Kidnapped in Tel Aviv

It was bound to happen. What I feared came true. Decades long I managed to finish the job without a hitch. Sound and tough training, precautions. Diversions, resources, safe houses. As if the world came tumbling down. The irony of it all is that whatever had to be done, whether in friendly or enemy territory, was done professionally. I don’t want to sound self-conceited, which I’m not. All my successes were because of the teams that worked with me, the strangers without a real name, but with a face, a personality, and a drive beyond the imaginable. My predicament now, this mishap, this terrible failure, happened in my backyard.

It all started the usual way as if time had not changed. “Rusty, it’s me, you iron fart. Time for a drink today?” Honestly, whenever I heard this, my heart skipped several beats, though outwardly I managed to stay cool. But the biggest surprise was that the last time I listened to this coded message was 26 years ago. We decided on the time and place. As always, I had to keep this to myself, but being more at home, I had to find a good excuse to explain to my wife that I would be out for the day.

We met in one of Tel Aviv’s 150 coffee joints. A Mediterranean-looking guy, in his 40’s, blue jeans, and a Ralph Lauren shirt, by the looks one of those Chinese fakes. Twenty years my junior. No sunglasses, no wig. Of course not, that’s too MI6. We went through the routine protocol and got down to business. “We have problems with the new kids. We can’t figure out what makes them so different from us, especially compared to you, veterans. They are arrogant, careless, and too quick to judge. Oh, they are the best in hi-tech stuff and computer surveillance, but when it comes down to real human action, sensing danger or opportunities, they are zeros. We must extract two Iranian scientists. You, your buddy Marc, and the Norwegian who was your minder in the Cherbourg project will be involved. We know, you’re all so-called retired, but we need the three of you. The other two gave their OK already. What about you?”

This came as a surprise. At my age, after so many years. It’s been decennia since I twisted someone’s neck after Munich, survived a tough 3-weeks ordeal in an Amal dungeon, and helped secure some Navy ships and Mirage drawings. This is nuts. But the adrenaline rushed through my body, as in the old days. With the boys on their own, and our twin daughters serving in the IDF, just living at home with the wife. She won’t mind I will be gone for a while, as I have always been, on normal business. I nodded. He left his magazine on the table, Foreign Affairs, with the expected brown envelope inside. I had to pay for the coffee. Some things never change.

I decided to take the bus from the corner of Hayarkon and Ben Yehuda to where I had parked my car, in Azrieli Center. The bus was half full, and I took the back seat. With no curious eyes around, I opened the envelope. It contained a wallet with a wad of Shekels, twenty 50 Euro notes, pictures of a young blonde, a Dutch driving license, two unsigned credit cards, a MasterCard of the Rabobank, and a Visa of the BNP. A dog-eared Dutch passport, issued about 2 years ago, one of those thick business versions, with several stamps and visas, mainly Middle East, India, China, Vietnam and Malaysia. My biggest surprise was the picture that truly looked like me. It was a picture of me, and a recent one. There were two blank smart cards and an iPhone. That was it. No scribbles with numbers and words, like in the old days, which, when deciphered, referred to text and numbers in the magazine, which in turn directs you to a phone number, what to say, and then wait for your marching orders, or a location where to get hold of them. It always sounded to me like a James Bond movie, only much more complicated. But it worked. Now: nothing of the kind. I glanced through the magazine, hoping to find some jottings. Nothing. What now?

I looked around, taking up the surroundings. We were driving along the old central bus station. The bus stopped, and some kids got on board. Loud bunch. Yapping away, laughing, enjoying the loud music from somebody’s iPod. Lady Gaga. I keep on wondering what is behind that chiseled face and wide shoulders: a man or a woman. Just when the doors started closing, a Haredi Jew squeezed into the bus, puffing and sweaty. His big, black hat jammed between the closing doors and fell off. In a fraction of a second, I realized that something was very, very wrong. He wore no kipa under his hat, and, although he had a beard, he didn’t have any sidelocks. He looked straight at me from the front of the bus, with a look that changed from frightened to hatred, and that instant I knew. I shouted “BOMB” as loud as I could and dived to the floor. An enormous explosion tore through the bus. Something fell on my back, a piercing sting in my neck, somebody pulling at my ankles, passing out.

I woke up, strapped to a metal chair, blindfolded. I felt dry crusts making it hard for my eyelids to open. I couldn’t see a thing anyway. Only a rotten smell. I tried to move. A strap around my head was tied to some rope or belt along my back, which was attached to, from the feel of it, cufflinks around my ankles. Not a nice position for a 60-year-old to be in. Ugh, that stench. Reminded me of a sewage plant I once used to get rid of a body, my first quarry, Mahmoud of Fatah, the butcher of Kibbutz Dalida’s toddlers’ home, back in 82. Only then I was in control, a situation I started to realize was not the case this time. Where the heck am I? If this is the sewage plant of Tel Aviv I know my location, but I started to have a gut feeling that there was something amiss, something seriously wrong. Suddenly a searing pain shot down my spine.

Footsteps. Shouting. Arabic? No, Turkish, or Farsi. I always mix up the two. Metal doors slammed open, louder voices, footsteps, so to hear of three persons. One sounded to have a limp. Another stench. Bad breath, cigarettes. Oh, how I hate smokers, especially when the fetor is worse than that of a decaying corpse. My corpse soon? Where am I? My blindfold was torn off my head. Two silhouettes against bright floodlights behind them. “So, Mister Jan van den Berg. How do you like our hospitality? Would you like to call your wife? What’s her name again?” Shit, I didn’t get that far yet. The wallet. I had seen a picture. That blonde. Was that my wife? Maybe my daughter. This is not going to be easy. Something stirred behind me. The third person? My head was exploding. “What do you want?” I blabbered, barely audible. Bad-breathe asshole moved within inches of me, but still no face. He snapped at me: “We know who you are, Colonel David Pinedo, so let’s skip the introductions. You have lots of blood on your hands. You martyred five of our best fighters. For that, I would gladly skin you slowly and let you bleed to death. But we need you, a piece of scum. We want the two traitors you are after. Yes, you and we want the same bastards.” “That’s why blew up that bus killing those kids? You could have killed me too. What use would my dead body have been to you then, you fucking bastard?” I must see faces. Who are these people, and who keeps poking me in the back? “Let’s not go into details about how we got you. We want to make a deal; in fact, we want you to do your job. I am pretty sure you won’t refuse.” “So, what is my job? Why would I do anything for you? Get it over with, you scumbag.” “Show your face to your dad, soldier,” scumbag shouted. Slowly the person behind me moved to my side, lights shining on her face: “Sarah!” I froze. Sad eyes, a fleeting smile, fading into a grim, determined look. A quick wink. Silence. “Show your dad your phone.” Sarah punched on the keyboard of her phone and showed me the screen. Her twin sister, in uniform, sitting at a small table with what looked like a roughed-up IAF pilot. What the heck is going on? My mind was racing. Where are we? How did they get my daughters? “You see, they are all in good shape, except that Sarah put up quite a fight, which cost my best man his leg. As you can see, an eye for an eye, …” I looked over at Sarah, and saw a long cast around, what I hoped was still her right leg. “Now, if you behave, I will have you untied, and we can get down to business.” Thinking hard, making sure I don’t look worried. How can I get out of this shit without them further abusing my babies? A flashback from Sun Tzu: ‘Pretend your inferiority and encourage your enemy’s arrogance’. I nodded.

My ankles remained cuffed, so I scuffled like a camel Bedouins tie up at their feet, so they won’t run away. We took an elevator down and entered a fancy-looking space that looked like a military operations room: computers, large screens. The lighting was dull, but the five men around all wore sunglasses. In the far corner, there was a niche in the wall with a peculiar bust. It suddenly struck me, but I immediately made sure that I suppressed my abrupt sensation. We were in the ops room of the Iranian Embassy in Beirut. With the hi-tech stuff around it could be any place, but that ugly bust. I was here. In 84. It must be a different building now, but it’s Beirut, definitely Iran’s embassy. On the table is my brown envelope. It survived the blast. “I want to be brief, because you have to work fast,” one of the five, a humongous Sumo wrestler-looking goon said in heavily accented English, “You will be taken by private jet to a small airfield in Turkey, and from then onwards you are on your own to do what you are supposed to do. You will get a second mobile phone to communicate with us. You understand we have your daughters and two more in security until you finish the job. Get the heck out of my face.” My ankle cuffs were removed, and I was dragged out of the room. I managed to quickly glance at Sarah at the door who had an expression I had never seen before, one of absolute determination and strength. My heart raced, and I gave her a hasty wink. How did they manage to take me, and my daughters? How come they know so much, even more than I know myself? There must be a disastrous leak in the Institution.

I was blindfolded and cuffed on my hands and feet. An hour later I was airborne. Trying to count the minutes is a tough thing to do when you’re in the dark. I guessed the flight took just over an hour. Thirsty like hell. After a violent landing, my blindfold and restraints were roughly removed by that Sumo. The plane taxied to the end of a bumpy runway, where a regular-looking taxi was waiting. No customs, no police. The driver the size of a Turkish wrestler took off like a rocket and drove like an idiot over winding, potholed dirt roads. After an hour we came to a shrieking halt at what looked like a seaside resort in the middle of nowhere. He threw me out in front of a small bungalow that sat on a cliff hovering over the sea. I carefully entered the bungalow. Not a soul in sight. Living, open kitchen, one bedroom. On the bed a pile of clothes. Not new, but the right brands, and amazingly exactly my sizes. But first things first: a warm bath and a stiff drink. The choice was Raki or Bourbon. I chose the latter.

With a jolt I woke up, shivering. The warm bath had become an ice bucket. I dressed and went through the stuff that was crammed into a backpack lying on the couch. Surprised to find that brown envelope in there. A watch, my own, also in the backpack. My good old Rolex. It had stopped. Damn. It stops if you don’t move it for 3 days. How long since I was knocked out on the bus? I switched on the TV and tuned in to CNN. Turkish CNN. Four days since I left home. Shit. Home. What must my wife be thinking now? Where would she be? Would she have contacted the police, or did my handler contact her? After 37 years of marriage, my ‘cover’ was blown. I was tempted to call her. No, first I finally must find out what my task is, surely the reason I am in this quagmire now. The magazine didn’t give any solace. The iPhone. I checked some of the apps. There were some notes in the address book, and an app called 2Do. It was chockful of notes, some incomprehensible at first sight. I started with one and copied the strange text on a notepad. Hotel Kismet. Fate. Very appropriate name. This was going to be a long night, deciphering encrypted messages by hand. Better stop drinking and find out if I can order some food. I dialed 9 and the phone was answered immediately. A man’s voice with a heavy Cockney accent howled loudly, demanding what I wanted. I asked for some mezes to start, then sis kebab and kofte with pilaf rice, and a few bottles of ice-cold Efes beer. The Brit didn’t understand a word, but a Turkish girl came on the phone and took my request.

Back to reality, in the right order: family, the Institution, then my kidnappers. I checked the iPhone for a wireless Internet connection. There was, probably recording all my communications. So what! Using a nifty proxy server called Anonymousit, I sent a message to my old buddy Marc in Holland, asking him to contact me via Skype. I logged into Skype and waited for him to connect. A loud knock on the door. Can’t be my food, not that fast. I opened it, and the Turkish wrestler type pushed me aside and walked into the room. He sat down heavily in a chair and bellowed at me: “Get the fuck working on your notes.” The Brit. How did he know what I was doing? His looks and a big bulge under his jacket made me continue deciphering my instructions. The sun was setting as a big ball of fire, sinking into a calm sea. Slowly but surely, I came to understand what my task was. But why would an Iran-supported terrorist group like Hezbollah be interested in two Iranian nuclear scientists? The assignment didn’t look so easy. Kidnapping them from a nuclear conference on Labuan Island in Malaysia? So, what am I doing in Turkey? Again, a knock on the door. Must be my food and beer this time. I opened the door. Something hit me square in the face. Again, that sharp sting in my neck. Darkness.

I stirred and woke up with a thumping headache. A hospital bed? Able to move my hands and feet freely. Only connected to some beeping monitor behind my head. No, not a hospital. Looks more like someone’s home. Loud squeals. My wife, my twin daughters, my two sons, my daughter-in-law, and not to forget, the new family pride: my grandson almost smothered me, tears flowing, yapping away in a mix of Hebrew, Dutch, English and French. Bloody mixed-up family I have. I couldn’t talk, well, the sounds I was making were not words. Seeing that my loved ones were all well, only one major question remained: What the heck happened?

Good to be home. A big group of people awaited me. No introductions, only firm handshakes. A fuzzy-looking man with long white hair took the lead, explaining what happened these past 7 days. It had felt like a decade. “You were the first real-life user of a neuroprogrammer, jointly developed by a group of neuroscientists at Technion. The device noninvasively manipulates biochemical signals in rapidly controlled patterns to emulate complex actions the brain is supposed to undertake. The steering mechanism programs up to 10,000 neurological actions per second. The plan to capture the two Iranian scientists was photolyzed in a combination of images and electrophysiology with over 1 billion complex activity patterns for dendritic integration in your brain. The system can activate many presynaptic neurons at once. Simply said, we programmed the task in the device, had it injected subcutaneously, and from then onwards you functioned like a robot, completing the task without a hitch. The only side effect was hallucinations, usually quite violent and intense ones. But rest assured, nobody got hurt, except maybe your ego. Oh yes, the reason we used a veteran like you is that it only works using past experiences that are already stored in your brain cells, so it can never be used by inexperienced youngsters.”

Kudos for mission accomplished, but what and how? Does it matter? At my age, I no longer care. Although, I was just a means to an end. The phone rang again.

Robert Barzelay.