacks watched the carnage with stupefaction.

All except for two. Gil Barne’a and Guy Horovitz, both soldiers on leave, interspersed in the climbing pack, dove to the ground and behind boulders at the sound of the first shot, a conditioned reflex. 

“Lishkav” (lay down) they yelled at the shocked youth group in front and behind. Somewhat belatedly, the youth followed suit.

“Gil, what do you see?” Guy yelled.

“Nothing. Guy, where did this shot come from?”

“Up top, Elohim Adirim, a Kalashnikov...”

Guy’s voice was drowned in the cadence of two assault rifles shooting bursts. They both watched with shocked immobility the shower of bodies coming down the sheer slope.

“Guy, get over here, I need cover.”

Guy rose to his feet, stepped over the quaking teen agers, and made his way up the path, to team up with Gill.

“Beyond that switchback, there is a clear view to the top” Gill pointed to a rock-face ten yards ahead. Stooped low the soldiers, two years older than their charges, a generation older in experience, ran to take up position.

“Next cover, ten yards, give me cover, safety off, automatic fire” Gill commanded. He checked the M-16, pointed it in the general direction of up, and ran. Guy rolled out of the shelter and loosed a few, then rolled back.

“What did you see?” Guy yelled.

“Two Mechablim with Kalashnikovs, lots of dead on the slopes.  They are waiting for us.”

“Gill, stay there, I have to take everyone down, I’ll throw you my ammo and water, give them some fire to keep their heads down.”

“Good idea” a deathly quiet settled over the desert scape, after the ricochets and reverberations of gun fire had abated.

Guy threw three clips and two canteens across the open path, and was rewarded with three shots which struck the rocks above his head. Then he turned and began leading the frightened youth off the mountain.

“Shenit Metzada Lo Tipol” he muttered to himself with anger and disgust. As he withdrew the cliffs echoed with Gill’s cover fire.

 

Imad retreated from the casement wall.

“It’s no use trying to flush him out” he said to Hosny, “We have our hostages, and so far no one of us is hurt. This is the worst damage the Islamic Jihad has inflicted on the leprous Jewish infidels in twenty years, and this is only the beginning.” Imad was very satisfied with himself. It was time to wait for contact.

 

Three hours later, the Youth Hostel became the focal point of the world. Imad watched the traffic on the road from Jerusalem and from Sodom, and the volume was tremendous, with many, many camera crews. The vehicles choked the parking lot, then the access road, then the main road. He could see military transports landing in the air-strip by the Dead sea, and military vehicles setting up road-blocks. Belatedly. Belatedly because Imad had used the phone in the cable-car station to call up all the newspapers, and Reuters in Tel Aviv, and the American networks, and the Canadian networks, all before calling down to the Youth Hostel, asking for Yossi Nechama, the manager, and telling him that he had sixty live hostages, and about twenty dead hostages, under his sway on Metzada.

“Is that you Imad?” Yossi almost choked.

“No other. And you know how well I know this place, so, no games, no helicopters, no negotiators, you are the only one I will speak with. There are twenty dead on the slopes, one or two more are not going to make any difference.”

“What do you want Imad?”

“When the bigwigs get to you, give me a call.”

 

   The passage-way sloped up, the angle was incredibly acute, and  the width was Herodian, that is, small, fit for a five-foot man. The mystery of the blind staircase was solved, Herod was the most paranoid of all kings. He slaughtered hundreds, including his wife, due to paranoia. Herod the Paranoid always left himself an escape-route.  Sarah slipped through the passageway roughly hewn in the lime-stone rock quite easily. Ilan had the worst time of his life, going through a rough birth canal situation again and again, all against gravity. They were making a true snail’s pace. They toiled up the pitch dark hour after hour, hoping there is light at the end of this tunnel, rather than an impasse. The region had gone through enough earth-quakes in the last two millennia, to choke off any artificial tunnel.

Passing through a particularly narrow bottle neck Ilan asked for a rest.

“Can you get at a candle?” Ilan asked Sarah, his voice raw with labored breathing.

“I can get at the flash-light.”

“No, I want to see if there is some movement of air.”

Sarah dug into the side pocket of the pack she had been pushing ahead of her, there was no way to pass it back anyway, and fished out  a candle and matches. Both shut their dark adapted eyes against the sudden flare, then watched the candle flame with fascination.

“See, it’s bowing over in one direction, very faintly” Ilan said gladly.

“If you say so” Sarah was more skeptical.

“I can’t go back anyway. Might as well go forward” Ilan blew out the candle, and they waited for thirty minutes to let their eyes adapt to the perfect dark.

On and on they toiled, one more centimeter, then one more, scraping and shoving and pulling and abrading.

“What’s the time?” Sarah asked.

Ilan held the watch to his face. The phosphorescence was gone.

“Candle again.”

Sarah fished it out of the pocket. The candle felt broken, but it did light up.

“About twelve noon, wow, look at the inclination!” Indeed, the candle flame keeled over, away from the direction of the tunnel.

“The exit must be close” Sarah said eagerly.

“Don’t be too keen. We don’t know who waiting outside. Golly, do I have to go again. Can you pass me that bottle?”

“It’s almost full, and how are you going to get it past your chest?”

“La’azazel, you are right. Push forward, maybe our luck will change.”

Sarah continued to slither ahead. The tunnel widened somewhat, and became more horizontal. She used the flashlight.

“Elohim Adirim” she exclaimed, her voice reverberating slightly.

“What is it?”

“It’s a cavern here, and there are skeletons. Small ones.”

Ilan redoubled his efforts, now it was easier. The tunnel widened to become a cave, he could advance on his knees, and then he could stand, doubled over. It was all man-made, one could see the chisel marks on the walls. The small cavern held five skeletons, two larger, three small. The hair was perfectly preserved on two of the small scalps, and on the larger one, because it was beautifully braided, and still attached to the dehydrated scalp. In each, the rib-cage was broken sharply, the fifth rib on the left.

“One woman, One man, three children. Look the sandals are still on their feet. Must be the Zealots. Solves the mystery.”

“Which one?” Sarah asked, she was never the archeology aficionado that Ilan was.

“Yosephus Flavius said two women and three children escaped the mass-suicide, and retold Ben-Eliezer’s last speech. Maybe this is where they hid. Those women knew where one of the families intended to lay themselves to rest. The fifth intercostal space is the classic sword or knife thrust, where the heart impinges on the rib-cage. There must be an easier access than this tunnel we came through.”

The boom of a massive explosion reached their ears, and caused tremors to run through their feet.

 

“Let me at least remove the bodies from the Snake Path” Yossi Nechama implored with Imad over the phone.

“Yossi, you are not listening. I have no mercy or compunctions about killing your people. You are not in a position to negotiate, only to accept my demands. If I see, or imagine I see any troops anywhere around the mountain, the Youth you care so much about will die. Where is the Defense Minister?”

“I am here” said David Aretz. a short and bushy browed man, he was sixty years old, mainly an academic who graduated from MIT, and never quite lost his American inflection. Which was why he was so effective in  the public relations arena, despite his unpopular Hard Line politics. At this time, mid Eighties, he was running a protracted war in Lebanon, and a civil-military uprising in the West Bank and Gaza Strip, and his Prime Minister was falling apart due to political pressures and economic woes.

“Good. Let me repeat. Any troops, anywhere, and the children will die. Any helicopters, or airplanes above this miserable rock, and they will die. All of us here are sworn to die, unless we succeed. The children are all exposed to the sun, and they will die due to dehydration in the next few hours unless you do what I tell you.”

“Alright” Aretz had all the crack anti-terrorist troops in the country alerted, the overhead photographs taken by high-flying drones were to be available in one hour, and his main job was to try to delay things till night time.

“I know you want to delay things to night-time” said Imad, causing an involuntary inhalation “So we will conclude this business in the next few hours, or Metzada will return to its previous status of a massive grave-yard. First, send up by Cable-Car ten-twelve cases of sealed Coke bottles from the Hostel, I know they have it. With the car, I want three camera crews, CNN, NBC and the BBC. Also I want one set of binoculars, twenty power, and a radio, a standard army Tadiran with a long antenna. I give you thirty minutes, the first one to die is one of your soldiers, Ronny Ashkenazi.”

“You’ll get your wish. What else?”

“Next, I want all the Islamic Jihad brothers now incarcerated on a Hercules right at the airstrip where you are setting up the field hospital. I have a list, which I will read to you. When I see them on the strip, I will give further orders.”

“Understood, the bottles are being loaded and the camera crews.”

“Keep the faith, and you might save the children. They are a tool, not the objective” Imad lied.

“I will do everything in my power to avoid harm” David Aretz promised. He passed the phone to Rivi Shaked, an eighteen year young woman-soldier assigned to his office from the Army. She began to write down names as fast as they were read. Aretz moved away from the phone to the corner of the room where a huge air-photograph of Metzada occupied a whole wall.

“What did you see up there?” he asked Guy, who had led the USY youth group down the path to the safety of the Hostel.

“Nothing. Gill Barne’a said he saw two shooting at him.”

“David” Yom-Tov Semia, General, the head of Southern Command broke in “We found the spoor of 10 to twelve men from overnight, leading to Metzada, as far as the parking lot.”

“Shit” David Aretz let out an uncharacteristic expletive. 

“Where is Gill now?” asked Yom Tov.

Guy Horovitz, a stout chunky light-haired young man stepped over to the photo, identified the upper Snake Path and the escarpment behind which he had taken shelter.

“About here” he pointed “and he is pinned there because all the way up is exposed, he got by this patch of open ground only under cover fire.”

“So we have one man up there, and no communications. How about ammo, and water?”

“Lots” said Guy. The TV in the corner was showing them the Hostel, and the mount, and interviews with the departing journalists, and the cable-car being ready to take them up.

“The parents of these kids must be going crazy” David said “This is beyond some kids getting hurt or even dying. This is about the responsibility of the State of Israel for the lives of the Jewish Youth that we keep asking to come on tours, or make Alyiah.” The officers around him nodded with gloomy faces.

“David, let me run this past you,” Yom Tov said “suppose one of the journalists needs to come down, say, to run his tape because his transmitter is defective. The other cable car comes up automatically. We can insert a few fighters on it. I am sure that a Sayeret team of six will make short work of them. Anything is better than letting fifty or a hundred convicted killers on the loose again!”

“Draw up some plans, as soon as you get the Intel from the drones.”

David Aretz turned to Yossi Nechama. He knew Yossi was most likely blameless but the frustrations of this situation were stronger than reason.

“So who is that friend of yours?” the Defense minister demanded belligerently.

Yossi, a twenty-eight-year-old who had moved from Tel Aviv to take on the thankless job of administering the thousands of youth who used the Hostel, bridled. “He is not my friend. He is a Palestinian electrician, from Halhul, with a valid work-permit, issued by the Military Civil Administration, which comes under the jurisdiction of the Department of Defense.”

“I apologize” said the Minister humbly. “But couldn’t you get a Jewish electrician?”

“Adoni. Everybody loves Metzada. To visit, climb, take pictures, smell the glory. No one wants to work here, especially not for the wages I can offer, especially not in summer. All the construction, electrics, road-building, is done by Palestinian workforce. Jews don’t work, if you haven’t noticed!” Yossi concluded his tirade with much acid.

“I know. They are willing to fight for the right to employ Arabs at slave-wages. I guess we don’t tell that to the United Synagogue Youth Groups. Do you have his employment records?”

“Yes.”

“Geva,” Aretz addressed his Shabac liaison “take the records and run them through the mill. I want to know who and what this Imad Al Ulban is.”

 

Imad stood at the only entry to the store-room complex. The black wavy stripe was at about waist-level in some places, head-level in others. The walls were thick stone, mostly two meters tall and the ground was flat. There was only one passage way to each store-room, and only one passage to the complex, which was guarded by the Administrative Building Herod had erected, and that Yiga’el Yadin’s group had excavated and restored. One of those store rooms had three round holes in the smooth, water-proofed floor, which raised many speculations in academic circles. There was no speculation about the commanding stature of the Islamic Jihad as Imad stood and delivered his message before the World, as represented by the great News organizations.

“We are the vanguard of the Islamic Revolution” Imad told the rapt interviewers. Khalil, a fifteen year old, the sickly, fat bespectacled boy in the family, was captivated by the deed of his older brother, as was the whole town of Halhul, the whole city of Hebron, the whole West Bank and Gaza Strip and all the Arabs of the Middle East. This was greater than Savoy. This was more devastating than Hizzblolah attacks on Nahariyah. This was on Metzada, the pride of the cowardly Zionist soul.

“We defeated the Shah of Persia, though he was backed by America. We defeated the Russian war machine in Afghanistan. We defy the Infidels where-ever they are, and we will carry this day to the deliverance of our brothers held unjustly in the Jewish prisons. On the other hand, we treat our Prisoners of War, better than the Jews treat Our Prisoners. We do not call them Terrorists to justify indiscriminate murder and demolition of homes of living people.”

Tom Jennings from the BBC raised his hand diffidently.

“Yes!” Imad said crossly

“Mister Al Ulban, how do you explain the carnage on the slopes of this mountain, and the fact that you do not allow Medical Crews to pick up the dead and injured?”

Imad grinned, his face open for inspection, the face that was otherwise quite ordinary, was now feral.

“First, they attacked us. The first man in that column was armed, and we came under fire from armed soldiers. We were forced to retaliate. Secondly, remember the Savoy Hotel. The Jews always use the Medical Cover to break in. Save your breath and commentary and pity for the five million Palestinian Refugees being ground to dust under the Zionist Jackboot, bolstered by the American Imperialism. Now Gentlemen, follow me.”

With Khader covering the back of the procession of nine, Imad led the way under the arch and into the Store Room complex. The kids were huddled along the wall, and one of them was distributing the bottles of Coke to the thirsty hands. Tom Jennings tried to look around for whoever was guarding them and was severely rebuked by Khader.  “Eyes forward” Khader said with a heavy Arabic Accent, much heavier than Imad’s.   

“You see, they're not being abused, or beaten up, they get to drink, and if everything goes well, we should be able to let them go before nightfall. Our demands are very simple.” Imad turned to the cameras, and to the World behind them. “I want my brothers and sisters of the Islamic Revolution to be free to go where-ever they please just like these children. Which means releasing all the Palestinian prisoners in the Israeli jails. And I mean all. First thing is first. The prison closest to here is the Be’er Sheva Maximum Security prison. Twenty-five of my Prisoner of War brothers are incarcerated there. I expect the Israelis to release them and fly them here in one hour. The time now is 1051. They should be on the apron of the airfield, free, at eleven fifty. I would like to demonstrate the price of failure. Mahmoud, Ta’al Hon!!” He shouted suddenly.

Mahmoud, black-bearded, with a keffieh around his face, thin and wiry, came around the wall of the ancient store-house, shoving the soldier ahead of him. Ronny Ashkenazi was quaking with terror.

“This soldier was at the head of the Jewish Imperialist Zionist group of usurpers of our land. He was armed with an American weapon, an M-16. It is fitting that he should die with his own weapon. Against the wall, Mahmoud.”

The cameras rolled frantically as the dark-skinned boy-soldier in sandals and shorts and tee-shirt was shoved against the wall. Imad cocked the M-16, the bolt-action un-naturally loud in the sudden silence.

“So will be the end of the Zionist Imperialist blasphemy” Imad said aloud, and pulled the trigger. A red flower appeared between the eyes of the boy, and his legs gave way.

 

“This is the worst act of terrorism we have ever come across” Aretz said to the shocked room. This murder was so blatant, so blood-curdling, so much an action of show-man-ship.

“The engineers are rigging the back of the cable car with a cage to fit a team of Sayeret. They won’t be seen until after they land in the station” Yom Tov reported.

“Was the plan approved by the Prime Minister?” David asked. Even now CYA was important.

“Yes.”

“Ok, let’s hope Tom Jennings delivers. How is the prisoner thing progressing in Be’er Sheva?”

“They are being assembled for transport as we speak. We have a Yass’ur helo for them coming from Tel-Nof” said Geva Weinberg.

 

“Now we need a miracle. Find this Ashkenazi family, someone must speak to them. Imagine, seeing your kid murdered on television.”

 

“Mister Al Ulban” Tom Jennings’ hand shook as he lifted his arm. He was scared, more scared than at anytime in his life. This terrorist was absolutely the most ruthless, least impressionable man he had ever met.

“Yes, Mister Jennings.”

“My camera-man tells me his satellite upload equipment has broken down. I must ask to go down and change this unit if we are to continue the broadcast.”

“We will wait till the helicopter we are waiting for appears.” Imad was entirely unimpressed. “Let me tell you about what it means to live as a refugee in your own country...” The roar of the helicopter coming over from the south-west increased, and it came into view, a CH-53, Sea Stallion for the US Navy, Yass’ur, for the Israeli air-force. It chopped the hot midday air towards the airstrip and landed. The ramp lowered, and a single file of men emerged, guarded by a contingent of soldiers on either side of the aircraft.  Imad rotated the powerful binoculars onto the air-strip and examined the new-comers. Then he depressed the mike of the PRC-25

“Samir Abu-Pharess, Over” one of the men detached himself from the platoon and went to the radio placed in the middle of the apron.

“This is Samir”

“Abu Pharess, this is Imad Al Ulban, welcome to freedom.” Imad kept to English for the benefit of the TV crews.

“Imad, Allah will bestow his favors on your head” said Samir, who had placed an explosive charge in Zion Square in Jerusalem, sending eight Jews to their deaths. Despite the pleas of the Prosecution, despite Samir’s boastful confession, the Death Sentence was not invoked. Samir too was from Halhul

“Samir, this is phase one. Organize the men, be ready to accept more brothers to their freedom.”

Imad turned to Tom. “You may leave, in exchange I expect your crews to interview the freed prisoners.”

Trembling with fear, Tom Jennings climbed into the open cable-car. Fear, because he noticed a large package fastened to the rear of the car with wires trailing from it into the telephone set in the car. Khader accompanied him to the car, saw to it that it rounded the large wheel, and sent it down.

Tom stared at the wires. It was obvious that a telephone call from the top would trigger an explosion. He was absolutely certain that the wily Imad planned to detonate it as soon as it got to the lower station. What to do? How to escape this trap?

Tom decided to pull the wires. As the car cleared the escarpment and was suspended in the air by the first pylon, as the opposite car was clearing its first pylon, he yanked one of the wires.

The car exploded with a tremendous bang, tore from the supports, and fell onto the rocks, no more than five meters away from Gill Barne’a who was still sheltering from both the fierce sun and he implacable guns of the men who had taken over the kids he had been in charge of. Both canteens were dry, but mercifully, the sun was over the zenith, and he was in the shadow. The twisted bracket snarled on the pylon and the cable stopped short.

The Sayeret team hidden in the hastily welded cage at the back of the opposite car were jolted to stop, suspended in the air. Fearing retaliation on the hostage children they stayed put, tightly wedged, painfully exposed from below.