Eulogy with a Vengeance.

The summer heat in Buenos Aires was suffocating, a damp veil clinging to Yuval Levy’s skin as he wove through the crowded streets of Palermo. Unshaven and hollow-eyed, he looked like a specter. His once-sharp features dulled by sleepless nights and cheap whiskey. His Mossad training kept him alive, but it couldn’t mend the void where his heart once beat. Three months earlier, a car bomb had ripped through Tel Aviv, claiming his wife, Tali, and their 16 years old daughter, Sarit. Forensics took eight days to identify the remains of nine victims, matching the number of missing persons, including Tali and Sarit. The debris yielded only fragments: bone shards, ash, twisted metal. DNA of the remains confirmed their identities, alongside traces of an unknown individual, likely the suicide bomber.

Jewish tradition demands burial within 24 hours, but with no intact bodies or yet to confirm identities, the funeral was delayed. Nine days after the blast, Yuval stood at the Mount of Olives cemetery, the “City of Death”, overlooking the “City of Life.”, Israel’s capital Jerusalem. His eulogy was brief, laced with fury more than sorrow: “The perpetrators will be found and punished.”

The attack haunted him. Reports detailed two school guards found with slit throats in the front office, their shift beginning an hour before opening. Four CCTV cameras in the alley had been disabled. No footage existed. Above the school, six apartments housed 22 tenants. That morning, they were either still asleep, having breakfast, taking a shower or just getting dressed, when the blast occurred. They were hurled against walls and ceilings. 16 suffered fractures and concussions, all were bruised and cut by flying glass. Miraculously, none died. The blast obliterated two classrooms and the front office, shattered every window, and peppered the facade with shrapnel. In the alley, burnt-out vehicles and debris exhibited the impact of the explosion. Witnesses recalled nothing suspicious, save a Bezeq telephone company van that came and went the previous three days.

That van, it turned out, carried the bomb, loaded with a sophisticated mix of PETN and RDX. The detonation was most probably remotely activated. Remnants of Yuval’s car were found next to the van. Fragments of Chinese-made initiators and casings bore Iranian design hallmarks, echoing attacks in Buenos Aires, Nairobi, and Bali. The target? Yuval. His past made this personal.

Yuval had been posted in Singapore for six weeks as the Mossad counterterrorism commander for Southeast Asia. Israel not only trained Singapore’s armed forces, but also its SID, Security and Intelligence Division. Intelligence had tracked an IRGC-led terrorist training camp in the Philippines, Camp Abubakar on Mindanao, where Hezbollah, Hamas, PFLP, Jemaah Islamiyah, and Abu Sayyaf were instructed in arms, urban warfare, abductions, explosives and bomb-making. The camp’s commander was identified as IRGC Al-Quds Colonel Ramazan Hemat. With Philippines’ President Rodrigo Duterte’s green light, Yuval masterminded a joint operation of Mossad and Yamam, Israel’s Counter-Terrorism Unit, backed by commandos from Singapore and the Philippines to raid Camp Abubakar. After intense fighting, all individuals inside were eliminated, and the camp was completely destroyed. No survivors, or so they thought.

Months later, Yuval received an SMS with a video of a scarred, one-eyed man claiming to be Hemat. “You didn’t get me, but I will get you,” he snarled in accented English, addressing Yuval by name. Intel placed Hemat in South America, who proudly went by the nickname “Aghab”, Farsi for “Eagle”, scorning his keen vision despite the missing eye. Yuval was determined to hunt him down and have him pay, even if it meant torching the continent. Revenge became his priority. He took leave of absence from Mossad. His superiors sensing he’d go rogue. He didn’t care.

Yuval worked subtly on his network of informers and got a most valuable lead from an old friend, Karl Schmidt, a retired agent of Germany’s secret service, the BND, who lived with his new wife one third his age in Montevideo. Off to South America. After many shots schnaps and fatty wursts, Karl pointed him to Buenos Aires and a Paraguayan arms dealer, Esposito Salazar. IRGC brass often dabbled in arms, drugs, or human trafficking. Aghab likely did too.

Yuval’s Glock pressed against his ribs as he entered a dimly lit bar on Calle Honduras, the kind of place where deals were made, and men disappeared. It reeked of booze and sweat. He ordered a Gran Chaco, an orange-flavored , spiced rum, and spotted the man Karl had described. Esposito, squat, gold-chained, scarred, fooling around with two prostitutes. Yuval bided his time. When Esposito staggered out back with one of them, Yuval followed. The alley was cooler, city noise muted. The prostitute fled as Yuval’s suppressed Glock kissed Esposito’s skull. A pistol-whip sent him sprawling into garbage. “Where’s Aghab?” Yuval hissed. “Asunción. Compound on the river,” Esposito gasped. Yuval ensured he wouldn’t talk again.

The bus to Asunción jolted along dirt roads, the landscape shifting from urban sprawl to dense jungle. Yuval sat in the back, cap low, replaying his last moments with Tali and Sarit. The Shabbat evening dinner, laughter. The next day Tali driving Sarit to school in his car. Hers was in the shop. Ten minutes later, an explosion shook the windows of their house. He immediately thought of the worst. He called Tali’s number. No answer. He rushed outside to the permanent security guard booth in front of his house, and commandeered one of their cars, while talking on the phone with HQ. He reached his office and noticed heightened security activities. Helicopters and drones flying overhead. Military. Ambulances. Police, even on horseback. His first impulse was to drive to the scene of the explosion, but he decided against it. What could he do? Best is to find out what had happened and let the experts do their jobs. He was not an explosives expert, though he knows how to deal with it, and use it. In the lobby he was met by one of his assistants, who filled him in about what was known thus far. The official report blamed Hezbollah, but Yuval knew better. It must have been Aghab who has been out for revenge.

Asunción buzzed with chaos, vendors, honking cars. Yuval checked into a rundown hostel under a false name, mapping the river. A plantation emerged as the likely target. Needing more than a Glock, he called João, a Brazilian smuggler who owed him from a botched São Paulo job. They met at a warehouse near the airport, João tossing him a duffel: Uzi, mags, knife, binoculars, C4. No words exchanged, just a grin and a nod.

The plantation sat ten miles north, a sprawl of crumbling colonial buildings in densely vegetated jungle, enclosed by a tall, razor-wire fence. From a ridge, binoculars pressed to his eyes, Yuval watched guards with AKs and barking dogs. At dusk, a black SUV rolled through the gate. Yuval’s pulse quickened. He couldn’t see who was inside, but the way the guards snapped to attention screamed fear and authority. Aghab? He’d find out soon. Night fell. With greasepaint covering his face and hands, Yuval cut through the jungle, C4 blasting a gap in the fence. Guards shouted. He slipped inside, dropping two with his Uzi. Through a side door, past an oblivious cook, he climbed to a guarded hallway. With his knife he silenced the guard, quick and quiet.

Yuval kicked the door in, splinters flying, his Uzi at the ready. The room was a shadowed opulence, mahogany desk, leather chairs, a single lamp casting a sickly glow. A man in a white suit stood at the window, back turned, sipping a glass as if he’d been expecting him. He didn’t turn. “Yuval Levy,” he said, voice a low rumble, thick with accent. “The Mossad dog who wouldn’t die.”

Yuval’s finger tightened on the trigger, sweat stinging his eyes. “Turn around!” Aghab chuckled, a dry, guttural sound, and pivoted slowly. Sharp-featured, a jagged scar bisecting an empty eye socket, his one eye glinting like a predator’s. “You’ve come far to die.” The Uzi’s barrel wavered as Yuval snarled, “You killed my family. Why?” Aghab’s lips curled. “Payback’s a cruel business. You failed to kill me in Mindanao, now it’s my turn, for real.”

A floorboard creaked behind Yuval. He spun, firing blindly, bullets chewed plaster as a guard’s silhouette ducked into the hall. Shadows shifted. More were coming. Aghab lunged for a desk drawer, but Yuval charged, slamming him into the wall. Glass shattered, the Uzi skittering across the floor. They grappled, Yuval’s knife flashing, steel bit Aghab’s thigh, blood soaking white fabric. Aghab roared, clawing for Yuval’s throat. Footsteps thundered closer. Two guards burst in with rifles raised. Yuval rolled, snatching his Glock from its holster, and fired twice. Bodies hit the floor, but the hallway echoed with shouts, more loud footsteps.

Aghab staggered up, clutching a pistol, his grin unhinged. “See for yourself, Jew!” He jerked his head toward a large wall-mounted TV flickering to life. “Look at the screen,” Aghab gasped. “Your wife and daughter.” Yuval froze. “Tali and Sarit. They’re here, unharmed. You were bait. I wanted to kill you myself. My eye for your life. Ironic, no. Not the old saying an eye for an eye. Fair trade, no?”

Yuval’s breath caught. Grainy footage showed Tali and Sarit, bound, gagged, in a dim room. Alive. “Bait,” Aghab hissed. “I wanted you here, suffering in front of my eyes, I mean, eye, before I finish you off.” Yuval’s heart hammered, his mind racing. Their DNA was in the wreckage. He’d buried them. “Fucker,” he spat, lunging. Aghab sidestepped, firing. A bullet grazed Yuval’s shoulder, a white-hot sear. The Glock clattered away as Yuval tackled him again, slamming Aghab’s skull against the desk. “Where are they?” he roared. Aghab wheezed, “Close. So close. Kill me, and they vanish forever.” Yuval froze, knife at Aghab’s throat, blood dripping onto the floor. Guards’ boots pounded outside. “Call them off,” he growled, buying time. Aghab smirked, raising a hand to more men barging into the room. “I’ll let you see them,” Aghab growled. “They’ll go free to Asunción after you read my statement on camera and shoot yourself. I won’t dirty my hands.” Yuval’s mind reeled. With his hands raised, Yuval was tackled to the floor by guards. Footsteps neared, light threads, familiar. The door opened, and there they were: Tali and Sarit, shriveled, scared, but alive. Their faces lit up, tears streaming as they screamed his name. Yuval choked back sobs.

Yuval tried to control his heartbeat and breathing. He quickly recounted the instructions he had gotten from his closest friend, Mordi. He was head of development at Rafael Industries, the brains behind the “Iron Beam” high energy laser weapon system (HELWS), a ground-to-air system designed to intercept missiles at high altitude, better and less expensive than the “Iron Dome”. An air-to-ground system that could eliminate objects and persons from a high altitude with great precision was under development. Before leaving Israel on his hunt for Aghab, Yuval had a tiny GPS tracker implanted in his acromion-clavicular joint. The GPS was shaped like a bone implant, so it wouldn’t be detected as something obscure in an airport security X-Ray. The GPS tiny battery was powered in a unique way, by the blood flowing through the carotid artery.

“I want to go outside, for a last goodbye,” he demanded from Aghab. Tali frowned, confused, but followed with Sarit, Aghab and four guards close behind. Under a pergola, five meters from Aghab and his guards, Yuval scratched his collarbone, signaling Mordi. Seconds ticked by. Five, ten, fifteen. A hum split the air. Infrared beams lanced down, hitting Aghab and the guards. Their eyes widened as their bodies withered, imploding with a hiss, searing into shriveled heaps.

Yuval grabbed Tali and Sarit, rushing inside for his Uzi and Glock. Bullets shredded the door as they leapt through a window, landing in mud. Tali and Sarit kept pace, their Krav Maga training kicking in. The jungle swallowed them as guards gave chase. They made it back to the hostel in Asunción, Yuval bloodied and limping. He patched his shoulder, staring into the cracked mirror. Not a Mossad agent anymore, just a hunter, a father, a husband. The embassy whisked them to the Palmaroga Hilton to recover.

Yuval had burning questions. What the hell had happened with them in Tel Aviv? Tali explained: driving to school, Sarit asked to stop for croissants. A black SUV with flashing lights pulled up. An IDF major and a suited man flashed IDs, citing a security alert. Another man in uniform asked for their car keys and drove away with their car. We were hustled into the SUV. Suddenly, we were violently hooded, and cuffed. What seemed like an hour’s drive, a small jet, hours airborne, landings, takeoffs, bathroom breaks, always hooded. A final landing. A wild car ride over bumpy dirt tracks. Finally, we got to our final destination. Hot, humid. Dirty beds. A woman fed us, never uttering a word. Fortunately, nobody touched us. Days passed. Anxiety, thirst, hungry, dirty, scared. Ten days later, four tan-skinned men arrived. Sarit, who was learning Arabic at school, said they didn’t speak Arabic, and that it was probably Farsi or Turkish, which sounded to her the same. Tali felt it all tied to Yuval.

They flew from Asunción to Buenos Aires, then via Madrid to Tel Aviv. 24 hours of hugging, talking, eating, sleeping. Tel Aviv shimmered under a brutal sun, the city’s white buildings a stark contrast to the darkness of their nasty experiences.

In spite of it all, they got back to their daily life routines. Sarit was excelling at school and enjoying even more her Krav Maga lessons. She was planning to take up Judo as well. She made up her mind when she was going to be enlisted into the IDF in two years’ time: Unit 269 (Sayeret Matkal), strategic intelligence and hostage-rescue missions on foreign soil, very applicable to her real-life experience. Besides that, she was doing what any other teenage girl does. Gossip with her girlfriends and flirt with the boys. The three of them had a few sessions with counselors, but they didn’t see the need to continue. Talking with them appeared to have the opposite effect from what these chats were intended for. To treat anxiety, loss of concentration, sleepless nights, nightmares, in other words, PTSD. The three of them preferred to talk with each other instead of with strangers.

Yuval worked from a villa near Jerusalem, a Mossad hub of advanced surveillance linked to satellites and IDF Units 8200 SIGINT and 504 HUMINT. The attack was Aghab’s vendetta, but also a test of Israel’s defenses. Four European Muslim “tourists” executed the bomb attack, with Ramallah-assembled explosives and the stolen Bezeq van. A suicide bomber from Jenin drove Yuval’s car. IRGC and Hezbollah orchestrated the attack. Nineteen terrorists had been identified. Eighteen were localized and eliminated, one still hunted.

One important task remained to be done. The removal of the graves of Tali and Sarit on Mount of Olives. Fog hung low over the cemetery, curling around the headstones like a shroud, four months since the bomb attack. Yuval stood silent, half-joking about a reverse eulogy, while the tombs were dismantled. They stood there in silence, thinking of the 20 true victims. The sun broke through the mist, casting golden rays across the cemetery. Tali and Sarit placed a single rose in the spaces where their coffins once rested.

Closure. It was over.

Robert Barzelay